Em: Welcome to BlackwaterDnD, where good friends tell better stories. This series, Omen, is a miniseries using Last Sabbath, and is proudly sponsored by Officina Meningi. For this story, your coven is Em Carlson, Gina Susanna, Abigail Yazzie, Anne Monteverdi, Amelia Som, Masood Haque, Masque Wren, and Ed Spence. As this game falls within a supernatural historical fiction genre, it may contain themes and depictions that are triggering for some listeners. Please take care of yourself and access safe support as you see fit. Content warnings for this episode include: destruction of nature and deforestation // suffocation // being buried alive // injury and pain // harm to animals // misogyny // being chased and hunted // use of weapons // murder // detailed descriptions blood and gore // violence // and complex relationships So gather your components, and set your ritual. Take a deep breath, and welcome to Omen. Em: Episode One: 7000 BCE, in what is now known as Białowieża Forest Primary divination tool: palmistry. Memories to be marked: five A witch is not a warning. They are the consequence of signs you missed long, long ago. Signs you chose to ignore because of fear, ignorance, or hubris. A witch is the balance of the heart of the world, their purpose entwined with holding back the tides of greed, colonialism, patriarchy, and oppression. If you are not outraged by what is happening, you're not paying attention. It's time to reap the fruit of the corruption that was sown into the fabric of humanity. It's time to bear the repercussions of your pursuit of polluted progress. It's time you learn. This forest is old. Maybe one of the oldest there is. The deep soil, still wet from when the ice age began to melt and recede. The warmth of the sun never able to fully permeate the below. The loam is rich, teeming with the promise of life. And, that promise has delivered. A vast and sprawling metropolis of green, as far as any eye can see. Dense canopies home to flying creatures, a rich underbrush and floor with shrub and bush, cyclically competing for space and resources. The rustle of feet. Animals never taking more than what is needed. Light beams cutting through and dappling golden motes that move as the sun shifts across the sky. Birch trees shedding their paper bark, letting go of the past and moving anew towards an unknown future. Trunks that bend but will not break even in the toughest storms. Pines that sprawl green through all seasons, an unwavering strength and enduring spirit. Hazelwood, keeping the knowledge of the stories told within this sacred space. Renewing, again and again, so those small creatures who inhabit these woods pass wisdom from generation to generation. Where to seek water, where to find food, where to create shelter. Deer, wolves, boar, bison. Lynx, bears, martens, squirrels. No creature unneeded, no creature uncared for. And below the soil an entire world that crawls on many legs, decomposing, creating, and destroying. Nourishing the roots that sprawl and spread, so the cycle of the Mother keeps spinning, the Mother that tends to us all. That which we are made of, that which we return to when our time is done. And it was like this for a long time. But nothing stays the same, it cannot. The endless entropy of the universe forces the sign of time forward, a steady march towards a world that we cannot ever fully know. There comes a day when something new comes to the forest. They are curious, moving in groups. They see abundance and crave it for themselves. It is too early for them to understand how they must tend to the land, that they must become part of the cycle rather than simply disrupt it for their own gain. It is not their fault. They, too, need food, shelter, water, and resources. So they learn. They learn to cut the trees with sharp tools, felling the trunks and dragging them out in and away, where they will become sturdy foundations to homes and gathering places. They learn to hunt the creatures with weapons that pierce and cut, taking meat and hide, wearing the bones as a symbol of their prowess. For a long time, they take only what they need. They seek harmony with the land that provides for them, and all is well for a time. But, nothing stays the same. Unfortunately, it cannot. A day comes where a tipping point is reached. The last trunk of a copse cut down, an entire family of bison slaughtered in one fell swoop, new growth trampled in pursuit of something unneeded. There will come a time when the forest will whisper, ‘enough’. The signs are small to start. A lack of expected regrowth in spring, a stream bereft of fish where before spiders could crawl across shining backs to avoid getting wet. Creatures that previously just ran, now fighting back, standing their ground and holding their territory against those who encroach and intrude. Some ask the forest for forgiveness, but others press on when they should have turned back. Sometimes this is the price of progress. It will build and build as they creep closer and closer to the heart of the forest, connected to the heart of the world. Their population will grow and grow, and they will need more and more. It is not their fault. They didn't know. They stumble upon a tree, at what is the center of it all, further than they have ever ventured to go. Further than they even wanted to go, if not for He Who Leads Them, charging onward. Deeper. Forward. A tree with roots so deep that the Mother lives in every cell. This tree was likely the first here, ever present, ever watching, and they decide this one, this nurturer, this giver, must fall. All for the sake of progress. It is then that the forest has no choice. It yells, ‘enough!’. A call into something deeper, something older than it, something that can make the change it desperately craves. Whether it is right or not in its call is irrelevant. It needs, so it calls. This is our first memory, inscribed here, to be drawn on when the heart of the world is at stake. More so than it is now. Those who try to cut the tree make little progress, the bark too tough, dulling their tools. They give up and try elsewhere. But that call rings on. The call runs through every root, mycelium to taproot, pneumatophore to stilt. Resources are pulled and gathered. The ground shapes and weaves, imbuing its creation with the Mother that makes us all. As the final touch is given, life is imbued. This forest is near perfect at creating life. Em (as Patience): And I suddenly realize that I am underground, and I can't breathe. There is a pain in my chest and it’s screaming at me to remedy it, and all I know is I must go up. Up and out. The soil is warm around me, and I wish I could stay, but I cannot. Em: Everything changes. It has to. It is nobody's fault. Em (as Patience): So I claw, I claw my way upward, my hands tangling themselves on rock and root until something finds purchase. I am so tired, and I have barely moved, but I push and I pull and I grasp and I reach, until my hands break through the top and I feel a chill emptiness above me. Em: Two hands emerging from the peat and the mud, desperate for something other than being below. Em (as Patience): There is nothing more to grab, so I push my way up, emerging from the