An ancient crone stops suddenly in midstride before falling to the ground clutching her head. Hurriedly, the other nearby nomads run and delicately lift her, bearing her to her tent. She lays there whimpering as healers are swiftly summoned. Days pass and none of the normal remedies work. Finally, seeing no other recourse, the nomads seek aid from the seers.
The seers quickly take her to the highest peak near where this section of the mountains where the tribe is camped. There she is laid upon the finest wolf furs at hand, while they weave their magic upon her. One stands aloof, his face held to the wind, seeking the omens carried upon the howling winds.
Suddenly a hand shoots forward from within his robe, deeply scarred and worn from the years. The actions around the crone stop immediately.
“She sensed the beacon shining from far in the east. I too sense it as a challenge to rival the very heavens. It is laden with the prayers of all the gods, and has no place within the cosmos as we understand it. The shrieks of countless souls fill the crone’s second sight, blinding her to our world.”
He quickly incants a spell, and suddenly the crone’s body relaxes. He motions for the nomads to carry her back to her tent.
“That should allow her to regain control over her second sight.”
Raising the hood of his robe, he then sits, back to the group and loses himself in meditation.
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