As Veghard, Abelard, and Novarious joined together, on the opposite side of the battlefield, a tall lithe figure stood before a silvered pillar that sent a soft white glow up towards the sky. Suspended within that glow, slowly orbiting themselves, floated a gathering of rectangular chits colored the hue of aged bone. After contemplating the flow and dance before it, the figure turned its attention to a map. A delicate hand, encased in armor, deftly touched icons defining troops and their positions and moved them. Elsewhere, troops picked up their gear and began moving.
Turning back to the silvered pillar, the figure gathered the chits and after a moment’s meditation, gracefully scattered the chits back into aura of light to watch their dance. Each chit was etched with a single rune of a geometric design, each different and unique. A oracle of ancient design that had always been the harbinger of good things, and the cry of warning in times of trouble. As the runes spun and the chits slowed their orbits, the figure that initiated the toss froze in disbelief. Another figure, armored and helmed as the first, stepped up to contemplate the rune’s message. Together they observed two additional casts of the runes, both matching the first.
Another consultation of the map followed by another study of the floating runes. Reaching out a delicate hand, the floating chits were gathered up and placed into a small bag. A soft click gave testimony of others unrevealed within. Reaching inside, a single rune was withdrawn. The figure nodded, satisfied with the draw. Returning the single rune to the bag, the figure rose it's masked face to the sky before bowing its head seemingly in prayer. Reaching again into the bag, three runes were withdrawn and tossed into the light where they were caught and held suspended slowly revolving. The two exchanged a look.
“What is it, Farseer?” the newcomer asked.
“Trouble, my friend”, the farseer reached up to remover the helm. Long tresses of bright golden hair spilt down the back of the farseer. “You may find your service in higher demand than I first divined.”
“How shall we proceed?”
The farseer was silent. He gazed at the cast of three runes, then gathered them to cast out five stones.
“Here, Anfelas, see? These three have come up again. Locked into their place.”
“But you’ve added two dimensions to your cast. That changes it, does it not, Erl’myasdul?
Erl’myasdul nodded absently. Anfelas wasn’t sure if his friend’s mumbled answer was directed to him, or Erl’myasdul talking to himself. “What lies before us. What we cannot see. What we seek. Here is the influence. The outcome. I care not for this outcome.”
Anfelas waited patiently. The farseer would decide the best course of action, and Andelas would implement it, as best he could. Though he tried his best to learn the art of casting, Erl’myasdul walked the path of the farseer. As a warlock, Anfelas strength was of a more direct nature. When he matured a bit more, perhaps he would be able to find where the path of the Farseer started. He just needed to cultivate more patience.
Erl’myasdul tossed the runes again and again. No more orders came from the farseer though and Anfelas found himself growing concerned. Speed and mobility was their strength, and this lull would only benefit the mon-keigh. His thoughts starting to wander, Anfelas started when Erl’myasdul suddenly poured all the stones from the bag into his hand and threw them at the oracle beam.
Several of the chits flew outside of the pillar’s cone of light, but not all. The rest swirlled around and around as Erl’myasdul stood, his eyes closed in concentration. One by one the chits fell from the cone and onto the table, until there was only one rune left floating alone. The farseer stood staring at it, lost in thought. Anfelas frowned when his friend spoke unexpectedly.
“Recall Olirneth. His squad is in trouble and we cannot risk them where they are now.”
Anfelas nodded. He was unfamiliar with the single rune floating before them. “What is that?”
Erl’myasdul gazed at the last rune, an odd smile played on his lips. The rune, a depiction of five vertical parallel lines topped by two horizontal, was a stylized face. “The Dvergr. The Dwarves. Our old allies come, and they are calling their dead to them. Our gift to them, did you know? In their Age of Trade, we guided their psychic growth, but now they are so few. So inconsequential. It never even came to mind that they could even be involved here. Have you ever faced one of their living ancestors, my friend?“
Erl’myasdul removed the chit from the oracle and set it aside. With Anfelas’s aid, he picked up the scattered runes, replacing them into their bag. “I have, and it is good that I am with you today. Many a farseer does not use this rune anymore. It is a rare rune to have in any event, but it does detect their psychic signature and we won’t wonder at the source of the interference with the oracle.”