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The Tent
Inside are the sorts of things you would expect to see. The room is lit dimly from no discernable light source, but you can make out on the walls draped cloths of various colors and sheens, many accented with tassels and beads. A large, low table is surrounded by sumptuous cushions. In the middle of the table is spread a silvery silk cloth, and on it lie five river stones about the size of your inner palm, but hardly matching. While all in shades of grey, some are light colored, some dark, all are worn very smooth, but otherwise entirely unremarkable.
"Come. Sit." An aged, but not ancient voice beckons you from under the hood of a cloak. Wavy white hair spills across her crimson velvet blouse, and intermingles with many chains and amulets that hang heavy on her very thin and pale neck. Amber eyes peer just beyond the shadow of its drawn hood.
She asks each of those in attendance to take a stone from the table and hold it in their hand and in turn, she will tell their future.
The witch points at both Eornan and Bran: "Your paths intertwined long ago, only now do you finally meet. Stay together and before you lay answers to questions you never knew to ask."
Then she adds slowly to Daniella... or maybe to all in the tent, "Within the deception there is hope -- but the elves will have lost their way again."
The fortune teller chuckles dryly.
She places a rag doll on the table in front of Landon. It is faded to an even brown where it probably once had a red dress and dark brown hair of yarn. The stuffing is flattened, but none of the seams are torn, and it's stitched eyes stare with tall oval blackness.
She adds to Landon, "This is vague, even to me, but on one of your stronger paths I must warn you -- when they call you to go, you must not."
The witch mutters under her breath, "I can't save them all."
To all of them as they leave: "There are always casualties in war, for there to be life, there must be forgiveness."
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