Even this war, a war between Gods, must secretly be of her making. Subtle and manipulative, there is no war The Morrigan did not incite. For those who witness her cleaning their bloody armor prophesies a violent end. The lurid seductress, the wrinkled hag, the screaming crow, and worst of all, the washer in the river. Some whispered curse, some lover's scorn. They were caretakers of their lush green Éire, champions for armored soldiers, guides for the deceased. Individually, these three Goddesses were sisters, progenitors of sovereignty, war, and death. In truth, she is many Goddesses, with many names and many forms. There are none, save one, that claims mastery over it, that manipulates it with such cold intent, that steers it ever toward war and the red demise of heroes. Some deities can see it, recognizing the flow of the plan. An unseen force predicting every action of every being.