Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

Aspa had watched the young lynx before turning away to open the deer the warrior-hunter had brought. Without hesitation, she plunged her paws into its still-warm entrails, her fur soon slick with blood and fluid.

Then, without warning, she pressed those same stained paws against Ayovi’s pale forehead, leaving behind a viscous, fetid imprint—the mark of the gods.

Du har været stærk, Ayovi. Hvil nu, she commanded, her voice steady. Jeg vil bede guderne velsigne Skorpa. she added, casting a measured glance at the superfluous offering.

Du har mit ord, she murmured. Men for dig selv, for dine børn, må du give slip. Luk øjnene, overgiv dig, lad mine guder og dine ånder føre dig bort.

She turned her back on the Blizzardske dame and returned to the warrior who fancied himself a hunter.

Hjælp mig med at flå denne hjort. Vi vil svøbe hende i dens skind, og du vil bringe hende tilbage til hendes bjerg. With a slight tilt of her head, she gestured toward the young mother-to-be.