CHAPTER TWO- THE SEER BEGINS HER TRAVELS
Crazy, old witch. Gag her, shut out her ramblings- she speaks in riddles that are meaningless. Hold her down, as we tie thick rope to her skin. The old, Breton woman hears them as they speak; they speak with fear in their harsh voices. Fear lies under everything, she muses. She cackles loudly, as the rope cuts into her wrists.
She used to be somebody. But now, that somebody had been folded twenty times and spun out in a wild tumble- making no sense anymore. She was strapped down, contained, in this chair in the middle of this dark room. She revelled in the silence, quiet babbles erupting from her mouth every so often. But the visions came once more-she whimpered slightly, as if her eyes were being scorched themselves.
Tumble. Twist. Slow down- time beginning to move forwards, backwards and side to side. Tremor- booming voice. Scream, as a young girl reaches a hand towards her, as she falls. Air flicks the girl's hair up, and crack. Dead. Against an ancient floor. The apparitions of her mind begin to ripple and tear apart. A man being ripped apart, by monsters- their smiles as blood splashes into their eyes. An ancient demon snarls at her- and pierces her gut, with its bare hand. Clack of teeth in its head, as she falls to the wet ground.
Then nothing at all.
Allura Debreu wheezed hard; the air around her pecking against her skin like crows. Her white hair fell over her misty eyes; the skin hanging off her chin wobbled as she rocked in the chair. Her limbs were choking against the binding- and the strength was being drained. She stopped, sensing the magicka at work beneath her fingers. Nothing she could try would diffuse it away- so using the last bits of magicka she had, the ropes began to blacken and smoulder. Her hands began to shake wildly as her concentration started to slip.
Loose. She stood up, her bones creaking painfully. Stupid! Those villagers, with their posh houses and such, forgot to bind her small feet. Her knees cracked quietly as she took a stumbling step forward in the darkness- her fingers wrap around a small, door handle and pull gently. The door creaks loudly, as she staggers through, into a cold midnight. Allura could hear the gentle waves crash on the shoreline- and began to teeter towards the rumbles; her feet loose and drunk on the sand.
A few hours later...
Allura Debreu had escaped- the news spread like fire across the houses; nosy women hung around in the streets, whispering anxiously about where the old woman could have gone. The men were furious- how could a woman get past them, never mind the fact that she was an old nag?
Allura looked out across the gentle break-and-womb of the sea, at the Isle- Ada-mantia coiled high above, the top of it obscured in the thickening cloud above.
She felt something was coming. Whether it was for good or worse was to be discovered.
Little holes in the ground- about the size of a small Breton child, thought Allura. Grey sands shifted, and collapsed into the pit. The old sorceress –jaded- flicked the long trains of her tattered, green robes over her arms and wringed her hands together, gathering up warmth in her old fingers. She peered down, uninterested, into the darkness. She leered slightly, as she saw the remains of an old man, curled against the wall. His skin had nasty black blotches- the end of his fingertips were mouldy green. His cheeks were sliced open, and the bone inside started to smell foul.
The miracles of preservation. Evidently the temperature of Hammerfell contributes to decomposition... good to know. She withdrew a long, knobbly stick- a bump bruising the smooth lumber- and prodded the body's head. It lolled loose, and slid down the sand wall a little. She cringed a little as the wind messed up her white coif- the cold breeze biting into her bones. The stars ran across the sky high above, and Allura sighed gently.
Hammerfell, the province of the Redguards- when the sun burned high above, you could die of dehydration; likewise when the pale moons were up, you could die of hypothermia. Perfect for one with a death wish... She turned into the breeze, and trudged through the sands.
To where or who or what was something left to fate.