Pitch black, ragged, thin wraps of cloth were wrapped across her head, multiple times over. Strands of wiry gray hair poke out from beneath the black. Her face shook as she used strength to speak. Wrinkled jowls and cracked lips, she parted them to weakly speak, with a flimsy tone.
"An exemplar of yore has come to, displaced from his kingdom, falling so long ago."
Scribes, wearing rags draped with dark grey stone tables, rushed throughout the dark room to write down her words. None spoke a word, instead their existence was marked by the sounds of scuffed shoes shuffling on the stone floor.
Capable of seeing into the future, the Oracle spoke with archaic tone and confused words. Very rarely did she speak, conserving all energy to live to the age that she had come to. Every event she foretold has come to be.
"Cataclysm, soon, millions will be lost, the Royal Aegis of old King ⟄⌾⍓⟟☊⌾, stands at the forefront."
The name of the king she spoke of, didn't use any phonics that any of them could ever reproduce, leaving confusion; and the mention of a coming terror filled the air with a dark and fearful mood.
Halting all movement and sitting cross legged, upon a large velvet black mat, her unresponsiveness meant she finished relaying what was necessary. The Oracle returned to her rest, and the scribes finished etching her words into stone for later use. Interpretation of her words came next, many of the transcribers hurriedly left the murky room, with the personal caretakers, clad in long white sheets that left only their eyes exposed, remaining.