Snapping Warlock Vision

As you stare up at the night sky, the embers of the campfire slowly fade to a dull red beside you. The stars above shimmer with a cold, distant beauty, but tonight, as with many nights before, you find no answer in them. Since the moment you whispered that first prayer-the one that sealed your pact and lit the spark of celestial magic within you you’ve felt something. A presence in the distance. A warmth behind the veil. But it has offered no guidance, no sign. You have not been alone, but neither have you known what to do with the connection you’ve forged. For weeks you have whispered prayers, sung songs beneath the moon, and left tokens in the crooks of trees-all for her. The Moonweaver. Yet silence has greeted each offering. You’ve begun to wonder if you’ve misstepped, or if she’s turned her gaze elsewhere.

But then the light shifts, and the voice that answers is hers.

“I heard you. I always did.”

Sitting cross-legged beside your bedroll, where the firelight should still flicker, is a young elven girl. She smiles at you with bright, mismatched eyes-one violet, one silver-and moonlight hair that falls in soft, tumbling waves. You remember her from before: older, dancing through your vision like a song half-remembered. Now, she looks like a child-but the magic is still the same. Maybe even brighter.

“This is the real me,” she says offhandedly, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Or… the truest one I like to be. People expect the graceful dancer. But I like this shape best. It lets me skip.” She looks no older than ten, barefoot and wrapped in a translucent shawl speckled with shifting stars.

“I heard you. I always did,” she says again softly, and takes your hand in hers. It is small, warm, and brimming with a strange comfort.

Before you can speak, she tugs.

“Things are… um, really tangled right now,” she says, her voice a mix of awe and worry. “The cult… they’re shouting so loud, it’s like they’re trying to make the world listen with just noise and bad dreams. Even the stars get all jittery when they scream like that. And the Divine Gate? It’s kind of… grumpy. It doesn’t like us poking around too much right now. Too many of us are waking up our champions. Everyone’s getting ready ‘cause they know. They feel it too. Tiamat’s stirring in the dark, all teeth and greed and angry prayers. And the others… they’re choosing sides. It’s really, really big. And really, really close.”

She sways as she talks, tracing shapes in the air with her fingers, as if drawing constellations only she can see.

“I’ve been running all over-like everywhere-trying to light up little dark places. Giving hope when folks thought they didn’t have any left, giving nudges when they needed to leap. I’ve been pushing people to move, to choose, to feel brave-even just for a moment. That’s how things start getting better.”

She looks at you then, eyes wide and shimmering with a kind of proud mischief and fragile hope.

“You called to me. Most people don’t do that anymore. But you did. You believed. So I waited. Not because I didn’t care, but ‘cause I had to get things ready. So that when we talked, it would matter.”

She reaches out, grabbing your hand in both of hers. Her fingers are small and warm, and as they close around yours, you feel something stir in your chest. The silver light weaves through you, not as command, but as invitation. Connection.

She giggles again, springing up. “You’re not like the others. You don’t hide in the dark. You dance in it. And that’s why you’re here.”

And just like that, she runs off into the darkness and into a loom that spreads before you. Threads hang in great, radiant arcs. Golden strands span across the void, intersecting, stretching, tying. The tapestry of fate. You can feel it. Controlled. Measured. Inevitable.

And there-weaving with a hand of ink and bone-is the Matron of Ravens. Her cloak is made of mourning feathers and memory. She does not turn to face you, but you know she sees you.

The Moonweaver doesn’t wait. She tugs you along, giggling, skipping between the threads of fate with the joyful energy of a child let loose in a dream. As you move with her, you begin to see what she sees-glimpses of mortal lives unfolding like petals: a weary merchant tearing up a resignation letter and stepping into the sunrise with hope; two lovers hiding behind a city wall, fingers clasped tight and hearts defiant; a child choosing to forgive, and an old man daring to start again. Small threads. Gentle shifts. But beautiful ones. Her silver strand winds through them like a song hummed in secret, unravelling certainty and stitching joy into places where there was once only weight.

She pauses before one glowing thread, bright and frayed with desperation. You see a Dragon Cultist scribbling a note and pressing it into the hands of a waiting courier. The vision flutters like parchment:

“You don’t know me, but we can help each other immeasurably. My name is Iskander, and I made a terrible mistake in joining the Cult of the Dragon. The cult’s horrifying plans are sure to bring doom to all, but I can stop those plans with your help. Rescue me from the cult’s clutches, and I will deliver to you the prize of prizes: the Blue Dragon Mask. Without it, Severin faces an insurmountable setback in his effort to call Tiamat back to our world. The mask is here in Xonthal’s Tower, being studied and guarded by only a handful of wizards, including myself.

The danger of my treason becoming known grows with every passing day, and if I’m discovered, I’ll surely be killed. Please hurry, for the sake of everyone and everything you value.”

The Moonweaver squeezes your hand. “That one? That was me. Just a little nudge. A little courage. That might be all the world needs.”

She turns her gaze up toward the tapestry, and her voice quiets. “Now, let’s show her too.” 

“She watches your friends,” the Moonweaver whispers, more gently now, her eyes softening as she watches the golden strands sway. “Closer than they know. Her grip on fate is not cruel. It is caring. But fate can be heavy.”

The loom quivers. Threads tremble. In one, you see a vision: your companions, walking through fire and storm, their faces weary, their eyes searching. Lost.

“Guide them.”

The Moonweaver leans close, her cheek almost brushing yours as she speaks.

“You’re the little wild bit in all their big serious stories,” she says with a grin. “The silly song when everyone forgets how to laugh. But you’re so important, Snapping. She knows it too. Even if she won’t say it.”

Her tone grows quieter, like the hush before a wish. “So go on. Help them. Show them the part of the story where they get to choose. That’s what I love best. When they choose joy.”

She kisses your brow. It feels like starlight.

You awaken to a thread of moonlight across your bedroll. It vanishes a moment later.

But the warmth remains.