The first records of our young world were those of tears and blood;
its last records will be those of tears and blood also.
its last records will be those of tears and blood also.
"You no learn about place from book. You learn from place," she sneered, bone-ridged neck arched with savage imperiousness. She saw not the unruffled patience of an ancient one but the vacant stare of a buffoon who had no idea of even how much he knew nothing about. If he had lived that long, a claim that could hardly be believed in a place where immortality was a rare gift from the gods to their most loyal and deserving followers, then he had lived it in darkness and ignorance.
And, while the witch doctor might have been more than willing to share her expansive knowledge of medicine and herbs with the Ilati, she had approximately zero patience for a basic history lesson with an emotionless fuddy-duddy reading books by firelight. Her bobtail switched metronomically against her rump in her agitation, then abruptly slowed as the corners of her mouth turned up in a half smile empty of compassion.
"Too late for swewll. When judgment come, you see."
They would all see. They would face the gods' wrath and they would turn their eyes to the sky in pious desire for mercy. Perhaps then Relic would see fit to show a shred of mortal emotion about things, lift his eyes, and look at the world through his own eyes rather than the eyes of a possibly-dead author.
With one last jerk of her skull-masked head, the spotted mare stalked out of the firelight in much the same way she entered it, swaying with each step like a battle-scarred lioness.
The Witch Doctor
there are no grotesques in nature
there are no grotesques in nature
@Relic | she's a real peach
