Falls of the Hinterlands sea water flowing from the middle of my thighs

pping @Tessa with permission. i also powerplayed @Issorartuyok in but more vaguely since im not sure what he'd do exactly, but figure he'd be there too! all welcome. also, i didnt want to write out all the details but labor was really difficult on antha and she'll be weak for some time

in the wake of that bloody night, the night that had seen the worst and cruelest of antha's fears made flesh, the witchlight had dimmed within her. it withered and died under the brittle, icy cloak of apathy she wore ever since she woke to the scent of blood, the destruction of the future she'd built of glass and lies. lies, yes; to herself, to tessa, to issorartuyok, to all the wolves of atautsikut.
she'd known she was cursed, after all.
tessa knew it too, though she pretended otherwise. they both had, for so long - and in the end it had led antha here. to ruin. she had known the day she poisoned her own womb, so many moons ago, that life may never find welcome there again. she had cradled the bodies of her would-be children, her would-be shackles to a life of torment, and she had sworn to herself that she would never regret it. perhaps she had lied then, too.
she could not say.
life still flickered within the hostile embrace of her womb, undeniably; indicated by her own senses, confirmed by tessa. if they died within their first moments, their first days or weeks, perhaps she would curse herself for an even greater fool. or perhaps not.
selfishness had driven her to purge the unwanted life from her body all those moons ago. selfishness that, perhaps, would always make its home at her core.

she'd fled; she'd fled the watching, worrying eyes of her sister and her husband, of lane and tuuluuwaq. hormone-addled and swept up in the throes of an old and bone-deep trauma, antha eschewed the careful planning of her keepers and vanished into the night. a tale as old as time; the lone witch, journeying under moonlight to her bloody fate.
but she was no warrior; she was no assassin, stealing through the night to snuff some vile beacon of corruption from the world. she was not even a mother, not yet.
she was only a woman, a witch, terrified and alone at the cusp of something she had never thought to see.
in the pale mist, there was little to guide her way save the wink of stars through the shadowy canopy. she came to the falls by chance. the trees thinned and gave way to a narrow clearing around the towering waterfall. in the mist, under the scant moonlight, a brilliant arc of color sailed through the air.
a rainbow.
the witch gasped, startled to see such magic in this dull place, so disconnected from the forces of the universe. a rainbow under the dark of night.
and slowly, the color began to fade away. within minutes it had vanished entirely. the witch's gaze followed the fading light up, up, all the way to the heavens. the moon was changing, a darkness spreading across its brilliant ivory surface. behind her, a faint gasp echoed her own from moments before.
the witch spared only a glance for her sister, who had trailed her as surely as the moon trails the earth. something was happening. the moon; her body; everything shifting, changing.
she shrieked; a broken, gasping sound, almost muffled under the mist. tessa rushed to her side, and the witch left herself.

beneath the bleeding moon two women labored amid the churning mists. the air crackled and sparked, restless, a caged beast awaiting its moment of freedom. the night was black and green and red all around them, enshrined in silver mists and blue shadows.
the sweet scent of herbs mixed with blood, sharpened by the cold night air. the witches toiled and cried, strained and wept - and they prayed. a tall man stood with them in the mists, a dark silhouette of a sentinel.
and when the moon filled to the brim with its own dark blood and overflowed into the night, the pale witch shrieked, and bore life; sickly, squirming life.
a red witch for the red moon, the magic of rubies and blood.
a witch of the night for the shadows of the wilds, a reign in onyx and stardust.
a wraith-witch of the mists, the icy power of pale shades and specters.

and finally, as the color began to bleed from the moon, one who did not belong.

or so thought the witch as she accepted this final, bitter gift.
a son. a dark and perfect boy, a mirror of the perfect image of health painted by his dark sister. he had stolen it from his sickly sisters, she felt for a moment, wildly, irrationally.
the moment passed, and the witch knew then that he was a witch too; fashioned from the ancient bones of the earth, born of the land with all its emerald life flowing through his veins.
they were witches, all of them. the tatkret witches, born under the bleeding moon. alive, and perfect, and hers.

