The prophet’s silver-rimmed, colorless eyes stayed steady on him. Daylor had recounted to him every image he could remember of his dreams from the past two months. Plus the oracle, it was only the three of them, and he felt no shame in telling everything from last night’s dream. Some of the details changed from night to night, but most remained the same.
Waiting with hands clasped, Daylor kneeled before the prophet who considered each word spoken. The oracle, with her gold eyes bright upon the younger elf, stroked the idols in her lap. Each elf had their own idols, made from their chosen medium and shaped like the gods by an Elder crafter. The oracle’s idols, crafted by their own hand, were most accurate. For it was only she, and any subsequent oracles who would come in her tutelage or after death, who communicated with those gods that had ascended to the Celestial Realm.
“I’ve not heard from the gods,” Amlinn Aolenn murmured, her chin tilting upward