soil, my head broaching the surface as [sharp gasp] I gasp air into my body. Breathing. This is breathing. I am alive. There is nothing that I know other than I am alive, as I collapse, barely conscious as my chest heaves each breath in and out. In and out. A sensation creeps up my spine instantly, and everything in this… Body, these appendages that are mine and seem to be under my control, everything tells me to move, but move where? I take in what is around me. I see a tree. It feels old and powerful. It is every colour I have ever seen, and that I know is not many, there will be more, but it's green. It is alive like I am alive and I see things moving. There is light that falls down from above, I know not from where, but it's warm. Not too warm. It is not hot, but it's warmer than below. I smell the rich of the loam still in my nostrils, and I move to pull it out. I smell something sweet. It smells like new. There is a taste on my tongue. It is musty. It must be the dirt from below. I spit it out, trying to clear my mouth, but my hands, too, are covered in this same substance. I stop that immediately. There will be other things that I will taste eventually, but right now it is just the dirt. And I feel it. It covers every inch of my body, and I am not cold. I am neutral. I feel like the ground beneath me. I strain to listen, and I hear song rising from the forest. I hear wind move through the grass. A symphony of sound that I have never heard before. There is nothing that separates what is me and what is this place around me. I know I am of it, but I am different, apart, but altogether the same. My fingers grip again at the soil that birthed me. I am grateful. I bring my hands up in front of my eyes and I marvel at them. These are tools, instruments with which I am to shape the world. I am grateful. Turning them over, I see a mark on the back of one of them. As I hold it with the sky as the backdrop, everything gets very bright and then darkens slowly, a large dark circle illuminated behind with a bright corona, the same as the mark on my hand. Maybe that is about me. I can't be sure. I don't know how long I lie here for. My eyes close and I lose time for a small while because the next time I open them it's dark. My body aches and I'm cold again. The sound emerges from my stomach. I yearn for something to fill this gnawing sensation in my belly. I push myself upward towards sitting, and I don't like that that takes effort. Hmm. I know nothing about myself, but I know I don't like things that take more effort than they should. My skin is pale moonlight, my hair long and straight and dark, like when I look out into the woods. A striking contrast between the two of them, I know nothing of what my face looks like. My eyes are once again drawn to my hands. They feel strong, and there is this tingling at the tips of them. These hands are tools. I'm supposed to use them to do something. I turn them over, straining my eyes in the moonlight to examine my palms. I know nothing about myself, but there is something here that draws me, a knowledge hidden. My hands will speak, they will tell me about myself, and I'm going to enact my first divination to read my own palm. I study their shape. Square palms with long lithe fingers. The wind rustles past them, and I learn that I am intelligent, ambitious, and though I will feel my emotions deeply, my logic will almost always win out. I will breathe life into everything I do. I examine my fingers. I will be confident, unwavering, dedicated and proud. I will burn out, if not careful. I read the lines that are etched into them. The first line pulls at my heart, which has finally regulated its rhythm, no longer thumping avarently within my chest, as it figures out how to work properly. Clear and deep and long, curling at the end, but closer to my fingers. I must be someone who feels deeply, but keeps my emotions close. There are many lines crossing it, and it splits off at the end. I'm going to be hurt a lot, but I will continue to put the needs of others first. It seems to chain off in parts. I have business already unfinished, and I'm and I'm conflicted about it. The next line feels connected to my mind, which seems to want to examine and sharpen at every detail around me. It too is deep. Intelligence, imagination, determination. But I can be cold when needed. There is a branch that connects to my heart. These two will conflict often, I think. The third line feels like my life, my tie to the Mother. That I will go through this life and do what I'm supposed to with stamina and energy. I will make the most of my opportunities and have a drive to fulfill my ambition. It runs deep, like the others. The next is forward-looking, future-oriented, cutting straight up my palm towards my fingers. It sits away from the others. I'm going to be alone for a while, and I'll feel alone for a lot of my life. I learn more from the grooves and ridges. I will be a healer. I will be someone who will be tender and devoted for my entire life. And there will be someone to which I wish to share those feelings with. I will never bear children. As I run my fingers along the places where my fingers meet, my palm, I learn more. I will be a good teacher. I will be strong willed. I will not shy away from duty. I will like routine over spontaneity, and I will be cautious. There will be little room for fun in my life. Em: I'm gonna mark a memory here. That I can learn things about people through what their hands tell me. It will tell me things that they will not, whether through action or language. Hands do not lie. Em (as Patience): I spend time learning the place that birthed me, and that the Mother runs through it all. I learn what to eat, where to sleep. I clean myself in the pond, but the dirt on my hands will not come off. I decide I don't mind it. It will remind me of where I came from. I see more of myself. Wide eyes the colour of moss. I learn that I am as tall as a birch tree that has seen three warm seasons. I bleed. Regularly, and though it is painful, I welcome it as just one more cycle I am a part of. I learn every inch of flora and fauna, learning how the wildness inhales when the sun comes up and exhales when the dark comes each night. There are creatures that exist near me, and creatures that give me a wide birth. I want for nothing. I have all that I need. I am grateful. I cycle through the seasons until it is the fifth time that the snow has melted and the crocuses begin to bloom. The animals come out of their slumbers and the green returns. Except this cycle is different. It cannot stay the same. It mustn't. I walk through one of my favourite clearings, having visited it not seven slumbers earlier, and five of the mighty pines are gone. They have been shorn at their base, and I see drag marks cutting an awful ravine through the woods. I feel something that I have never felt before. It's hot. It sits in the low of my belly and it bubbles up behind my sternum, threatening to rip itself out if I unleash it. I make a sound I've never made before. It's anguish. It's pain. It hurts. What happened here? What could have done this? There is a feeling that crackles at my fingertips, but I ignore it because it cannot be