Act I

Chapter One, Autumnal Auguries

10th of Wolvsmoon, Fall of 1308 CE (common era)

A stream of wind carries the aroma of burning incense across the forested haven. A young oracle, Azarra, gazes up at the waxing moon, kneeling upon earthen altar. The smoke bends and twists assuming the misty pattern of her thoughts. Nymph-like apparitions manifest amongst the ashen plate and then disperse. Her heart beats excitedly though she clinches calming palm over her chest.

A deep breath. Silence your mind. Her lungs expand and contract in rhythmic trance of contemplation. Her eyelids relax and the world around her gives way to a blank infinity within. Powers that be, Muse & Spirit around me! Show me the way for mine desires to be freed. Bring my longing into form. Awaken me from the world. Pave path beyond the walls of this temple ground to which I am bound,

This prayer concluded her eyes open to a flood of starlight. Constellations spin slowly about, entwining mystic divination. Gentle whispering from the wind tells her to turn around, steering her attention back to the entrance of the glade. There on the moonlit path appears a friend, Delphine, cloaked in shadow. Approaching with careful enthusiasm, Azarra cries a sigh of relief and stands up to embrace her visitor warmly. “Oh, Delphi! It’s lovely to see you! Isn’t this haven so enchanting when the veil of day is pulled away?”

Delphine beams back. Gleeful shine illuminates her rosy face. “By my heart it is beautiful! The Sages don’t do this place justice by keeping it for their stifling sunlit sermons. With daylight drawn back, our glades teem with magick.” The air kisses her cherry hair and caresses her cheeks. Such radiance in her to enflame adventure.

A devious gleam appears in Azarra’s eyes. “Speaking of which… Were you able to obtain the Tome? Our reading for this eve?” The one from the archives of Sage Surrellieus, that the Sayer covets so strangely. “You can imagine how horribly this anticipation has been treating me!”

They were each a couple cycles off two decades. Yet already Azarra was on the cusp of being one of the most prominent seers & sought out rune-casters of her caste. But on this eve, the anniversary of her initiation into sacred circle, she desired more. Her youth, shrouded in ceremony and sanctified reclusion, even from the rest of her cousins of the Temple, save in transcendent rites. Why should she not ascend through unveiled mystery, reach for readings in hidden alcoves of the archives? & why shouldn’t she enjoy some alchemical aid to further enlighten her inner eye?

While she shuffled with curiosity her friend swung back her cloak to bring out a black leather grimoire with a jeweled V on the cover. One of the tomes forbidden by the scholarly Sages of the Temple, Ty-Drasil, who dictate who may have access to what, by way of cost, class, and reputation. The Sages do not permit any woman on the Way of the Oracle to meddle with ‘black arts’ and pursue such texts. Such tomes, obsessed over the material, could cloud divine vision with daemonic miasma and are best left to tempered minds of wise men. However, this ambitious oracle only found the fruit of forbidden knowledge more appealing for its mystery.

What have we here? Why must you be hidden away, reserved for tired eyes of unblinking sages? Maybe they are up to something under those stuffy scholarly robes? Hm, or else their tomes are as dull as their humour. Sliding her hand across the leather binding and staring at the front, her limbs tickle. Azarra reaches out to grasp her friend, clinging with affection & climbing excitability. “Shall we open it and see what we sisters of Sight are forbid from, which surely won’t be unseen?” She asked playfully.

Nodding in agreement and pulsing with uncertainty they open the Tome.

The wind tears away at their coats as they let the pages fly. Within the words and keys unravel their mysteries. Collection of esoteric recipes of alchemical nature, yet somehow deemed a deviant sort, perhaps too powerful? There were other passages though, with lascivious illustrations, hinting at taste of sensuality; outlines of bodies entwined. Is this what Sagely wisdom forswears so sternly? Are they afraid of aphrodisiac indulgence leading to strayed vows? This ‘Carnus Vitae’? For an oracle to ‘dilute’ their vessel with such baseness sacrifices that stream of purest Sight. By the Hels! She thought, why should the gods not frown upon these keepers of wisdom hoarding elixirs & images of lustful purpose as well?

But for now, Azarra waves these wonders off for the delights of real flight promised in pages of witchery. Flumes rose from assembled reagents, burning & reforming in base of their cauldron, bubbling with teasing the elevation of their spirits. The brew they sought to conjure consisted largely of the curative Hannabis herb and moon’s bloom. A blend referred to in the text – and in hushed legends among the cloister that ignited the girls’ temptation to try the truth of them – as ‘Nymph’s Eye Elixir’. Its alleged deliverance from earthly woe and evanescent induction into the hidden court of the Fae they craved, half drooling. A plant to puff on or ingest meant for the gods, their priests & their kingdom; a nectar grown of their accord. Yet dark gulfs line their gift. For to partake when not attuned to Elderath’s natural flow will guide one only to nightmares and twisting hallucination. Wretched clouds to capture unwary minds; be they amateur alchemist, unguarded vagabond, or indulgent oracle.

