Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

The minutes stretched on, yet still, nothing. Had the hunt been in vain? Meanwhile, the sorceress felt the slow, insidious grip of the plants she had ingested take hold. Waves of heat coursed through her, nausea churned in her stomach, an unbearable malaise seized her limbs. And then—the visions. The voices. The words of the gods.

Through these sacred plants, she drew closer to them—gods of vengeance and fury, gods of battle and conquest, of victory and bloodshed. Cruel gods.

Jæger! she called, her voice a low, resonant growl. Guderne har talt! Without hesitation, she reached into the carcass of the deer, grasping an eye between her fangs, tearing it free with a savage twist before spitting it onto the ground.

Yet before she could complete whatever dark ritual she had begun, the huntress finally stepped into the hut. And she had brought with her far more than had been asked.

Was that what had delayed her? A slow smile carved its way across the soothsayer's face, splitting her features in two.

Unge mor, Ayovi, she greeted with a slight nod, her gaze then drifting toward the fifth beast—a young lynx, meant for the bear-man.

Sæt dig, Ayovi, she commanded, her voice steady despite the fever that racked her body, despite the tremors in her limbs, despite her eyes, wide and wild, on the verge of rolling back. Fire børn One by one, she took the offerings the mother had brought, separating their heads from their bodies with a single, brutal bite. The last—the fawn—she handed to the warrior who fancied himself a hunter, bidding him to complete the task.

Dit førstefødte skal velsignes med falkens hurtighed og dens skarpe syn. She placed a single petal of jimson weed within the bird’s beak. Slug, she murmured, offering the severed head.

Den næste skal arve væverens smidighed—klog, listig, altid opfindsom. She prepared the head as she had before. Slug, Ayovi she commanded, the words leaving no room for refusal.

Den sidste... må de overhovedet trække vejret, she intoned, her voice slipping into something softer, something distant. Denne vil være skrøbelig... Må de leve, Ayovi.

She closed her eyes then, swaying gently, her body moving in rhythm with something unseen. A whisper curled through the air, and she listened. Listened, and spoke no more. Spoke nothing at all.

The third, the last of the four children…