User:The Ginger/Viens Visions
Event Predictions
(Listed roughly from newest to oldest)
You see a weary Human priestess leaning on a rickety shovel, smiling at something behind you despite her sorry appearance. Her once-regal caftan is smeared with dirt, her hands are scuffed, and locks of greying hair have escaped her elaborate, gold-clasped braid. After a while, she blinks slowly and turns her unbroken smile to you. You suddenly realize you are holding an orb in your hand, its glass emitting a wavering glow.
You focus inwardly searching for insight into your future. You find yourself lying on a marble slab. Though no chains bind your body, you find yourself completely unable to move. A large metal slab takes up most of the circular room, surrounded by sigils carved into the dark marble floor of what you realize is a tower. Marble obelisks rise at the four cardinal points, each one crackling with energy used for some unholy purpose.
Chanting surrounds you from robed figures at the edge of your sight, though your eyes focus on a glowing orb hovering above you. Green-tinged tendrils of dark crimson snake their way hungrily toward you, and though you try to scream, no sound comes out. The magic rushes through your eyes, blinding you and wracking your mind, your body and your soul. Just as you feel you can stand it no longer, the vision suddenly ceases, as if severed by a sharp knife.
A gnat-like buzzing sounds at your ear and draws your attention. With a sudden snap, your vision flashes and shifts to another location. A great chamber opens up in your mind's eye -- at the front is tiered seating with a podium standing before them. A Gnome stands at the podium while several well-dressed figures listen to him speak. "...quite the accomplishment! With the slightest imbuing of magic to the chains that bind them, the stones break free and hover in a fixed rotation as if they were still bound! With time, I..." As suddenly as it came, the vision fades.
A high-pitched buzz like that of a pesky gnat sounds near your ear and ever so slowly rotates around your head. Try as you might to ignore it, its insistence draws your attention. With a sudden snap, your vision flashes and shifts to another location. You find your mind's eye within a confined space -- four walls very close together, all made of stone showing signs of water damage. A table rests beneath you, and a Gnome stands atop a stool as he works intently over an array of tools, sparkling gems and rods of various lengths and materials. As suddenly as it came, the vision fades.
A gnat-like buzzing sounds at your ear and draws your attention. With a sudden snap, your vision flashes and shifts to another location. A Gnome tinkerer sits at a table within a stone-walled room. Excitedly, he calls out, "At last! I've done it! This will make Vanassa herself jealous! I told the fools it could be done!" He squeals with a final peel of laughter while casually tossing what appears to be a bracelet of dark sapphires. As suddenly as it came, the vision fades.
A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. Mechanisms click as knobs are turned and bolts are shifted to unlock the door. Your gloved hand turns the handle and opens it to see who would be making a call at such a late hour. A sap-heavy log crackles in the fireplace in another room.
A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. You stumble to the ground, gasping as you reach to the aching pain above your neck. Your fingers are covered in blood that quickly washes away in the storm that continues to rage. Turning, a perfectly rounded, polished stone sits in the street. Strands of your hair are matted to it, only adding to your confusion from the vision.
Your vision blurs. As it comes back to focus, you have a bird's eye view of the foundation of a massive keep. Workers mill about the area chopping trees, shaping stone, and laying a cobble road. Seated within the center of the clearing is a lone ghostly wolf, his gaze carefully surveying the work in progress. As he turns his muzzle upward toward you the vision abruptly ends.
A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. "The Master has retired. What business do you have with him at this hour?" you hear yourself asking.
Metal flashes in the reflected candlelight, but that's all you can process before the object plunges into your chest and agony explodes from the wound.
A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. Collapsing to the floor, gasping for your final breath, thoughts fly through your mind before the world goes black. "What have I done to deserve this? Will the Master be next? The rags are still on the table, he'll be furious. The floor is cold. I'm so very...cold. The candle is too close to the curtain...pull it back."
The sounds of the world grow muted and distant. A sweetly jubilant melody emerges from the back of your mind in their stead. Humming along and reminiscing of the past, you wash the bloody debris off your hands.
You lower your head to your arthritic hands, furiously trying to craft something of wonder. No! The material is insufficient. You raise your voice imperiously and demand more. Only, there is no one else in the room...
Out of a sudden darkness that descends upon you, plump raspberries of cloying pink bounce into view! After a while, the scene shifts to that of a child's opulent room, and the raspberries to large splotches of fresh blood on the floor, walls and even ceiling.
