The Scorpion Oracle whispers, 'come on, turn the page.'
The light filtering into the cells dims to an orange glow, and the scent of smoke and burning meat starts to carry through the air. The doors to every cell simultaneously grind open, and the guards - those not part of the walls of the dungeons - wait to lead the prisoners down the hall and up a set of stairs worn practically ramp-smooth.
Their route is nondescript, all blank-faced halls of red stone lit now by torches instead of sourceless light. Smoke gathers at the peak of the ceiling where the light used to be and stains streaks up the walls. The guards don't speak for the duration of the walk, and they smack the prisoners who start to.
Eventually the hall opens up into a cavern with a ceiling so far overhead it's lost in the torchlight. Fairies - misshapen or somehow obviously damaged, for the most part, gather in whispering clumps throughout the room. A young woman sits cross-legged on a sandstone throne, carved from a piece of rock that lifts her slightly above the floor. When the guards and their captives shamble to a halt she stands, hopping down off the platform and to the edge of a circle cut into the cavern floor.
"Friends," she says to the hall. "Guests." She bows to the prisoners. "Today marks a change in the story of the Wood. Today, we begin to balance the scales."
She lifts her chin and her voice booms out with alto authority. "Today, we begin to wrest control of the green places and the magic and the hope, what little remains, from the hands of those that waste it."
One of her own hands comes up to point dramatically at the circle, which begins to glow. "Today, we are blessed not only with the fruit of our soldiers labor-" her gaze flicks to the prisoners and back to the circle "-but the fruit of Arch, the broken Way, at last caught and channeled to our benefit."
The circle blazes with a blinding light that somehow seems cold, though the temperature of the room doesn't change. When the light fades, four people stand inside the circle. The woman spreads her hands.
"Welcome to Quakeheart," she says, "City of the God's Lost Children."
Their route is nondescript, all blank-faced halls of red stone lit now by torches instead of sourceless light. Smoke gathers at the peak of the ceiling where the light used to be and stains streaks up the walls. The guards don't speak for the duration of the walk, and they smack the prisoners who start to.
Eventually the hall opens up into a cavern with a ceiling so far overhead it's lost in the torchlight. Fairies - misshapen or somehow obviously damaged, for the most part, gather in whispering clumps throughout the room. A young woman sits cross-legged on a sandstone throne, carved from a piece of rock that lifts her slightly above the floor. When the guards and their captives shamble to a halt she stands, hopping down off the platform and to the edge of a circle cut into the cavern floor.
"Friends," she says to the hall. "Guests." She bows to the prisoners. "Today marks a change in the story of the Wood. Today, we begin to balance the scales."
She lifts her chin and her voice booms out with alto authority. "Today, we begin to wrest control of the green places and the magic and the hope, what little remains, from the hands of those that waste it."
One of her own hands comes up to point dramatically at the circle, which begins to glow. "Today, we are blessed not only with the fruit of our soldiers labor-" her gaze flicks to the prisoners and back to the circle "-but the fruit of Arch, the broken Way, at last caught and channeled to our benefit."
The circle blazes with a blinding light that somehow seems cold, though the temperature of the room doesn't change. When the light fades, four people stand inside the circle. The woman spreads her hands.
"Welcome to Quakeheart," she says, "City of the God's Lost Children."