In the draped gloom of her heavy, circular, travelling tent, Megarna stares into her crystal ball sat in the centre of the small, round table.
“I’ve been tracking them since they returned to Fissa, as you asked me to, Mistress.”
In the centre of the glassy orb a face can be dimly seen. An ancient, grotesque and evil face.
“And their number remains seven?”
Megarna, her eyes slightly averted from the intensity of the expression on Hetzabah’s true face..
“Yes, despite the Elven Archer leaving them, his place has been almost immediately taken up by a Dwarven Cleric of Moriden.”
Hetzabah spits.
“Four Humans, a Halfling, a Demi-Elf and their new Dwarven recruit. Seven is a bad number for us. A terrible omen. A fated powerful number for the Gods of Law and Good.”
Megarna tries to meet her Mistress’s eyes.
“But our Coven has reached eleven. Only two more recruits needed to reach the equally powerful number thirteen. A magnifier for the powers of evil.”
In the core of the crystal ball, Hetzabah cackles.
“True enough my loyal servant. This game still goes our way. These ‘heroes’ barely comprehend the stakes of their involvement.”