Twirling bones of myriad sizes begin a peculiar dance around you, filling the air with their rollicking clatter and distracting you from the world. When you reach out to touch one, all of them burst in small explosions of silvery dust.
A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. Blinding flashes of lightning burst from the heavens in angry bolts that reach ominously towards the ground. The roar of rain spattering off of closed stalls and other structures drowns out most of the earth-shaking thunder. The wind shrieks through holes in the wooden homes as it tosses rain-soaked debris carelessly from place to place.
All the light dims out of your sight, enfolding you in the Dark Cloak of Woven Night - but the stars do not come. After a while, a gleaming white pinpoint in the distance resolves into several lances of jagged bone that hurtle toward you! As you hear the sound of tearing flesh at the first impact, you are thrown back to the mundane world.
You find yourself sitting -- or standing; you can't tell for some reason -- in a field of ivory. Tinny, monotonous voices whisper conspiratorially from all around. As though perpetually busy with something else, you nod absentmindedly and reply in a voice not your own, "Ready, yes, ready."
An eight-legged monstrosity of gigantic proportions languorously treads through a field of strewn bones, which then transforms into a jungly region. Curiously, the creature is followed on all sides by a parading crowd. Or are they skeletons?
Your vision remains unchanged, but the sounds around you are abruptly replaced by a dozen maddened wails! Among their din, you make out a single weeping voice softly pleading to Albreda over and over.
A shadowy, misshapen giant towers in front of you and trumpets out, "It's time to pay, gnat. A hundred deaths for every slight!" Your vision snaps back to normality as a coarse mixture of laughter and growling reverberates against your skull. --- Twirling bones of myriad sizes begin a peculiar dance around you, filling the air with their rollicking clatter and distracting you from the world. When you reach out to touch one, all of them burst in small explosions of silvery dust.
A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. A knock sounds at the door. Setting aside the feathered duster and cleaning rags, you make your way towards the entry parlor, your footsteps echoing loudly upon the marble floor.
You focus inwardly searching for insight into your future. A searing jolt of pain stabs through your chest and your vision flashes with an angry white glare. The storm shows no sign of letting up any time soon, and in fact continues to get worse with each passing moment. Pulling your cloak tightly closed and clutching your possessions, you step out from under the awning to make your way home.
No more than three steps out, the world explodes in a white-hot flash.
The sounds of the world grow muted and distant. A sweetly jubilant melody emerges from the back of your mind in their stead. Humming along and reminiscing of the past, you wash the bloody debris off your hands.
The world melts around you, and you find yourself with a platoon of Elven warriors surrounded on all sides by an undead force. Despite their overwhelming numbers, it quickly becomes apparent that the monsters are the disadvantaged side. Silver fire rains down in bolts that fly through the wooded field and the chaos of bodies locked in battle, unerringly blasting into the Elves' foes.
In the middle of it all stands a nondescript robed man. His eyes laughing with zeal, the Elf chants triumphant prayers to the gods of war as each sweep of his flashing sword severs a rotten head. His eyes... The vision suddenly zooms close to his face, revealing mismatched gold and indigo eyes with one pupil warped into a mongoose and the other into a vulture. With a blink, the animalian pupils revert back to normal, and so does your sight.
As your vision clears you see a small light drifting peacefully across the heavens, gradually growing brighter as it moves. In a sudden moment of terror you realize that it is not getting brighter; it is getting closer.
As your vision clears you focus on a small man hiding in a tree. You note his merry blue eyes and thick beard. He smiles as he watches children making a small pile of odd items. You see what looks like a small piece of lead, some bits of hard candy, and even a small jar of thick cream.
As the children depart, the man notices you, his smile turning into a deep frown. A fierce look crosses his face, and his visage changes into that of a gremlin.
You see a man of ashen grey complexion standing on a featureless plane. He is hairless and nude, his skin profoundly bruised and burnt. A black aura surrounds him, all sharp lines and jagged edges, except for his head: as it inches upward, the darkness gives way to a crown of braided sunlight.
Above and surrounding the figure is a semi-circle of creatures, vaguely Human shaped but made out of fire and sunlight. Some bob up and down to the beat of incandescent wings, others are merely suspended in defiance to gravity. Manacles bind their limbs and trail earthen brown tethers that connect to the plane below them, leaving them perhaps a few more feet of slack.
