Black Morass despechá

ione's smile was slow, a thing of indulgence, of satisfaction curling like smoke at the edges of her lips. the morass had called, and isobel had answered.

good.

the words dripped from her tongue like syrup, thick and heady, meant to sink deep, to coil around isobel’s bones. she stepped closer, letting her presence press against the other woman’s, testing, claiming, ensuring that there would be no room left for doubt.

you will serve well. and you will be rewarded.

she turned then, dark paws moving effortlessly over the sodden earth, the air thick with the scent of damp rot and something older, something sacred. the morass loomed ahead, waiting, always waiting.

come, isobel.

an invitation. a command.

let me show you the mouth of the gods.