Two moons turned in their phases, the season passed from stormy to sweet and fragrant as the trees and meadow flowers came out. The groves of silver birch, bright with the delicate green of new leaves, mountain ash and hawthorn laden with cumulus burden of blossom. But things were afoot. Something was changing and it was hard to see. She could see it gathering along the horizon and sensed the presence growing stronger, although slithering just out of reach, it came closer each time it touched her consciousness. And the dreams that were easy to forget in the bright spring sunshine.
To see further, she needed a stronger fire scrying ritual, for that She needed to gather things to feed the flames. The petals of the sea oaks, now in bloom, with only another few days remaining in which they could be harvested and the journey being delayed due to the unseasonably late storms.
As Magda prepared to set off for the far shores of Silvyr Port, to the living cliffs of giant sea oaks, there was a knock at the door.
On the stoop stood the dragon rider with the pale eyes.
He inclined his head in a polite gesture “My presence is delaying your travels, lady?” He asked mildly. He spoke in high Aesorian, although one couldn’t discern his native origins from his dress alone.
“Yes” she said trying to gather her composure.
“I was about to set off to the far shores, I must gather sea oak petals, the days grow longer and their season is almost over”. She tried not to look harried.
“If you walk, your journey may take the best part of a week, will it not?”
“It might” she said.
He stood there regarding her, eventually she stepped aside, and bade him in; the reason for his presence here would soon become clear, the sooner the better, it couldn’t be avoided.
Many seasons ago, when he had first come to her door, he had come on foot, leaving the dragon out of sight, the only clues to his station being the scar where his clavicles met: a crescent moon and a circle, the customary introduction of the dragon riders. His: Samson, kin of Orion.
Now inside, he removed the moonstone studded belt and sword, sat on one of the wood chairs at the oak table.
She made honey and meadow-mist tea with a dash of brandy from the bark of the mountain alder, moving the blackened kettle over the Pete and heather fire to brew the concoction.
She set the tin mugs down on the table.
“So, Samson, kin of Orion, why have you come again to my far corner of the world?”
There was a long pause, then:
“I was there, all those years ago, I saw you running beside the dryad in the pasture by the ruins. You spoke the words”
The statement opened a space between them, becoming vast as the illusion of quiet comfort evaporated for a moment. She remained still, allowing the words to ripple into the short silence.
“You have visions?”
It was more of a statement than a question. His immovable face regarded her and she noticed now, that his features also bore the same marble planes as those of the dryad; broad and flat, yet somehow noble. A face that didn’t articulate, the affect remaining smooth.
“I see things in the flames and my visitors bring me messages, from where I do not know. Usually they make themselves known but..” she trailed off, not knowing how much to speak of it.
The man with the dryad’s features nodded slowly.
“Have you been watching for changes to the light as I asked?”
“Yes, there is something you must see”...