“We’re here.” Isatha led her through a cave in the cliffside and into a large cavern. The walls were hung with bright tapestries, depicting a myriad of sceneries. Harpies in flight, haggling with different races, fighting against wyverns and humans, during a festival and many more. Cushions were laid out in neat half circles, making for comfy sitting spots, while rods hung from the ceiling to allow for perches. At the back was a simple wooden altar, holding small statuettes of a harpy, dragonewt, gnome and mermaid. The statuettes ringed a basin.
“Who have you brought to me, little Owl?” A cracking voice pulled her attention to the greying harpy sitting to the left of the altar. She had the sharp feature of an eagle, but the grey feathers made it hard to verifiy her particular species.
“I’ve brought Rethia, Shaman Celia. As usual, I went to her nest this morning to pick her up for flight training. But she couldn’t remember anything, and her fear of heights also seems to be gone,” reported Isatha.
“A little birdbrained, eh?” Celia cackled at her own joke. “Come closer, hatchling.”
She didn’t move from her spot, staring at the withered shaman with wide eyes. Isatha pushed her forwards.
“I rarely bite nowadays.” Shaman Celia grabbed one of her flailing wings with strong claws, pulling her even closer, gazing deep into her eyes. “Hmm… yes… I see…” With a flick of her claws, Celia pricked through Rethias skin, blood dripping from the tiny wound.
Rethia watched, as the shaman held the bleeding wing over the basin between the statuettes. It hadn’t hurt as much as she had expected. Shouldn’t injuries hurt more?
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“There, that should be enough,” said Celia and let Rethia’s wing go, staring intently at the blood pooling in the basin and muttering something.
Rethia stumbled backwards, pulling her wings close to her body, in case the shaman wanted to grab her again. But her eyes were drawn to the basin and the statuettes. Isatha hovered behind her, equally curious.
They watched, as the few drops of blood first caught fire, the ash then turning to mud, as water trickled down the sides of the basin. A tiny whirlwind carried the mud into the air and laid it to rest in the basin in the crude form of a bird rising.
“Was that magic?” whispered Rethia, fascinated by the scene.
Celia cackled. “That was no mere magic, birdbrain. That was the divine answer of the Four Great Sprites to my question.”
“The Four Great Sprites?” asked Rethia, earning a smack over her head from a greying wing. Whoever had told her that old ladies were weak, had never met shaman Celia.
“They govern life itself! They keep the balance of the world! They are no mere gods, dreamed up by the humanoids. They stand above those fake gods! Now,” Celia took a deep breath after her outburst. “Isatha, the Great Sprites gift this answer unto your question, may you act upon it as you deem fit: Now and forever more, a True Child of the Winds.”
Isatha bowed her head and stepped back. Rethia looked at her, wondering what Isatha had asked. She couldn’t remember hearing any question from the owl.
“Now you, birdbrain. To find what you seek, you must travel. Soar unfettered through the Skies. To the Edge of the Seas. Through the Heart of Fire.”
“Uh… what does that mean? I haven’t even asked a question?”
“Shoo, both of you. I’m terribly tired.” Celia flapped hr wings at them, then sat back down on her cushion, looking as if she was dozing off.
Celia watched her two visitors leave, the hatchling asking questions of the Little Owl and sighed. She had to share the vision from the Great Sprites with the Matriarch soon. And then they had to decide upon a course of action. Time was running out. What had started in ages long past, would come to a close.