The Echidna birthed, the gods dispersed, and under the darkened sky of the Land of Horticulture and Essence, the consorts gather. A crowd of beavers donned in lime green and toothed hoods reach upwards toward the lemon tree, where sat across a sturdy limb lounged an alligator, scales reflecting the fires of the green sun.
With careful claws, it snips the stems of three lemons and let them fall into the waiting hands of the consorts. It gestures skywards, to the glow of the Echidna, the only light to show in this voided space.
The consorts move, tracing a path along the roots of Yggdrasil that connect all, to arrive at the base of the new universe, cracked and wavering. The consorts present their offering joyously, tossing the lemons to the heavens where they are pulled into the orb, through the cracks of the shell and into the Echidna’s waiting maw.
The Lamias of prophecy have been delivered.