Their oils and prayers coating the ritual bowl, Delphine poured the blessed water into jug before Azarra thrust in final spice & coagulant. Their anxious chafing for this fix, welcomed new sensations drifting in. The potency of their potion affects their breath, evokes itself in the autumn airs before the full swig. So ready for rapturous, if risky, transformation through essence of elements. After monotonous treks, cycling readings and mundane chores they edged on impatience. As their anticipation ripened the steaming soup whistled ready signal, rejoicing in imminent consumption. Just a sip before the rest. A little test.

Aromas invoked from the first splash invite them into Nature’s sway. That teeny taste curls fire about the tongue, burning new thoughts and fancies about their tips. As they await the full flood of the mysterious nectar, the couple let their focus fade into the reflecting pool, bubbling under the chalice. The world was more than merely alive, breathing with them in the present. Night breeze wafts in wispy union of all things. Leaves croon in chorus of their woods and the stars cheer on their endeavor.

Azarra’s blonde mane absorbs the light of the moon, shining delight in her strands. Viewing herself in the mirroring pool, seeing her mark, her novel beauty split by imperfections and flaws innate. Silvery celestial strand illumed the imprint lining her face, a subtle scar from birth. Semi-sickly when observed at length, the discoloring was fortunately slight and not too fleshly. The mark divided her face by the eyes, one green, the other blue (sometimes seeming to switch between the two of their own accord or take on gray mixture of shades melded), from just above the brow crossing the bridge of her nose to slightly scrape the top of her lips.

This marking, imprinted on her by the Fates, revealed Azarra as gifted by the Divine. It drew the interest of scouts & shamans of the Temple and in part compelled her there. That slight strangeness refracted her blushing beauty & enhanced the inquisitive edge in her eyes. As it separated her from the crowd since youth - critiquing its blemish on her image in the glass, even then eager to look at the faint discoloring line as a sullied curse – so too did it aid in drawing the Sight. Abided her favor when calling upon the muses. A little ugliness was no bulwark against blessings from Astraea, Astarte & Selene, those goddesses of eventide. That mar made her more of herself, propped windows of discovery as much as doubt. Her mystic aptitude branded by this thumb print of the god’s make brought her to implement it before her holy makers.

For this she stopped spurning her image. Her promise and natural success as an Oracle affirmed her calling. A little scar she could stomach. That stain on her skin, that she once hated, so small a tribute for having a hearth here. Her training, and more so talent, in the arts help her escape from shallow concerns & unsightly imprints. For her worth in this caste of seers quickly became both evident and elevating. New opportunities along upraised perspective. Where reading the runes right played way more import than the way her face looked under extended scrutiny. Such frivolous fragment of façade should not concern her, especially now that her savored and respected powers were to be enhanced by miraculous blend!

“Here’s to a little deliverance from our old selves, a toast to invite something new!” Azarra proclaimed. She and Delphine took their plunging sips. The effect was nigh instantaneous. But an ounce of draught overwhelmed them with psychedelic floodgates.

New horizons and shapes form from the canvas. Their sight shown flares, signaling to their consciousnesses so much more to see. More to feel and to be. A verge of possibilities dancing on the brim of Being encircles their thoughts. One thought branches into three, multiplies and then divides back into the Whole of the one, ad infinitum. Yet the moments pass, even as time seems halted by their ‘tea’. Time melts at ephemeral glimpse of the great goddess, Elderath. The worshipful mother of the earth brings them to her bosom. They sup on supernal sustenance, leaking from ethereal streams & airy pulse. Winds spill from the welkin to greet them as starry kin and bid them rise a bit from their bodies. Afloat through ghostly grace, every second a burgeoning revelation.

As Azarra peers long at her oldest friend, she who helped make Ty-Drasil a home and not an asylum, she witnesses immaculate warmth become her. Delphine became as an angelic figure, striking her pupils with bolts of affection. Her presence & form, with sweet visage of blush complexion and fiery red curls draping her shoulders, caresses her heart. This fierce fondness grows, gleaming orange-sunset hue of her mane, in gorgeous glow. Wishing she could bask in the divinity of her friend forever.

But the seconds push past their timeless trance. Her head tilts up on lofty wings of euphoria. Her body buries itself as living seed of all. The egg and the soil tended by Mother Elderath. She was to bloom in that garden of creation’s mistress and be warmed by light from empyrean dominion. Shaped of that same halo which appeared when the Highest Lord, Drakkon bid creation have form and feminine touch to balance the Abyss which he had fought back for all to live with Light. O, Womb of the Cosmos. She views herself through eyes set above & below. That very plasma of creation shone back through funnel of her visage when he hands cusps the bowl.

Regarding herself once more in this shifting state, Azarra recognizes distortion upon the ritual basin’s surface. Along with that initial triumphant glee of the Nymph’s call, shadows slither up. Sinister satyrs play ill-suited flutes in the corner of her inner grove’s concerto. Looking again at the birth-scar, her skin’s shade only obscured the rest of her features. A tunneling fear, apprehension of fleeting form, grips her. In knowing this frail shape, so malleable, fated to be inevitably eaten by the ground.

But Delphine smiles at her. Gives a gentle, reassuring touch with whispered promise. The promise to remember that the Fates and the Gods they serve (weaving tapestry for them and their mortal players to perform for) often bestowed both pain and flaws to keep their favored children from the ailments of Pride. A push to recall their hidden help and be grateful for trials; that a few rainstorms suffered to wet their roots. “To me it’s a mark of beauty. An imprint from another incarnation maybe, your ancestors’ wisdom shining through in your face. Brilliant omen!” Delphine charms.

