The fire light flickered, casting shadows across the walls. The herbs hanging from the racks cast a hypnotizing smell, causing all who entered to feel the relaxing and dream like effects.
A woman sat at her altar, her grimoire in hands, eyes shut, and relaxed.
A meditative state detrimental to her practice. She took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and let herself drift.
‘The rivers flowed red, the skies turned dark, the land once green now lay awaste; barren and scarred. No life remained for miles to be seen.
She frowned, taking a step into the waste land, searching.
No stars or clouds.
She bent down and brushed her hand through the ash and revealed a small sprout, newly formed, and a soft smile appeared.
There would be life again.
Despite the feikinstafi and the ófriðr, life would be anew once again.
As she stood to survey the grounds, the air grew misty and the world became foggy until nothing could be seen but a white wall.
Slowly the white faded until she stood in the middle of a battle worn grave yard, a statue of a weeping angel that had faded and been worn through the years, a wing now broken. Vines had over grown the base, obscuring the name and date.
Grabbing the vines and tugging, thorns cut into her hands and stuck. Tripping backwards, she ripped the vines out of the dirt, embedding the thorns into her skin and covering herself in dirt. Glancing up at the tombstone, she froze.
And lost touch with reality.’
She awoke several hours later, crumpled in a heap in a now cold cave as the fire had died, covered in dirt and blood, tear streaks staining her face. Remembering what she had seen, a sob escaped, and despite her attire, she covered her face with her hands and she cried.