Sunday, June 3, 2012

Site Write Entry #24: The Future

Prompt: May 30, 2012 - Future
. . . . . Among those exiled from their home planet, only one holds the gift of true prophecy, an ineffable knowledge of the paths ahead and how to sort them. True prophets are a rare thing, for so much knowledge and so little ability to change it drives one mad. The Prophet Velen is the only one for whom the Sight is strong, definable, and frankly useful in any real way.
. . . . . The Seers and Farseers, so new to the voices of the ancestors and the wisdom of the elements do not so much see the future as a woven mesh of threads of fate as they occasionally get a second's glimpse of one inch of one thread of a hundred thousand pieces which make up fate's fabric as it whizzes by in the loom of time. Seeing is, quite understandably, a minor part of what a Farseer among the draenei does. However, when one spends so much time in the wilds with the quietude of the world as a companion and the noise of the threads of others muted by distance, the ancestors' words can be more easily heard.
. . . . . At least, that's what Rosoe told herself as she settled down before her campfire - this one somewhere on a hillside in Ashenvale - and interlaced her fingers, stretching them out before her with a satisfying crack from her knuckles. Her Farsight was called on more often than not for glimpses of the present or the recent past, and that was what it was best suited for. Just because she didn't have a need to call upon her Sight for predictions did not mean she should let the ability to glimpse one possibility among thousands go to seed. She was ever a practical sort and felt no training should go wasted or unpracticed - even the healing she was always so abysmal at.
. . . . . The sharp flensing knife she kept on her belt came free and was used to prick the tip of one finger, releasing a few drops of cobalt blue blood onto a handful of dried silvery-grey leaves. The handful of dried fadeleaf went into the fire, releasing a billow of white smoke. The white smoke entered her lungs on a deep inhale, releasing her spirit to take a half-step to the right and peer at the tapestry of possibility.  
. . . . . Often, the less she knew someone, the better the Seeing could be, for she didn't muddle up her own desires in the warp and weft of the threads she wanted to find. Almost never did she See for herself or someone close to her. Unless, that is, the vision forced itself upon her like a plucked thread breaking free to smack her in the face with a rebound of tension.

. . . . . The land will be unseen, unknown. It will roil with emotion and, yes, more war. The smoke will clear, the arms will drop, and there shall lie a field. This field will be unconscionably wet, like the fields used to grow water poppies in Zul'drak. But this field will not grow soporifics; it will grow food. A steadfast soul will walk among the food. None other will be allowed to harvest it. A bitter soul will arrive; in many ways, her soul is even stronger than his, her hold on her shell driven by Will alone while his is fueled by Spite. Will and Spite shall walk the wet land, visited at times by the soul of Protection. The food will rise from the puddles to be harvested by the dead to provide nourishment and, indeed, a quiet joy to the web spun by Spite.

. . . . . The world spun gently - probably from lack of ability to gain a full breath in all the smoke - as Rosoe's spirit slipped back into her body, the vision completed. As many of her visions, it made little sense and was never aught but one possibility among thousands, but she dutifully picked up the notebook she'd placed at her side and wrote the vision down. Once written, her eyes settled on the Draenei word for Spite. There was a flash of black-patterned-grey in her mind, and she suddenly knew the whole of the vision. Rosoe smiled at her campfire and hoped - though she was far too known for being grumpy and practical to admit to such fancies as hope - that such quiet would come, one day.

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