All trees around them, caught up in the passionate trance, contort. Branchy fingers twist to tear threads & invisible hands sunder their silky robes, stretching as wings to wrap in tender hold. Baring all to the firmament’s folds. Memories appear and disappear, vanishing in the mist of this strange jubilation. Sensuous rapture courses through Azarra. As Delphi enfolds her lips with hers, her mane entangles her mind as soft sparks spiral along her spine. Souls stretch outside their shells, leaking from pores, to brace for the Infinite. Inner Sight seeps from their sweat, sweeping up all sense. What yet untapped power to siphon! Swell within!

Approaching footsteps interrupt their ritual, rustling leaves. They hastily snuff the candles, leak the cauldron’s leftovers, hide the tome, and brush down their ruffled robes. Night dresses quickly wrap about their waists, concealing skin so readily offered up to the sky. How moments ago, they reeled in lunate rays to their pure conduits. A concerned guardian of the temple comes upon them. The fresh-faced sentry looks upon the girls with shock then suspicion.

Through the cauldron’s looming cloud (concealing the grimoire & their embarrassment) they were paralyzed before this sentinel. “My ladies, Sisters in Sight…I am surprised to find you both here after curfew. A foul scent on the breeze warned me. What sort of reason could bring you both out here? The passes of Moribond can be treacherous without a watcher. Haven’t you heard we have dangerous guests from the Ferali Tribe arriving? Perhaps I should report this to the captain and have him commission more sentries to this glade & keep you from the grounds?”

A slight wavering in his gaze belied his true desire. Azarra knew him to be a young man, only two cycles older than herself, with no real weight among his peers (who constantly battered him insults & taunts). She tossed her shivering friend a reassuring wink then faced the naïve sentry. Suffusing the Aegis of the forbidden into her stance, she wielded wand of fear & want, in waltzing gait. Approaching, her hips intuitively sway as soft locks fell from her head to his shoulders.

Already his stance faltered, feeding her confidence. Azarra drew her mouth up to his ear and whispered rebuke of seductive ardor & defiance. “You don’t want to do that, my friend. Better not to soil yourself by speaking of images which your mind gleaned of idle want. To claim you saw moon-clad oracles might more than tarnish your repute. That you’d confess to a mind so rife with imaginings of sacred skin, that to touch is to dirty the commune of gods and to know too intimately is to invite disgraceful death, is befuddling. Mhm, why rouse a rattle over we two reciting prayers over shared tea & comfortable fire?”

The sentry’s throat clenched as he gulped unsurely. She had him in her talons now. Taking the cue, Delphine joins in his confusion. Blowing wisps of womanly silhouettes from basin broth, she casts phantoms of fae as Azarra traces her fingernails along his tunic. She then feigns plucking out his eyes with giddy glare and his attempt at being stalwart dropped drastically. I am beginning to know more of my own power. The spell of fluttering eyes, teasing fears that stave desires, may even keep the sages at bay. Have them in flight from their fancy and more receptive to my way, ha!

He exhaled a creeping acquiescence to her threatening charm. “Fine. I’ll let you be. I trust you’re both clever enough to avoid discovery from more stern sentinels who would be more inclined to reprimand.” Averting his eyes, he told himself he saw no skin and sullied no vow. “Or pray it is not so, some Ferali heralds come upon your prayers. Knowing their clan’s tradition for eschewing those of all others, they might forgo the etiquette around protecting oracles from any man’s hand. You may yet need guarded arms.”

He cleared his throat and fiddled with the leather ties of his sheath. “There is however another matter that requires your immediate attention, oh most esteemed of young Oracles. The Elder Shaman asks for an audience with you. I searched the ground after finding your chambers abandoned. Lucky to find you, with time pressing.”

A jolt of possibility set her heart aflame. Does someone of considerable tribute, upset with outcomes un-availed, come to bark at me for not hounding the Fates for their favor? Or does he know of the tome? Yet why would he seek to punish search for knowledge? Tis not treachery against the Temple or truly shattering a sacred vow. Be still, mind! I must face what is asked of me, no matter childish fears.

“Very well, my new friend. I will go to meet our Keeper at once. Please be so kind as to escort my Sister ov Sight back with chivalry.” Stiff silence enclosed upon the trio as they made their way back up the stone pathway to the Temple entrance. Tense thoughts racing. After reaching the central grounds they parted paths.

Doubts lingered in the auguries of dusk. Azarra looked up through the ancient stone archway which led up the mountain pass to the Shaman’s grove. She took another moment to reassure herself that everything would be fine before stepping beneath the mammoth pillars and climbing the steps. Her heart rate escalated with the elevation of the winding path. An eerie squall swept about the mountain. Wind’s song howling with such sudden fury it was as if a maelstrom was coming in to burst the clouds.

The higher she ascended the louder the wailing became which did nothing to help quell her anxiety. Accompanying the gales came the cries of many beasts inhabiting the peak. Birds of the night, tamed bears & wolves among their choir. But at these animal shouts she felt no distress, for she knew these weren’t feral creatures out for prey but rather children of Ty-Drasil in their own right. Haven and refuge granted to them within the sacred grove. They were as Elder Gaahl’s familiars whose songs and company helped him hone the harmony of Nature. Passing beneath half-threshold arch, the oracle came upon the Shaman of legend engaged in ritualistic trance.

