The first records of our young world
were those of tears and blood
***
were those of tears and blood
***
The witch doctor was, as mortal things often are, drawn to the beacon of light.
She did not much resemble her usual self, most traces of her customary body paint having been washed away or smeared into dark red stains in her dense coat, leaving her spotted coat adorned with little more than streaks of mud, prickly briars, and a host of fresh wounds ranging from tiny cuts and bruises to gashes that winked like red eyes from the deep hairless furrows they had scoured in her hide. Many of the more pressing injuries had been tended, though the rugged mare would hesitate now to recall when. The needs of Terrastella were great, and the witch doctor was no stranger to private hardship.
Huddled at the base of the shining pillar lay a queer lump of flesh, perhaps rodent, perhaps something else. Its breaths came shallowly and with great effort even through the merciful haze of unconsciousness. No doubt the poor creature had, in its deathly delirium, dragged its broken body toward the light and collapsed there, succumbing to its injuries like a moth in flames.
Poor, poor beast.
The spotted mare tilted her head, squinting at the light's brightness as it pierced the darkness beneath her mask. Her eyes glinted like flecks of dried blood.
It was an unusual creature, but the witch doctor had seen many unusual things since she had donned the implements of her station, and it was in a very, very bad way. What hope had such a creature against the elements without the support of its kin? Had they already perished somewhere in the floods and the landslides?
Not for the first time in the past several hours the witch doctor was acutely aware of how limply the herb pouch hung at her side. Doubtless any extra she had stored herself had been washed away by the waters that had rushed through her hovel, and what vegetation there existed to be harvested had fallen just as much victim to the weather as the animals. With so many horses still in need of aid, the spotted mare could offer this poor soul no greater mercy than the dignity of a swift, clean death.
She hummed somberly, murmuring a singsong prayer under her breath as she rested one chipped forehoof lightly on the gopher's skull. Then, swiftly, she shifted all of her weight into it.
She did not much resemble her usual self, most traces of her customary body paint having been washed away or smeared into dark red stains in her dense coat, leaving her spotted coat adorned with little more than streaks of mud, prickly briars, and a host of fresh wounds ranging from tiny cuts and bruises to gashes that winked like red eyes from the deep hairless furrows they had scoured in her hide. Many of the more pressing injuries had been tended, though the rugged mare would hesitate now to recall when. The needs of Terrastella were great, and the witch doctor was no stranger to private hardship.
Huddled at the base of the shining pillar lay a queer lump of flesh, perhaps rodent, perhaps something else. Its breaths came shallowly and with great effort even through the merciful haze of unconsciousness. No doubt the poor creature had, in its deathly delirium, dragged its broken body toward the light and collapsed there, succumbing to its injuries like a moth in flames.
Poor, poor beast.
The spotted mare tilted her head, squinting at the light's brightness as it pierced the darkness beneath her mask. Her eyes glinted like flecks of dried blood.
It was an unusual creature, but the witch doctor had seen many unusual things since she had donned the implements of her station, and it was in a very, very bad way. What hope had such a creature against the elements without the support of its kin? Had they already perished somewhere in the floods and the landslides?
Not for the first time in the past several hours the witch doctor was acutely aware of how limply the herb pouch hung at her side. Doubtless any extra she had stored herself had been washed away by the waters that had rushed through her hovel, and what vegetation there existed to be harvested had fallen just as much victim to the weather as the animals. With so many horses still in need of aid, the spotted mare could offer this poor soul no greater mercy than the dignity of a swift, clean death.
She hummed somberly, murmuring a singsong prayer under her breath as she rested one chipped forehoof lightly on the gopher's skull. Then, swiftly, she shifted all of her weight into it.
***
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
