Blackwater Islands chape

mireille had been here too long.
she cried in howls over the cold water until her throat was raw.
and then mireille began to run along the bank, running and running, daring the shallows and shouting at the sea to take her, to bring her home.
the girl crumpled on the shore in sobs.

the girl was unwell. her body thrived, but her mind festered inside of her; soon, the rest would turn to rot.

but the listener was unconcerned. the unnamed god had heard her plea, she was certain. a wolf of sapphique would come to their shores.

your brother. you say he is a spirit-talker, the listener began, drawing up alongside the collapsed girl. i have summoned sapphique. if he hears the spirits, they will bring him.

the only one who eased mireille was the listener. it was her age. it was her authority. it was her promise. the sea-girl trusted no one but if she would be asked to do so, it was this sable creature she would choose. "t'ank you." she wiped her tears away and turned her eyes upon the sea. "do de spirits use words when dey speak? or only soun's?"

the listener's presence seemed to revitalize the red girl. she had questions. the prophet thought back to the night she had followed the wolf with fur like sand, to the words that had been exchanged. here was an opportunity to demonstrate her power — to make sure that the girl would, on some level, leave blackwater with the knowledge that the druids were not to be crossed. the listener needed no violent words or spilt blood to convey this, and the knowledge filled her with pride.

neither. the spirits speak with a voice that cannot be heard, but felt. seen, perhaps. they may take the voice and words of a living soul, but rarely create their own, half-truths; the listener would not have the girl know what it truly meant to walk in the otherworld. these were the secrets of blackwater. the spirits spoke to me in the voice of a man. they spoke of you. with this, the prophet's mismatched gaze found the girl's ruddy features. mireille of sapphique. oh, how she wished to know what the sandy woman's last words had been in this moment!

referencing this thread

mireille of sapphique.
if she had doubted before, the girl believed now. her brilliant ears pinned back in surprise, shock, chagrin.
suspicion.
she wanted to demand how the listener had come by her name, but it had been the spirits had it not?
the voice of a man.
the only man she knew was da njord; perhaps.
"what else did it say?" mireille asked tightly.

a thrill of pleasure raced cold and trembling down the listener's spine. this was power. knowledge, and the careful wielding of it.

her blood would have tasted sweeter, but that was not the listener's path.

the voice spoke of worry. a search, the listener watched the girl. mireille. when you return to sapphique, what will you do?

mireille let out her breath. "i do not know."
she stared into the eldritch eyes of the wolf who was both her years and ageless.
she inhaled again.
"i want to understand de storms."

the storms are a conduit for the spirits. when they have a great need, their songs shake the world until that need is heard, to satisfy the need, however... that would take time. that the girl sought to understand was a virtue, but the listener felt she would not. in truth, the prophet herself hardly understood.

in time, i will learn to hear the need before their songs shake the world. the path is long. dark, too, but she would not plague the girl so. she had taken poorly to the listener's predictions for the future. a weak disposition, despite her potential. it was a shame. but the girl was not meant for the druids.

mireille listened.
she did not understand. she comprehended that it was beyond her. "my brot'er. he seems closer to dat world den i." it was one of many things that she treasured in sobo. mireille let out her breath and looked to the sea now.
"every winter my mot'er swims in de sea. every season. she speaks wid it."