Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

“No!” Her heart screams, the wails dropping milk from her breasts into the dry ground. “No,” she rasps, “der må være en anden måde—” But the hunter sees the answer in Aspa’s dark face: the stain of finality in the single seeing eye. 
Ayovi sinks to her elbows now, too dizzy and conflated with poisons to find her feet. A misty sheen veils her vision as the shadows of witch and guard dance above.
The third and fourth will be as one. They will love.
They falter. They need you. Speak to them.
Trembling, Ayovi turns aside, lips resting against full womb. “Hold fast… my… tiny fierce hunters. Momma loves you— Daddy loves you— you are loved… so so loved, my dear— dearest ones.”
The fawn now. Fur torn and discarded; eyes consumed, flesh chewed. Brittle bones crushed into shards. Smaller skull within, shorn into paste. All of it is swallowed. Ravenous, and yet the mother gags over sickness that rises in her throat.
When the last is gone so too is her mind, but with fleeting consciousness Ayovi makes a final plea of the witch:
“S-skorpa. Pl… please— velsigne ham.”