The Omen

“Hmm? Who comes to my grove?”

“I see. If you are here, then you have either stumbled upon me through sheer dumb luck bordering on incredulity, or you have tracked down clue after rumor after legend to find me. Either way, it is impressive. They call me The Omen; a kenning I have borne far longer than that which was once my name.”

“I am old, kitling. Though my youthful appearance belies the truth, my bones ache, and my eyes have grown clouded and dim, for all that my vision has not.”

“What are you here for, I wonder. Treatments for one seriously injured? A treatment for the grievously ill? A glimpse of the future? I must warn you, the scrying pool in the back shows only possibilities. With each drop that falls into its center from the stalactite above, the surface ripple and changes, and the visions with it. If that does not turn you away, then ask, and I will seek. A lost art, I freely admit, but useful. Very useful.”

“Ha! You could look yourself, I suppose, but without the proper training you could scry nothing but what the waters happen to show you in the moment. If that sits well with you then by all means, look. There is nothing wrong with taking a peek solely for curiosity’s sake. Do not look at me like that, I am being entirely serious. Why, if no one looked to find no one would learn anything at all!”

“Now, since you’ve come all this way. Would you humor an old lioness and give me a stamp of your paw? Just step in this bowl and put it up there on the wall, that’s it. Thank you. Now that that’s done, tell me what it is you need. If it is within my power to help, I will do so.”