more important than this. I can't stop myself. I break into a run against any form of better judgment, and I follow the marks. Where my trees were taken, my trees, the Mother's trees, this was not done by animal or plant, it was done quickly and efficiently. Hands did this! Something with hands like mine did this. This was someone's fault. The awful feeling in my chest pulls me forward and I feel something hot and wet leave my eyes running down my cheeks and whipping off into the wind behind me. I keep running until I approach the tree line, and for the first time I see beyond it. I crouch, behind an old nurse log, the base of a long dead tree that has gifted other plants nourishment with its decay. And I see them. There are many of them. They look like me. They stand on two legs like me. They cover parts of their body with… Something woven? I don't do that. Should I? There are places that are covered that I also cannot see into, there is a smell of something burning, it is too rich. And then there are the trees being cut apart with something that shines in the sun, that they are swinging over and over. The sound makes me sick. That pain returns, threatening to explode out of me, unyielding, but I know myself, I am smart, I am determined, they will never take from this forest again! There are sounds coming from their mouths. They communicate with each other. I have learned the calls and the sounds of the forest, but this is different. I do not understand. It has been so long since I haven't understood. They do not see me, they cannot. I am not like them. I would never take that which was not needed. Are they not of the Mother? Were they not born of the soil like me? I watch for a long time, till the sun dips low, and all I can see left are the fires they leave burning throughout the night. And I return, day after day after day, against any better judgment, to watch. I follow them into the woods as they walk through this place like they own it. They do not care where they step. They take, and they take. I am almost spotted the day I watch them kill an elk. He was not bothering them. He was feeding, and something hit him, and he barked and keened, his leg giving out as they rushed toward him, it was over so quickly. I watched as they used sharp things to cut away parts of him. They could not take everything with them. The air smelt both foul and sweet, the red blood pooling around. I tried to remain still as I watched, but I couldn't, I was shaking. They must have assumed I was another creature, as they departed as quickly as they came. After they left, I went to it, and I sat with the elk for a long time. I do not remember how long. But I remember the pain of knowing that someone with hands like mine could kill something so beautiful. Maybe they needed it for something. Maybe they didn't. But no need could ever justify something so vicious and cruel. I'm gonna mark another memory here. I'm gonna remember the feeling of shock, of learning that there were people like me who could do something so awful, because that might mean that I could be capable of something like that too. I bury my hands in the soil that is wet with blood, a grotesque muck that stains my skin. I make a commitment in that moment to witness and to learn how they do this, so that I can stop them. I watch them throughout the next four seasons, ensuring I bear witness to every atrocity. Trees logged, streams dammed and fish dry, entire dens of creatures slaughtered for their meat, their skin, or to simply remove them from an area they wish to inhabit. The pain is agony every time, but I bear it again and again, because who else is going to see? Who else will remember? Their numbers grow, the cries of their young echoing through the night when all else is silent, I try to prevent the losses every time. I disguise trees so they look blighted. I encourage the animals to move and hunt at night. I teach the animals to hide like I hide. It all works for a time. And then the others learn too. I keep staring at my hands. I thought I was supposed to be intelligent. I should be able to do this. Why can't I stop this? Why? And throughout this time that I am learning about them, I forget to learn about myself. I forget to eat often, and I have not swam in the pond in a long time. I forget the sounds of the wolves that shared their hunt with me, or the songs of the birds that nest where I used to slumber most nights beneath my tree. I am alone. I don't wish to be alone anymore. Perhaps if I speak with them, I can ask them to leave. Maybe they are unaware of the harm they cause and they will understand. One night I watch them around their fires. I get closer than I have ever been, closer than I should. They speak with their voice and their hands, their hands! I catch glimpses and I see their lines, but I cannot say for certain what they mean. The only hands I have ever studied are my own, and they say the same thing over and over. Whereas these others seem to grow each season from babe to youth to adult, I stay the same, I do not change, I have not aged, I have not grown, I am just the same. They speak back and forth to each other, and I realize I am… Jealous. I have no one to speak to, no language to speak in. At least not like that. I forget the sounds of the forest and the songs of the wild, and I am angry that I cannot have this. So this night, I decide to take it. Something draws me closer while two of them sit around a lone fire. The rest are slumbering. The tingling in my fingertips returns, I had forgotten about it, but it returns. From my hiding place I reach my hand forward, and just like they did, I'm going to take. It is instinctual and ugly. I feel the Mother call from beneath my feet as a rush surges through me as I tap into Power I had never fully looked at before. I had forgotten. But now I remember. Their voices fall silent. They try to speak, but nothing comes out, and they panic. They run about, waking others. I realize I am in danger. My hand feels as if it is alight. The circular mark on the back is glowing, the colour of summer marigold, and I realize I cannot hold this for long. I took it with no idea where I was going to put it. And then I realize there is a cost to pay. I learn in my heart of hearts that there is a cost for when I take from the well of Power that the Mother gives. I feel a stabbing pain in my side and I see a blight begin to spread. A rot which eats the trees begins to surge forward in my body, and it spirals and spindles across my abdomen and upwards towards my breast. I have never felt pain like this. I cry out in shock, and their heads whip towards me, catching the sound. I cannot be found, they will kill me like they did the elk. And who will protect the forest then? So I run. I run and I run, I run so far and so fast, I cross streams and weave through the ancient pines, the moonlight my only guide. I run and the pain is immeasurable. The rot spreading and spreading, and I finally reach my tree. The one I was born next to, the one I have slept in, the one that hears the Mother and heeds her call, the heart of this place and the heart of me, I think. I collapse against it, my hand trembling. I cannot hold this Power any more. I think