On the emberlight coast, as the sea crashed violently against the jagged rocks lining the dockyard, Echo set up her stall. In the distance, the lighthouse stood sentinel, its light a beacon cutting through the mist. Here, amidst the vibrant throng of traders and seafarers, superstitions flourished like wildflowers, and Echo, with her offerings of soothsaying and potions, was a gardener of sorts, tending to the needs of those who sought arcane services. She did not make the three-day trek here often, but the traders often brought exotic herbs and spices with them that Echo could make good use of. When she did come, she could often recoup her costs this way and make industrious use of her time.

Her customers, a superstitious lot worn thin by the ocean's caprice, sought control over the uncontrollable. They found solace in her words, a mirror to their hopes and fears, and in her potions, which shimmered with a mystical allure though they were little more than tart berry juice under a magical glamour. The sailors believed in their power, and belief was a magic of its own kind.

Despite the bustling energy of the docks, Echo's heart longed for the serene embrace of the forest, the whisper of leaves, the soft earth underfoot, and the gentle caress of the wind. Here, the harsh salt spray was a constant assault, and the shrill cries of gulls a grate on her ears. Like the birds near her home, they were drawn to her magical aura, sitting perched atop her stall to loudly celebrate the biotamancer’s presence; there would be no escaping them.

Her morning was spent dispensing mostly mundane fortunes when a woman approached, her eyes shadowed with a deeper turmoil and the jewelry she wore signified she was not of the typical caste that frequented these docks. There was something in her presence that suggested her need was greater than the common sailor, often just wanting to know who he’d be taking to bed that night.

"Good morrow, mistress. May I seek your guidance?" the woman asked in a way that was far more formal than the normal rabble of the docks, her voice a mix of hope and hesitance.

"Of course," Echo replied, her voice soft, her practiced smile warm. "What burdens your heart?"

"It's my husband... he's been missing," the woman whispered. "I fear something dreadful has befallen him."

Echo studied her for a moment, sensing her fear and trepidation and deciding she would call upon her magic for this reading. "This is a matter for deeper sight. May I?" she asked, gesturing for the woman's paw.

With a hesitant nod, the woman extended her arm. Echo took it gently and, with the point of her claw, pricked the woman’s paw pad. The woman sucked in a breath but did not flinch away as the drop of blood welled up and Echo covered it with her own pad, pressing firmly. Then Echo’s eyes began to glow, an eerie, lunar shimmer overtaking the natural brown of her irises.

Visions flickered before Echo's eyes: images of anger, of raised claws, and fear cloaked in the darkness of night. The missing husband was a harsh man, his presence more threat than comfort. Casting towards the future, the vision became much murkier, the man’s presence little more than a ghost or memory. As the vision cleared and Echo’s eyes returned to their normal hue, she saw understanding dawn in the woman’s gaze.

"He was not kind to you," Echo stated, the truth hanging heavy between them.

The woman swallowed hard. "No, he was not, but he’s my husband. I... Do you see him returning?"

Echo took a moment, considering her next words carefully. "The paths are murky, but they lean towards... no return. Perhaps it is time to seek a new beginning, one of peace and safety." The temple could offer her such refuge if she wanted it.

The woman’s eyes filled with tears, both of sorrow and of relief. "Thank you," she breathed out, her voice barely a whisper. As the woman turned away, leaving behind a silver coin, Echo felt a stir of empathy. She stowed away the coin and began to distractedly fuss with the potions lining her stall as she awaited her next customer, thoughts lingering on the woman. Her role as a seer often left her detached, but today, she found herself silently hoping that the futures she foretold would indeed lead to better beginnings for this woman. In the business of fortune-telling, clarity was a rare and precious gift.

Dracula