17 min read

The Wisened One had knelt blind and in tattered garb. She’d no offering for the Voice of the Tempest, save her words, which flowed quiet and easy from behind her ancient lips. When she had gone they seemed to linger, swirling about the druid’s head, both wonderful and maddening in their make. Could it not be possible that the old woman spoke the truth? She’d no cause to lie, after all. Then again, perhaps it was just a superstition: a widow’s tale meant to ease a grieving heart. She could not be certain. She’d never heard of The Wraithsmoon. In fact, none among her people had, not even her father, Korri