OBSCURE DIVINITY

Ponny Mag
8h
1 min read

In the shadowed hush of ancient woods, she dwells—a forgotten goddess cloaked in silence, her presence threaded through the roots and rot of the forest floor. Her long, dark nails curl into the soil like the claws of some buried truth, ancient and unresolved. The air here is thick with the weight of memory, green with moss and grief, and the trees grow close as if to shield her from the world that abandoned her name. Time folds in on itself beneath her gaze; hours become seasons, seasons become centuries, and those who wander too deep often do not return the same—if they return at all. Her curse is not shouted, but breathed, a slow and seeping unraveling that lingers on the skin and in the soul.

Beside her stands a pale horse, ghost-white and silent, its eyes dark mirrors of everything lost. It does not feed, it does not sleep—its hooves hover just above the ground, untouched by time or tether, as if it has always been and will always be. Some say it is her soul split in two, or a harbinger of the end that follows her presence. She is wrath wrapped in wilderness, divinity draped in dusk, older than the oldest prayer and colder than forgotten altars. To see her is to feel the ache of the earth itself, sacred and savage, a beauty that wounds. She does not speak, for she has no need—her silence is the final word.