One of the fire creatures attempts to raise a blinding sword, but does not have enough slack to bring it above its head. The grey man smirks, but closes his eyes and lowers his head. He walks the distance between him and the creatures, then sits down amongst the tethers.
As your vision clears you see a child's doll dressed in a hooded scarlet robe. The doll lies face down in the mud. You lift the doll carefully, cleaning mud from the back of the robe. You turn over the doll and discover a skeletal face staring back. The face seems to smile at you as the doll fades away in your hand, and your vision returns to normal.
A massive shadow speeds across overhead, drawing your attention upward. Great sheets of metal cover a massive, winged beast as it effortlessly glides through the air. It turns its great head in your direction, opens its mouth and releases a tremendous roar that makes the very ground you stand upon quake. In the span of a blink, the creature is gone, leaving you to wonder if it ever existed at all.
A crimson design etches across the air in front of you. Its origins are foreign, but a powerful desire accompanies it: it means everything you want, every possibility realized.
"You're forgetting something."
You stand in front of an iron table, scalpel in hand. Lying on the table is a half-naked Prydaen, unbound yet seemingly paralyzed. She stares up at you with wide, tear-brimmed eyes, while her breaths are accompanied with gasping, plaintive whines. Standing opposite of you is an elderly Human man in homespun clothes.
The Old Man says, "Glory. Immortality. Transcendence. Every promise that has been made is true. It's all hidden inside there," he looks down at the captive Prydaen, "Waiting for you to dig it out."
He returns a flat, expressionless gaze to you, "The moral dilemma isn't that necromancy demands a terrible price, but that you aren't the one that pays it. Are you worth her life?"
Spontaneous Visions
11/23/09 - 11:55pm
You see a small farm, nestled in a shallow valley between hills to the north and south. Orderly rows of vegetable sprouts occupy the center, accompanied by a small, clear stream to the side. The silhouette of an elderly Human can be seen against the light of dawn, steadily channeling a row in the soil with the hoe. A S'Kra Mur approches the farm, his dull black eyes immediately drawing your attention. The tall man approaches the vegetable rows with a sort of reverence, taking care not to step upon any of the plants, or the soil.
The Old Man looks up from his work and says, "Didn't think I'd see you here."
Xerasyth, squinting against the glare of the sun, replies dryly, "Can't I be interested in a little horticulture?"
"Not much to it, I'm afraid. Seeds go in, water comes down, weeds pop up."
Xerasyth asks, "That's all? You expect me to believe you do nothing to help them along?"
The Old Man replies in a conversational tone, "No cows. Don't get much fertilizer around here."
Xerasyth says acidly, "So cheat. Simply will the carrots to grow faster."
The Old Man shrugs and says, "What'd be the point? If they grew faster, I'd just be planting them again sooner."
Xerasyth's voice grows insistent, "Alter the plans, too."
The Old Man shakes his head. "They'd waste the soil too quickly."
"Change the soil."
"This sounds like an awful lot of work for carrots."
Xerasyth's voice loses its theatric insistence, instead taking on a faintly sarcastic quality, "Really, must we belabor this metaphor further?"
The Old Man's tone remains uncompromisingly irreverent, "Suppose we could change the fundamental nature of the carrot. Make it grow faster and healthier, perhaps even preserve it indefinitely, I suppose. But what would a carrot do with eternity?"
He quirks his eyebrows at Xerasyth and continues, "And why do I care, when I still plan to eat them?"
Xerasyth smirks and asks wryly, "So everything that's happened is in accordance with your plans, then?"
The Old Man says, "I have simple desires and you do not have the ability to deny them to me."
Both men stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, before Xerasyth says in a blunt tone, "Lyras attacked me."
The Old Man says, "Did she? Didn't realize, though it's not surprising."
"While it's amusing to watch them all squirm, soon we'll be running out of live people."
"It seems like you're building to a point."
Xerasyth asks, "What do you intend to do about her?"
The Old Man turns away from Xerasyth without a spoken word and returns to his work on the plot of earth.
Xerasyth dryly says, "This is infuriating. You're supposed to be a guide."
The Old Man replies without looking up, "When you get older you'll find that a part of healthy living is figuring out what is and is not your problem."
Xerasyth shoots back, "Ah, so for all your usual melodrama, suffering is not on the agenda. Compassion? Basic empathy? Do any of these rank above carrots?"
The Old Man asks, "Do they suffer?"
Xerasyth replies dryly, "All life suffers."
