Scraps of paper, crumpled and torn from being hastily shoved into a bag littered the cabin floor. Drawings of malefic entities and runic scribbles dominate their content. Each one without specific purpose, made in haste for the sake of knowledge.

She shivered, pulling her coat more tightly around her shoulders. The frosts had come, hinting at the harsh winter quickly settling into the hills surrounding Runeheim. Once the snows started, there would be no leaving the city proper without some serious planning.

It was frustrating, trying to make sense of the recent events revolving around the Great Menhir. Why now? The war in this region has been ongoing for ages and the Old Gods had never been this active. She needed answers.

The memory of steaming blood in the snow was an unsettling reminder that sacrifice was not without benefit. There was a deep thrill whispering those words in the dark, not knowing who would answer or if anyone was even listening.

A sharp contrast to convocation and the shining light Solace so freely offers in her daily blessings. She also knew about sacrifice. The bloody price of lives lost in pursuit of unification and hope. Has Mithriel had a guiding hand in all this, or simply an observer unwilling to provide answers to her silent cries. What knowledge had been gained from her sacrifice?