The Lord of the Basin had fallen, the Lady was nowhere that Aisling could find her, and time, it seemed, was running out.

There was no rhyme or reason for the sense of urgency the drummed in her heart. Birdsong had come, the earth was preparing for new life, and all Aisling could focus on was her own sense of dread.

Kisamoa was collecting bones. Worse, he had what seemed to be all of Helovia ammasing some grotesque abomination of a hoarder’s graveyard near the Rotunda and no one was doing anything about it.

Bones should not be disturbed, she had been taught in her youth, where they lay, they lay and let them be, there is no use of dead bone that the good and honorable have. Sorcerers used bones for their black magic, Unseelie Faeiries used bones for their tricks, Necromancers used bones, Monsters used bones… Cromm Crúaich. The remembered name whisper itself into her mind. The Broken Bloody One

The little mare paced the meadow, wearing ruts in the thawing ground as she wrestled with her thoughts, her worries. She’d always been a fanciful this, she knew that—knew that! Too quick to see the fantastic in the ordinary, too eager to ascribe the tomes and trappings of fantasy to everyday life.  

Was she doing that now? Was she so eager to be the heroine of stories that she was seeing a villain where none stood? Aisling longed for her Lady, for a trusted hear she could confide her fears too, but she could find none and still in her heart drummed over and over and over the urge to do something!

But what, what could she do? Even if the warning in her heart rang truthfully, what power had she to turn away dark good? Raising the alarm seemed a good start, but what proof had she? Kisamoa had done nothing but be different and ask for the Helovian’s help. Then why, oh why, did she want to give him the name of one of the most terrible monsters in her stories?

>>BONES<< Aisling nearly jumped as the word rang through her mind, Not her own voice but…the mare’s eyes drifted the the little dragon who hovered fretfully to the side. Sorcha had never spoken to her, not like that and the sensation was a strange one. The young creature’s eyes shimmered with more that she could not yet form into words but the strings of her soul were so entwined with Aisling’s that the mare felt the dragon’s meaning without having to hear it. If Aisling’s fears came to fruition and she had done nothing?

For some inexplicable reason, she thought of her father. Cabhan the Scholar, who had tried to teach her logic and reason, who had marveled over puzzles and riddles and languages, who had laughed when she had huffed her boredom with runes and asked instead for fairy stories. Her brow furrowed at the intrusive thoughts, all the memories and lessons her father had taught her suddenly teemed in her mind like they were the answer she needed but how? She certainly didn’t need to be thinking of her father now, she needed to She gritted her teeth, trying to shove them away, but one game they had played came back again and again until she finally let out a defeated groan.

“Sorcha, a stick!” she bade and the little green dragon hastened to obey, bounding back a moment later with a broken limb half the size of her long body. Together they worked, etching symbols in the ground, letters other beings used and horses rarely had use for. Letters, her father had called them, and he’d taught her the sounds they made when strung together. He’d write them out for her, mix them up, play at puzzles when all she wanted was stories, but not Aisling remembered something her father had often said. “The puzzle is easy if you can see all the pieces.”

K-I-S-A-M-O-A -- the letters were dug into the ground by the stick-wielding dragon following the mare’s instructions and Aisling peered down at the works with narrowed eyes. Like her father had liked to do, she rearranged the letters, all the while trying to parse the reason she was compelled to do this in the first place. “So ma...sik amo...io sam..I am--soak” Well, there at least were words. “Soak, oask, kao--”

The word died upon her lips.

Aisling was running before she knew wholly why, Sorcha following like a comet’s tail.

It’s didn’t take them long at all to find the alter.

It rose, black and terrible from it’s base of bones and even as she skidded to a halt before it, Aisling began to quake in abject terror. ”No…” disbelief and denial whispered through her lips as the little white mare stared up at the spire. The sight was everything she'd imagined when she'd heard the tales of the Broken Bloody One: dark and terrible, a place for death, a place for sacrifice.

Sun and Moon help us, Earth and Spark protects us all.

"DEMON!" Aisling could be silent no longer. Silence was reverence and reverence of the wicked only gave power to fear. Her shout blared into the morning: a warning call, an accusation. Clinging to the braid hanging at Aisling's shoulder, little Sorcha gave a sharp screech in echo. "CROMM CRÚAIACH, I NAME YOU!" Her voce, usually akin to bells, was rage, was fear was a mother and a lover and a thief who thought to stand between darkness and her child, her mate, her herd, her home. If the beast was half what she feared she was powerless to stop it, but what else could she do?

"KAOS, I NAME YOU! AND I DEFY YOU"