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Continued from here. 18th of Ymiden, Arc 718
The Witch.
"Like a mother longing for her lost babe, I pray to the great Maven-Mother; I beseech her for the return of our whelp, our kindling. I call upon the ample influence of Delroth. I call to the darkness, and the light, and the ethereal and mundane, all; I beseech you. Please... return her to us. Give us back our Elena, our lost daughter. Show mercy to us poor, forsaken Avriel. Show mercy."
. . .
"She died," the woman whispered, tying her red locks into a knot, fearful of catching them upon the many jagged, tangled branches of the wetland woods. "Elena... died," Clara stated, almost solemnly. She had known her for so long - they were raised together, like sisters, beneath the wings of the Witches of Skalden. They were not sacrificed in ritual, or tortured, or any such thing. They were nurtured by the wings of very dark women, but within their separation from the other girls of their kind, they found one another.
To know that she had fallen, even despite what she'd become, was a tragic thing.
"Mercy," the other Avriel called out. "Mercy!" they yelled. "Mercy for Elena; Mercy for us destitute, hungering, tattered things! Mercy for our daughter and her soul!"
If it wasn't so vile - if they weren't so reprehensible - he almost would have felt pity. But instead, they had their mission, and it was to rend them. It was clear that Alistair could not utilize Clara to separate the Witch Coven, but at least there were only three, rather than four. They could be content in knowing that, alone.
"You know what you have to do," he said. Even though Clara couldn't separate them, she could serve as a distraction. Alistair could assassinate Skreega and Lygmi, isolating Hagerd Fen from her witchlings. The ginger-haired woman nodded her head, as she stood from the forested soil and approached the simple hut within the woods. As she stepped upon branches and made contact with the bristling ground, the witches immediately aimed their gazes to the brush from which she approached, watching steadily.
When Clara emerged from the brush, all of them stared in awe. Most of all, Hagerd, still mourning for her lost child . . . but not without a solemn appreciation for what answer her prayers had given.
"Krona!" she called her. Krona. It certainly wasn't Clara, but he supposed an alias was a necessary thing. Perhaps Krona was the alias - the name they had given her. He was uncertain.
"Mother," the Empath responded back. Hagerd opened her wings and stepped forward, approaching the Empath in a readied embrace. Skreega and Lygmi began to cry, salty driblets rolling down their feathered faces, their beaks opening lightly to mewl. The whole display was disturbing, all of it. Even the way in which they expressed their emotions was disjointed. It was... impure.
"Krona, you -- you are... the answer to our..." the woman followed, her tears equally beginning to flow. She was a large, weighty woman, comparable more to a hen than a falcon or any other winged predator. Alistair was certain that she would not be able to fly, though the thin women of Lygmi and Skreega were different stories.
"Did Elena really die?" she asked.
"Yes," Hagerd responded. "A sudden, impossible illness came over her. No matter our poultices, saps and rituals, we could not restore her. She is no longer alive," the Avriel said, despondent. And then, Clara -- Krona -- looked into the large basin-like nest they had built around the ritual site, adorned in bones and colorful eggs. She saw the... gore within, and failed to stifle a gag. It was Elena, but split into so many pieces. Her torso was separated bloodily from her arms, legs, and neck, which was equally torn from her head. Seven bloodied parts that were once whole, now separated into sections, a twisted idol.
She did not understand why. How would Elena return to them like this? Even if the Immortals answered their prayers.
"Mother," she called her, though her expression grew disquieting and grim. Clara had steeled herself to what was to come next. "I'm sorry. You will soon follow."
Continued from here. 18th of Ymiden, Arc 718
The Witch.
"Like a mother longing for her lost babe, I pray to the great Maven-Mother; I beseech her for the return of our whelp, our kindling. I call upon the ample influence of Delroth. I call to the darkness, and the light, and the ethereal and mundane, all; I beseech you. Please... return her to us. Give us back our Elena, our lost daughter. Show mercy to us poor, forsaken Avriel. Show mercy."
. . .
"She died," the woman whispered, tying her red locks into a knot, fearful of catching them upon the many jagged, tangled branches of the wetland woods. "Elena... died," Clara stated, almost solemnly. She had known her for so long - they were raised together, like sisters, beneath the wings of the Witches of Skalden. They were not sacrificed in ritual, or tortured, or any such thing. They were nurtured by the wings of very dark women, but within their separation from the other girls of their kind, they found one another.
To know that she had fallen, even despite what she'd become, was a tragic thing.
"Mercy," the other Avriel called out. "Mercy!" they yelled. "Mercy for Elena; Mercy for us destitute, hungering, tattered things! Mercy for our daughter and her soul!"
If it wasn't so vile - if they weren't so reprehensible - he almost would have felt pity. But instead, they had their mission, and it was to rend them. It was clear that Alistair could not utilize Clara to separate the Witch Coven, but at least there were only three, rather than four. They could be content in knowing that, alone.
"You know what you have to do," he said. Even though Clara couldn't separate them, she could serve as a distraction. Alistair could assassinate Skreega and Lygmi, isolating Hagerd Fen from her witchlings. The ginger-haired woman nodded her head, as she stood from the forested soil and approached the simple hut within the woods. As she stepped upon branches and made contact with the bristling ground, the witches immediately aimed their gazes to the brush from which she approached, watching steadily.
When Clara emerged from the brush, all of them stared in awe. Most of all, Hagerd, still mourning for her lost child . . . but not without a solemn appreciation for what answer her prayers had given.
"Krona!" she called her. Krona. It certainly wasn't Clara, but he supposed an alias was a necessary thing. Perhaps Krona was the alias - the name they had given her. He was uncertain.
"Mother," the Empath responded back. Hagerd opened her wings and stepped forward, approaching the Empath in a readied embrace. Skreega and Lygmi began to cry, salty driblets rolling down their feathered faces, their beaks opening lightly to mewl. The whole display was disturbing, all of it. Even the way in which they expressed their emotions was disjointed. It was... impure.
"Krona, you -- you are... the answer to our..." the woman followed, her tears equally beginning to flow. She was a large, weighty woman, comparable more to a hen than a falcon or any other winged predator. Alistair was certain that she would not be able to fly, though the thin women of Lygmi and Skreega were different stories.
"Did Elena really die?" she asked.
"Yes," Hagerd responded. "A sudden, impossible illness came over her. No matter our poultices, saps and rituals, we could not restore her. She is no longer alive," the Avriel said, despondent. And then, Clara -- Krona -- looked into the large basin-like nest they had built around the ritual site, adorned in bones and colorful eggs. She saw the... gore within, and failed to stifle a gag. It was Elena, but split into so many pieces. Her torso was separated bloodily from her arms, legs, and neck, which was equally torn from her head. Seven bloodied parts that were once whole, now separated into sections, a twisted idol.
She did not understand why. How would Elena return to them like this? Even if the Immortals answered their prayers.
"Mother," she called her, though her expression grew disquieting and grim. Clara had steeled herself to what was to come next. "I'm sorry. You will soon follow."