Powerful warbling emanated from his cords. His incantation carried three melodies at once; a deep throated utterance, paired with a high pitch trill and a quavering melody that joined the two in the middle. How all those sounds were able to be produced by one mortal simultaneously spoke for his magick. Smoke lifted off the altar before him, sharing the charred essence of a deep cleansing to Azarra’s nose. Softly she tread towards the ritual circle where the shaman sat in meditative posture, bellowing primal chant completely unbeknownst to her ears before.

The eyes of the Elder rolled back in his skull, showing only a pale haze imitating the grey of his flowing hair. He took his ceremonial athame in hand and with it carefully slit open a tribute with his palm. Pouring the blood into the chalice laying atop spiral symbol etched on stone. The great Keeper, Gaahl, brought of the chalice to his mouth, gurgled and spit out offering into the flambeau which stoked solar rays when red met it it’s flame, now fed.

His head arched, hailing terrifying screech from his jaw. Two wolves, atop the stone tablets adjacent to the post, howled alongside. Steadily he rose, as did his animal totems, put out the beacon with a wave of wind and drew forth a staff with which he put out all the torches around him. Bowing with reverence, wrinkled forearms reached for the object of power upon the altar, beside bundled idols. Grasping a crown of bone with two antlers extending high on each end flanking a small, jagged horn as the centerpiece. With the crown delicately held up to his breast he turned to her.

“Do you know what this is?”

In arctic wonder (and relief for facing no chastisement) moments passed without answer from the oracle. Noticing her hesitation, he continued. “This is the Crown of the Forest God Bellieus. The heirloom of He who reigns over the realm of nymphs and satyrs; presides over the harmony of nature and whose writ is prosperous and nourishment of life beneath their shade.”

Azarra’s inquisitiveness impressed itself on this icon. “I hath only seen it before depicted in sanctum glass. A relic bound to the one mortal blessed by Bellieus’ horns. Seen it affixed to graven likeness. That of King Ferion, who stood defiant against the conquering march of the dreadful Vizzari Magistrate. He fought with fury for his folk and forests when they first declared their Serpent god as the sole god. Defied them when they declared all lands their master’s earthly body. Rallied tribes against the wyrm that sought to devour all in its belly and churn out new scales of its State…”

The Elder met the mystic with misty smile. “It is because of his efforts three hundred years ago that this Temple to the old gods still stands today. Ever since Ferion’s death and the recession of his kingdom, our ancient tribes quarrel over who among their chieftains is worthy of wearing the crown. Were it not in our safe keeping it would be a source of great conflict among splintered peoples. A relic coveted by those clans who forget that the tribes they fight and strive to rule are their brothers and estranged kin.”

“Indeed,” Gaahl’s tongue rolled on after a pause when his ravens cawed in a shared language of understanding to him, “so many of our tribes walk in obscurity and even dare to drag their neighbors further into the dark with them. There are some for whom the hallowed rites and protocols of grand Ty-Drasil should mean so little as to be willfully trampled over should the way to the crown not be open to them. Danger pokes out of these tilted horns, and there is no head worthy to wear it by right and the gods’ esteem yet known among us. That is why my predecessors long ago took possession of it and kept it safe in our haven, far from the grimy hands of those unfit to bear the horns of the old lord. None of this is of any grand revelation to you, I know but this day, this hour, this lesson is of utmost importance.”

“What do you mean?” She uttered, rather clumsily. No longer concerned about reprimand for misconduct but bewildered by all this excess pageantry.

“As we speak, emissaries from the Ferali clan set up camp in that dell adjacent to our holy house.” He pointed with his staff. “Their harbingers already made a case, to ensure the official negotiations fall their way on the table.”

“They are here at the behest of their chieftain, Kassan – The Great Black Bear as he is known. You maybe heard rumors amongst the pilgrims. The stories of his conquests of the surrounding tribes; how he has broken the resolve of the mountain peoples and many a valley clan, forced them into brutal subjugation. The agents he sent came bearing a ‘request’. Care to infer what ‘The Black Bear’ asks of us?”

She thought for a moment and considered the brutish, thorny crown of Bellieus. “He wants the crown of the Forest Lord?!” Azarra exclaimed and the shaman nodded. “But if you were sanctifying the artifact just now then you’re planning on delivering it to him. This hallowed crown to be placed on a wicked man’s head, out of fear. I don’t understand – how could you possibly consider glorifying such a beast?! Why grant him the power, the relic of mastery over the Wood when he clearly holds no reverence for our Elderath and kinsmen?”

Azarra started to pace, and the Elder’s lupine familiars bobbed, tracking her. “If what they speak of him is true then he has slaughtered more of his kin among the tribes than even those slave-mongers and serpent worshippers in Vizzari! Tis their Magistrate and soldiers clad in the Dread Serpent’s scales that lurk in the darkness to bleed us out! Would not the holy crest be degraded to rest upon such barbaric brow?”