The Old Man says, "Indeed." He turns back around to Xerasyth, looking him in the eye. "I wonder how much different the world would be if all the Necromancers running around took all that energy and instead spent it trying to understand why it is the way it is."
"I'd be dead and rather incapable of pondering the subject."
"Also true, but every mortal dies."
Xerasyth says, "Yes, that's what they like to claim."
The Old Man says, "It's scary, yet consider: if the gods will that I die, and I disagree with this, which of us is in a better position to make an informed decision?"
Xerasyth's eyes gaze at the old man with the dull stare of irritated familiarity. "We both know that's nonsense. The divine aren't infallible, they just got here first and so they get to play at being gods. Their malice and caprice are fully equal to ours."
The Old Man nods, "Of course. It is a common mistake to assume that the Immortals are infinite or even in full control over their own destiny. Divinity is the fount of creation and shares the same problems with every other kind of spigot."
He continues, "But... consider if there was suffering in the universe before there were gods. It'd provide little wonder that the infinite could give birth to the finitude. Has humanity ascribed to malice and caprice the built-in limit to the suffering they can endure?"
After a pause, he finishes, "It's pitiful, not being able to die."
Xerasyth sighs, "Why on earth should we feel pity for the Immortals, or even care what 'suffering' they may endure? All that matters is that we ourselves can master hunger, eliminate disease, kill death itself. Nature's evolution ends with us."
The Old Man says, "It's not very likely, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." He slings his hoe over his shoulder and begins to walk away.
Xerasyth stands with a considering expression on his face, watching the receding form. Before it vanishes, he says, "I see you are determined to sit this one out."
The Old Man says, "If the subtext of all this necromancy business is that you know better than everyone else how to order creation, then all I can do is get in the way. Go back and face obliteration yourself; prove you deserve something greater than what you were given. Build a cathedral from your sins, but don't be surprised if it turns out to be another lonely, pointless abattoir."
As the Old Man vanishes from sight, the expression on Xerasyth's face slowly shifts from irritation to contemplation.
11/06/09 - 9:30pm
A flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. You catch quick glimpses of a snowy night, a robed Elf, a dank pit... but it's too jumbled up and unrealized to fully grasp. A headache slowly but steadily builds in force as the prophetic message gathers intensity, heralding that it will, in fact, be one of those nights.
A cloud of pungent incense blows into your face, revealing the sanctuary of a small temple. Twin rows of torches trace the entire length of the room's stone walls, while braziers near the center billow with sacred smoke. Images of Rutilor dominate the walls, all larger than life and brooding in the flickering light. Men and women crowd into the sanctuary, some in priestly robes yet most in mis-matched suits of armor. A middle-aged Elf in a formal, floor-length robe stands raised on a dais, next to the altar.
The Elf cries out, "Brothers, hear me! A darkness sweeps over the land, which the laymen do rise up against for the glory of the most holy names. Yet there is another darkness, that slips from mind to mind; lip to ear, which infects all souls with its passage."
Your mind is once again drawn to the crowded temple and the Elven priest's sermon, "We have labored long and sacrificed much to preserve the innocence of the world. There will be yet more holy blood shed before our task is complete. Yet take heart, for by the glory of the Immortals and their illuminating light, an end can be seen! Though the world is darkened, we have the opportunity to finally end Kigot's hundred-year farce."
The words of the Elven priest echo in your mind, "We have the opportunity, the obligation, and the right! Too long has this cancer been left to fester in its pits and tempt the weak. Too long has the Alchemy of Flesh been allowed to taint the order which the gods did ordain!"
You see... nothing at all, though you smell stale, diseased air and acquire an inexplicable claustrophobic dread in the back of your mind. As time passes, your ears and eyes strain for stimuli with some measure of success: a faint movement of the air, bereft of any other sound, resolves into shallow breathing.
The stink and the threatening darkness hold your senses for a small eternity, before something shifts... above you? Before you can contemplate the spatial possibilities, there is a far too loud screech and a blinding explosion of light!
When your senses recover, you see a Dwarf in filthy rags, shackled hand, foot and neck in heavy chains at the bottom of a stone oubliette. A lanky Human man stands at the top of the oubliette, holding a torch above his head. The ragged Dwarf yells out, "Go away! Save the gibbet for someone whose neck can still snap!"
The Human responds, his voice a study in even politeness, "I'm sorry, sir, I had to rescue you without writing ahead. Have I interrupted something? I can always come back later."
