A middle aged gipsy woman sat at the smouldering campfire on a fallen trunk, and stared into the red light. She was alone, the other members of the camp were sleeping for a long time. The sounds of the night came from the woods behind her: the hooting of an owl, a distant yowl of the wolves, the barely audible steps of some sneaking animals.
The woman creased her calico skirt between her legs, leaned forward and poked the fire. When she looked up again and her eyes adapted to the darkness once more, the silhouette of a robed figure appeared in front of her. Maybe it was her hazy sight, but she could have sworn that the figure emerged from the flames of the campfire. She recoiled in shock as she didn’t hear him arrive. She couldn’t see the stranger’s face under his hood, only his glimmering eyes. Only those mesmerizing eyes.
The voice clearly belonged to the stranger, but somehow it seemed to come from very, very far.
„Don’t be frightened! I’m here to deliver a message to you. Listen well, and when the time arrives, remember. One day, a young man will arrive to your camp. He is of royal blood, who will decide the fate of eight nations. The Golden Eagle needs a hero. A true king, a leader of nations, who will release the Eagle’s chained daughter and destroy her enemy.”
„Start him on his journey, Chataquela. Help him. Guide him. Let Zetan bless your life!”
As the figure finished his message, a blast of sparks erupted from the campfire, temporarily blinding the astonished gipsy woman. When she regained her sight again, the enigmatic messenger has disappeared. Chataquela smoothed back her long, jet-black hair, and straightened her back. She shook her head slowly. She must have fallen asleep by the campfire. It happens in warm summer nights. What a strange dream she had…
And as it happens with all dreams, the entire conversation faded into the depths of Chataquela’s memory…