As Oracle Egeria throws broken bones into the air, the witches’ eyes turn white, rolled back in their skulls.
The coven of the Trinoctua sit together in their damp dungeon, fearful of their increasingly faltering word and their diminishing integrity. They seek clarity of their future.
The oracle sits in the middle, entranced, arms locked into dance, engraving ripples and swirls through the air, siphoning smoke and ember towards the witches’ parted lips, and into their being.
The broken bones hit the ground. The witches gasp sharply in unison. Their heads rip back as their awareness gets torn from time itself.
Memories of their future flood their minds—
Morgana feels her fingers entangled in the matters of rulers.
A level of influence stretching far and wide over the realms.
A level of influence that dwarfs the meagre control her coven had over the sorry King and Queen of Lunnon and their pathetic Kingdom.
No longer do they need to contort the words of the King’s ancestors to get their way and no longer do they need to feed the Queen half-truths about her destiny.
No, she feels a level of power that comes with riches and renown . . .
And she revels in it.
Tsillah remembers their dominion over a truly monstrous army.
Necrotic creatures of many limbs, and many heads, twisted and contorted. An army that grew bigger after every battle, for those that opposed it, joined it.
An army both feared and sought after by Kings and Queens, and Lords and Ladies alike, for it was said to guarantee glory . . . if one had the coin for it.
Grelda remembers standing atop a dark tower, bitter wind clawing through her hair as she gazes over a violet mist saunter through the cobbled streets of Lunnon, a town destined to be theirs in good time.
She remembers the feeling of security, the feeling that their plan is coming to fruition. For mere moments ago, the Queen gave birth to a Princess, who in the same moment, was replaced with one of their own.
Ravenna remembers her daughter, a young witch wearing a crown adorned with dragon horns, boots fit for a Queen and a wand of great power.
A young witch with incredible demonic talent.
She remembers holding back the feeling of both excitement and fear as she watches her daughter twist her wand and contort her false parents’ corpses together in an explosion of vitriol.
Agatha remembers being approached by a merchant. A merchant peddling a mysterious bag.
One of the bags rumoured to hold magic and spirit. A bag of eight.
A bag including a crown adorned with dragon horns, boots fit for a Queen and a wand of great power—
The oracle’s arms snap back beside her body and her eyes flash from white to black.
The smoke is dragged out of the witches’ beings and straight into the oracles with a force so violent that, for a moment, the structure of their bones become visible beneath their skin.
The witches all gasp for air in unison as their eyes roll back forwards and they come to.
They sit and weep bloodened tears as they take in what they saw… and what they want. They look to the oracle—
“The bag,” Egeria wheezes as she exhales their memories, “the bag is imperative to our power and influence.”