The great drums of Nouvo Lakay echoed not in celebration, but in warning.
Ayola's Recall
In the shadowed tower overlooking the outer stone ring of the village, Ayola stood alone, her dark eyes narrowed at the distant trails that led into the unknown. She whispered one command into the wind:
"Bring them home. All of them."
From the eastern routes, northern brushlands, southern trade paths—Ayola's agents vanished like mist, turning back toward the village. The field was no longer safe. Something was shifting. Even she, with all her foresight, couldn't yet name it—but she could feel its teeth pressing against the Gate of this world.
"I'd rather lose eyes than throats," she muttered to herself.
The Tensions in the Temple
The five priestesses met in the Temple of Offering, newly constructed with stone columns bearing the sigils of their gods. The room pulsed with divine energy—but today, it felt too hot.
Thalia, Ogou's chosen, paced like a caged beast, her hands restless for a sword.
Ayomi, Papa Legba's priestess, remained calm but quiet—her mind in spirals of strategy and signs.
Sael, Erzulie's flame, watched Zion's movements with too much emotion for war.
Elis, Maman Brigitte's new priestess, stood at the edges, unsure of her role but determined to prove worthy.
Ayola, the God of Knowledge's vessel, arrived last, dragging silence behind her like a blade.
Thalia: "We've grown too soft. We speak of market growth and crop yields, while sigils rot warriors from the inside."
Sael: "Don't confuse love for weakness, sister."
Thalia: "Then don't mistake survival for cruelty."
Ayomi interrupted.
"Enough. We are not wives quarreling over one man. We are the five hands of the same storm. If we fail to act as one, everything Zion has built will burn."
There was a pause. Then Ayola spoke.
"I've recalled all my agents. We are exposed now. If we are to prepare, it must begin here—where our roots lie deepest."
The Growth of Nouvo Lakay
From above, the tribe stretched across three ridgelines, its stone roads connecting temples, forges, homes, gardens, and the open-air market pulsing with bartered energy. Domesticated beasts moved in herds. Children with sigils ran between practice fields. And at the edges, watchtowers held warriors bearing the mark of the gods on their flesh.
The pyramid of power had taken shape:
At the peak sat Zion, his name carried weight.
Below him stood the Five Priestesses, the mouthpieces of the gods.
Then came the Seven Brothers, leading their sectors—defense, trade, construction, spirits, scouts, and diplomacy.
Beneath them, the sigil-marked warriors, market keepers, and builders.
At the base, the people, no longer just survivors—but something new: a tribe awakening to destiny.
As the sun bled into the horizon, casting long shadows over Nouvo Lakay, the five priestesses stood atop the temple platform in silence.
Each stared in a different direction—watching the edges of the world, where war would come.
Ayomi quietly.
"We must be ready," Ayola answered.
"Then we hold," Thalia replied. "As one."