𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐍 raised her skirt over the path of moss and dead brambles, the witch’s shoulders pushing through hard dead branches and budding, brown bushes that were swollen with sweet nuts and blackberries. into the unprotected heart of the forest did she stumble, using the thick, black trunks as pillars to lean on and press on the open wound bleeding freely from her rib.
it’d flown from the farmer’s musket before she’d had enough time to react, hand raised to blow the old man back among his dogs. searing pain had kept her running, trailing through the leaves to hide the acrid scent until certain they wouldn’t follow. the silent witch had tried to remove the leaden bit on her own, much to her own chagrin. attempted to use her powerful magic to force it from between the first rib and getting it lodged beside the next. at the center of the grove, she finds herself on aching knees, soaked now with woodland sludge and scattered needles. one hand wedged between her teeth to stifle the oncoming guttural cry, another quick wrench of her palm tries to dislodge it a second time.
@carlislc / plotted starter.
