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.
It is a simple yet undeniable observation that mortals are drawn inexorably to power. The witch doctor certainly was - she adorned herself with the implements of creatures in whose claws and teeth lay the power over life and death; she shielded her face from the masses that she might look more clearly upon the faces of the gods - and so was Kenkéknem after his own fashion. His power lay in the tokens tangled and braided with careful, reverent attention into his unruly mane, and through Vespera's attentive ear.
But his piety did not stop him from approaching the midday sun made flesh when it shone for the first time in living memory upon his sightless face. It did not stop the witch doctor from doing the same.
She limped along at Turhan's side, skull-masked face unreadable except perhaps by the gods themselves. Solis was bright and wild and frightful to behold, and yet...
Awe could not contort the severe lines of a dead animal's brow, nor could it sway the mare's allegiance. She was of Vespera and for Vespera, and her voice was not for Solis.
The mouse brown mare stood watchfully, almost protectively at Kenkéknem's grizzled side, bobbed tail twitching, peering out from behind her mask as the mortals gathered and offered their own words of love, hate, or indifference. She defied anyone to denounce her silence in the presence of a god, knowing nothing of the sort would come.
There was greater blasphemy on display here.
The Witch Doctor
there are no grotesques in nature
there are no grotesques in nature
