[ P ] Move Mountains

It was foolish, really, that she hadn’t yet performed the ritual at Tir Na Nog. Or perhaps it was calculated to earn the favor of the fae, reiterating her requests as she built her own, mortal foundations. It was not yet time for Prince Jacob to strike and bring the Old Ways back to Rionnach. But war was fast approaching, and the prayers at the Standing Stones could wait no longer. Even staggered by illness, the witch climbed to the peak, air colder than death freezing the inside of her lungs. The Cailleach’s unforgiving touch was a balm on her throat, but the trek uphill was the true battle. Diptheria sapped her strength day by day; only faith and determination could rekindle it. And so, the banduri witch journeyed to the most sacred of places. There, she breathed the precious veil between mortal and immortal planes. There, she pressed her tired body, supple despite her sickness, against the ancient stones—so she could feel the energy vibrating from their surface. And there, she sang and chanted and danced naked under the moonlight, knowing that she was alone but she was unrelenting.


And the witch knew, deep in her heart, that if the old covens regained their power…the petulant invaders from the Mainland, the cowards who stole their heritage, would not stand a chance.


After many hours, the banduri sauntered down the mountainside with a reverent smile. She was breathless, but thrumming with intense joy and purpose. Even her scarlet pelt seemed to shimmer with a lustrous gleam, soft and steeped in traces of blood, poppy and hazel oil. Still, the morbid perfume was nothing compared to the fierce determination in the witch’s eyes—moonbright and burning with the cold light of the heavens. Almost to herself, the woman uttered one last prayer for the evening:


“Loisgeadh e san teine ​​so.”

table ; bunny

*”Let him burn in this fire.”

@Wisteria

Don't Believe Everything You See A solemn sigh cast from normally joyous muse, contemplating what this land had for her now, if not her coven of makeshift outcasts from society now gone. Wondering if staying away from the hellish land would have been the better choice. No, it was clear she was needed here but she had yet to determine what exactly was wanted of her now, having expected it to be written as clear and fanciful as it normally was. The wind was still, the world equally so as her paws carried her along the mountains, surfacing higher and higher but not quite near any peaks. This landscape often harbored curious encounters with men in its secluded reaches, some hungry for blood while others desired more cardinal sins, she had been more than willing to provide to satisfy her desire for entertainment and company. Yet, she hardly wished to collide with any in this moment, which was odd to her, normally more than pining for that tang upon her tongue and the tear of flesh between her teeth. She was not mourning. Tears never fell. She was plotting, plotting on how to fix it all. How to please her goddess between realms and perhaps this mountain would provide those answers she so seeked. What she didn’t expect was that twinge in the air of herbs and someone lupine upon the slowly increasing swirl of smells, it far too cold for most to venture within this season. She knew of the hidden hot springs but she still was far from their clutches, something she might not mind at this moment. Perhaps Caspian may be there once again, his face never too bad to look at even if she’d prefer his company to be absent. Maybe he could be her stress release for a change, had he been there. Should he even be alive. Not putting it past him to have found his end by now with how reckless he was and how quick he was to answer her siren call. But it was not a pleasant brine that entered flared nostrils. No, she could pick up so many things she worked with regularly. Poppy. Hazel. Incense. Blood. A holy concoction that not just any healer would use. This was one of fae origins, though the signature within the scent was foreign, a witch she had not met before but it was clear a ritual had been recently made. Her gaze would cast upward to take in the sight of one of fire and brimstone, energy equally so as a smile slowly contorted on her lips as she took in the stranger's holy luster. Curiosity peaked as she heard an utterance, believing she did indeed find what she was looking for as she chuckled from her vantage point not directly in the others view; hidden away in the sanctity of some patchwork flora that grew even in this harsh climate. The Goddess continued to be kind to her loyal shaman. "Ge b'e neach a tha thu a' losgadh le draoidh ealamh, ealamh, a tha mar an ceudna air lasadh a lasadh?" She mused with a more Scot accent, allowing her voice to echo along the cliff face like a will-o-wisp guiding someone to their demise with the voice of a sirenic melody welcoming them in.

