Blackwater Islands you cannot petition the lord with prayer

she was relieved from her duties as a guard. the listener said this a day before to her. that and that alone. morgana was left in complete silence for the hours to come. a speaker without a task.

as she dragged through time she grew more and more restless.

by moonset she’d left the confines of her den. she sought the listener with quick pace.

@The Listener I’m assuming they would’ve told Morgana about Bridget already. Let me know if you’d like me to change this :)

morgana would find her prophet alone and bathed in moonlight. in the loose dark earth at her paws, crude symbols. her paws were dirty with the etching of them, her eyes glazed and far-away.

even as the listener's eyes sought morgana's features, she seemed elsewhere. morgana, she rasped, her movements abrupt and pained as she stretched to look upon her acolyte. my most faithful. i have sensed a change in you.

tell me, one paw hovered over the symbols at her feet. have you found your purpose? are you ready to serve the unnamed god?

the listener looked to her. no, she looked within. her striking eyes could see what morgana could not. days upon days of ever whispering anxieties were silenced with their simple observation. the speaker had no need to hold her breath any longer.

i am ready. she breathed out, then stepped closer. her eyes trained upon the symbols that were etched into the earth.

it is as you’ve told me. i carry the god’s gifts within my womb. i am the bringer of new life.

god's gifts, within her. the prophet closed her eyes.

if she had not poured herself into you...

and she knew then, with a certainty as cold and everlasting as the sea itself, that morgana would die for this. would die for her prophet. for the unnamed god. for the new lives she carried within herself.

you will no longer be a speaker, the listener began, eyes opening after some long moments. you will no longer walk among the druids. we will find a place for you to rest, away from the others.

you are not morgana. not anymore. you are the wispmother; the future of the druids.

silence gave a moment for pride to swell throughout her body.

she’d succeeded with her duty. surely the unnamed god was pleased with her. as they were with the listener, with rasha. morgana smiled to herself.

the listener spoke briefly, then silence fell again.

and it was that silence that allowed her pride to shatter into pieces.

she is stripped of her title, her place on this island, and her name. she is left only with the name wispmother and the confusion that came with it.

she cannot help but ask: have i done the god wrong? then searched the listener’s face.

have i done the god wrong?

no. no, her fierce whisper pierced the air, the will of the unnamed god ringing behind it. the prophet looked into the eyes of her follower, looked deep and saw the naked fear in her soul. fear of abandonment. of failure. you have done well, my most faithful. this is your gift.

you are one of the chosen, and your name will live on forever. your true name. the wispmother, bringer of life. matron of the druids.

she breathed, then, and drew close to the wispmother. there is no higher honor than to be chosen by the unnamed god. this is all that you deserve, beloved servant of god, and more. you stand at my side now. as speaker, she had been below the listener. under her command. but no more.

she had ascended.

the listener answers, vehemently, with a no. that she had in fact done well by this god. a success, legend to be.

wispmother.

it hits her then, quite suddenly, that she is to be a mother again. this god, whoever they may be, approved. unlike the daedra. there’s comfort in that thought. with that comes a sheen of tears.

the wispmother smiled lightly.
i am honored.

she is relieved.

the listener did not speak her own approval. it was not needed. instead she beckoned to the wispmother, leading her to her den. their den, for now. there she would be confined until she fulfilled her purpose. perhaps even beyond.