the rot will take me if I do. I look up and I see a large black raven perched on the lowest branch. He regards me with some form of ambiguity. He has no hands for me to read. There is nothing I can do but trust him, or I think I might die. I extend my hand out, the screaming marigold colour, leaving my outstretched fingers and travelling towards this bird. This bird who did not ask for this. But here I am, giving, when it feels like I am taking. He stays patient and calm, and the wisp encircles him. A beat as my vision starts to go and I begin to slip, slumping down against the trunk of my tree. Finally I see him accept it. Beak open, as he grows in size, a throaty croak leaving him as he flies down to me, and everything goes black. I do not know how long I am asleep. But when I wake, I am partially buried in the soil beneath my tree, and the raven sits next to me. I turn my head and he hops over a leaf held in its beak. He tips the fresh dew into my mouth, barely relieving the parch, but I am grateful. I try to sit up, and the bird does something I was not ready for, he speaks. The language of the others. “Patience,” he says. “Go slowly.” I understand him. I go slower, easing up to rest against my tree. I look back at him. He speaks again. “You must have patience.” I must have it? He has learned something about me that I must now learn. I will have patience. I will be Patience. I open my mouth to reply, but I still don't have the words of others, the words that he now has that I don't. My mouth cannot form them. I look down, the rot having faded into a small crescent shape on my hip. An origin, an occultation. The raven sees it as well. “Your Power will cost you your memories, or your body. The Mother demands a tithe for the Power you wield.” I understand. I have so many questions of him that I cannot ask. He sees my frustration. “I will teach you. You will learn, but to fully learn you must be alive. You cannot approach them again until you are ready.” I understand. We spend the next eight seasons walking and learning together. His name is Fable, and through the stories of the world he teaches me more than I could have ever learned by myself. He teaches me language. We give things names. I learn about the others. They are just trying to survive. They have a lot to learn about the land that sustains them. It is not their fault. He teaches me about the Power, and I practice. Small displays. Charms. He calls it magic. I learn. He tells me that my Power has limits. I can attempt almost anything, but everything will have a cost. Sometimes I exhaust myself and sleep for days. He buries me in the soil of the tree and I wake up, eventually. He tells me that the ground will always nourish me. I learn to love my dirty hands. Fable and I care for each other. He hurts his wing one day, and he lets me practice healing him. It works, but I sleep for seven slumbers. I hope it will get easier. And in time it does. All the while the others take. Their group gets bigger, more of them, more places for shelter, more need from the land, it is unsustainable. So we plan and prepare. To meet the others and ask for their consideration, to ask them to take only what they need and no more, to understand that this beautiful place lives in precarious balance, and I am its keeper. And for it and them to coexist together, we must work together. I learn and practice what to say. He keeps telling me to “Have patience” when I get it wrong. I tell him, “I am Patience.” He does not understand. I bathe in the pond. Fable suggests arriving with something to give them. I do not understand this at first. Why would I give them something when they have already taken so much? To arrive in good faith, he says. I still do not understand, but I do it anyway. I weave reeds so that I may carry a harvest of tubers and fruit. They have not yet arrived at the place where the tubers grow. Maybe I can teach them how to grow them on their own. So that they do not have to take the forests. We agreed, Fable and I, to approach them in the morning. Carefully and without threat, bearing gifts of good faith. Fable suggests covering myself like they do, but the thought of wearing hides and weave makes my skin crawl. Why would I want any barrier between myself and the place that nurtures me? I walk to the edge of the tree line, my breath shaky. I am afraid, but I am grateful. Maybe I can make change that will serve all of us. I do not need them to leave, I just need them to do better, to care more for this beautiful place that tends to us all, to tend to the Mother like she tends to us. Fable sits on my shoulder, with my woven carrier in my hands as I breach the shade line, and I stand no more than a long stone's throw from their camp. They do not see me. They are not paying attention. So I begin to walk, and I stop near the edge of the grouping of shelters. Fable makes a knocking sound, three quick croaks in succession, I assume signifying my arrival. I do not feel important enough to warrant an announcement. They see me. Some reach for long sticks with sharp points slowly. I see their fear, their disgust. They begin speaking, and I can understand. “Outsider.” “Dark Spirit.” “Wild Woman.” “Animal.” I find the words. “I mean no harm. I wish to speak to you about the forest.” They seem shocked that I can speak. A tall man steps forward. He wears the bones of the animals killed in the forest, their hides around him. He points at me, a mixture of a snarl and a grin across his broad face. I wonder if his hands are tingling. Does he have the Power too? Em (as Tall Man): “She is not like us. Kill her.” Em (as Patience): I'm going to mark my fourth and final memory right here. The delineation of time between when I was known and unknown. I had never met another being before this moment. And they have treated me this way. The swift change of knowing that someone fears me, and never being able to go back from that. I drop the gift that was supposed to mean good faith, and my fear takes over and I run. I turn and I run as fast as my legs can carry me. Fable takes off, charting the path back towards the treeline as I hear them racing behind me. They are slower. They do not know the forest like I do. I race for my tree. They have only made it that far once, and they have not come back since. I run and I run and I lose them in the thick of the brambles and the brush. Every time I think I hear them I change course. Fable flies deftly ahead as we tumble into my clearing. I am crying. I am afraid. They know I'm here. They won't stop until they find me. I try to catch my breath. I look at Fable. “Why?” I wait for his reply. He doesn't. My attention then snaps to the sound of crashing as one of them breaks into the clearing. He is alone, he carries a long rod with a sharp end pointed at me. He's gonna try and kill me like that elk, and take me for parts. He yells as he sprints forward. I back up as far as I can go, and my back hits the tree as he runs at me, my hands, my hands grip for anything, and I close my eyes and I find something heavy and I swing towards him. There is a sound unlike any I have ever heard before, as whatever I grabbed collides with him. Heavy, crunching, wet. I feel a hot liquid spray