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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Emiricol" data-source="post: 1965921" data-attributes="member: 469">Carith, turning away from Dornhild, walked through the woods until he found a small grove of trees. As he moved to place his hand upon one ancient, gnarled pine tree, his mind became aware of a greater existance, and drew then upon the power of the Whispering Woods.   The instant his hands touched the great pine he was struck forcefully by a whirling flurry of images, confusing and troubling. Orcs dying by the hundreds; Men and Elves dying in lesser numbers, but still the orcs came. And came. And came. Every image contained a flash of red - a banner here, and a pennant there; a shield cover, a breastplate. On each flag and pennant, shield and cuirass, there was embossed the image of the talons of a raptor, a stylized foot, which clutches within its claws a green sphere. Blood-red gashes vividly marred the surface.   Then, like a hammer he felt struck by the vivid image of a small, glass-smooth pool of inky blackness; torches were lit but the pool seemed to drain away even the light itself, such that it left the place illuminated only faintly; lines and corners of a lighter shade than the pitch black of every flat surface was the only effect of the torches.   Then, disorientingly fast, the vision shifted to what looked to be a day in early spring with mostly melted snow. The vision of a village, its pallisade - meant to keep out Fell and predators - burning and raising plumes of black smoke to the sky. The dead lay everywhere, mostly Men.    Another shift and there was the view of a cluster of dead Orcs and Oruk, piled at the base of a highly unsual rock formation. A butte of red rock rose out of the tall grasses of the fields surrounding the burning village, and on it, men stood with weapons raised, screaming a bloody victory cry.   It shifted again. Same vista, but this time the men were dead. Oruk were mutilating the bodies, casually slicing off scalps, ears and noses, pulling teeth, and gathering worse trophies as well.   The scene shifted once more, and there was a Legate, one of the dread servants of Izrador himself, laying dead at the base of the butte; he wore as his personal crest the same red and green image that colored the standards and armor of the Orcs. His black hair, long as a woman's, lay trampled into the mud, which was red with his blood. The once-dark features of his face, that of a Southerner, lay pale and blue and still and his eyes looking blankly to the sky.    What does it mean? thought Carith hazily, coming out of the hallucination. It was impossible to tell with certainty. As always, the sheer volume and quantity of the Whisper of the Woods was deafening, drowning out the potential for real understanding. If only I could focus the voices, narrow in on one! But no, they are a mere cacaphony of sound and vision.   And then he stumbled back as he finally broke contact, the assault on his senses too much to withstand any longer. He nearly fell over backwards, so dizzy and disoriented was he. He caught himself on another trees as the last tendrils of the spell's power faded from his body. A bad omen to be sure but what does it mean. That legate may be the one who sent the orcs to this pond, and if I am reading the vision correctly, this will not be the last of his foul deeds. Perhaps if I find that butte of red rock and the village near by I could make a difference there, or at least gain a place to start.</blockquote>

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