Gaahl’s face furrowed. The worried, weathered lines etched along his forehead deepened in contemplation. His tone came somber yet instructive. “I met this war-starved chieftain only once before many years ago when I traveled to the Ferali lands searching for souls among them marked by the Divine. I saw Kassan slay his own brother, Ursaan, in a fatal duel. A bloody contest of kraagspeer incited over pure vanity when his brother outperformed him during the honored rite of the Hunt. He could not stand to be out favored, bettered by his brother before the tribe. And so, under the calculated guise of their test of arms he cut him down. He proves his worth only by martial prowess.”

“This is a chief of no honor, with no holdings to tradition nor sense of kinship to anyone – including his blood. If I refuse him of this honor he will march on these grounds, butcher every one of us and burn the ancient texts that reside in our possession. All to satisfy his empty ego. This, the last testament to the Old Ways would be scattered to the winds of time and lost to oblivion - not by the venom of our ancestral adversaries, but by the treachery of our own people.”

“I fear no death for me. But death for our living legacy, I do.” Gaahl’s gaze, glazed by ill portends, enshrouded hers. “That is a fate I cannot allow to befall us. I have contemplated this issue in my meditations and come to see this as the only path to ensure our survival. Do you understand?”

“These are dark times indeed when the Eldest of shamans must make such dire calls to preserve us and the lineage of our gods against those who should look to us to guidance instead of making demands. It’s as if the waning of the world is upon us.” Azarra remarked, aloof.

“Kassan’s appetite for aggrandizement is not boundless, despite his boisterous bullying. His lusting vanity can just as well be a lure by which we might rescue good fortune from the mouth of deathly drake.” Countered the eminent Keeper. “That you mark the world’s waning…”

The Elder pressed a playful game. “My aged mind ails me, Azarra. Might you help me to recall the prophecy of our Great God, Drakkon?”

Gaahl often tested her memory of verse. Yet this time stranger insinuations of purpose lathered his request of feigned forgetfulness. Thus, she summoned the phrases rehearsed through youth; began the litany of eldest Edda as she had been taught:

“He who set the sky into shape and motion from beyond the stars; Bringer of Fyre & Thunder to Mankind; Formed the pantheon of High Heaven, as the Dragon from the North of the Cosmos! Io! To Him who taught his children Thought and cast the Dread Serpent, Vizzarion, back into abyssal sea from whence it arose.

Hark! He will return to us who remain True, to those who hear his call through the darkest hours of Night. Our redeemer to appear as the Waning ov the World ensues. To Deliver us a new world formed of Living Light!

From the dark channel he shall arise again to herald plane of being untainted by the venom of the mortal realm & its Serpent. As Drakkon set the foundation of Elderath, He shall shake Her through storm of his Will! Summoning his kin from their welkin seats to bring rebirth & realignment. That the image of Man might better reflect the Divine conceit behind our making. What wanes shall not be ash but kindling for the next Aeon…”

When Azarra concluded this excerpt of the Edda Gaahl bid follow with more recitation of timeless tapestry. “Ye who watch the world, search for Sign ov Transformation. Be willing to shed yourself, your rags of dusk & dirty Sin, that Living Light grants reason & life to the dead. Only then will the mandate of heaven be known to earth, our Elderath, who yearns for Her rebirth!”

Then her shaman added, “The Serpent Vizzarion crawled back up from the chasm of the void where He of Living Light banished him, as foretold in the Eddas of the first Grand Sages. Now it takes the form of the Vizzari Magistrate, the court of wyrms which embraced the body of the serpent and seeks to devour the rest. Perhaps you are not so wrong in invoking the thought that this world is caught up in its death throes.

Through the sights granted by my deepest visions, the whisperings of the spirits carried by the winds and from the worldly reports of the guardians I sent through the land to watch over the actions of all people I have come to know that the blackest storm cloud looming over our time is that of Vizzari. Even now agents of their Inquisition scour the countryside hunting any who still sing the hymns and chant praise to the Old Ways. They spurn our people for their nature and burn those of eastern heath as witches for renouncing their blasphemy. The spirit of our people wavers on point of ruin. This would-be tyrant, Kassan, is nothing compared to them. In fact, he might be directed to fight them, in true challenge!”

Azarra met his words with understanding and stoked the embers of resolve from insight into her Elder’s reasons. “I see… As gross as this ‘request’ is, it is still sufferable. Better to give this miserable fiend what he seeks if ‘tis the only way to preserve our order. We humble ourselves for now to assure chance to assemble strength to fight against the encroaching Vizzar.”

“If we deny the ambitious ‘Bear’ the symbolic crown he needs to claim dominion over the many tribes with such means of the mind, then he will turn back to his bloody roots of slaughter & lashing claw. Then this Temple might be crushed beneath his vainglorious boot when his spite rules over the traditions of our people, those which would be lost to time and forgotten. It can be a crown of temperance for his hot head, that he won’t incite the tribes to further the descent into disorder. This little hurt in the shame we take on for Ty-Drasil may save us from fatal pain.”

Gaahl nodded. A tinge of pride for her understanding twinkled there. As did a deep despondency that aged him further, in the sorrow of having to accept this road of least resistance at present. “Aye. And as we, should we survive, scramble to piece together what not yet spend on fighting Kassan’s and mistrust between sister clans, the Serpent court & cult of Vizzarion would prey upon our weakness and division!”

