Deep in the underground vaults of Cairiss’ citadel one could occasionally hear the sounds of the battle which raged above. The city’s thick walls and towers relentlessly pelted by stones from dragonship-mounted catapults. These great Morovite vessels, their hulls reinforced by enchanted dragonbone, were relics of ages past, from a time when great beasts of flame ruled the skies, tamed and ridden by the most celebrated of heroes. The kingdom’s dragonships were not the only danger to Cairiss, however, as the famed wyvern-riders of Morovas ruled the skies above, raining fiery death on the unfortunate souls below. The sounds of battle were occasionally punctured by great thunderous blasts, as the tempestarius of Morovas, the kingdom’s storm mage, blasted the cities’ magical wards with bolts of lightning.

The Seer heard none of this, transfixed, as she was, in a trance-like state. Effortlessly floating in the city's Infinitarium, her naked skin was etched with incantations and painted with ancient symbols, glowing in spellbound waters. Her mind was a hundred miles away, her thoughts travelling along the ley lines which, invisible to the untrained eye, criss-crossed the world’s surface. The Seer, accessing these magical currents through the Infinitarium's waters, was able to perceive vague impressions, clouded visions of what was to come. She dreamt of a winged man, stinking of rot, wading through deep winter snows; a city ablaze, its people screaming in horror; and throughout it all, a horn calling, its ear-splitting wail growing louder every moment, the sound an ominous portent of doom. The Seer suddenly awoke, her eyelids snapping open to reveal the empty blackness beneath, the horn's mournful lament still ringing in her ears.

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