Prophecy

A meeting like this... I can never decide, is it chance or fate?

You are certainly an unusual group, but I suppose this is an unusual time. Tell me: Does this strangeness in the world disrupt you too?

It is disrupting the harmony of my home.

I do not know of a Yogloth, but the name carries a weight, it resonates with me.

The old crone turns from you and begins rummaging through the small sack she carries, pulling out a leather-bound tome that bears no title and a small ivory bowl, you see it is the rounded top of a human skull.

She sets both on a stone bench and reaches out to PLAYER. “Give me your hand.”

She takes hold of your fingers, stroking one after another, then traces the lines of your palm.

“These are your life lines, your spirit lines. They mark the events in your life like the rings of a tree, only they tell of both events past and future.”

She turns your hand over, studying the veins on the back.

“These blood vessels trace the map of your life throughout your body. Yes, this is exactly what I need.”

She snatches a knife from a cleverly hidden pocket and draws the razor sharp blade across the back of your hand.

“You asked for a prophecy” She says clutching your hand, turning it over so that the red blood runs into the skull bowl. “What did you think we would use for ink?”

As the blood flows from your hand into the bowl the large Raven sniffs the air as if drawn by the scent. When the bowl is about a third full she releases your hand, taking the bowl and setting it on her small fire.

The blood in the bowl begins to bubble and smoke. It darkens, then turns black, boiling down to a tarry residue.

She sets the skull on the stone bench and opens the book to the first page which is blank.

She turns and calls the raven down from the perch, and the big black bird lands of her shoulder. You can see it is using its sharp beak to stoke her white braids in affection.

The witch woman absently caresses the bird before seizing by the its neck. Before the bird can squawk or flail your hear a crack as she’s catches the falling body. She places it on the stone bench and combs though its tail and wing feathers, finally selecting one and plucking it loose.

She smiles at you while trimming the quill and asks, “Shall we begin?"

She touches the point of the quill to the book and lets go. It begins writing furiously, covering page after page in strange runes.

She nods as this happens, smiles and pours over the tome.

"Hmm, yes."

You