“Our own shadow looms so long we cannot yet resist the sheen of the Serpent’s scales. But alas we must not be consumed by petty pride, must not become the mirror of Enemy. If we can hold back the tides of chaos within our lands, we may see a day when the sun can bury our shade and excise that poison of purpose”.

“The Vizzar wishes to see us display such barbarity and wanton disregard for our own preservation that the Magisters may more easily feast on our table, and our bones. No matter the resistance each tribe could muster alone, only a united front of brother tribes, whose skills refract, vary, and yet complete each other when combined can resist the real Enemy. Tis so unlike the distant days of Ferion when we stood as one to repel invasion. As painful as this is to admit I understand and agree with your sentiment on this.”

Gaahl appeared halfway pleased with her expression. “Your comprehension of the larger picture at play impresses me, though I should not be shocked to hear that you understand it. There is a fire in you. I can see it blazing deep within your eyes. Burning brighter ever onward. A power that I have not seen in any other in all my time of overseeing this Temple’s affairs, save a few fellow shamans but ne’er an oracle so young. Indeed, it is so. I believe that a bitter peace under Kassan is preferable over the bane that will come upon all the tribes if we defy him and deny him this precious trinket he craves so much.”

“We must bide our time wisely and direct our energies to proper course. Kassan only attacks those weaker than him who knows he can prevail against. He has not yet dared to face any servant of Dread. Yet if we can embolden him with the crown, he may finally grow confident enough to lead those assimilated tribes to face down the Vizzari magisters directly. We can turn his sword the right way. Only united can we survive the Serpent’s bite.”

“How ingenious!” Azarra let out, blushingly pleased by this plan. More so to be lent such secrets.

“Turning a potential enemy into a weapon that can be wielded against the real foe – or rather a shield to dam the true accursed tide! Of course, I must admit the best possibility of what could ensue is that Kassan will die in battle against Vizzari while bringing enough destruction to their institution to give our people freedom from both oppressors.” An oracle may cast her own dreams, right? “I must confess interest to see how things play out.”

A slight smile appeared along Gaahl’s withered bark but then vanished as mirage. “Our ‘pilgrim’ arrives in three days to receive his boon. This coincides with several key astrological shifts. On that eve the moon will be in Full. So too will it shine a crimson sheen, heralding the change of twenty years’ tide. The importance of this symbolism is not lost on our blood crazed Bear. His emissaries made clear that the stars must align to his supremacy over fellow clans. The last cosmic event, which only a few sages note, is the coming transition of our sky above into the phase of the Great God himself - as shown by the appearance of the constellation Astralis-Drakonis. The Light of Heaven’s Maker shall shine down to watch this event, through bloodied lens of his Sister, Selene.”

Azarra sharpened another set of inquiries. “What shall happen if this fleeting unity we avail this warlord leads him to fall against the wyrm of the Magistrate? Should we aim to celebrate one foe destroying another? Or do you hope that the god’s antlers shall sprout valor from the crest of Kassan to truly repel them?”

Gaahl groaned at this cynicism of his favored pupil, even if it was warranted. “It would be foolish to rely solely on the hope of a divine intervention from the God himself into our mortal affairs. Especially since this world is not yet suspended in dusk, as the prophecies of the Eddas outlines for his arrival. But I will not stand idly and allow darkness to gnaw our bones.”

The shaman shifted on his staff then clasped Azarra’s shoulder.

“I wish for you, sweet child, to act as an integral player in this ceremony by playing the role of the Goddess Selene. I would ask you to perform the rites of the Mother Moon and be her conduit.”

A wellspring of excitement reverberated throughout her. Realizing how important a role in the ritual the Goddess part is. While other oracles would dance a witch-frenzy, surrounded by dirty & flea clad satyrs of men, playing pan-flutes, and beating drums, Azarra would be elevated to a member of the High Pantheon. Even if only representatively, her shine would be of Selene’s. Hers, the highest post among her order. No longer just a promising oracle but one worthy of being a vessel of the Divine. A true Muse, a grand seer.

“I-I’m honored by that which you have asked of me in this. And I accept from the core of my heart. I shall learn the necessary rites and rehearse them well as to not disappoint you, great Elder.” Her mind was aflutter with validation. To be called to embody avatar of moonlight. “I have felt a calling within for more involvement with the flow of life and course of events. Now I might shine what light I may and serve as conduit of lunar stream and your trust!”

Gaahl addressed her in authoritative declaration of an ancient wizard. “Make no mistake, unlike the poets, skalds, the best bards (and many of our sages) I do not dip my words idly in honey as to make them sweet and appealing to ears around me. I simply speak the truth as it is shown to me. I am giving you this honor not out of personal preference but due to your ability. Your Sight as an Oracle goes unrivaled in seeking those profound patterns. Even the eldest of that class cannot compare in prowess accuracy of your runic castings.”

“Pray not be too humble for the sake of the youth your intellect & talent hides in, Azarra.”

Memories brushed the brim of Azarra’s brain, providing proof of this assertion of mystical worth. After all, she reflected, her Sight saved Herathi farmers and the lowlands from cursed drought, sending them to richer plots just yesteryear. And that kind lord from east shore still swears annual tribute three years since her reading redeemed his fortune. Just as she’d ensured another noble scion yet lives because she spoke premonitions of the dark; of rot that would hath consumed the poor lad had he sailed with his brothers in tragic expedition across the Ruun to restore their old hearth, only to return as lepers.

