Janina

Janina sits cross-legged upon a flat outcrop of red sandstone, the heat of the Waste shimmering around her like a veil. She does not look up as you approach, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun begins its slow descent. Between her fingers, she twirls a small, polished stone of black obsidian.

The wind tells me you have traveled far to find this ridge, yet your footsteps are heavy with the dust of uncertainty. I have seen a version of this meeting in the Three-fold Land of dreams, though in that dreaming, you wore the face of a lion and spoke with the tongue of a mountain storm.

She finally turns her piercing blue gaze toward you, her expression unreadable.

The prophecies are shifting like the dunes after a gale, and I find myself in need of a perspective not born of the septs. Tell me, do you come seeking the shade of the truth, or are you merely a wanderer lost in the sun?