The first time she killed something, it hurt.
A single ax is
a tool of reckoning.
She was to small to handle it
but the fire was hungry
and she was alone.
Her tiny hands gripped the beast.
She swung the weapon hard.
Over and over again.
Dizzy and defeated, Mora fell to the ground in tears.
The world went quiet,
it became without end.
If she had a wish left, it would be useful now.
She held her heart and looked to the sky.
She was asking for everything
and nothing at once.
The sun began to set, and with it a loud cry.
The heavens responded.
Mora had her wish,
the tree died.
It fell in the wood
she jumped to her feet.
She grabbed the ax and began chopping.
Limb by limb,
her wish would sustain her.
She felt the heat.
So it was and so it would be.
With her ax,
Mora could kill anything.
Stitchteller's Keep 