Tri

The prophetess Fedelm, from the Sid of Cruachan, a poetess of Connacht am I.

Speak to me your joy, your peace,
and I will speak to you my prophecy.

Blood rises from the wells,
Pours and spills,
And the rivers will run white,
Foaming

See it in red,
Drink it in,
Revel in sights that are your last,
The golden hound of Culainn comes
His gae bolga in hand.

Bring your host, bright Mebd,
Crimson-red from blood they are;
I behold them bathed in red.

[ooc: She's sitting in the square, in a large, spreading puddle of blood, singing. Action and comment spam. She'll tell you your prophecy, if you ask nicely]