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.
Solis' glare could not shed light into the empty sockets of the witch doctor's mask, much less coerce her hidden eyes into blinking beneath his withering attention. He scorned the chosen of Vespera and Vespera herself, and for that the spotted mare happily scorned him. Her tusks scraped aggressively against the predator's skull as she worked her jaw around the shape of her ire.
With a switch of her bobbed tail and a clatter of beads against bone, the witch doctor tilted her head toward the elder. "We go, Kenkéknem. Yellow god not savvy bout um Vespela."
The gravel of her voice radiated understanding, as though she did not seethe inside at his arrogance, but there was a reason the Ilati did not pray to so hollow a creature whose very steps defiled the ground with their corrosive heat.
She nipped the old stallion's mane, tugging at a thick braid to urge his compliance, then turned her attention again toward Solis. Lips tugged into a saccharine smile made no friendlier by the harsh lines of her bony brow, the witch doctor nodded sweetly in the god's direction.
"Illen tek splep, broder Solis."
With a peculiar sway in her shaggy hips, the mousey mare turned and nipped Turhan more emphatically on the flank, indicating he should follow. They would find no answers here.
The Witch Doctor
there are no grotesques in nature
there are no grotesques in nature
@Turhan
