Seer

The seer sat before me,

Wrapped gently in smoke and satin.

A small smile in purple-painted lips

Peeked out from under her silk veil.

Her crystal on the table before her

Swam in an inner light

That set my heart pattering.

"What is it you want to know?" she asked.

I swallowed the rock in my throat.

"Tell me, O seer, how will the world end?"

Her smile widened.

Her white, white teeth

Gleamed at me.

"That is a deep question, my dear,

As deep as Inkfathom, and just as cold.

The answer

Will surely not bring you any joy."

"I know," I replied,

"But know I must."

Even if I did not know why.

Her smile dazzled once more,

As if I had made light wit.

"You are not ready for my answer.

Perhaps there are other things

You wish to know?"

I nodded.

Her hands embraced the crystal.

The light within it

Swam and jumped

Writhed and stretched.

"Then ask."

Evolution

"Tell me, seer:

Where did this world come from?"

"I see a void

Deeper than the night

That now enshrouds us.

It is all.

It is absolute.

It is limitless.

Nothing dies,

For nothing is born,

Nothing fears

For nothing thinks.

But such perfection

Cannot last.

Was she born of the void?

Or did she arrive

From some other place

Unknown,

Impossibly far?

She hungers,

Not for meat,

But for knowledge.

Her eyes

Ring round

Spin,

Drink greedily

Of everything around her.

Her hands itch,

Yearn,

Constantly grasping

For what is out of reach,

For the unknown.

Her feet do not touch

Any ground

As she glides

Towards the next discovery

The next new being

The next satisfaction.

When she beheld

This perfect void,

She wept.

What was there to see?

What was there to do?

What was there to learn?

Nothing

Except herself

And the black.

Her brow furrowed,

But only for a moment.

If she could not find

What she was looking for,

Perhaps she could make it herself.

She spoke words

In a language never created,

Wove magics

With her hands the loom,

Her essence the thread.

She made this world

In her own image.

From her hunger

Sprang the boggarts,

Her joy

Created the elves,

Her caution

The kithkin,

Her anger

The cinders,

Her despair,

The giants,

Her ambition,

The merrow,

Her mischief,

The fae

Her stoutness,

The treefolk.

She tried to wreathe

This world in light,

But the void,

Angered at the disruption

Of its blanket,

Fought back.

And even when it won,

She did not despair.

In fact, she rejoiced.

Her sired things altered

In such interesting ways,

That she had new purpose.

She walks among us unseen,

Learning from our imperfections,

Watching over her creations.

As all things sprang from her,

Is she watching

For the time

When all must return to her?"

Destruction

"Tell me, seer:

What causes

The mighty quakes

That scare my children

And send me tumbling?"

"I see a juggernaut

Greater than giants

And far older still.

He sleeps beneath the earth

Among those whom once he slew.

He bears the marks of ages upon his skin,

Memories of dreams long dead

And best left buried.

Whenever cracks split the ground,

An old peak falls,

Or hills roll like water,

That is the demiurge

Muttering in his slumber.

But one day his sleep will end,

As any sleep but death must.

He shall rise

From his forgotten bed.

His is an ancient doom,

Never spoken of

But always known

If only in flashes

Of trembling fear.

And he will walk

The world that tried to forget him.

None shall ever pass

Where he walks.

His footprints are marks of grieving.

The greatest mountain

Is sand under his feet,

The eldest forest

A single blade of grass,

Bent and crushed under his heel.

All shall see his

The shadow of his coming,

Feel his stride,

Shaking their lives apart.

And know that death is upon them.

They will scream.

They will curse.

They will beg.

They will run.

Yet all these acts, and yet more,

Will cease in the same moment

Trod under his implacable step.

When he has reached his goal,

A trail of blood and silence

Stretching behind him,

He will say words

Never spoken before or since

That will be etched upon his skin.

Then he will lie upon that spot

And slumber once more.

As the dust that falls upon him

Grows into hills

And the wrenched fields

Claw slowly back to life,

He will sleep.

And one day,

When foolish folk once again flourish,

Their arrogance blinding them

To their own mortality,

The demiurge will again awake.

And begin his journey anew."

Bloodthirst

"Tell me, seer:

Why does our night

Stretch to everlasting?"

"I see a plain

Grass dyed red

Buzzing with flies

And scattered with remnants

Once housed within skin.

He dances amongst

The fleshy remnants.

He bathes himself

In gore,

Then licks it clean.

He laughs,

A bellowing, deathly din,

As he slices through the heavens

Making them bleed.

Yet he does more than laugh –

He revels.

The tearing of limbs

Is a thing of beauty to him,

Art writ across flesh.

Screams of torment

Are his favorite lullaby.

