The cat squinted in irritation. The man had quite rudely invaded its alley. He had not even offered a bit of the sandwich he was gnawing on. It was a rather good-smelling sandwich too with some sort of fish spread on a hot loaf. The cat gave a disgruntled hrmph before beginning a half-hearted bath hoping the man would notice and toss him a tidbit. The man did not in fact notice the cat. He was too busy gazing across the busy market, watching a monstrous man draped in a boar skin haggle over some bangles.
The sea was a wine-dark expanse, churning and gnawing. It mirrored her own tempestuous thoughts. Her normally immaculate tunic showed the damage of a day’s distress. Bits of firey hair escaped from the previously intricately sewen bird’s nest that crowned her head. The flyaway bits clung to her sweat-coated brow and neck. The southern winds were blowing but provided no relief from the smothering heat, just a fine dust that clung to everything making the world drab and gritty. It was summer and her thoughts churned dark and terrible like the sea before her. It was summer and revolution was imminent.
Feet of an eagle, wooly legs of the ewe, her hair flies loose but she crows it with a kokoshnik embroidered with spiders and flowers. In her four arms she carries a distaff, a dagger, a shield, and the thread of fate.
Tat’neth is the elusive goddess of the Weaver Assasins. They carry a weaving shuttle wound with golden thread which they use to garrote those their goddess has deemed harmful to her industrious followers. The cult of Tat’neth is a secretive one, much whispered about but seldom proven to exist.