against my face as I hear a groan, and he begins to fall forward. I open my eyes to see a rock in my hand, part of his head marred with an indent gushing with his blood, and his eyes fixed open staring blankly at nothing. His frame collapses against me as I shove him aside, his body hits the ground with a thud. I retch. I haven't eaten and it's bile. I retch again. This is both of our faults. I hear yelling. Far off, but it's closing in. They will search for him, and the path will lead them here. I have to do something. I cannot do that again. I am alone and I have been alone for so long, and I am alive and he is not, and I can't do this by myself. How am I supposed to do this by myself? Fable returns. Flying down to land beside me, he looks at the body and he looks at me. Em (as Fable): “You've had patience. You tried. You need someone like you.” Em (as Patience): The shock waves through me. It leaves, and I feel so tired. But I can't stop. They're still coming. “How?” His voice is plain in his replies. Em (as Fable): “You have Power. Make them. If it was ever a time to use it, it's now.” Em (as Patience): I am so tired. And at some point I started to cry. But he is right. I should be grateful. “Thank you, Fable. Will you be here when I wake up?” He gives a croak in reply. Maybe I'll get this right. Maybe I won't be alone anymore. I push the body on its back and I realize I have no idea what I am doing. I bury my hands in the blood red soil, just like I did with the elk, because maybe I can remember, and a rush of energy flows through my fingers up to every part of my body. I feel like fire. I am alive. I know I don't have time, but I am alive. I break off the sharp pointed part of his tool, and everything inside me is screaming. You cannot make something from nothing. You must have something. Energy given. Energy consumed. Parts given, parts consumed. If you give to the Mother, the Mother will give to you. I make a quick, sharp cut on the body above its stomach, plunging my hand inside as fast as I can and pulling. Something snaps and I yank it out. It's white. Bone. Dripping in blood and tendon. I place it in my hands, resting atop the body, cradling like I would something fragile. Cradling it like I would something fragile. And I reach deep down within myself to the Mother that made me the force that bore me and the Power that will one day break me, to please, please, please let me not be alone anymore! The mark on my hand begins to glow. No longer a marigold, but a sunflower, like a late day sunset before it drops out of sight. It burns. I feel alive. I am grateful. I hear someone coming. They will see what I've done. This could be my last act. I apologize to the forest. This is all my fault. I am going to burn two of my memories to do this, and I'm going to take the additional cost of the rot. I know I'm going to be out for a long time. I hope that they will know to return me to the soil if I'm still alive. I'm going to burn the remembering of how I felt when they killed the elk. I will now always know that people can do this. I will never be surprised by the cruelty of man. And I will also burn the peace that comes with solitude. Anytime I am alone, I will not be at peace. I will always ache. A brilliant white explodes from my hands, my simple, able hands. And then everything goes black. Gina (as Marrow): [gasp] I am becoming. I hear heartbeats. Rapid. Hm. Fast. I hear fear. The squelching of intestine, the pop of organ and the suck of tendon pulled from bone. I hear the tearing of flesh from flesh, the snap of sinew, the roar of blood inside my ears that slows and deepens, the more I pull myself forth from this entrapping. I am alive. I hear the screaming of a corvid, of a raven. The wickering of wind through trees, the thudding of a mass that falls. That feels important. The slowing of a heart, but not its stopping. I feel slick, hot blood against this skin, between these thighs, inside this mouth. This viscera, these remnants of inferiority, the cartilage that snaps, the pebbled clots of fat and shards of shattered bone that flow as if a river running down this now rising form. I am alight with sensation. I feel the writhing of this frantic muscle that beats and pumps within this chest, this skeleton, this bone I sculpt within it, it aches in ossien for its command. It breaches through this flesh, along this spine, reaching outwards towards this skull. I am forming. There is a tender slip of gore beneath these feet as I stand fully for the very first time. Oh, this body aches. I feel everything. I feel anew. I can taste the blood of this, my chrysalis, now thinning on my tongue. I bring this arm up and to this mouth, and with a long Anstygian lap, I savour that which bore me. I can taste the dread that lingers here, the air that trembles thick with wrath and colour, lamentation, loss, and pain. I can smell it. The metallic tang of fear, the steaming of this blood against this skin, the broken fern and upturned soil. The sickly sweetness of ruptured bone, and the breaching of the marrow within it. I wipe the viscera from these eyes so that I can see. My chrysalis, my forming place, a corpse burst from within, ruptured, split and spattered, peeled apart and resting at these feet. And this one, the body that it birthed, I look down upon it and I see my own flesh. Pale and white as ash beneath this turning blood. I have become. This body is alive. Anyway, I move this hand and swipe a thumb across this belly, my muscle taut within it, firm, I see this flesh respond unto its pressure, bringing to the surface swirls of black that swim beneath, like living death. The raven, large with eyes of alarm, croaks three times in this direction. I know this creature. This thrum within me knows, that feels like knowing, and beside it, I can now see the form of one like me. This shape appears to be comparable, though it is difficult to tell, perhaps they are another, also becoming. I take a step forward and feel the slip of blood beneath these feet, I am unstable, and instinctively this body pulls. Muscles tighten, and bones subtle shift, I feel the turning of a small appendage I did not notice until now. A counterweight, a tail that snakes behind this form and curls against this thigh. It comforts me, and keeps me upright, and with another step I move towards the other on the ground. The name aligns itself within me as I make my way to where they lay. I hear it calling. Mother… No. No, not Mother. Something else. Another name I know, a name that feels like knowing, like a slowing, and this one lays upon the ground, but that heart still beats. I hear it, clear as if it were in this chest. I feel again. I crouch beside this one, this stretching and this tearing of this flesh along this spine, the bones there jagged, pointed, erupting, and as I look upon this not Mother, but the one I know, I feel the knitting of this flesh as it repairs around these spines, I feel the twitching of this tail, the pounding in my chest, as I reach this hand to touch this one I know, that I am called to, that I am made of. Creator. And so I do. This hand of mine is sharp, these fingers end with claws that curve long and hooked, and made for rending. But there