His pride beams

Beholding a misshapen thing

Of his own design

Gurgling its life

Out onto the soil.

Pray to always see his glare,

Brimming with hate

And the heat of bloodlust.

You do not want to see him smile.

Once upon a time,

He was alone,

A single soul

Screaming pitifully

In a sea of life.

It thrived

No matter how much he reaped.

Joy was an anathema to him,

Peace an obscenity.

Light shone upon all

Buffeting and blinding him.

He scoured the world

Searching for surcease,

The barest hint of flaw

In the gem,

As he knew there had to be.

He found it –

A tiny hole in the sky,

Oozing blackness.

He picked at it,

Scrabbled at it,

Yet even his strength

Could not widen it.

In his frustration,

He hacked at his own flesh,

Rending it, clawing it

Searching for comfort, victory

In his own pain.

Mortals shuddered at the sound

Of his ribs spreading,

His organs bursting.

Finally, he lay on the ground,

Panting from his exertions,

When his form

Began to knit together

In strange ways even he did not fathom.

When all limbs were joined anew,

And life returned to muscles,

There stood now

Two of him,

Where there had only been one,

United in purpose

And hate.

Roaring with unholy joy,

The two tore at each other,

Reveling in their agonies.

Then those four did the same

Those eight the same

Those sixteen the same

Until a damned army

Hurtled towards the sky.

They tore wide the hole

And chortled at the darkness

Now gushing forth.

The hole grew wider

A swallowing mouth

That consumed the sky

And all its light.

That, my dear,

Is why we live in darkness,

And why we

Live in fear

Of what lies within it."

Hope



"Tell me, seer:

With the gloom all about us.

Why do elves still hope?"

"I see a sun,

A great sphere of light

Brighter still than the moon,

Warming.

Yet it sleeps.

Does it fear the depravity

That it would behold

Were it awake?

Is it bewitched?

Or is it merely ignorant

Of the suffering it causes

From its slumber?

Whatever the truth,

It has its worshippers.

It has its protectors.

She always runs.

There is always somewhere

She must be

With great haste.

She is all that mortals desire,

But do not deserve:

Patron,

Protector,

Mother.

She blinds herself

With a cloth

Over her eyes

For she does not wish

To give herself

The gift of sight

Until all the world

Has something they wish to see.

She holds a shield

Not to guard herself

But that which she holds dear.

She holds a spear

Not to slay foes

But to warn them

Before they draw near,

And thus

Avoid bloodshed.

She is a living bastion,

A fortress that walks

To offer her walls

To those in need.

Some say

She hid the sun herself,

A desperate act

To save it

From its ultimate extinction.

Others claim

She seeks the sleeper,

A quest that spans

More generations of mortals

Than are capable

Of recording it.

Still other claim

There is no sun,

That she deceives

Those she most loves

Lest they wither

From the despair

Of the truth.

Of all

The children of Shadowmoor,

The elves are her favorite.

Their dawnglove

Is marked

With the barest hint

Of her touch.

The glowmoths

Are her tears

Fluttering on the wind.

As long as she runs,

As long as she fights,

The elves

Will always hope

Even in the midst

Of crushing night.

But should they ever

Forget her

Or should she ever fall,

Some say

It will not only

Be the doom of the elves

But the doom

Of us all."

Warfare

"Tell me, seer:

Why must there be war?"

"I see a great chariot,

Hear the snap of the whip

As its flame

Arcs against the sky

Like a bloody smile,

The snorting of the rams,

Their heated breath

Scorching the ground.

Its driver,

Its master,

Sees the world

From behind the pommel

Of an upraised sword.

His enemies are legion,

For they ever shift

With the content of his troops.

He knows no loyalty

Except to himself

And those he claims

To know –

The better to find

A willing army.

Many peoples

Know him

By many names.

Yet the myths are the same:

His great coming,

Ablaze,

Shining in his godhood;

The speeches,

The rallies,

His sugared tongue

Setting torch to the kindling

Of prejudice and fear;

The great war

Led under his crimson standard,

That scythes down

All that once

Stood tall

And proud;

The aftermath

Of wailing and pain

In which he

Never figures

At all.

He is a smith of war.

He stokes fervor

From glowing ember

To white flame,

Hammers hot

And pliable minds,

Forges soldiers

Out of the rough dross

Of peaceful life.

His conqueror's voice

Never meets silence.

It is answered

With shouts of rage,

Roars of approval,

A deadly din

That lifts his spirit.

You see, blood is his wine,

The clash of swords his song.

He does more than revel in it:

He feeds off it.

A great siege

Is a banquet to him,

A long and terrible battle

The most exquisite delicacy.

Each life crushed

Under the heel of war

Is a grape,

Its sweet juice

Trickling down

His throat.

