Cast the lots

You look at the paths that lie before you at the crossroads.

The Low Road continues to the hills and badlands harboring orcish settlements. The orc-men are often out a-raiding, though just as often they are at home enjoying what domesticity is to be had, and it would go rough with you if you encountered a raiding party or if you found the menfolk at home. Though you've had luck in the past by lying in wait at the waterhole or in the brushy woods where the orc-women gather fuel.

The High Trail winds up and away to the left, toward the mountains where minotaurs, giants, and ogres live. And in the foothills you have heard there is the odd abandoned fortress or two that might harbor the snake-people. You smile, remembering your first and only time with a Nagaina, a snake-woman. Your ribs still ache in an echo of her passionate embrace if you sleep on them the wrong way. The High Trail also has a branch that leads through the deep forests, where the tree-nymphs, the dryads, make their homes. And you have heard that that is where the spider-people may hide, in the dark center of the forest.

The Sea Road begins to the right, though for leagues it only touches riverbanks and lakes. Not far down the road, you might embark in a boat down the river in search of the water-nymphs, river-maidens, sirens and mermaids. Though often the water-maids are as hungry and tricky as they are lustful, some even making their livelihoods through enticing men to their doom.

You seat yourself at a rock at the crossroads and break your fast with honeycakes and flower-mead, the gifts of the Melissae, the beekeeping priestesses of Diana. How they laughed when they heard your tales, but not one, not a one, seemed interested in re-enacting your dramas of love. But later at night, you awoke in the warm moonlight to the sound of music, sighs and giggles from over the hill. In the morning you discovered their traces, spilt wine, smears of honey and oil, scattered petals and trampled figs, grapes, and flower-wreaths, but not a woman to be seen nor heard. You pondered whether the Maenads, those women of mad passion, might have paid the Melissae a visit and carried them off, every one.

But now you have your own road to travel. Your belly satisfied, the taste of sweetness on your lips, you decide to leave your path in the hands of the Goddess. From your journey sack, you draw out a bag of spider-silk tied with a multi-looped knot of the shining coppery hair of an Oread, a nymph of the mountains. You reverently draw out your lots. The flat one is the Tongue of the Goddess, the round ones her fingertips, the pink rings her Portals of Entry, the pink dots her Tips of Pleasure. Chanting slowly, turning the lots over and rolling them in your cupped hands, you sink into a meditative state to hear Her Voice and seek Her guidance on where to proceed. The cast of the lots will point your way.