Scrimshaw Seamstress

The soft crunch of feet through fresh powder, in an otherwise still silence of snowfall behind me, electrified from my spine through my finger tips as my flight or flight response was peaked. I froze. The kind of harsh, bone-chilling immobilization that comes from brutal decisions. The kind of decisions only satiated by blood.

I didn't look back, I felt her here.

The crimson dripping from the symbols carved in my arms cascaded down my fingertips, my epoch in the snow. It quickly darkened into a sludge nestled in ice. There was a powerful quake that pushed the snow aside like dust, and in its wake upon the ground lay those same symbols. The accursed blood crept towards them like engorged larva. I lifted the Scrimshaw Seamstresses needle to the skies and let the millennial black moon pierce its eye. There was a familiar shriek.

The children of the town below told stories of the seamstress and the scrimshawed needle from her first child's bones, seizing his soul within.

Sulfuric green hue's began permeating the air from within the eye of this wretched thing. As it shattered my veins were engulfed in that same putrid green flame.

She was here now. I smelt her rancid cold breath. The hair on my neck lifted as her sinewy grey hands covered my mouth. I had already finished the incantation.

"Why, my sweet prince? This was for you"

The mountain crumbled, burying us in eternity as his soul departed.

"This was for brother"