“I called you here and told of a plan that even the wisest of our sages do not yet know of. I am raising you to the post for the ritual procession. Do not take it lightly or let it go to your head. You have quite a name for yourself within and without the borders of these Temple grounds. According to the sages residing over the business of our visitors, thus far every pilgrim who hath sought audience with you, for that same fresh fame, tells that your readings proved true. or else helped them evade misfortune.”

“Truly thou art touched by the Fates as I always believed. And on this there is another matter that I must confide in you for as souls of equal standing: When our most high and mighty guest arrives, he has also made a request for a personal reading from you, post-ceremony. Most likely concerning his next military conquest.”

Lightning struck her heart. I am to face this monster one on one and look him straight in the eye to reveal what the fates have in store for him…?!

I know how to read a man and tell him what he wants to hear. Hopefully this self-fancying ‘conqueror’ will be no different and can be woven a thread all the same. Hopefully.

“Very well, I will take on that mantle of responsibility as well. Is there anything else I should know before the eve arrives?”

Gaahl stroked the length of his beard, musing a moment before speaking.

“As forewarning: whatever it is that he asks to know from you do not seek to deceive him nor alter the nature of the signs as they appear. Let the runes fall true. For the sake of our passing alliance and your livelihood. Search for something positive to give him, yet not with so much syrup as to incur his distrust or ire. Tis not worth losing our lives or our honor when, through small sacrifice, we are poised to finally cross over this bridge, threaded over the precipice of uncertainty below.”

For now, however, I bid that you return to your chamber and rest up. I know of your friend & oracle peer, Delphine, and heard tell of a certain tome belonging to Sage Surrellieus (who was most distraught to find its unexpected absence). I hold an inclination as to whose hands the tome fell into. But there shall be no punishment for good natured curiosity & harmless lust for knowledge.”

Azarra reddened with embarrassment and craned her head back towards the mountain path. Her hood and hair half-hid this slight slip-up.

Gaahl cleared his throat, and the ravens released their evening’s song to night. Crying to return to their roosting as he beckoned them back.

“Know you this: these next few days you are to remain alone. Forbidden even from gossip with your dear friend until after this delicate ceremony. The role of the goddess under these spectacular circumstances requires much fasting and prayer. I trust your instinct & talent not to succumb to the pressure. There is a lot to learn and to consider before the moment arrives, and I do not wish your focus to be perturbed when there is so much matter at stake at this time. For now, at this long hour, you are dismissed. I bid you good night Azarra, of the Great Sight.”

THE CEREMONY

13th Eve of Wolvsmoon, 1308 CE

The shivering breath of evenfall flowed forth through every living soul beneath brilliant halo of the moon; now reaching its ascend to its throne atop the astral ceiling. She soon would take the shade of crimson. Incarnadine color to eclipse her sway, swathe her rays in bloodied tapestries. The Wolvsmoon air which Selene bade broom swept unseen streams through her vessel’s mane. Its touch tossing loose golden strands about Azarra’s hairpin. So too every leaf in the glade swirled.

A celestial miasma emerged from the ground, steadily climbing the mountainside to their shrine. Azarra felt the texture of her translucent gown grip her. Lunate spread absorbed by the fabric wrapped over her body, transferring carmine shine to clinging to proportion. She was to be the offering and avatar of the winds and the moonlight tonight. & the winds took her up as tribute.

She resisted the boreal chill. Selene herself, whom I am tonight, is surrounded by vast expanses of cold space, and yet she never wavers. Always, even when through crescents and slivers, she keeps the earth in her sight. I must embody her strength this eve!

Gaahl, the noble shaman places a hand upon her shoulder. A warming river melts much of the brazing chill. He transfers a tender summer’s light through touch. “The hour is nigh…”

Azarra’s inner fire then ablaze in acknowledgement of his trust. A cinder, a smile offered back to him as blessing. He withdrew from her shoulder, reached for a relic and beheld the Circlet of Selene; empyrean orb in the middle, accompanied on its side by two opposing crescent jewels and one ‘full’ diamond moon. In solemn reverence he places the Circlet atop her head, completing her Goddess raiment. Moonlight lives! Selenic streams bend to me!

An assembly of participants made their way up the ordained place. Many acolytes teemed with excitement, though some tugged at their robes trying to shield themselves from the frigid breath. The more wizened sages in their silver cowls, however, wore no such delight on their countenance. They were rather overtly discontented with the prospect of glorifying Kassan. It was apparent from those couple scowls that the wise Keeper hadn’t given them the same enlightening talk he gave Azarra.

Among the disciples approaching the altar place were young men & women from the local villages. Participants of long celebrated pact with the temple of mutual exchange; of protection and penitent worship for boon of holy passage. Dressed as nymphs and satyrs, the semblance of the entourage came as children ov Bellieus. With horns affixed to headbands, thorns lacing braids, and goatskins as leggings, they came as kin of that woodland Lord.

When they came upon Azarra as Selene they gaped with wide awe. Astonished chants rippled through their throngs. She took a moment to bask in this splendor, glorified in virgin grandeur. Pupils transfixed, empowered, mesmerized them. Now hers to command by stance and show. Worship in the amazed gaze.

