Late January 2009, Somewhere in Manchester

A clawed finger rubbed at the strangely shaped bone in a nervous way. Seemingly agigtated, the rest of the fingers of that hand brushed the odd artifact with an almost mordbid caress. A long sigh broke the still of the room, only the occasional hiss of the flames in the soapstone lamps offering accompaniment.

Time passed in the odd rubbing ritual until finally the bone was grasped gently in the fingers of the hand and drawn close. With forthright purpose, the bone was placed in middle of the wassail bowl and chanted to as the mead and milk filled the bowl around it.

How long she sat there watching the bowl could perhaps not be counted. Such rituals are timeless in the minds of of the Tru. She finished the long and intricate verse, the Pictish speech falling from her lips in lyric phrases, and split her fingertip with a bronze blade. A single drop of blood welled up there and fell from the very tip as the wound closed behind it. In slow motion, the droplet fell, breaking the surface tension of the bowl, staining it dark.

Watching the stain in the bowl as it spread, her whiteless eyes searched for the truth. More time passed before a brush of her nail on the surface of the liquid ended the vision. With the deepest of frowns, she looked away from the bowl and rose, the designs upon her naked body dancing in the flickering firelight.

"I see..." she murmured to no one but herself, "but I don't understand." Giving the bowl a distracted glance, she took a deep breath and willed herself insubstantial and sank through the floor to the crypt below.