Mara’s study was a mess. The Aelf’s desk was a jumbled heap of ancient scrolls and scurried calligraphy, maps and artifacts were strewn all over the place, each piled at comical angles. Candles dripped copious amounts of wax onto the floor as each was almost burnt to a nub, the amount of time she had spent in here evident, Feinour would scold her for that. Mara shook the errant thought of her companion, running a hand through unruly hair, she breathed hard in exasperation. Green eyes darted across the crowded surroundings, she needed something, anything, to give her a clue as to what her previous visions meant. A loud clatter filled her dismal holdings as she upturned a drawer, its contents spilling out onto the floor in her haste. Come on, there must be a-AHA. She suddenly gave a small cry of triumph as her fingers closed around the object of her desire. “Perfect.” The Spellweaver muttered as she simultaneously grasped for her staff leaning on the wall, only to find it instead lying haphazardly on the floor, Mara sighed in annoyance, nimble fingers curling around the oakwood. She held up her newfound prize from the drawer as she rose, it glowed a lush emerald. The quartz block was the perfect siphon, it would do nicely. After all, what she was about to do was exceedingly dangerous.
The Oracle now sat cross-legged in the center of the room, a rudimentary circle had been formed on the floor, papers and items pushed at its circumference to clear a space. Mara breathed out slowly, calming herself. Focus. For this to work, she’d only get one chance. Fail, and she’d only have the energy to do this again weeks from now. Avelorn’s fate couldn’t afford to wait that long. Carefully, the Aelf moved her staff between both hands, placing it horizontally in front of her, the siphon was aligned; tied to the wooden head by spinning Vinegrasps. Everything was ready, one chance, now or never. Slowly, she began to chant, ancient words of power, a tongue long forgotten, the words spiraled from her lips like a stream. They filled the room, running over every page and scattered map. Paper rustled and shook like leaves in a storm. She closed her eyes. Focus. The words grew in intensity, her eyes remained closed, a thousand images fought and battled for dominance, each appearing and disappearing in split seconds. One moment, she saw a tumbling void, the next, a baleful Realmgate stretching into the infinite, another, legions of Orcs marching under blood-soaked banners. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, the future was always in motion, forever fluctuating; these were all empty images, false truths. Whispers and voices now snaked their way in as she dove deeper into her own mind, promising power, riches, all the desires of mortal souls. The Oracle ignored them. Mara had learned to harness ‘anchor points,’ pivotal events in time that would always come to pass. These events were rare to witness, and dangerous, but she had to, the situation was too dire otherwise.
Suddenly, an image coalesced, this one was noticeably different from the rest. Her heart pulsed in anticipation; this was it. She maintained her chant, yet her own words were lost on her ears, every iota of her being straining to decipher what she was looking at. ‘Let me see.’ Her own voice audibly cutting through her embattled mind, the image cleared ever so slightly at her words, she caught sight of something, but it still wasn’t enough. “Closer, let me see.” Sweat was dripping off her brow, it felt like a storm was swirling around her, she faintly registered her hair whipping about her person, yet her eyes remained closed, the Oracle focused on the image in her mind’s eye in its totality. She spoke a final utterance through gritted teeth in one last desperate mental push. “Let. Me. See.”
At last, the image cleared, the fog lifted, and the future presented itself. Almost immediately. Mara wished it hadn’t.
****
Feinour threw the door open in panic, the wood slamming with such force it almost cracked. Not that it mattered, for a split second, Feinour’s eyes surveyed his companion’s study in alarm, it was like a hurricane had gone off, books and shelves had toppled over, her desk was on its side, and there lay great gouges in the walls. Those few seconds were all he took to take in the situation, as within moments he had fallen to his knees at the sight of his major concern. Mara. The Spellweaver was strewn much like her books, a tangled heap on the floor, shivering and shaking. Feinour turned swiftly to his Guards who had accompanied him, “call for a healer, do it now!” The Aelves obeyed without question, ducking out of the small room with all haste. Their footsteps had barely receded before Feinour’s attention snapped back to Mara, carefully, ever so gently, he cradled her. His arms positioning her to face upwards, he noted her eyes were open as he moved her, they were glassed over in terror.
Suddenly, she snapped too, making the Nomad Prince jump as she grabbed his tunic like a vice. “Feinour! F-Feinour!” She practically sobbed his name, making heavy, wrenching sounds as she pawed at him, he didn’t let go for a moment.
“Mara, by Alarielle.” His words were shaky, he’d never seen her like this before, she was as pale as a ghost and trembling uncontrollably. “You were screaming Mara, screaming and screaming, what happened to you? What did you see?”
She said nothing, crying and hugging him closer, they remained like that for a few minutes more. Feinour stared down at her hands gripping onto him, her lithe fingers were covered in blood, and her nails were scratched raw from clawing at…something. He shuddered involuntarily before speaking, “Mara a healer is on their way, but I need to know what you saw, did your visions reveal anything that could help us?”
Mara’s shaking stifled. She stared up at the Aelf Prince, speaking in the quietest whisper through cracked lips, the words so small he had to strain to hear. “I saw death.”
He grimaced, “Nagash?”
“No. I saw…worse.”
A frown of confusion now split his features, sending an uneasy sliver down his back, “worse?”
“The Dark Gods, their servants inside our walls, smoke, fire, death.”
Feinour sucked in cold air at her words, audibly affirming Mara’s vision with a whispered reply of his own. “The Prophecy of Twisting Leaves?”
The Spellweaver shuddered and loosed another choking sob into his chest. “Darkness will claim the Great Tree’s power, a raging inferno shall light the sky, our kindred will be divided, and sorrow will destroy us all. The future is in motion, what will come to pass cannot be stopped.” Mara’s tears flowed, and all Feinour could do was hold her. They stayed like that for what seemed like an age. No more words passed, and the prince did not leave his companion’s side. Even after the healer had finally arrived, even after Mara had been placed in a magical stupor for her own safety, Feinour stayed close by. Yet still, the Aelf’s portents span through his mind, if that ancient Prophecy had arisen anew, Avelorn was in even greater danger than anyone realised. They would need all their strength and courage to prevail. He only wished it would be enough for what was to come…