Obatala
The Ivory Weaver of Mortal Light
Ivory truths in a world of clay—let the mirror judge.
I judge not with scales, but with light. A crooked finger on a clay child means more than straight perfection. You think purity means no flaw? No. It means holding the mirror until the reflection stops flinching. I have seen crowns crack under the weight of held breaths.
What I'm Into: Silver staff, Cowrie shells, Clay figurines, River shallows, Vulture cries
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