Aranya brings the sacred purple potato to Akhem, the frenomancer

The path to Akhem’s dwelling was less a road than a stammer in the land, a strip of dead salt and fungus frayed stone winding through the moss choked thickets of Old Lorhame.

Aranya moved with solemn intent, her booted feet painted with yesterday’s ash, the sacred purple potato cradled in the folds of her waxcloth satchel, like a wombed sun. The wind smelled like copper and wet parchment. Somewhere ahead, a crow screamed like a bureaucrat being stabbed.

Akhem the Frenomancer wore no cloak, no shirt, no crown of dead kings. He was slick with eel oil and twitching with prophecies, seated cross legged atop a decaying altar made of prison bricks. He looked at Aranya with eyes like burned pepper seeds and said nothing. Time puckered in the air around him.

When Aranya offered the purple potato, he inhaled deeply through his nose and felt its contours carefully with long fingers.

"This potato.. must be brought to Nomos Rau, root father of the gnomish artificers." Akhem said.