Desreal: but theres a hole in her heart *

Don't disturb the beast;
first the tempermental goat,
the snail while he's feeding on the rose.

“Mother,”
“Yes… child.”
“I’m cold.”
“Then come and let me hold you.”
“No Mother, I am…”
“What my child?”
”There is another; and blood has touched his lips…”
“Where is he my child?”
”In the shadow, my brother!”
“I will find him.”
“I know, I know Mother, you always find them.”

His blood is still fresh upon the wraiths lips when the shadows flicker and bind, when the earth snaps at his feet and vines rise like waving serpents. Alacatraz’s blood is still fresh when the great earth screams and shakes, shivering and cracking not far off. The soil splits and red prickly vines grow with dark roses blooming upon them, a stony marbled pillar pushes upward and upon it stands aged Gaia. Her body nearly 32 hands high, vines and plants as a mane and tail, hooves made of black quartz, and a body of soil and bark; the scent of the wild is upon her and pollen and toxins drip from the flowering blooms upon her.

The Wraith is powerless as she rises before him, at her side a small dog sized reptilian chicken with vivid green and orange feathers, it makes strange indescribable noises and leaps about wildly. Her eyes watch him; her cold eyes upon the white ghost, and she laughs. “Oh, Severus.” She muses, the once king of Solira now the bearer of something she has longed for. Her body begins to crumble, to fade away—and she stands before him a shifting chimera.

She is a painted mare, one with vivid cerulean blue eyes, he lips tinged with a virulent smile and her voice a strange dialect of gutter Parisian museum owner (someone whose smoked for nearly their entire life). she approaches him with a wyrd smile, the fiendish raptor behind her leaping about and barking madly. Her tongue slithers across her lips, and an eye cast to her beloved Alcatraz. She looks at him with a sobriety most familiar, and her shard burning in her hip. “It hungers? Or do you…” she giggles, idly glancing at his throat and the star insignia burnished upon him.

She turns her hip to him, the exposed scar burned into her flesh; stemmed like a rose blood wells and forms the petals dripping down her side and leaving a bizarre trace where previous blood has been shed. It burns, and screams; the quiet silence unbearable. She chuckles, silently musing at the idea of the Wraith activating it, “Are you ambitious enough Severus to have that shard? Are you willing to give yourself up in order to complete its mission; are you willing to die… as all keepers are doomed to do?” she asks without hesitation, the raptor at her side gurgling and musing with her. The raptor’s voice penetrating her mind with a reminder, and silently Elemmírë speaks; “But of course, there are things worse than death Keepers endure; not just the hate and despise of peers, or the physical torment your shard will give you—but everyone you bite and take blood from will become your closest enemy ever. Can you handle these things, or perhaps we should make a deal?”

She is Elemmírë, not mother, not Gaia, not the primordium… Elemmírë.

PRIMORDIUM
earthquake; mother nature; mortalis; mimicry