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The banduri halted, ears swiveling in the direction of a mysterious, melodic voice. But “shock” was not the expression on the witch’s masked face. Instead, an intrigued grin danced across her dark lips; bright, silver eyes glimmered in the direction of the wilderness that hid her voyeur. And with luxurious pleasure, she inhaled the floral scent that whispered through the trees. For the witch, however, this sudden response was not an enigma. Someone spoke to her in the ancient tongue and Yvaine felt, with powerful devotion, that the gods were already answering her prayers.


“Fear-brathaidh,” the banduri replied, her voice huskier than it used to be, worn raw by Diptheria’s persistence. And yet, it still rang with a brusque, utterly feminine quality, smooth and confident and unwavering. A pretender. A man. “Ghoid e ar n-oighreachd-ne agus bithidh a' phrìs air a bheatha.”* The response would reveal whether or not her unseen counterpart was an ally.


Slowly, the banduri took two more steps forward. Her hips swayed, her muscles aching from the effort of denying her illness. It was the thrill that propelled her. “Nach eil thu a’ smaoineachadh gu bheil sin airidh air crìoch lasrach?”**

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*he stole our heritage and the price will be his life
**don't you think that deserves a fiery end?

@Wisteria

Infection

You cringe with a step forward and turn to see an ulcer on your thigh. That must have been what was bothering you this morning. That, paired with the sudden soarness in your throat, causes you to feel woozy.


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Don't Believe Everything You See It took her some ticking seconds to realize whom this woman spoke of, listening to each syllable intently and noticing the deeper lyrics though without a starting point, she would not know it was deeper than normal. It was alluring all the same as she held in laugh as they continued, not able to say that this heritage of theirs was also her own, far detached from these northern traditions by blood but strong did she hold them by virtue alone. She was nothing more than a creature from the depths of a wealthy library that the College held close so as not to lose the books they borrowed for lessons and learning or the nosy lesser scholar. That was her heritance within the Red Wood, a well garnished name and texts many pined for. Not the covens that played with sinew and rituals and yet she clung to such better than many that declare themselves worshippers. But the King, she could only imagine, was in close proximity to all of that. The college his own pride, a trove of knowledge the world over and yet material belonging hardly tantalized the Shaman despite her title, her name, her expected legacy. It was laughable and tragic, more than willing to set all that ancient scrap to pyre. Ears would flick, certain that was the man spoken of, lavender gaze shifting away toward the sky above for a moment before she’d break free from the foliage, emerging into the world with defiance. A different set of humor billowing as she moved toward them with a wicked grin. "Tha na fir uile airidh air bàsachadh, a ghràidh. Chan fhiach an ùine againn aon fhalt air a’ bhodhaig aca," she crooned, circling them, drawing closer and closer with graceful dainty steps that barely left dents in the snow. Space was hardly a problem for her, always ready to test the limits of another’s boundaries, getting exponentially closer till she came along their side before swooping in to be only a couple feet away from touching noses. "Dhòirt fuil dha na lusan, na beathaichean a dhol a-steach do na freumhaichean agus a h-uile càil a chàradh," a soft hum, tongue rolling along her fangs as a disarming yet bloodthirsty grin played on her face that was attractively malicious. "Uile fhuil a bhiadhaidh, tha iad a’ gul air a shon. Feum air. Feuch e. Cuiridh i gàire oirnn," Her head would tilt just a little, curious if the other would agree or if they lacked the ambition for what must be done to rectify the wrongs of this land.

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The enigma revealed itself, emerging from the trees like the madadh-ruadh, the fox spirit. The embers of autumn flowed down her tresses, like hundreds of leaves turning and changing in the cool breeze. And her eyes were sharp and beautiful, the color of Belladonna blossoms. She was like Samhain personified—perhaps an envoy of Banbha, or even The Morrigan herself. The banduri’s smile was thrilled, dark and beautiful in its intensity. She did not shy away from the crooning woman’s approach; rather, she basked in her presence, feeling the caress of the wind as it billowed down from Tir Na Nog and whispered:


This is the one you’ve been waiting for.