He cares not

For the lands he conquers,

Nor the ones

Left burning and fallow.

He always knows

There is another land,

Another army,

Over the bloodstained horizon.

Without warfare,

Without all its aspects –

The fervor,

The pride,

The sacrifice,

The bloodshed –

He would cease to exist.

And that, my dear,

Is why we cannot even imagine

A world without war.

He won't let us."

Discord

"Tell me, seer:

Why can some not act

As one mind, one soul

As we kithkin do?"

"I see a scepter,

That has met many a brow

In a ringing impact.

The hand that holds it

So tightly

Wields it

With careless.

Yet oh so careful,

Abandon.

His eyes

See only

What other eyes value:

Lucky coin,

Trusted sword,

Firstborn.

To him,

Nothing has worth

Unless it belongs

To someone else.

It is not the lust for wealth

That drives him

Simply the hunter's thrill,

And the moment

Of acquisition.

Nothing is truly your own.

It is his –

Whether you know it or not.

The scepter is a relic

Of a famed victim.

Once there was a king.

Whether of elves, kith, boggart,

Or something else entirely

Only the dead can say.

He had gold, jewels, silks,

All the riches of the world

At his command.

Until the day

The demigod came,

His power

Wafting off his skin

Like heat.

Struck with fear,

The king asked

What the demigod wanted.

The reply:

'Simply the most precious thing you own.

If I get it,

I will spare the rest of your wealth.

Will you give it willingly?'

The king pondered.

Was it his diamond,

As clear as a child's eyes?

Or his tapestry,

Woven from the rarest cloths?

Whatever it was,

Surely losing it was better

Than losing the rest.

The king agreed.

In the next moment,

His soul was sucked from his body

Into his scepter.

As the king fell dead,

The demigod took the scepter,

Its former owner's soul

Still screaming within,

And left.

The two keep counsel

To this day.

Do you see, my dear?

With such a threat,

Clutching hands

Grow tighter,

Suspicious eyes

Narrow,

Scheming minds

Inflame.

When those who have

Must constantly defend

Against not only those who have not,

But a demigod,

How can they unite

Against a more serious threat?

They cannot.

They can only die."

Claw

"Tell me, seer:

Why do we desire

To keep on living

Even if that life

Is empty and hopeless?"

"I see a great wolf

Fur black as a soul,

Fangs broken

By bone and steel.

It is an old beast,

Slashed by many winters,

Challenged,

Harried,

Beaten.

It enters life's twilight

Crossed with puffed scars.

This battle,

Fought since the day

Of its birth,

Is nearing its end.

It howled

To the skies,

Screaming injustice.

Why, it demanded

To the powers beyond,

Must it give up its life,

A life that still blazed

Hot within its fur,

The outcome preordained?

Why must this struggle,

Its greatest struggle,

Be futile?

Why, it snarled,

Could it not have a chance?

What powers, great and terrible,

Heard it then?

What powers, light or dark,

Granted its wish,

Changed it,

Made it into the demiurge

That now stalks the land?

Not even I know that, my dear,

And it is better for me that way.

The Deity

Is no longer that wolf

In flesh,

But in heart...

That is a different story.

His hands

Crush tree trunks

With the slightest squeeze.

His voice

Shatters ears,

Brings knees to soil,

And summons a pack

Far mightier

Than ever he commanded

As an alpha.

His skin

Cuts swords,

And a single swing

Of his axe

Hews the legs of giants

In twain.

Yet in his deepest heart,

Where it pulses night after night,

Is fear.

He became what he is

To survive.

How long will that gift last?

Who may come

Mighty enough

To slay him?

Every challenger

No matter how slight

Is a deadly threat.

Every battle,

No matter what the stakes,

Is raw,

Desperate,

Strewn with gore,

And tainted with panic.

Thus is he

The fang and bloody claw

Of nature

The primal, savage urge

To survive

No matter what the cost,

No matter what the casualty.

And this urge

Infects us all today.

Do you fear the night, my dear?

Perhaps you should

Fear him more.

As he fears you."

Dominion

"Tell me, seer:

Why does the moon

Wax and wane?"

"I see a single eye

Unblinking,

A wet, iridescent orb

That cuts through untruth

And self deception.

It humbles the mighty,

Brings titans to their knees,

Quails the dead

And shudders spirits

To their nonexistent bones.

The eye is in the center of a great face,

Implacable,

Expressionless.

Her lips curl

In something like loathing.

Her blade gleams

With an arrogant light

A pinprick of brightness

In the gloom of Shadowmoor.

Every sin

She sees.

Every scheme

She knows.

Every kept thought,

Every shameful secret,

Every dark desire

That we struggle to lock

So deep in our souls

That we refuse to say it exists...

