A shade walks at noon, when the shadows are at their least. He casts phantom shards of ivory across the altar and studies the result. He 'hmms', then sighs.
Fire and lightning, born of night, reaper of the stars. Northern wind, freezing cold... does she have a sibling?
Then noon is past, the phantom and his sticks fade away, and the shadows begin to lengthen...
You know seeing love birds around such as some of those young things who've gone off to fight makes me quite misty-eyed. I do hope that they come back intact.
At this point, the Oracle is interrupted as the doors fly open. He drops his cup, his face going pale.
No thank you. I like it black. That puts me in mind of a rather risque incident, but I don't suppose you want to hear about that, do you?
The old man looks around in bewilderment.
Excuse me, is this Le Ho Fook's, and if so, might I a bit of beef chow mein?
Hmm, hmm, hrmm?Wakes suddenly, and is immediately and dreadfully embarrassed.
Lord Heathansson. My gravest apologies for this diversion of your attention, but these youngsters are dreadfully overmatched in battle, if there is a Lord of the Boads who is both versed in battle and great in cunning, who might have leant aid to their cause, I thought that it might be yourself.
The lords of the boards are unlikely to aid you; they are caught up too much in their battles with one another, and the only one to interest himself openly in this contest, the one known as Kobold Cleaver, already sacrificed himself in your cause.
The Messageboard Oracle stirs briefly from his sleep of the ages. He rubs his eyes, yawns, and blinks.
The Messageboard Oracle pulls up his long grey beard, adjusting it to use as a pillow, and slumps back into his chair. He is soon snoring again.