Diviner

"How do you find anything in this mess...?" Serin complains, stepping through her den carefully. Every available surface is littered with feathers, herbs, and brightly colored pigments.

"Don't touch anything!" Diviner growls in warning. "I have a system. The spirits can't speak to me if you ruin it!"

"Alright, alright," the king relents- stopping himself from poking his nose at a small pouch of seeds and nuts, presumably for the bird twittering on the shaman's shoulder. He stands up tall, instead. "Do you have news about the oncoming storms?"

"Not yet," she huffs, sticking her paw into a tortoiseshell of pigment. She smears it onto the stone floor, then puffs a breath of air out of her nose. The colored powder swirls in the air, before settling down. "-but I can tell you what Calaxtia gets up to, when you aren't around."