"Wait! That voice... that voice... Markat!"
"Yes, sir."
"You little bastard! I should have made something out of your scrawny, broken corpse when I had the chance!"
"But, sir," Markat affects an injured tone, "If you had done that, I would not be here now and we could not have such a nice conversation."
The Dwarf growls out, "What do you want, Markat?"
Markat says, "I have been asked to present an invitation to you. One of the Philosophers has emerged triumphant and would be humbled if a Dwarf of your luminous reputation would agree to provide your wisdom in the dark days ahead."
"Go forth, my brothers! Let any tome which holds the Alchemy of Flesh be destroyed! Let any tongue that speaks its blasphemy be torn out! If a building may harbor one of these nihilist philosophers, then shall it be burnt as an offering to the most high! By sword, by axe and by spell this black folly will end!"
You see Zamidren Book striding down a narrow, stone passage with grim purpose. He follows a track of dark red carpeting laid down the center of a polished marble floor, though for all the expense the walls around him manage to look closed in, bare and sterile.
Turning a corner, Zamidren faces a set of wide iron doors attended by Markat. The younger man nods in recognition and swings the doors open with dramatic force. He then faces into the room, bowing low and extending his arms wide. His lowered head does little to disguise the wide, sardonic grin across his face.
Inside, dozens of cloaked men stand in a rough semi-circle, interrupted by a man-sized obelisk that occupies the center of the room. Zamidren strides into a center position and stops. Seconds pass as Zamidren and the crowd stare at each other with restrained hostility.
Zamidren speaks, his voice loud and oratorical, "We are victims of unintended consequence. Lyras and her childish demons have brought the Temple to a head. We are being picked off one by one for the audacity of knowing of the Alchemy of Flesh. It is not so far fetched to assume that this room holds the majority of us that are still left alive. If we continue to do nothing, the philosophy dies with us! But there is another way."
09/24/09 - 8:30pm
Your mind is suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of possibilities and portents. Just as suddenly, the feeling is gone. It is as if a door had swung open and then closed.
09/11/09
The image of a clear, starry night plays in the back of your mind. Steadily the image gains definition, conjuring from your imagination three unnamed stars in the firmament erupting with light.
The sense of intensity only grows, soon gaining prophetic authority and subsuming your senses. Your vision locks onto the scene while the stars continue to swell, piercingly bright and bitterly cold. The vision holds until the scene has dissolved into all-engulfing, frozen whiteness, leaving you momentarily blinded by glare.
The image of a clear, starry night played in the back of my mind. Steadily the image gained definition, conjuring from my imagination three unnamed stars in the firmament erupting with light.
The sense of intensity only grew, soon gaining prophetic authority and subsuming my senses. My vision locked onto the scene while the stars continued to swell, piercingly bright and bitterly cold. The vision held until the scene had dissolved into all-engulfing, frozen whiteness, leaving me momentarily blinded by glare.
09/02/09
Your vision is wrenched away to a grassy field. A purple-robed woman deftly glides through thick blades of grass that shy away from her presence. She approaches a green-robed man whose tail sways pensively behind him, as if waiting. His dull black eyes seem to glitter for a moment as he looks to the encroaching woman, "You can't even conceive that there's no point to this, can you?"
The woman is unresponsive, her severe features flickering in your mind's eye until there is not a lady but instead a grim, skeletal visage with writhing strands of ethereal white swirling behind her. As abruptly as they changed in the first place, so does the creature revert back to the woman with the frozen gaze.
The man shakes his head, annoyance clearly written upon his snout. He mutters, "Fine, if this is what you want." The man snaps his hand forward as an arc of blackness sweeps forth, green and red swirls writhing within in a pale mockery of life. The woman simply raises one hand as red and purple shafts of light sparkle through the air. As the wave of darkness passes, the woman's severe features are haughtily arrogant, and untouched, though the ground around her has become a cracked and dessicated patch of dirt.
As the woman prepares her counter-assault, your sight suddenly sees beyond the two figures, beyond their magic. A ravenous, shapeless hunger rises from the woman, greedily pushing outwards but always centered upon something that remains hidden from your sight. Facing it is an oozing blackness seeping forth from the man... old, and powerful. Despite its obvious might, the darkness feels frail before the hunger. Your brain hurts with intense pressure as forces you cannot comprehend fling themselves at each other, and your mind's eye mercifully closes just as you sense the black force retreating.