Fathom

Witch, heretic, heathen, they called her, all while hissing, screaming, spitting, and tearing at her flesh and wings. They tore at her feathers, leaving them as tattered and torn as the garments she had worn not long before, but were now pooled in ribbons at her feet. Screaming she had tried to defend herself, with a passion as she professed her innocence to any and all that would head her, but none did. Her healing had not saved a child, one that had died in a fit of what was claimed to be dark magic.


However, this is not her story, this is the story of the child who hid in the rocks of the nest like a hatchling, though she had seen a good ten years. A child whose tears fell, whose screams echoed off the hills, as she watched the death of her mother. One whose eyes turned red with hate, and fury, one whose magic outweighed that of her mother. Trembling as she unleashed her fury with such ferocity and power, it left everything in its path for dead, anything it touched withered and turned to dust. One who did not stay to see the destruction she had wrought one who gathered up the bits of her mothers garments, and wrapped each tattered piece to her body. Who would delve deep into the deepest and darkest of magics, one who would find nothing but death where ever she went. This, this is her story, a story of pain, hate, and the need to find what she lost so long ago, a mothers love.