The witch’s moonbright eyes glowed fiercely, as if the darkness could penetrate the veil between the mortal realm and the fae world itself. She faced the smaller woman with zealous invitation, leaving only a fur’s breadth of space between them. “Càit an robh thu, a phiuthar?”* The banduri’s voice was dreamlike as she spoke, but the unyielding passion grounded her. She knew they existed in Rionnach yet—women of the old traditions, women who would not be molded and shaped by the Mainlanders’ frivolous customs. When she retreated into the caves for her long slumber, there were still many witches practicing in the Highlands and Lowlands—even a couple banduri women, trained by females like her own mother. But when she emerged only one year ago, the witch was not greeted by the coven she anticipated. Rhiannan gave her so much hope, but even the Queen of Night vanished.


Now here was the missing sister. A precious link in the cycle.


“Chuir i plàigh airson a pheann a pheanasachadh, ach feumaidh sinn a cuideachadh.”** The hunger in the other woman’s visage provoked something deep in the pit of the witch’s stomach, and she slid her tongue lavishly along her upper fangs. She spoke more bluntly now. “Chan eil anns an fhuil a chaidh a dhòrtadh mu thràth ach toiseach. An cuidich thu mi gus an rìgh a sgrios, a phiuthar?”***

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*“Where have you been, sister?”
**”She sent a plague to punish his peons, but we must help Her.
***”The blood already spilled is only the beginning. Will you help me destroy the king, sister?”
@Wisteria

Don't Believe Everything You See That invite within the other’s eyes would be taken swiftly, not that she would have stopped even had aggression been thrown in her direction, finding risk far more rewarding than playing safe. Head would tilt a little curiously at the twin moons within the other’s skull, absent in color but not in the way of an albino, far more enchanting in their ethereal gleam. Another she would love to pluck the eyes out of like a raven to keep as a treasure all her own. An usual stone made of flesh but that stunning shimmer would vanish if she scooped them out without vitality to pump into them. Ears would swivel at the question, a gleam of her own flickering at being called sister of all things. So quick to be accepted into the fold amused her as her cheshire grin only illuminated more. "O, sealg ìobairt airidh air a 'bhan-dia," and for herself, smearing the blood of her late husband onto the hearth under the radiant divine moonlight and bathing herself within it. She had been gone for about a year, give or take, searching for his head after everything he had done. The winds guided her to him to ensure it came to fruition even if the celebration had been cut short with massacre, it was pure ecstasy in the moment. She would never be foolish to give her heart to another, she would be sure of that. It was days like today she was glad she had learned many tongues, including that of old, and not only stuck to the commons of the Mainlands. To learn culture the best way was to understand it without need of translation. Translation muddied things, diluted the truth, altered it to one’s own bidding and beliefs. The swirling of lies and misconception would not do after all, if one wished to know everything. Only then could one make their own judgements. Plagues? Curiosity piqued at such a word, wondering what the younger witch spoke of; picturing rather amusing ways she could have punished the scavengers that depleted this land. She knew the dangers that had been coming to lurk right before she left but surely that wasn’t what the others spoke of; culling the masses with a drought and heat that could be kept in records for the ages. She could tell that prophecy had come true just from how the terra felt under her paws and the whispers from the trees that had a band of misery within their hearts. A punishment that had harmed more than the undeserving, but plagues were of news. "A Phlàigh, cho diadhaidh. Is dòcha gum biodh meòrachadh air ùine a leigeil leis a’ Bhan-dia feadaireachd ach tha m’ inntinn air a bhith ro thrang airson a dhol a-steach. An soillsich dhomh a ghràidh, ciod a chaill mi ?" she crooned, about to press herself against the other till the scent of illness touched her nose. A smell all too familiar as a shaman but the fragrance had a different tinge than any she had dealt with before. Something dark, a red spark shifted within her gaze, now wondering how truly loyal this woman was if this plague she spoke of was the very one coiling around her body that would draw Wisteria from entangling herself with her. "Chan eil thu gu math, a bhòidheach, dè a thachras dhut?" There was no direct answer that would be uttered to the last sentence, all that needed to be said was ripe in her gaze. The King had already long since been on her list of those the fae wished to consume. She may have failed once already, having intended to poison the entire ball but morons had been impatient and messed up her plans. "Agus cò tha thu ga sgrios ann an ainm, a pheathar?" A test more so. Who would reap the rewards of his blood upon their paws? Was it truly to the Goddess? Was it to herself and own selfish gain, or to someone that did not deserve her fangs? She would like to assume the first, but suspicion lingered.

