The first records of our young world
were those of tears and blood
***
were those of tears and blood
***
Without going so far as to say that she delighted in the suffering of others, the witch doctor reveled in the destruction wrought by the gods' wrath. The opening of the skies came as an answered prayer, a prophecy fulfilled, and if ever a crippled creature could have a spring in its step then the spotted mare certainly qualified. She could heal the wounded - this hospital deep in the swamp provided every amenity she needed and quite a few more that she didn't - but in that moment of revelatory triumph a hundred saved lives could not have equalled her pride.
Vespera was awake, and she found that she was strong.
She drew her people from their hideous and unwieldy tower, dashed the symbols of their decadence into the mud and waters of the swamp, lowering all of Terrastella beneath her relentless rains back to the sacred earth and the healing heart of the Ilati.
This was their moment and their mastery. They would not be hunted by the interloper but entreated, and the witch doctor had not felt so alive in many a moon.
Stalking the halls, she cut a most incongruous figure, her bone implements clacking pleasantly with every lurching step. The victims caught out by the downpour had already begun to arrive, and with great pride she had done her part as the first among Vespera's chosen people.
Out of the corner of her bone mask, a glimpse of a gold-and-black horse caught her eye. She was bony in exactly the opposite way that the witch doctor was bony - on the inside rather than out - and moved almost furtively in her obvious weakness through the hospital corridors. The mousey mare watched, head low and predatory in its curious regard. Why should such a creature slink thus through this holy ground? What had she to hide - or to fear?
A moment of grinding her tusks against the protruding teeth of her mask were enough to make a decision.
Grabbing a container of gruel fashioned from grains, water, and a dusting of herbs and bird eggs in her teeth, the painted healer approached the hungry stranger with shameless intent. She dropped it before the weakened mare, insistent, and fixed her with a look that seemed unnervingly blank through the shadow of the skull mask. Her voice, though, rang with care in spite of its roughness.
"Eat. Make you strong."
She did not question the mare's motives in spite of her suspicion. The hospital was no prison; if the stranger wished to meet a natural death in the face of the rampant storm, then the witch doctor would have been the first to honor her devotion to Vespera's will, but as long as she was here then the witch doctor would treat her. That's what she knew.
Vespera was awake, and she found that she was strong.
She drew her people from their hideous and unwieldy tower, dashed the symbols of their decadence into the mud and waters of the swamp, lowering all of Terrastella beneath her relentless rains back to the sacred earth and the healing heart of the Ilati.
This was their moment and their mastery. They would not be hunted by the interloper but entreated, and the witch doctor had not felt so alive in many a moon.
Stalking the halls, she cut a most incongruous figure, her bone implements clacking pleasantly with every lurching step. The victims caught out by the downpour had already begun to arrive, and with great pride she had done her part as the first among Vespera's chosen people.
Out of the corner of her bone mask, a glimpse of a gold-and-black horse caught her eye. She was bony in exactly the opposite way that the witch doctor was bony - on the inside rather than out - and moved almost furtively in her obvious weakness through the hospital corridors. The mousey mare watched, head low and predatory in its curious regard. Why should such a creature slink thus through this holy ground? What had she to hide - or to fear?
A moment of grinding her tusks against the protruding teeth of her mask were enough to make a decision.
Grabbing a container of gruel fashioned from grains, water, and a dusting of herbs and bird eggs in her teeth, the painted healer approached the hungry stranger with shameless intent. She dropped it before the weakened mare, insistent, and fixed her with a look that seemed unnervingly blank through the shadow of the skull mask. Her voice, though, rang with care in spite of its roughness.
"Eat. Make you strong."
She did not question the mare's motives in spite of her suspicion. The hospital was no prison; if the stranger wished to meet a natural death in the face of the rampant storm, then the witch doctor would have been the first to honor her devotion to Vespera's will, but as long as she was here then the witch doctor would treat her. That's what she knew.
***
The Witch Doctor
Its last records will be those of tears and blood also
The Witch Doctor
Its last records will be those of tears and blood also
@Annabeth
