Blackwater Islands bruise

i would follow you anywhere.

it was the wrong answer. as if in a dream, nothing was out of place; all was as it should be, yet a sense of wrongness pervaded the very air between them. as if in a dream, the prophet could only follow the path before her, against every instinct which urged her to turn away. there had never been any choice in the matter.

good, the prophet nodded, a well of cold black water seeping over her bones. the unnamed god's demands are clear. you must be married, and through this union the druids will be strengthened. your bride has not yet been chosen, but it is my wish that you have a voice in the decision.

then, softer, not as the prophet this time but as his trikova; this need not change the life we have envisioned for ourselves, grim.

a sweet lie.