Deep in the damp limestone caves, four large crystal orbs lie on rough stone pedestals. They glow quietly in a row alongside one outcropping that is conspicuously empty. Behind them there is a broad expanse of stone marked with ridges, curves, and half-formed sigils that seem to shift over times. Abandoned for now, this cavern has had both ancient and strange minds pore over the prophecies written in the walls.
Just visible through the tangled columns of stalagmites and stalagtites is a millpond-smooth body of water. Near the dryer ground it is shallow, but then it tails off sharply into the depths. Just to one side of that is an arrangement up upright and fallen columns that from just the right angle might be mistaken for a rough doorframe. Look at it. Between one blink and the next a large figure becomes visible. It is hunched, and shrouded in a heavy cloak and hood. The bronze ferrule at the end of its staff clinks as it comes into contact with the floor.
Satisfied that it is as alone as it is likely to be – though it does pause and look at you, and you swear you see pale blue points of light under that hood – the figure steps out into the cave and moves towards the stones. It pauses only to consider scorch marks and spatters of fresh blood on the way, but quickly dismisses them. The figure limps steadily, and as it passes you get a better sense of the scale of the person under the cloak. It is easily some eight or nine foot in height. The hand gripping the bladed staff is wrinkled and gnarled, yet still has a feminine appearance in its long tapering fingers.
She leaves you behind in the dark and approaches the row of crystals. A hand hesitates but doesn’t quite touch one of them and for a few long moments all is quiet and still. When the silence breaks, it is to a voice both sweet and harsh. “You spoke to them, why not me? Where is his body? Where is his cloak? Where is his armour? Where is my brooch?” There is no audible reply, if there is one at all.
The figure strikes the ground with the end of its staff. “Then we carry on. You showed me the flaw in the story that ate that mortal. We of the Unseelie break oaths and stories all the time. We drink the poems from the skulls of playwrights and set warriors to dancing until they breath their last – why then are the prophecies of dragons to be set apart from that whirligig?”
Another silence, that stretches out uncomfortably. The figure is still, as if turned to stone, as if it was just an illusion of light that it had moved at all.
The eyes blink. Just once. There is no better way to describe it. Then the silence is broken by a ragged intake of breath.
“No. No, no, no. I will not have it. The pruning may happen, but there is still room for my happiness and I will not be denied, even by Her. The figure turns quickly – a speed that would seem unlikely in something so large – and returns the way it came. It pauses at the doorway to the feypaths and looks at you directly. “Say nothing, or I will know.”
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