[Co-authored by Aramara and Mariana]
Aramara awakes in the Stonehead Tavern. She must have fallen asleep after Evirea's story. It's early morning and no one else is there from the night before. As with most mornings lately, Aramara awoke feeling sick. She lifts herself from the stone bench that served as her bed, her body aching and joints stiff from sleeping on the hard surface, and stumbles outside to catch some fresh air. She doesn't quite make it outside before her stomach turns. She falls to her knees and vomits, thin and watery, not much was in her stomach as she had forgone eating the night before. The heaving stops and she sits wearily, trying to gather her strength after such a harsh awakening. The morning air is wet with fog and it clings to her fur. She shivers and holds herself by the shoulders. When the nausea subsides, she lifts herself from the ground and searches for a glass of water, maybe some morning bread if she can find some, and a sit by the fire.
A seemingly innocent fire flickers softly in the hearth as Aramara sits idly by, quickly ebbing and rising in a dancing pattern as though to seize her attention. It grows higher, and then smaller, reducing itself nearly to embers before it bursts back to life again. The erratic firelight begins to cast shadows on the floor before the hearth, and the crackling and popping holds its own inquiring urgency.
Aramara sips on a mug of an impromptu tea. In her search for bread, she came across a jar of dried tinga leaves. Mixing them with a blend of herbs from a pouch on her belt, she seeped them in water boiled with a flash of red way magic. She feels the all to familiar pull of the fire. She knows it's call all too well, and as much as she wishes she can avoid it, she knows it has something to tell her and she must listen. Calming herself with a series of practiced, slowly drawn breaths, she stares deeply into the dancing flames. Their flickering movement coalesces into shapes and forms. Images are revealed, tangible only in her mind. Inwardly she prays, a repetitive mantra, for the guidance of her Goddess and the Spirit of the Fire in the interpretation of the visions.
The mysterious fire snaps to attention as though it had been waiting for this. It begins to whirl and churn, unpredictable as a sea on one of the lower submerged levels of Yliakum. Slowly, it begins to form images, images inside of the seer's mind. They are of a nightmarish quality; bodies being mutilated, people being killed, over and over and over again. One image, a shadowy figure with an armful of daggers and masked with a hideous wooden visage, seems to be in charge and responsible for all of the chaos and pain and destruction. But if Aramara has the stomach for it, there appears to be something else in this vision, something heavy, something stemming from the killer's back.
A deep chill washes over Aramara, despite the warmth radiating from the hearthborn fire. She can feel the pain of the tortured souls in the hands of the shadowy figure. She wonders who this figure is. Is he responsible for these dark times which have enshrouded the land like a vile mist? Was he the infamous killer? The source of the plague? She searched the image deeper, tried to peel back the layers of vague darkness in which they are enshrouded.
The fire begins to work to make the image clearer. Pictures of the fountain flash by, desiccated bodies bound to the balustrades in various places with various different faces. They all sit with a knife in their chest, or throat, and slowly, with agonizing slowness, they disintegrate and turn to dust. The dust forms an ashy pile, and upon that pile the figure stands, arms in the air, a victory posture. Or, so it would seem. But now again, there is something stemming from his arms, something that is holding them up. The air above him is dark, bleak, clouded in a thick fog that appears almost impenetrable.
Aramara now realizes the masked figure is indeed the murderer who has placed the city of Hydlaa within a vice of fear these past few months. Although she had not been witness to any of the gruesome display, she had heard enough accounts of those who had to make this connection. Fear now tightened on her stomach, but she knew that she was being shown this for a reason, for a purpose. So she peered deeper into the cloud, trying to penetrate its mystery.
The fire burns brighter now, as if straining to get past some unseen force in order to deliver this message. The clouds disperse, at least somewhat, and reveal that like an elaborate puppet, Barsidious hangs limply from the strings imbedded in his arms and legs. Blood runs down the twine, and stretches up into the swirling, black clouds.
An understanding now comes to Aramara. She now sees the killer for what he truly is. But, moreso than that, he in turn has played the city as puppets as well, especially Evirea. Aramara's mind now turns to the klyros, trying to glean what may lie ahead in her future.
The flames shift with difficulty. Always, the black cloud hovers over the horizon. It moves to a different location, the scene molding into a cave, the dank atmosphere and the hiss of velnishi the only things that might reveal what the location is. In the scene, Evirea hangs dead from the ceiling, a large, brutal hook in either shoulder, and a mortal wound, a dagger, thrust deep in her chest. At her feet, the killer sits, and weeps.
Terror now grips Aramara. She doesn't know the klyros well, admittedly, but she does know that she does not deserve this fate. But a question lingers. To what end? What purpose does Evirea's death serve to the black, ominous cloud? Now desperate for clarity and answers, she pushes the images forward through time to decipher the goal of the puppet-master.
The hearth fire begins to flicker, dimmer, as though again it is struggling. The cloud begins to shift and churn, and whatever force that hides behind it is infuriated at the attempted intrusion. From the puppeteer, there is a sense of oldness, of an ancient and calculating power. But instead of trying to harm the fenki for her prodding, whatever lay behind the vale begins to push back, as if trying to avoid detection.
The harder she pushes forward, the greater the strain the scrying imparts on Aramara's mind. She struggles to keep the clarity of the vision together, but the effort is fatiguing her. She knows she is no match for the force enshrouded in the cloud. With heavy reluctance, she turns from the fire, breaking her connection with the flames. Exhausted, she lay on the floor before the hearth, breathing heavily, a prayer of thanks to the greater spirits for their guidance
The fire dies down as though it, too, has exhausted itself. But, for a moment before it dies, it bursts once more to life. The flame looks sickly...an unnatural green glow. For a breath it almost seems to be peering outward, the observed trying to get a look at the observer. Then, with a burst of smoke, the fire fades to nothing.
Aramara finds that the morning fog has now lifted, but fatigue keeps her from leaving the tavern just yet. Soon, Zalya or Elady will come by, but until then, Aramara closes her eyes to rest. She dreams of miomo and wishes he were there to help her with what she now knows is her mission. She must protect Evirea from that cruel fate, and protect the world from whatever evil seeks to gain from it.
