In the heart of the choking volcano by the village, The Old One sits in a forced pocket in the molten rock. Her face, forever willed into resembling solid gold - perhaps even being solid gold, reflects the dull red glow of the flow around it with a menacing blue, red flicker. A load of earthen smoke burps up through the hot slide and pushes quickly over and through itself to escape the pressure of the cavern. Exhausted, obsidian boulders begin to tremble and resign from their purchases in the wall. The choreographed streams of bright orange ash and liquid stone flying around her hair start to waver and dissipate. Her ancient focus is needed elsewhere.
"Tonight," she thinks. "Tonight is the night for many."