Dantia/Research/Empath and Alfar Warrior Vision Research

Visions Included in this Research

Vision Reference Name	Vision Date	Vision
"Battle is Lost"	5/3/2020	A windswept mountain steppe unfolds around you, the air chill and bone dry. You see a double ring of soldiers -- shield wardens in the middle, crossbowmen on the outside -- their attention focused inward. At the center of the ring kneels a thin Elothean woman with greying hair, bleeding heavily but surrounded by over a dozen unconscious soldiers. An alfar warrior stands next to her brandishing a blade, turning to keep an eye on the encroaching ring, one hand protectively on her shoulder. "We must flee," the alfar hisses. "The battle is lost." The woman takes a long breath, and stands. Her wounds knit, and she assumes a rigid pose. A dozen crossbows sing, and her form blurs as she catches a bolt in mid air, dancing away from the rest, the alfar snapping the sword to parry the remainder. Another volley flies, and several bolts bury themselves in the woman's chest and back. The alfar shouts in rage, the woman sinks to her knees, and the vision fades.
"Just Some Horses"	3/1/2020	A windswept mountain steppe unfolds around you, the air chill and bone dry. A thin Elothean woman stands atop a boulder, her graying hair and fading robes a sign of the time that has passed. Her posture is unchanged -- rigid and impassive, she watches the distance. At her side, a muscular alfar warrior sits cross-legged, casually sharpening a long black blade with a whetstone. The woman leans forward and frowns, the wrinkles of her face -- evidence of the mountain air and sun having left their mark on her -- deepening as she squints and peers into the distance. The warrior pauses and without looking up says, "Just some horses. Come, lets get some tea?" The woman blinks a moment, shakes her head slightly, and stands tall again as the vision fades.
"Guard These Mountains"	2/2/2020	A windswept mountain steppe unfolds around you, the air chill and bone dry. Half a dozen soldiers lie on the ground, groaning as they rub bruised ribs or cradle dislocated shoulders, their weapons shattered around them and their armor torn from their bodies. A thin Elothean woman stands rigidly next to a muscular alfar warrior, and together they look down at a tall man with a broad frame. A bruise is slowly blossoming across his eye, and his pauldron bears the emblem of a captain. "Turn back. There is nothing for you here," the alfar warrior states. "Do not return. We will always guard these mountains." The captain stands with a groan, turns to help his soldiers, and they begin limping back down the steppe. The woman and the alfar warrior watch them go, and after a long while, the alfar begins to snicker as it playfully shoves at the woman. She does not yield, though the corner of her mouth betrays the barest hint of a smile. The vision fades.
"Spears"	12/9/2019	A windswept mountain steppe unfolds around you, the air chill and bone dry. Half a dozen soldiers brandishing long spears stand in a semi-circle before a thin Elothean woman. A muscular alfar warrior stands at her side, casually holding a long black blade and spiked shield. One of the soldiers demands passage, but the woman does not react. Taking a single step forward and extending the spear until it is mere feet from the woman's face, the soldier repeats the demand. The woman takes a long, slow intake of breath, and explodes into action, stepping past the weapon's point and grabbing it with a twist, snapping the spearhead from the shaft. The soldier is pulled off balance and loses control of the spear. The woman suddenly appears at his side, and grasping his forearm and turning slightly, sends him sprawling. The alfar warrior smirks, the remaining soldiers begin to shout, and the woman takes a long, slow breath. The vision fades.
"Barrier Horses"	11/10/2019	You find yourself flying along a vast steppe, winding valleys and broken forests splayed beneath as you exuberantly coast on rising thermals and building storms. A river winds between broken rocks, and a herd of horses spooks at nothing and begins to race to the west, the poetry of their stride and evident joy of their movement breathtaking to behold. They race along the grassland and suddenly smash into an unseen barrier, those leading the herd squealing with broken legs while those following are able to stagger to a fearful stop. A strange shimmer marks a long oval on the steppe, and -- as if between gaps in a mirage -- you catch a glimpse of a farmstead, a single hunched figure tilling the soil of a small rectangular plot. The figure pauses and looks up directly at you. Your prophetic senses chaotically howl with a deafening wrongness, and the vision fades.
"An Hour or Less"	09/21/2019	A windswept mountain steppe unfolds around you, the air chill and bone dry. A thin Elothean woman wearing a simple sapphire blue linen robe and thick canvas sandals stands proudly, holding herself in a statue-still martial pose, one hand a clenched fist, the other a rigid open palm, her feet spread wide. Sitting cross-legged at her side, a muscular alfar warrior slowly sweeps a whetstone across a long black blade, the harsh ringing of stone on metal punctuating the air at unwaveringly methodic intervals. The woman narrows her eyes, focusing on something in the distance, and without looking up, the Fae remarks, "An hour or less. They're making steady progress." The woman does not seem to react, and the vision fades.