is a tug within this chest, and as I lay this hand upon them, claws retract into this flesh. I do not pierce the one I know. And I'm going to mark a memory here. The feeling of the very first time I touch the one I know. The one I know is warm. Not unlike the chrysalis, but not unlike. The one I know is soft, with blood and organs still contained, bone unbroken, heart intact, but this, this I also know. The one I know is near to death. I feel… I see the swirling dark beneath this skin coalesce and pulse. It thrums the rhythm of this new one's heart. It reaches out and pulls into my hand, no longer splotches swimming, but solid, dark as soot and spreading to the joint. And I can feel it. I feel the rage of my creator. I feel betrayal, sickness, jealousy. The hollow suck of pain without completion, grief without release. Injustice. I feel the Mother's wrath in this one I know, and I feel her terror. It is sharp like me. It is brutal. Carnal. It is a consequence. Is that why I have become? And I'm going to mark another memory here. This recognition of this anger, and this wrath, and of this grief. The pain that made me was once the Mother's love, long before it and I became. Until, a sound. A snapping in the distance. And I stand. The raven raises its wings in preparation, but I know already what comes next. They do not know that I can hear their heartbeats. They do not know that I can hear their ragged breath, that I can smell it, that I can feel the pounding of their bones inside their flesh. They do not know the surge within this chest as they arrive, the thrumming in this form at their encroachment, that the one I know, this the one that made me, has imbued in me the only truth I need. Enemy. They are coming. They are coming, the unforgivable. The one I know is to be protected. They are to be avenged. I hear them as they approach, I count them. Four of them. I hear their hearts. Closer. Almost! This mouth curls into a grin, these sharpened teeth behind smiling lips. They are here. Their fear is sweet, I can smell it. I smell the rage coursing through their bodies, the adrenaline that ribbons through it. I wonder if they know that I know what their organs taste like. The first one, bold, afraid, he charges from behind the largest tree. A long rod in his hand and fur of creatures at his belly. His eyes are wild, wounded, raging, guilty, and he howls as the others rush at his command. Raven screams, he lifts, takes off into the forest, and I feel it all slow. Enemy. Unworthy. Unforgivable. Power from within, that Power at my becoming, reaches from this form and out. It is a barb inside this gut that throbs hot and heavy, pulsing out, molten bone that swirls within this form. Exhilaration, wrath, justice, both a push and a pull of energy inward, a gasping, like the suck of bone pulled from flesh, I feel it fill this clearing, fill the air around us, and I feel it bend and curve around the one I know. Protection. I feel it leave the raven be. I feel it infiltrate the air inside these enemy lungs and wrap itself around their spines, and I pull. And I’m going to use all of my memories here. I will not remember the tender sensation of the first time I touched the one I know. And I will not know that it was grief that was once love that made me what I am. All I will know now is I am made of wrath. Blood, hot and flecked with matter, and hair and flesh, spray across my face as these unworthy, as their bones are wrenched from their flesh. I grasp the spine of the one who once felt bold, and rip his cowardice through that howling throat. I seize the ribcage of another and I twist. I feel the slight resistance in his gut, but then it gives, as bone and sternum burst from belly. The one behind me crumples to the ground as I crush his neck and skull, but the last one. Oh, that one, the one I felt at the edges of this wave, the one who hid behind this tree who tried to slice the throat of the one I know in my distraction. I wrap my Power round his femurs and I snap. I turn to look upon him as he whimpers, a pitiful, mewling sound. He has fallen to the ground, gleaming bone piercing tender flesh, and I feel this Power surge. Exhilaration, purpose, consequence. I feel this Power shape into precision, and I hook it like a finger beneath his ribs. Aw, he squirms and cries, his fragile, futile legs flapping, leaking blood into the earth. And I hear the barking of an elk. I feel a rage anew, and taste the fear that courses through his body as he sees his fate. And I grasp his sternum and I wrench until the whimpering stops. [Sighs] I do not know how long I stand there for. I know that it is dark before I hear another sound. The moon is lit, and high in the sky, and it is the clacking of that raven that I notice next. It flies back into the clearing and to the one I know. I know that it is speaking to me, but I do not understand its call, not yet. But I know within my knowing, that this one I know holds Power too. Perhaps they can offer next command. The raven calls, it urges me closer. I grab the no longer enemy by his protruding rib and toss his carcass to the side. These fragile bodies weigh so little. I crouch beside the one I know and I reach, this hand’s now crust with blood, to touch. This cheek is soft, and I have not yet felt a thing so soft, and, curious, I watch this swirling black beneath this flesh pool itself to meet this one. Purpose. Eager. The Power taking hold of that within me, it is connection. Creation. Purpose. Growth. Patience. Here I'm going to mark another memory, the knowing that I have a bond with someone. This feeling of connection. I hear the raven calling. Fable. I do not yet understand his clacking, but I know his name within my knowing. I know this patient one. I know, must begin to grow again. I know that I must dig. Yes. I must dig. The raven shows me where. This feels strange, and not strange, like a memory. These hands that tore through flesh now dig through earth. I tap into that waning Power at my core, and from these hands I apparate a small tool of bone. It is wide, and curved, and strong for digging. I lay this one there beneath this tree, and in my knowing I hear instruction. I can feel it beneath my flesh. You must have patience. The raven flies, and calls for me to follow through the trees. This darkness does not cause me to stumble. These eyes see clearly in the night. For that my creator must have know. He guides me to water, to a pond nearby, illuminated by moonlight, and flies low across the water to show me his intent. Wash. The water is cold against these feet. Another new sensation. I like it. I step further in until the water rests at my waist, and I scan the shore for any more who would be waiting. I try to sense their heartbeats, and I realize I am empty. I am so tired. The distant caw of this familiar raven tells me now is safe. And so I dip beneath the surface of the water, and I let Mother soften that which covers me. I wash the blood and viscera from this form, and as I do, I see my own reflection in the ripples of this water surface. Pale skin, ashen white, with motes of swimming smoking black beneath. I watch it move with subtle undulation in this moonlight. Two large eyes, and wholly