Crow Feathers and Ancient Prophecies
While walking past the mini-bar, you spot a jet black feather that seems to gleam with a light of its own. It's tucked beneath a small jar. You grab a stool, climb on top, and pluck the feather free...
Just as you hop off the stool, the floor tilts from under your feet and you tumble down. With a yelp, you land safely on soft grass. Wait. Grass? Where the hell am I?
As your eyes travel from the velvet grass to the landscape, a gasp flies from your lips. You are surrounded on all sides by men and women dressed in gleaming armor. Interspersed among them are many species of Fae, the same sorts who surrounded you in the Lodge.
In the distance misshapen forms, bloodied, flee into the sea while the Fae and their armored friends cheer. Off to the side lays the most hideous creature you have ever seen lying dead where the vegetation meets the rocks of a beach. The thing is enormous, fleshy, and comprised almost entirely of one gruesome eye, pierced through the center by a long spear.
A tall man with golden hair strides forward and pulls the spear from the giant eye. "As prophecy foretold, King Balor lies dead."
From all over the battlefield chants of 'Lugh, Lugh, Lugh' arise. Two crows fly overhead shrieking the same name, but just as they pass, one dives for the earth. Just before it lands, a single black feather drifts down and you catch it in your fingers.
Upon landing, the crow shifts into the shape of a raven haired woman. A fierce gleam lights her eyes and a soft glow shines from her skin. A hushed awe falls across the battlefield. Lifting into the air, the woman speaks,
"Sky to earth.
Earth below sky,
strength in each one,
a cup overfull,
filled with honey,
sufficiency of renown.
Summer in winter,
spears supported by warriors,
warriors supported by forts.
Forts fiercely strong;
banished are sad outcries
land of sheep
healthy under antler-points
destructive battle cries held back.
Crops [masts] on trees
a branch resting
resting with produce
sufficiency of sons
a son under patronage
on the neck of a bull
a bull of magical poetry
knots in trees
trees for fire.
Fire when wished for.
Wished for earth
getting a boast
proclaiming of borders
Borders declaring prosperity
green-growth after spring
autumn increase of horses
a troop for the land
land that goes in strength and abundance.
Be it a strong, beautiful wood, long-lasting a great boundary
Peace to sky
be it so lasting to the ninth generation"
Lugh kneels before her. "May the prophecies of the Morrigna ever ring true. May the end of Fomorian rule usher everlasting prosperity to this land."
You blink, and when you open your eyes, you find yourself still on the floor of Fògradh Lodge clutching that same jet black feather.