The heavy, suffocating silence of the Shamanic Grove seemed to press inward as High Shaman Zephyra's warning hung in the silver mist. The dozen youths standing in the semi-circle around the monolithic altar shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between the ancient, withered woman and the woven baskets resting at her feet.
Zephyra did not immediately call them forward. Instead, she let the silence stretch, allowing the gravity of the moment to settle into their bones. She slowly raised her gnarled wooden staff, its polished surface reflecting the faint, pulsing blue luminescence of the runic trees surrounding them.
She motioned toward the different baskets. They were distinctly crafted: one woven from pale, dried river-reeds; another from thick, dark roots; and a third, smaller basket bound in thorny, crimson-stained vines.
