Desreal: she comprehends she does not understand; any/all

“Mother,” it cries out, it screams and cries—it tears and burns beneath her flesh! “Mother!” it calls again, this time she hears it; this time the keeper hears the shards embittered and enraged cries. She tries to quell it with power, earth flowing over her body: but it will have no rest. “MOTHER!” it barks beneath her flesh; the keeper screams to try and stop it. Her voice raging across all the earth, “I am your damned mother now!” she cries; but the shard stings and tears at her flesh. It rips and pulls—burning she cries forced by pain. Her sun golden body falls to the ground and the keeper shakes violently.

(in the distance thunder and earth stir, rumbling while streaks of lightning dance across the sky. pale moonlight closes in on a distant shadow; moving quickly it dodges in trees and behind webs of ancient creepers. it comes close to the keeper, it shakes violently… it’s lips quivering and eyes hungry.)

“Moth—“ it cuts off, the earth covers the keepers body, and the shard is quenched. It tingles her flesh, but still the keeper struggles to get up, vines and ash wrap around her legs. She struggles but fire rises up around her body, she screams and yet… she cannot be heard. “Hold her,” says another voice, ancient and sonorous with involuntary asperities. The voice commands, and the keeper screams, “Why?!” there is malicious laughter in the air.

(before the fallen keeper a wraith stands, her body the palest of whites—nearly translucent… and her eyes, so frighteningly blue. she binds the keeper in flame and earth, her body not moving… not even to breathe. she only quivers once as the second being touches her, leaving a sooty brown streak upon her otherwise mercury body; the shadow at her side is larger and strange- wyrd in a primordial way.)

The shard is calm, and the sound of thunder rolls in; disguising the sickening cackle as the flesh sears away and the small stone fragment is lifted from the keeper. The shadow cradles it for but a moment, holds it and allows it to nestle into her breast—“Child…” she whispers, “be still.”

(there is nothing more then silence, when the shard cuts beneath her skin—burying beneath mother’s warm flesh as she looks at the familiar scar. she turns to the wraith and holds her, hums as the wraith speaks, ‘your flesh is damned to die,’ she breathes while mother smiles, ‘would you have me kill her?’ she feels the nod.)

Ash and cinders fill the creature’s lungs, and she burns the earth around her. The wraith turns as the last breath is drawn, and into the wood she leaves. The shadow stays, eyeing the sun golden flesh and curled mane, “This earth was mine Azshara, and now you are as well.” She chuckles, her body falling next to the mares, a cocoon of creepers wrap around them, and in the night the Primordium is whole.

"for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures,
and no new horror can be more terrible,
than the daily torture of the commonplace."