50th Day of Winter, 509 AV
A hot, sultry haze laced its fingers through the cavern of Siku's shrine. The twin sounds of trickling and rushing water swelled the air, complementing one another in an overwhelming harmony. Voices from branching tunnels were swallowed up beyond twisting turns, leaving only sibilant fragments to tickle the ears. These were the everyday sounds of the nest.
A new sound pierced the air: the crack of a whip. As it echoed, the water itself seemed to quiet to a whisper.
Then a voice arose to join it: "You shut your little maw, Sslithus, or I will lash it off properly!"
In a tiny nook adjacent to the shrine, the source of the threat stood, whip in hand, before her classroom of snakelings. The whip still swung, like a metronome, above the semi-circle of Dhani children. Lirilazula narrowed her gaze, flicking it meaningfully across each wide-eyed face, and then gave a satisfied nod.
"Learn to be silent now. It will save you worse lessons later in life," she said. As she stepped out of the circle, she tucked the whip away crisply. "Practice your handwriting for next class. Improvement is expected. Dismissed."
The children arose in a flurry of chatter and parchment, rushing out with nervous laughter. Their robed instructor remained, dusting the chalk from the cavern wall as she listened to their voices and footsteps trail away and, eventually, disappear.
"Mm," Lazula hummed. "The quiet has never seemed so quiet." She clapped her hands together, ridding them of clouds of chalk, and stepped out, into the shrine room.
Her lips twitched. The sight of the Snake Mother, even only in stone, always made her pulse ring in her ears. She drew nearer to the statue, reverence in her step. To think the children passed this vision day by day, sparing nothing but nervous, lingering glances for it, made her ill. Fret not, she assured herself. You will instill in them the adoration She deserves. Even if you must whip it in.
An amused gleam lit her misty eyes as she began to kneel. But once settled before the altar, her robes spread neatly and her head bowed, she grew solemn.
Her prayers began, as always, carefully. She chose the thoughts before they touched her lips. She made certain her whispers disappeared in the sound of the rushing stream beside her. But with time came a sort of fever.
First her thoughts began to roil and churn, and then she lost grasp of their direction. They spun off of her tongue almost before she could discern them. They filled her chest with a swelling pressure. They brought a hot flush to her face. Her hands trembled, and her whispers rose above the other sounds, impassioned sobs that bled into the tongue of the Snake.
She had not willed herself to shift, but the transformation had begun. She felt her skin prickling as the scales rose, arched her spine, and let it begin to consume her.