The days at sea take there toll. Each day on the boat, with the sun spinning overhead as if drawn by raging horse is a day furterh towards that momenty. The moment when the fog will clear and desitny can be written again, the time after the oath of peace.
The sun bubbles from the the sea and falls on the teeth of rocks that surround this desolate isle. The home of the fates. It is agreed that there is no need for stealth - those who see all can not be tricked by mortal secrets.
So we appraoch. We pass those who speak of a trade of the present for the eternal, for power but befor long we are stood next to the bubbline pool and the 3 are there - Morta, Nona and Decima.
The loom of bone with its sharp spindel is mid weave on an epic canvas that covers the room. It looks like it would dappen the screams of anyone who displeased these three who stand their as powerful as only the certain can.
Words to dismiss the orcal - who focus on what could be and her secrets kept - speaking as if they know.
Words that cut theo like the syth they say cut his fate.
Exposing Alkie's biography to the air it lands like lead
Helekaon - A firery nemisis?
And then the bargins - the young for Bastion
and for power, the promise of aid - the price
The oracle.