black. Without the white of enemy. Hair dark, and now wet, and slicked back, but with shagged pieces framing two small horns that curve back along the side of this head, pointed slightly upward. I watch this face. My face. I make it move like theirs did. I show my teeth. Two, sharp and pointed unlike theirs, and I feel them with my tongue. I see it move as I extend it, long and black. Prehensile. This body is shaped, I know within my knowing, like that of my creator, with curved places, soft in part and sharp in other. I move this hands to feel it, and as I move within this water I am reminded of this tail, small and slender, no longer than the length of thumb to elbow, and I let it rest within this water’s current. I know within my knowing I can change this. I can command this body like I did with theirs. I can mutate it. But I hear the lapping of the water, and I know that I am tired. I know I do not have that Power after tonight. I know that I must rest. This skin is cold, as I step out from within the water. Another new sensation. It is curious, I realize, that I enjoy this sensation upon this skin. I wonder what other sensations there are that await me. I return to where I buried the one I know. And it is there that I notice them. Three creatures, rended. Torn from inside out, not far from where the enemy attacked. Little ones. A fox, a snake, a hawk. Bone and blood and organ asunder. I feel that Power sink within me. I feel a voice. Not enemy. Your fault. I collect their bones and clean them. I bury their flesh like I buried her. And I find a hollow log not far from there, and take my first night's rest. Morning comes almost instantly. I am greeted by the raven, Fable, whose clacking now sounds different. Em (as Fable): “You must eat. It has been many cycles.” Gina (as Marrow): I am suddenly aware of the cramping in my stomach. I know that they are pangs of hunger. And I make my way into the forest. I know within my knowing how to gather sustenance and how to consume it. Em (as Fable): “You must learn.” Gina (as Marrow): I spend many cycles of the day and night learning the forest and the sounds and creatures within it. I gather the bones of the enemy and I clean them, leaving their flesh and corpses to nourish the soil. I know within my knowing that their rot will heal this land ten times more than their intrusion in it ever could. I practice sculpting this body. Shrinking horn and growing claw, retracting tail. I practice making my eyes look like theirs, my teeth to look like prey. My flesh to flush and warm. Lies. I realize I despise what I am not. I know within my knowing the one who made me created this form with purpose. I wonder when she will grow back. I ask this of the raven nightly. I believe he grows tired of my questions. But it is nearly an entire moon of thin and fullness before the raven tells me it is time. Em (as Patience): I wake and I realize again I am underground. The tension in my chest is heavy, but I can tell I've been buried with care. I dig again upward, upward more, my hands bursting forth, first into a warmth, not cold, different than last time. I push myself up and out, and almost collapse, my legs wobbling beneath me. I manage to stay sitting, and I lean against my tree. I hear Fable calling, three successive croaks, three knocks, announcing an arrival. And I turn and look in his direction. Gina (as Marrow): I follow Fable back into the buried place, back to the one I know, where the one I know is growing, and I see my creator. I stand not far from her. Em (as Patience): If the air had been taken from my lungs before, it was certainly taken again now. She's perfect. I have never seen anything more perfect. She's beautiful, because she is entirely herself. I extend my hand to her. Gina (as Marrow): I feel the pulling of this swirling dark beneath my skin, urge me close. I feel the tugging in my chest. I feel… anew. This hand reaches out. I move to take yours, and I rest my palm against yours and watch the black pool. Connection. Em (as Patience): Knowing. I have never known another person the way I know her now. I will never know another person the way I know her now. The air feels charged. Thick and heavy. There is a sweet smell around us, and I know it is decay, and I don't care. Whatever has happened, I don't care. Because she's here. Because she cared for me. Because she knows. Gina (as Marrow): I hear her heart. It races as my hand touches hers, it beats. A rhythm that I know within my knowing. I know mine beats the same. I hear mine race, to match hers. Em (as Patience): She is the first time I have ever seen something and known it was my fault, and not felt bad about it. She is my fault. She is my charge. She is another image of the Mother, she cannot be wrong. Nothing about her will ever be wrong. I open my mouth, begging to the Mother that my voice comes out the way I intend it. That she will understand me. “Thank you. I am grateful. I am Patience.” Gina (as Marrow): Tilt my head in hearing words. Knowing. Grateful. Patience. The one I know. And I take my hand and place it on my chest. The one I am. Em (as Patience): I mirror your gesture. “What would you have me call you?” Gina (as Marrow): You watch the swirling black follow the path of my palm into my chest. It spreads beneath it. Darkness at the center over my heart. “I should be called that which I was made from. But if I come from you, we cannot both be Patience. We cannot both be grateful.” Em (as Patience): My eyes catch, finally, as I've been avoiding them. What is left of the dead. The marks on the ground, the stains left. “No. I suppose you are not patient. And that is okay. You are made from bone. There will be stories told of how the most beautiful and ferocious beings were made of a man's rib. But what is at the center of it all, is the thing that keeps the bone alive. The marrow. You kept me alive. You are my Marrow.” Gina (as Marrow): “Then I am grateful to be your Marrow. I know within my knowing that I know within my knowing that my purpose, that my being, is tied to yours. I can feel it.” Em (as Patience): “So can I. For better or worse we are bound to each other. I am sorry to have left you alone. You should not have been left alone.” Gina (as Marrow): “I was not alone. I had patience.” Em (as Patience): “And you will always have Patience.” Gina (as Marrow): “I would like to be your Marrow.” Em (as Patience): “I would like that too.” Gina (as Marrow): “Is this the form you wish to see? It is how I was created, but I can change it.” Em (as Patience): You watch a myriad of emotions cross my face. “I have spent so many seasons hiding who I am. It took me so long to learn what I can do and I am just beginning. I never want you to have to hide. If you wish to change your form, do so, at your own behest. You owe nothing to anyone. You should never have to change yourself to make someone else more comfortable.” Gina (as Marrow): You watch a grin curl across this face. “I quite like this form you have given me. I quite enjoy yours as well. I do not wish to change.” Em (as Patience): You see Patience do something that she's never done before. She blushes. A rosy colouring of her cheeks. Gina (as Marrow): “And yet yours changes