This is a flitmuir story from my Witch of Atlas world. Their writing looks a little like Arabic, I think, and was originally written with a paw in sand. Now they use magic, but because of these limitations, their stories and language are simple and short, and mostly passed on orally. You might notice that there’s a scarcity of names in this story, which is because the fey have a different approach to names. As long as it’s a appropriately descriptive label, any name is good.
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Listen. There’s a world where the magic lies weak and the people there are of only one kind, and mortal. On this world is so little magic that people not born there can die of its lack. Some of the mortals have a little magic, and one day, one came to the world where a flitmuir called Zin lived. Zin was three seasons out of kithood, and very curious, even for one of us. The female mortal stumbled about like a blind kit, bleeding and mewing in pain, and drawing predators. Zin, wanting to help, drew closer. When she saw Zin, she spoke as if Zin were not a person, or a threat. From out of the woods came a dark barghest, lean and hungry, who charged at them. Before Zin could warn the mortal, or fly away, she put herself between Zin and the barghest, attacking it with her small magic. The barghest finally fled, but not before it had dealt the mortal a terrible wound with its teeth. Zin, moved by compassion, bonded with the mortal and showed her how to heal herself. He discovered that, with his magic, she could do more than he, and with her magic, he could live safely on her world. For many years he stayed with her and helped her wield her magic and his power to aid many different kinds of people. When she died, he returned home and told his tale to others, a tale which is done.