WHAT STARVING POETS MEANT & future readings

[sybil.]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 55%; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 20px"]Sybil heard the disturbance in the curtains and slowly open her eyes, which landed on none other than Agathe. Though her lips wished to curl into a mischievous smile, her features remained stoic and unchanging. She kept steely and silent as Agathe began to speak. Without needing to peak inside of the snow leopard's mind, Sybil could tell the other didn't believe in these things. "This is serious business. One ought to tread carefully, Miss Ashyver," the soothsayer answered telepathically, though it seemed the message echoed off the walls of deep, purple velvet.

A witchling. A blood sacrifice. That piqued her interest. The wildcat was not a fan of blood sacrifices; it was dirty work. However, the Seraph would get what the Seraph desired. "Inexperienced claws," she returned, coolly. As if she would allow regular individuals to dabble in her workings. "Strong connection. Not to be abused." With that said, she lurched forward, taking hold of Agathe's left forearm and making a small incision across the pad of her paw. Sybil placed her right paw against the blue blood before lifting her paws skyward.

Her eyes closed and her forelimbs moved in bizarre circular patterns. Her body swayed to and fro, golden circle dancing against her forehead, lips wordlessly twitching. The panther's posture shifted, becoming more confident and rigid. In her mind's eye, she watched Agathe's future unfolding. Sybil's fictional brows furrowed. She saw blood and felt a searing heat. Darkness. Isolation. For the first time in her history, she debated speaking a truthful prophecy.

"Child of peace turned child of war,
who is it that you are fighting for?
it isn't these people and it isn't your own,
will you ever realize that you'll have to atone?

When blue blood runs red,
and your iron is devastated,
you'll truly learn if monsters are born, or created."

When she spoke, her voice was warped and layered, as if a handful of different individuals were speaking in unison. When Sybil finished speaking, her posture returned to her normal, withdrawn look. Her eyes opened, and she lowered her paws. "The gods have spoken, Agathe. Take it as you will... or not at all." A faint sadness - or perhaps worry - swam through her tone. "... Self-forged chains do not break."