The Prophetess had seen many sad and terrible things in the few days that she was away. She had also been blessed to witness beauty and wonders that her life in service at the abbey would have denied her. Drenching rain chilled her to the bone but the sun was more precious to her for the suffering. Hungry and weary she was overjoyed at a bowl of porridge and a bed of straw in a barn.

She had come upon a sad sight indeed this time. Here were the broken remains of a knight. She recognized the blazon on his faded surcoat, he had undertaken the Quest from the very chapel that she left and now his story was complete. There was another story that ended here as well. A smashed lute and torn finery lay about; the blood was dry but still bright.

Immediately she was on guard, then she heard the heavy footfalls amongst the trees. This was the lair of an Ogre and he had been very successful of late. She had no allusions that he would let her pass, no, if it was well fed she would be subject to worse horrors than being flayed and roasted.

The incantation she had memorized leapt to her conscience mind and she allowed the power it released to over take her. She blazed with a force that she did not realize she had within her. A fury and a focus sent her hurtling bodily at the monstrous humanoid. It had no chance to defend against the burning thing she had become.

It was over in a twinkling. All the force of her will had been joined with what physical strength she had and it had struck deep into her enemy. There was no blood; she was glad of that at least. The Ogre now lay in a lifeless heap.

She had never done anything more violent than the usual school yard tussles. Taking a life outside of a need for food had been unthinkable...the Ogre was exercising its right to survive as well...she hoped that was all it had wanted. Sadly, it was kill or die out in the world.

A good knight had fallen, and a sweet rhyming minstrel as well, by the look of things. All that seemed to remain were their tatters. The remains of the knight lie near a spear, or Lance as the chivalry insist they be called. It gleamed with a newness that belied its long time of exposure.

The Prophetess picked it up. A short Lance suitable for use afoot or mounted, but it had a power about it. No mere Ogre could slay a knight so equipped, and the wholeness of the corpse coupled with its advanced state of decay indicated that something all together more dangerous had been here a year ago.

The Minstrel on the other hand had sung his last and she wept and prayed for him as well.