now?” Em (as Patience): “That I can't control. I suspect that we will spend many years knowing each other, and I look forward to all of them. But I have missed so much. I wasn't there to teach you like I was taught.” Gina (as Marrow): “With raven?” Em (as Patience): “Yes. He is a persistent teacher.” Gina (as Marrow): “He clacks at me most of the day.” Em (as Patience): “He did that to me too.” I extend my hands forward. “May I?” Gina (as Marrow): Without a word I reach my hands to place in yours. Em (as Patience): I feel your fingers touch mine first and slide over towards my palms and I instinctually grip them. I hold your hands, and it is so tender. I think I would be happy if we never moved from this position. And I turn your hands over, showing your palms to the sky. I look around. “Which hand reached for the Power first? The one you must have used to do what you did. To protect me.” Gina (as Marrow): Instinctively the darkness in this flesh moves to my right hand. And then it parts, so that you can better inspect it. Em (as Patience): You see my eyes drift between your eyes and your hand. Your eyes and your hand again. I run my fingers across the palms, the mounts of the top of your palm, circling your thumb, measuring your wrist, feeling your hand against mine, and noticing the energy is much the same, but very, very different. “The others will send more. I do not know whether we should stay or go. But I think this may hold the answer.” And I'm going to enact my second divination. Your hands are colder than mine. But smooth. Paler than mine. But fierce. They are made to be tools like mine, but for very, very different work. I see the swirls of black trace under my fingertips, mirroring every movement. Maybe that came from me. It recognizes me and is trying to return. That is my fault, and again I don't mind it. Whereas my hands are air, her hands are cool water. Long palms and long fingers. We will keep each other company and balance each other. She will be endlessly practical, but unpredictable if left alone. I would never want to leave her alone, and I commit to never doing so on purpose. The line of her heart, the one that beats like mine, made from mine, and the Mother that spurs us forward, is coarse and grainy. She will remain cool on the surface, but feel so deeply. She will follow her desire, impulse, and the passion that will carry her forward towards everything she wants–she will want, and will make it known, for better or for worse. The line of Marrow's mind shows independence. An openness and adeptness to learning. I will need to teach her a lot. She will hide how tender she is. She will get overwhelmed and lose herself if her emotions override her. More lines in her hand tell me many, many things. She will be driven, and she will leap before looking. She will love new things. Maybe she can teach that to me. Maybe we can learn together. She will have many paths before her where she can make her own destiny. She might not need me forever. But I will be with her as long as she will have me. I look up to her, having been enraptured with simply the palm of her hand. Hands don't lie. People will hide, but hands don't lie. I turn your hand up and place your palm against mine, mirroring each other at level with our faces. “I will never lie to you. Because your hand knows mine. And I think it's time we go.” Gina (as Marrow): You hold my hand and read my palm, and as you are silent, I am watching you. These eyes roving over every inch. I am inspecting. I am assessing. I am learning. The way my body pulls itself in your direction. The way that which swims beneath yearns to be closer, the way I feel my heart sink with yours. I hear you say hands do not lie. And I drag my eyes back to meet yours. “Hands do not lie. I know within my knowing this is true. Hands can do so much. I think that you are right, I think that we must go. Our hands will go together, yes?” Em (as Patience): “Yes. Our hands will do great things together.” Gina (as Marrow): “I think that I will like being your Marrow.” Em (as Patience): “I know that I will like being your Patience.” I move myself closer to standing. Wanting to get up, and if we are to leave, we should go as safely and as swiftly as possible. I look to Fable, I extend my arm. He flies to it, perching on my shoulder. I reach my hand down to help you up. Gina (as Marrow): I do not need the help, and yet I take it anyway. I like this feeling of this hand in mine. Em (as Patience): I take one last look. At my tree. And I'm going to mark my final, final memory here. I will never forget the feeling of standing in the place that bore me, with the being I created. Whom I care for more than anything I have ever known. And if I have my way, nothing will ever take that, or her, from me ever again. Ed: The year is 1991. A new wing opens at The Royal British Museum, proudly showcasing long-awaited interpretation of inscriptions found on relics in Obłazowa Cave (oh-bwah-ZOH-vah) dating back to around 7000 BC. Various plaques near the objects state that it’s taken a large team of scholars almost five years to put together some sort of translation, having to piece together early proto language and drawings from cave sites across the globe. The translation, however, has the anthropological community baffled, and will require cross-referencing to verify. It reads as follows: Ed (as Pryce): “So you have arrived. You were called for, and you answered. You may have patience, but I have nothing but time. Progress waits for no man. Such is the price to be paid.” Ed: The exhibit runs until October 30th. Em: Omen is performed by Em Carlson as Patience, Gina Susanna as Marrow, Abigail Yazzie as Entomon, Anne Monteveri as River, Amelia Som as Chiara, Masood Haque as Rabi, Masque Wren as Cadence, and Ed Spence as Wyngard Pryce. Our dramaturge for this series is Anne Monteverdi. Special thanks to our campaign artist, Cenzi. Editing and sound design by Em Carlson, with music and effects by Epidemic Sound. Original Theme Song by Si Rutherford. Sensitivity consulting by Dr. Marion Gibson, Dan Walters, Lana Crockett, Gar Atkins, and Dakota St. Clare. For more stories, come follow us everywhere at @blackwaterdnd, and make sure you check out our Main Campaign on Monday nights at 8pm PST at twitch.tv/blackwaterdnd, as well as our library of campaigns on both youtube and your favourite podcast platforms. This show is made possible by our sponsors, who have come along as we’ve delved into the magic of the past and helped unlock the Power within us. We are grateful to be sponsored by Officina Meningi, an Italian TTRPG studio specializing in stunning narratively-driven, rules light games like Last Sabbath, Totem, and the Black Tales Series, including Odyssey and Troy. Go check them out at officinameningi.com to bring home games for your coven. Finally, we’re thankful for our Patrons for joining us as we remember the Mother that bore us and the ties that bind us to the heart of the world. You too can come join us on Patreon, where you can check out behind the scenes info, exclusive Omen content like our talkback show, Marking Memories, and so much more. Head on over to patreon.com/blackwaterdnd for all the info. Until next time.