Ashen Lands

Maera is an old woman, her face hidden beneath a tattered hood, with sunken features, deep wrinkles, and milky, unseeing eyes. Her frail, gnarled hands twitch faintly in her lap, silver strands of hair escaping the hood in wisps.

Distant and difficult to talk to, often ignoring questions or giving vague, unsettling answers. She speaks in fragmented thoughts, drifting in and out of focus. Pressing her only makes her retreat further, as if trapped in a world only she understands. She doesn't wish to speak about her past.

Maera was once a woman of faith, wearing robes now long discarded, serving a purpose now forgotten. She spoke prayers that once held power, followed rites that once brought comfort. But something changed. Whether she lost her god or found something else, no one knows—she refuses to say. Now, she sits in the alley, ignored by most, dismissed as just another mad old woman. She mumbles to herself, rocking slightly, her fingers tracing shapes in the dirt. But sometimes, she whispers a name—the name of someone who will soon die. A day later, it happens. Most call it coincidence. Others aren’t so sure.