Isolde observed Grissa for a moment before the elder Cambrian turned her eyes toward her. She did not sense Kore’s presence. Felt no reverberation from the shrieking of the once Cheiftess’s spirit. Isolde observed only holy silence which had settled across the sacred place like a shroud.

Grissa was known to her—how could she not be? The woman was a fierce hunter, once a distinguished daughter of Cambira. But now, the woman was thin as stretched animal skin. Face weathered by storms that Isolde hadn’t been alive to witness—save for one.

Kore. My, how the woman had wailed at her sister’s death. Isolde had felt her every sob like a knife twisting in her chest. But she did not mistake the pain for regret. Suffering was simply part of the holy chaos of the universe, and to experience it was simply to witness one’s own mortality. Isolde was certain of her path, and though killing Kore had brought her unimaginable pain, her pain mattered little when it came to the All-Mother’s bidding.

But seeing Grissa now, Isolde felt the twist fresh again.

“Sister,” Isolde smiled her familiar, placidly detached smile, “Few still visit this place. It pleases me to see it has not yet been forgotten.” The priestess gently dropped her satchel to the ground.

Without embarrassment or hesitation, Isolde slowly started to undress as if it were a ritual in and of itself.

“I come to the waters to drink,” Isolde said, removing first the ornamentation she wore before her furs, “Not to sustain my body but to awaken my soul.” She removed the leather binding that held her braid, letting her copper-tinted blonde hair fall about her waist.

“As for signs, Grissa,” Isolde bent and started to unlace her hide boots, “The world is full of them. The only wisdom is in deciding which ones are worth noticing.” It was cryptic as any answer Isolde might have given to obscure the truth of her visit here.

Before long, she would stand naked before Grissa, wearing only a beaded chain about her neck with beads made of stone, shell, and bone.