#( the priestess is just one inch away from going full on apocalypse on these people )

[mercysought]

@makerbound​​ . ❝ Make peace with what you cannot change. ❞ / @ the priestess . pomegranate seeds . accepting

Each one of the Trees in the Emerald Grave had once been a warrior that fought for the soverignty of the elves. In ancient times (ancient from the eyes of those that had no concept of a different age to marr their own bones), the rituals would have been different. Trees would sprout and feed the earth all around them, but it had not been quite so literal, not in the same way that the stories of the Emerald Graves.

The priestess had walked the grounds out of sheer curiosity and dread. Dread for all of the Children that had been left to be buried by time and the spirits that had no guide to welcome them to the Beyond. Bodies without proper burials, without proper goodbyes, without the honour that they had deserved. The elves that had been buried there and whose spirits still lingered in the rich shadows were now considered ancient. As the memory of that walk washed over her, the standing in the middle of so many of the Children’s graves with the warm sun beaming down her dark skin, the priestess feels old.

The meal that they had been sharing remains untouched. It had been at least three full days since they had left the general area and yet it beckons her still. Not the disquieted souls or the silence that is heavier than any stone that she had ever seen. Not the graves themselves. Herself. Her own blood called her back, called her to enact revegence, to return and turn those same trees into avenging guardians to remind all that stood on those holy grounds of the sacrifice that had been made.

To demand repayment in blood for what had been done.

Scarred fingers cover the top of the wooden cup and she feels the eyes of the Inquisitor on her. The Seeker, the talkative dwarf. The priestess spares them a glance, unsure what conversation they were having but only that those words seemed to have been directed at her; her thoughts almost. 

With a single movement she drinks the whole contents within her cup. The cold water feels nice in the midday sun. She could not change what had been done, the atrocities that had been done to the Children, but she could not make peace with it either. She could not look upon those forests, upon these fields, upon much of this world without feeling a bottomless fury.

   “There is no peace to be made, Seeker.”