A bit of lore of the world of Signum #1 (Patreon)

The cauldron boiled and bubbled on the fire. The emanating smell was something between the aroma of mountain herbs and the slightly sweet scent of a decaying corpse. Three figures in peculiar dress slowly swayed around the cauldron. One of them was twice the height of the others, and there was something inhuman in its silhouette, while a carved mask covered the face. It spoke first:

- I see, I see a blackthorn entwine an ash tree. The winterberry breaks the willow. Splinters fly! Red leaves spread across the earth. Grass withers and leaves die!

- I see, I see the gyr torment the falcon. – The other figure picked up, as it stirred the cauldron brew with a long stick. – The kingfisher battles the waxwing. Feathers fly, oh how they fly! Down fills the air. A screech, a terrible bird screech fills the sky!

The third figure tossed a pinch of powder in the cauldron. In response, the brew spat out a column of smoke and the sounds of dying people - or was it animals - echoed within.

I see, I see, a bear fights a wolf. The hare tears the fox. Fur flies, oh how it flies! Blood feeds the earth. A howl, a wolfen howl covers the mountains!

The three sisters, soothsayer witches, threw their arms up for a moment, then froze still, listening to the boiling liquid and sniffing the fumes out for a hint of the future. What they saw brought them little joy. The tall witch, Morag, the head of the coven bellowed from under her mask:

- The signs are clear – war is to come. – The clank of swords and groans of the wounded echoed from her voice.

- The signs are not clear. – objected the youngest of the witches, Brigit. – War with whom? With Styx? Or shall two clans clash again? Styx has been silent lately, the southern borders are quiet. The hot heads of the clans, on the other hand, sing louder and louder of grievances past. And the High King cares not.

The Styx Empire has grown since the cataclysm, when the kingdom of Acheron, ancient enemy of the Clans, annexed a large part of the Free Baronies. Necromancers ruled Styx, turning the living into undead, abominable to nature and the gods. Many times did the necromancers stretch out their rotten hands for the green Western Mountains, home of the Clans.

- The Spirit shall tell all. – Beira, the third witch, old and grey, spoke rarely, but her words always struck true.

The Sisters rarely resorted to the summoning of spirits. The ritual drained much of their strength, was complicated and unpredictable, and the spirits were not always clear, their words often having double meaning. But in the current situation, it was the wisest choice. If war is to come with the necromancers of Styx, then the High King should be warned. If the issue lies within the internal politics and the strife between the clans… well, it would seem that the matter would not end with a mere fistfight, as usual. Much blood will be spilled, which is best avoided. In any event, only a spirit could shed some light on the matter.

In preparation for the ritual, the sisters equipped themselves as if they were warriors heading for a great battle. They brought out a cauldron, engraved with magical glyphs, and under it, placed wood of a special kind. Beira and Brigit donned helmets made of mountain goat skulls. Morag, whose looks already inspired  shivers down the spines of her sisters, adorned herself with amulets and took a ritual knife in her hand.

After all the components had been assembled in the cauldron, the flame burst, and the liquid began to boil, the witches started chanting a spell in an ancient tongue. This was not an elven or human tongue, but the tongue of the mountains, the tongue of moss and lichen. The tongue of those who lived in the mountains amongst the people, wolfen and goblins. The tongue of spirits. The fumes above the cauldron began to thicken, until a winged, horned figure formed, now menacingly hovering above Morag.

- Bend to my will, Beleh, I invoke thee with your true name and my witchen blood! – The eldest of the sisters slashed at her hand with the knife. The blood drops fell into the cauldron, the creature above it stirred and whirled in place. – Answer me, spirit, from where should we expect war?

- Waaaaaaar is alreeeeadyyyy heeeeereeee! – drew out the creature.

- What does «here» mean? Speak!! – The youngest of the sisters looked angrily at the spirit. – Speak!

- Youuuuuu feeeaaaar. – All of the sisters could hear the sneer in its voice. The creature, meanwhile, was fading away more and more above the cauldron, until it completely disappeared.

Brigit, of course, got her share from the elder sisters for disrupting the ritual. Followed by long, very long contemplations. «Was is here». Was it about clan infighting? Or did the spirit mean that spies from Styx had infiltrated the lands of the highlanders? Or did the elves finally decide to betray their old allies, of which some of the clans had been grumbling about for some time?

In the end, the witches decided to head to the High King. Everything related to war was his concern as well.