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Yvaine’s scarlet brow quirked, her tail brushing idly against her heels as she pondered. To know nothing of the Diptheria ravaging Rionna—a pestilence, indeed, affecting the entire nation—meant either that the madadh-ruadh emerged from isolation or from the fae realm itself. Perhaps it was how they never crossed paths, why no one answered the banduri’s summons on Samhain, why the bloated parliament had gained so much power. But all of that was about to change. And the banduri of the Old Ways was delighted to explain. Still, she waited, a warning lingering on her baited breath left unspoken. Instead, she eyed the mysterious fox as she drew closer, closer, until flesh nearly touched flesh. And when the madadh-ruadh recoiled, a cruel, satisfied grin spread once more across Yvaine’s dark lips.


“The Morrigan,” she uttered, this time in common, “sent me a cù-sith in the Redwood.” The hoarseness of the witch’s voice was nothing compared to the trilling excitement in her deep, feminine voice. “Before my eyes, the black hound began to fester. It may have been a sign of my death…but I knew to have faith in the Goddess. Chuir mi an cù dhan phrìomh bhaile, mo ghràdh, agus sgaoil tinneas.”*


It was Yvaine’s turn to circle, just as the stars and moon circled the heavens. Blood dripped from the silken fur of her chest and fangs glimmered in the dim light. She arched around her lost sister like a starving predator, a cold, ravenous fire burning within that would not stop until it consumed. And consumed. And consumed. “I knew I was infected the moment the cù-sith stumbled in pain. I have been tasked by The Morrigan to reap destruction on this sorry excuse for civilization. But you…ah, sister, you are clever. If the fae do not want you ill, you will avoid the plague. After all…it’s all for them.”


The banduri stopped in front of the fox, meeting her gaze with passion and innate trust. After all, what reason did the witch have to distrust a worshiper of The Goddess who could speak the ancient tongue? “Tha mi airson an rìoghachd seo a losgadh gus an èirich na seann dhòighean às ùr, phoenix bhon luaithre.”** Yvaine coughed slightly before running her tongue along the upper row of her pearlescent fangs. “What is the name of my sister who might join this endeavor?”

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*“I sent the hound to the Capital, my dear, and sickness spread.”
**“I want to burn this kingdom so the old ways can rise anew, a phoenix from the ashes.”
@Wisteria

Don't Believe Everything You See That sardonic smile might have been something of a nightmare to most but the marigold witch mimicked it with little thought, watching the other as they mentioned the Triple Queen, a name she never thought she’d hear again. There was no denying this one’s faith and understanding to not just speak in broad terms that could mean anything, she knew the creatures and the stories. The change to the common tongue was more surprising, half starting to believe them a crone that had long lived past those of mortal lives, secluded here in the mountains away from the sovereigns of the south. At this moment, she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, feeling herself being undressed as the other started to circle her now as she continued her tale. Was it a power switch or an equal footing? Only time would tell but she could assure this newfound plaything would not be walking away with the last laugh. An amused huff nearly escaped her, not paying the woman any mind as she simply took a seat in the snow while relishing the scent of iron that married the other's perfume. The only outlier she really heard at first was that the beast was of ink, always having known such beings to be cloaked in greens like the forests they inhabit, looking like a large hound far bigger than a wolf, dressed in moss. Intimidating and formidable and yet she spoke as if she tamed it. Perhaps she had. Perhaps it was a fallacy produced by a broken mind. Her eyes closed at such a thought, knowing only few fae to be subservient to mortals. Guided she felt was the better term in this case, this stunning blood-soaked woman guided it to where it truly needed to be. "Tha i a’ fàbhar nan creidmheach agus a’ peanasachadh nan heretican, a’ sgrios a beannachdan dhuinne. Obair cho trom, cò eile a tha ga giùlan neo an do chreid i annadsa a-mhàin?" she cooed gently on the winds as it ruffled her fur, curious if there was a whole coven ensuring this came to fruition. Not one partial to a big one, she preferred a handful of likeminded individuals that could unify for larger goals should she need them, otherwise she normally kept to her own for most ventures. Ears would flick at the absence once more of the common tongue, looking to the sky where Ceridwen resided, the true goddess in her own lilac eyes. "Bidh mi a’ sireadh barrachd na molagan a’ chrùin ach iadsan a tha a’ giùlan a fhuil cuideachd. An sàsaich thu a h-ocras, agus an dìnn thu maille riumsa air an cnàmhan uile?" a grin wicked yet beautiful overtaking her, turning her attention back to this banshee with pure rapture. The whole family crown would be broken if she had her way. There was no way of telling if Jacob’s word held any value and she cared little to allow him to rule this land once his uncle fell. Once a man had power, they all became the same poor excuse for a breath, and she foresaw him as being no different. There was the commoner’s tongue once more, it really ruined the mood. How drab as her smile showed the tiniest tick of annoyance within the gleam of her gaze. “Wisteria, the shaman of the fae and poison’s kiss of the damned. Or if my moniker precedes me from my youth, The Angel of Death,” she mused, rarely giving her name without taking the bribe of another’s first. She saw no reason to hide it when she had an acolyte at her paws. “And what, my lovely divine, are you called and where have you been hiding?” she strummed, returning the questions asked of her. Tempting fate, she’d raise her paw out to her as if asking for a kiss on the back of her hand, curious if the goddess would infect her or if she was worthy to remain healthy from the plague. "gaelic"

