Nehau

Some say she’s lazy, lounging in leaf litter, fingers digging deep into the mulchy earth. It may not look like much, the slow-paced slide of her power sinking into leaves, into wood, into dead flesh, but that patient breakdown is all that allows others to thrive. It’s their roots who sink into the soil she nourishes, their teeth that yank those tender shoots from the ground, their claws that sink into fleeing prey to spill hot blood.

In some ways it’s a theft, valuable products of her idle labor taken from the rich soil, but she pays it no mind. It all returns to her in the end, the grass and the blood and finally even the bones. She can hardly be cowed by taunts when she can meet anyone’s eyes and say, sure as anything, they’ll be hers one day too.