The tea leaves swirl, or runestones clack. The bones rattle, as the cantrip reaches there and back...
A vision appears, but it's.... muted, and hard to see. It feels like watching scrambled television, black and white and with static and wavy lines. They seem to be seeing from the Baron's own eyes. They close for a moment, then open, and his breath comes slow, labored. Voices arguing... he turns to look, but his vision is cut off - he cannot move further in that direction than his head turns. Human forms... the sound is easier that the sight.
"I say that we be done with him, Half-Moon. Before he calls down an entire army of fair folk! Would you have them raid the Caern?" A young voice, a piercing growl.
"You are not Alpha here, Howls-by-Night. We need to know more. Why do they attack now? I say that we keep him, and get more information. However we must." A calmer, stern voice.
"Kill him now! Before he summons aid! They can see through the beasts and the air... they may even now be traveling their dream roads to invade!" This one a fever pitch!
And the voices are scrambled into a mess as the argument rises and clashes. His head falls to his chest... hanging around his neck is a chain, with a horseshoe strung on it, reddish-grey with rust. As his gaze passes over that, the cantrip dissolves, unable to hold together even as shakily as it did for a time.