hers was an old soul, though none would ever guess it in the days to come. those ancient energies which flowed from one life to the next through the veins of the earth were thought to be serene and wise, as placid and relentless as the flowing river. those who knew the red witch as she grew would scoff to hear the words.
she was old, and had lived many lives, each in fire and blood. she had stormed through time, across realities, for so long that she had forgotten her true name, or if she'd ever had one.
memories filtered from her mind like sand pouring through a sieve; her last life, the latest in a long line. she grasped for them idly, a futile half-baked effort born of boredom. this part always lasted the longest.
elsewhere, her toes emerged into the world first, pointed outward and wriggling in outrage. here we go again.
just once, it might have been nice to be granted a dignified entrance to her new life. turns out, an old crone with enough anger can craft a curse to follow a soul even beyond death. by now the red witch had lost count of how many times she'd been come into the world feet-first, or if she was terribly unlucky, ass-first. as mortifying as her early attempt at self-decapitation was, it was only an unfortunate side effect of the true curse.
all in good time.
as she slid fully into the world, at the apex of the lunar eclipse which had so entranced her new mother, the witch was pleasantly surprised to find that she'd caught one. a memory, that is. a favorite quote from a favorite book, though she couldn't quite remember what a book was. and it was so very fitting for this night. it was already beginning to fade, and would be gone entirely by the morning, but for the moment she thought she could recall it. how did it go again?
ah.

"i told you i'd come back, didn't i?

i'm irrepressible, unforgivable, unstoppable, shameless, thoughtless, hopeless, heartless, running rampant, the wild child, undaunted, unrepentant, unsaved.

and baby, there is a story to tell.

i hear hell's bells calling me. it's time to boogie!

SO SLAM CUT TO:"

quote by anne rice!

Second born.

A rank dictated by chance perhaps, or by the positioning of her sister, still reluctant to leave the womb. Their embrace was severed by contractions. Nose-to-nose, they shared their final moments together within their mother; a goodbye kiss that lingered almost too long. 

Nevertheless, as her world shifted and clenched, whatever awareness she had drove her to become restless. Instinct forced her to crave something she’d not yet tasted, and when she did open her mewling lips to taste the air for the first time it felt like it  burned. But after being squeezed, cramped and choked, the rush of cool air quickly brought her to life. Puff after puff her little body worked to sip and slurp the air, until she became full of life.

Her thirst for air couldn’t be contented, but it soon had to contend with another need. She suckled on the air and felt it wasn’t substantial enough. Her growing hunger summoned her vocal chords to resonate, and without even being able to hear her own cries she began to demand sustenance, wailing like a siren for her needs to be fulfilled.

here's my crappy first post lmao

Birth had been difficult on Noatak. When she arrived, she was silent. She did not cry or squeal or fuss. She lay on the ground unmoving until something jostled her--she did not know what--and that began her weak fussing. Even then, she hardly moved, lacking the energy to do so.

forgive me, i wrote this post hopped up on pain meds the other night and i'm too tired to make it more coherent lol

Last born and least wanted, the youngest moonchild -- the one who did not belong -- drew his first repellent breath into a pitiful wail.

As he was cleaned and examined, he cried strongly throughout, his lament even reaching a new pitch as his mother paused in her care to regard him with scorn and thinly-veiled resentment. Of course, he could acknowledge nothing except for his own discomfiture at the unfamiliar conditions now surrounding him, so he merely basked restlessly in her wretched, unloving stare, oblivious to the short-lived rejection.

But it was a microcosm in a single moment; he is deprived and then saved, in no time at all, it seemed -- yet her attention is an intense gratification that he will pursue for all eternity. Through this life and the next. A feeling spelled of such magnitude that no party present could ever surmise its vastness or its depth within him.

The murkwood pup is put beside his sisters, at peace once again but perhaps inescapably molded. For in his innocent little heart beats a thread of avarice...

Always, always craving a little more.