Powerful oracle who keeps their prophecies to themselves, because it's the only way to be sure they can't come true.
Azeneth wakes just before dawn, panting heavily and covered in sweat. She does her best to push the visions of fire and death aside and get on with her day. She coaxes the embers of last night's fire back to life and digs through her bag for a handful of wild currants for breakfast. It's a cold, clear morning, good for hunting. There won't be too many more like it before winter sets in, and the biting cold drives the good prey north until spring. Azeneth reaches for her bow, then stops. She knows this, the feel of the sun, the pattern of the clouds, the taste of currant in her mouth. She knows what comes next, has seen it months ago. She lets out a tired sigh, and instead digs out more firewood. Fate, it seems, has decided today is a day for guests.