She hears.

How does she regard us?

This watcher above?

Disdain?

Amusement?

Confusion?

Curiosity?

It is impossible

For one so great

To truly understand

The ways of mortals.

Can a kithkin

Who lives amongst his own kind

Truly know

The thoughts of the raven

Or the dreams

Of the wolf?

It took eons of time,

Unfathomable

By mortal minds

For this godhead

To begin to open her eye.

What she saw

Crawling upon this world,

Repulsed her.

Yet she could not tear

Her gaze away.

For reasons

Lesser beings

Will never understand,

She continued to watch.

Night after night

The world

Was her looking glass,

The sky

Her window.

Her eye

Weighed upon those below

As if their chests

Were being squeezed

By a vise.

'We beg of you!'

They cried to the eye above,

'We cannot bear your gaze

Any longer!'

They sank to their knees,

Their energy gone,

Humbled under

The oppressive presence

Of nothing but

A single eye.

Long moments passed

Perhaps an eternity.

Slowly...

Ever so slowly...

The eye began to shut.

The weight lifted

If only for a moment,

The mortals rejoiced.

And that, my dear,

Is why the moon changes.

It is the eye of the godhead,

Giving respite

From her judgment,

But only for a while,

For the impulses

Of such a being

Cannot long be denied."

Decay

"Tell me, seer:

What lies

Beyond death?"

"I see cold mist

Plucking at skin

And stabbing bone

With chill.

I see eyes,

Pits of gloom,

That draw in

The horrified gaze.

He takes not a breath,

And his every gesture

Crackles like ancient bones

Snapping under an iron boot.

His claws

Have caressed eyes,

Tongues, and veins,

All with loving care.

He is a ghost

That has never known life.

He passes through stone

As if it were water,

Flesh and soul

As if they were a baby's sigh.

He knows the true name

Of every being that is

Or ever will be,

And he hates them all.

Is it the warmth

Of blood and breath

That he despises so?

Or does he believe

That his bitter not-life

Is perfection itself?

The mists

That blanket our world

Are his eyes,

His fingers.

They probe, they search,

They seek

Souls.

Dying souls

Souls that are weak

From age or youth,

Corruption or naïveté,

Despair or hope.

In the dead of their dreams

He finds them.

He tells them their true name,

And oh so gently

Holds them

In his chill embrace.

'Child,' he whispers,

'Let me relieve

All your burdens.'

Those who awaken

Are indelibly marked:

The lidded eyes,

The wandering mind,

The little jump

At the innocent touch.

They remember naught

But a shudder in their belly

And an ill-formed blot

In their thoughts.

He visits again

His icy hand

Sinking deeper

Drawing no blood –

Only cries and sobs

Muffled as though

Smothered under a pillow.

Each slumbereve,

He comes,

His words harsher,

His cut deeper,

Until he tears at entrail and sinew,

Sucks at marrow,

And plucks at the mouth,

Tooth by tooth.

Yet when his favored

Are found in their beds,

Their bodies are whole,

Their skin pure,

Except for the horror

Stamped forever on their faces.

Now, my dear,

That you know how one can die

Do you really wish to know

What comes after?"

I did not.

Omens

"I have asked many questions,"

I said.

"But my first still remains:

How will this world end?"

The seer smiled

That white smile.

"I can tell you that, my dear.

In fact,

I will tell you

So much more."

And her skin

Fell away.

Her wings,

Shimmering black,

Cast shadows across my eyes.

Her gown

Danced like leaves

Awash with wind.

Her haughty gaze

Struck me to my knees.

"Long have I waited

To impart my gifts

To one so curious,

So worthy."

"Please," I begged,

"Leave me be.

I thank you

For your praise,

But I cannot accept

Such wonder!"

I tried to run

But my palsied legs

Would not even twitch.

"Ah," she said,

"But you must.

All is preordained.

It all must pass

As I have seen,

Lest you rouse my anger."

I squeaked.

"Now, my dear,

I shall reveal all.

The end of your world.

The purpose of your existence,

All the greatness and horror

Of all creation

Will be yours

Forevermore."

She spoke of mystery and portent,

Of occult and whispers,

Of such unfathomable things

That my mind

Screamed

For pity.

It did not come.

Even now, I try to forget.

But I remember.

I remember!

And I must

Must

Must

Must

Spread her word

Spread her truth

Or she shall impart

Even more upon me.

Infinity

Laid open

To me.

Too much

Much

Much!

If you could see

What lurks

Beyond the moonlight

You would

Must

Die!

I beg of you

Those who read these words

Think as I think

Dream as I have dreamed.

You must understand

Must understand

Must join me

Join her.

It burns

My brain

Oh heavens

How it burns.