SIXTEEN YEARS LATER
6932 Year, Novus Season
The three Sighted Men sat around a burning hearth. They spoke in mumbled tones among themselves while the fire's orange hue filled the empty sockets carved into their heads. Just behind them stood a girl creature in a faded pink dress, trembling, unable to tear her eyes away.
"Quit shaking, youngling," the eldest said.
This only made her tremor more. The Sighted Men had always unnerved her despite the time she spent doing for them what they could not-making their meals, cleaning their clothes, and tending to their crystal home.
The glow of the burning logs in the fire casted upon her face too, showing off her scaly skin and red eyes.
"There is no reason to fear," the second Sighted Man began, his voice raspy. "You're a Szithorith and cannot be touched by most creatures in the Realm. You'll be well protected when you go."
The third Sighted Man huffed in annoyance. "Yes, she's well and safe. But enough tedious chatter. She must relay the message."
The youngest of the three, with only a small tuft on white hair on his head, said, "Open your ears. Listen and listen well. You may be free of your duties here, if only you remember and deliver this."
The small Szithorith looked at the dazzling gems that served as the floor. She said nothing, but the tiniest perk in her ears was noticeable. The dagger hidden behind her back was not.
Rain pattering onto their hut seemed to fade as each of the Sighted Men opened their mouths, their empty sockets staring at nothing, and recited something that made the youngling's bones quiver:
"Death doth a melodic ring;
deep in the dark a creature sings,
where the ashes wake to revenge their sting.
But slowly they move,
an ancient beast,
that vows destruction
and on the Realm it shall feast.
A battle for tongues has begun,
an orphaned wolf becomes a son;
the Sighted Men declare there to be six Ones.
In a place where killing is for sport,
a child creature finds support,
and where the dragons lie,
those who seek youth shall be satisfied.
Beware a monster with an icy heart,
who makes treachery seem an art.
The past will become present once more,
following an ancient lore;
A final warning, we shall give:
Do not ignore this ominous call,
for on the morrow of a night of fire,
to calm or chaos the Realm must fall."
---
Nothing like an ominous prophecy to get things rolling. There's a lot of hints within the lines! Any guesses of what's to come?
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The Ashes Wake
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