Weak grey light of the early morning dawn filtered through the small high window of the inner chamber. Sounds of the hallway and servants and doors also filtered through the room as Modron struggled to wake. The unconscious world still had a tenuous hold on her this morning. She was in her shift, covers thrust to the floor hours ago on the too soft bed. Modorn shivered in the morning damp. Conscious and rational thought intruded on the murky waters of chaotic dreams. As she became aware, Modron realized she was dreaming a “true” dream as Afallach called it. She immediately launched into her memorization exercises taught long ago-- one of her first lessons in the mysteries.

Quickly, she detached her thoughts from the images flashing before her so she could observe without intruding. She felt like a spirit floating above the images, the flashes and sounds, like a wisp of smoke or cloud.

A cold, imposing fortress, much like so many in this land appeared. Spirit racing into the walls the sounds of bustling people. Workmen call out “Sir Pelles, a boon!” He looks a hard man, with an air of command. He is commanding the workers like a practiced overseer and seneschal. The spirit eye zooms directly to him so close Modron could almost smell the sweat of his brow. A spiral tattoo peeks out from his jerkin. Modron shaken realizes she knows that symbol from somewhere, she is about to lose the true dream with her concentration wavering and so she refocuses.

The dream changes and flashes of a young king standing, roaring with a hamhock in his hand briefly appears, as does the frenzy of a bard who babbles and then faints. Modron is fairly sure the young king is Artoros, the center of her studies and intrigues. Next, there is a grey-red cloud in the room, and Modorn’s sight is blinded of events. It must be a creature of strong and mutable destiny being hidden from her view. Her curiosity is piqued, so much is converging, so much to know and gather intelligence about.

The grey cloud dapples and melts away into stippled light and shadow and the smell of apples. The golden light shines and Modron’s heart sighs. Spirit eye racing in to her father’s meditation enclave at a small pool surrounded by oaks and apple trees, she sees him look up and smile. “Modron, do not fear, you will be strong and quick and true. You will make me proud. Do not get entangled in the little events, focus your mind and heart on the important forces around you. When you need me, I will be here. Practice your scrying, and your arts during the day so your dreams can be free to find the answers to our questions of loyalties.”

Quietly, sounds of a water and wash being brought in through the door intruded into the dream sounds. As the visions faded, Modron’s mind burned the events into conscious memory. She slowly woke with tears in her eyes and arms bristling with chill. Quietly sobbing, yet resolute, she knew in her heart she was so far from home.

Sitting up as the servant left, she wiped her eyes and wondered where she should begin her campaign. Brightening her thoughts turned to her guide. Ah, yes Lady Luned and her court of Ysgrithrau would be a good starting point.