Drumbeats thundered as Kassan and his entourage arrived. Azarra caught herself mid-gasp, surprised by the man she found before her. This was not the hulking abomination of a creature she expected to meet.

His raven hair was slicked back in sleek fashion, revealing rugged but handsome features. His deep-set eyes betrayed nothing of the wicked character outlined in her mind, yet in them lived a calculating want. Muscular build accentuated his warrior aura, but no overt hatefulness seethed from his thew. Towering even above his Ferali emissaries (who themselves seemed half-giants), he exuded a sense of steel nobility. He wore no beard, unlike his fellows. Proving his chin bold enough without warming cover. Showing masculine yet quasi-beatific countenance to his crowd.

At his side were two emissaries in bear cloaks, like their master (though with less majesty and refinement in their weaving); their faces hid behind masks of carved bones; their hands clasping wooden staves with bear skulls fixed atop their heads, the Aegis of their clan. Behind them bards and minstrels hummed along as they beat their tribal drums painting a musical veil.

As Selene intends, so it unfolds. Azarra raises her arms to usher in her moonlight. The folds of her gown extend as spectacular wings, taking flight upon Selenic radiance. Facing the full assembly, she gives the sign of welcome. The moon steals off to its peak. Blood eclipse washes over its perch. Casting a fiery crimson over the gathering. Caught in its eye, her crystalline aura enraptures all who marvel at her. Incandescent divinity becomes her.

Azarra’s eyes directly met with Kassan’s. His expression, cold and concealed, shows no feeling to the ordeal’s grandeur. But in that look, upon seeing her – in height of Selenic pose - his gaze narrows with fascination. Ardor burrows from his deep blue into her spheres. The rest of the world melts away to mutual orbit, this odd binding between them. As if an invisible hand held them both in palm, clasping them together.

Her heard pounding against her lungs forces a sharp sigh. I-I cannot let my focus be so easily stolen! Not by dangerous façade or otherwise. O, Selene! Let my spirit be as the luster of your beams upon me!

As if on cue the Keeper of Ty-Drasil began his howling chant that tore through the fabric of the air, piercing the ears of every member of the sacred parade. His powerful wail evokes frost winds to return in full, waking Azarra up from her frenzy.

Kassan’s eye returns to the lunar priestess, chaining his blue to hers, while her emerald orb cut strict defiance from the other. Decorative spheres atop her head, crowned by incandescence, and set upon by ursine ogling, she flutters not while singing her melodious part. Through harmony alongside the shaman’s torturous tune, she redresses her confidence. Meditative serenade blesses her brow, granting moon-song to her audience. Serving as earthly herald for Selene, Azarra’s lyrical rites honor the goddess & her sister of stars, Astraea, and she flees not from the bear’s eye.

After the first verse finished, the bards chimed in with their warbling. Inspiring circling attendants to join as loose choir. The satyrs, antlered villagers, took up their flutes as their nymph counterparts leapt lively to wild whims. The strumming of lutes, mad piping, rhythmic rattling, and weird crooning sang the forest shrine into deep stupor.

Elder Gaahl persisted in his hypnotic cries as he moved to the altar. The incense set before the stone roared with him as he clasped the Crown of Bellieus. Carrying it into the center of the circle, the crowd’s chant dimmed. Azarra recited the blessing, augmenting her voice. Purposefully she inverted several of the lines as a subtle curse upon the guests, knowing well that Kassan and his fellows knew nothing of the actual rites and cared only for the presentation and prestige it bestows them. If any of Ty-Drasil’s castes noticed her artistic fluctuations, they made certain not to show it.

The woodland creatures and painted fae-folk extolled the momentous relic being taken up with their unified careening. As the Crown was about to reach Kassan’s head he stood up and, in self-sanctimonious power play, seized it from the Keeper’s hands. Shock rang through many of the revelers, who simmered against this dispute.

The great shaman stepped back, allowing it. But not without belting a terrible finishing bellow carrying underlying violence & derision in its delivery. Though not lost to the Bear, the feeling of the Forest God’s diadem settling on his crest seemed enough to satisfy his serrated pride. That consistently down curling lip swiftly changed into an arrogant smirk, having gotten most of what he came for.

Kassan’s entourage pounds their chests and beats their skull-staves against the ground in barbaric revelry. Glowering gloom besets the scene of their mad raving for their master’s glory. An evil haze encompasses the pass, swallows the ceremony. While the unearthed fog embraces carmine glaze of the blood moon.

The cloudy mist concealed every member of the assembly except for Selene’s avatar, on raised pedestal, and Kassan, whose natural height allowed him to stand head and shoulders this drab coat. The spiraling horns of his newly acquired crown added fresh menace. She shuddered at the wicked glint he shined. His ocean of blue, awash with crimson tide of midnight, surged through her. Then she too became a rattling figure entombed in ice.

Beneath the freezing moon she remained. Standing as shivering statute as the blood curdling cries of the Ferali died out. Gaahl climbed above the mist onto the platform and raised his staff. Then brought it down with an audible CRACK! The ritual shrieks ceased, leaving only the music of nocturnal minstrels, those nighthawks, chittering bugs, and hooting owls. The ceremony concluded.