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The madadh-ruadh looked like a Highlander. Her russet fur burned like the sunset against the mountains. And she sounded like a Highlander. The accent was impeccable, a voice like bells ringing in the valley, like the soft petals of a primrose. But it seemed she was a little fox after all, a clever trickster whose words betrayed her in the end.


Yvaine’s brow arched above her relentless moonlight eyes at the word “heretic.” The word itself didn’t translate into Gaelic because the concept itself was foreign in nature. The banduri knew that true Highlanders, believers of the ancient ways, did not persecute wolves who worshiped different gods. There was only derision for fools who didn’t appreciate the true power of the fae. “Heretic” was the brand that drove the druids into hiding in the first place. “Heretic” was the first spark that lit pyres for perpetrators of witchcraft. And “heretic” was an idea born of Mainlanders and their predecessors.


But the clue didn’t cause a misstep. The witch finished her circle and faced her lovely counterpart, smile intact. Despite the differences in their ideas of worship, perhaps this woman truly believed in the fae goddesses. Maybe her family fled to the Highlands, or she learned from a misguided mentor. But Yvaine knew she wasn’t born of a long line of druid females like her; she was no descendent of her mother Maeve’s coven. And in that truth, there was a kernel of disappointment.


Fate brought them together for a reason. The witch peered closer, now seeing through the veil of a pretender and finding a mote of irritation in that violent gaze. But the bloodlust was too amusing to bother or deter the witch. She was no stranger to playing with fire. “My coven is long lost and scattered to the wind. I had hoped you were a descendant of that bloodline.” Yvaine’s grin was sharp and knowing. She left an opening for possibility. “As you know, the fae reward and punish with irreverence, but rewards come to most wolves who follow faithfully. I’m nothing special.”


She continued, her tail flicking behind her, “You want to kill Princess Mhairi? Or do you mean the king’s nephew-in-law, Jacob?” The witch was testing the madadh-ruadh now; was she brave enough to speak treason into the open air, without the cover of the Highlander’s native tongue? “I have no interest in killing female children, leannan.* But the fields will flood with the blood of any man who stands in our way, I assure you.”


The offering of the paw was a delectable surprise. Yvaine glanced from the proffered limb to Wisteria’s piercing eyes. After a moment of measured silence, the witch in hellfire garb strode forward. If Wisteria allowed, she would press her slender muzzle to the base of the fox’s ear and whisper, “Yvaine Lusk, banduri druid of the Ancient Ones. I slumbered when the last witches scattered, but my next sleep will be only in death. If you are its courier, then you will survive.” And if Wisteria, the Angel of Death, did not move, Yvaine would run her tongue along the woman’s jaw. A kiss of her own.


Turning, the banduri cackled, “When the time comes to set plans in motion, one of us will call for the other. I hope to see you again, spiorad a' bhàis.”**


Yvaine will exit unless stopped.

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*”darling”
**”spirit of death”

@Wisteria