The Raven's Cry

Absinth observed Sephiran's reaction with a sense of satisfaction, noting the gleam of interest in his eyes as her ravens bestowed upon him the title of the ‘Purple Gold King.’ She relished in the subtle acknowledgment of her feathered companions' respect for him, even as they continued their chatter from the sanctuary of the pines. Sephiran shifted his focus back to her, Absinth met his gaze head-on, her expression a mixture of confidence and determination. She understood the implications of his proposition, recognizing that it wasn't merely about training the birds but also about providing them with his chosen purpose while under his dominion.

‘And you will be providing the purpose and companionship,’ Sephiran stated, his voice carrying the weight of his heavy expectation. Absinth nodded in agreement, fully aware of the responsibility that came with her task. She was up for it, absolutely. While Sephiran wielded dominion and oppression, she employed mutual gain and companionship, a method that had served her well with her avian companions.

As Sephiran outlined the parameters of her task, Absinth listened attentively, committing the details to memory. Continuous patrols of The Polar Sound, the island, the neighboring territories, and The Wall. Reporting anything out of the ordinary to select members of the pack. All this she was perfectly capable of. With a nod of affirmation, Absinth conveyed her readiness to undertake the task.

When Sephiran's gaze shifted to the canopy of pines, Absinth sensed the anticipation in the air. With a flick of her tail and a nod of acknowledgment, she signaled her acceptance of the challenge. The ravens, peeking at the tension between their master and the Sultan, had been awaiting the opportune moment to reveal their gift.

And down they came, the pair of them, offering him a fractured piece of the jaw of some kind of animal — but no. Not just any. Black wings flashed and then disappeared back into the canopy as they left a partial wolf jaw, complete with teeth and all before his feet. It was in such a shape that it could have been a knife, or easily fashioned into one. Absinth’s brow quirked at the sight, a chuckle leaving her lips. “To the conquerors go the spoils.”


wormwood