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[Prophecy] Ill Portent


Zarsies
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This is a prophetic vision accessible to seers, naztherak, farseer shamans, vivification clairvoyants, and mystics with hexing per Prophecy lore.

 

In a feverish flurry comes warped sights to the third eye and a chant of shrill and thin voices which squeal in a hellish tongue, wracking the mind. Cutting through is the receiver’s own voice uttering an ill portent.

 

Red licking up and weeping down. Howls.
Dok unmatar-vuht huk ruth viizr. Khaenor. Rhanor.
“What won’t bleed will burn. Wallow. Writhe.”

 

A basalt altar, a pit of blood, a shrieking swarm.
Zkrut aka zatar za’Draz-Kulzettar kittaz‘zak
“Drink or submit to the Biting Bat’s tithe.”

 

Hills and jungle canopies drenched in gore.
Ra’Iiztri daz’thanzar, hanuvna tidak rokka.
“The West wilts, awash with flames.”

 

The daunting shape of a horned and eyeless evil.
Hrar ukarka dondir. Huk kuul ikzlat daz’duhr.
“Four wings wide. Blood and shadow reigns.”

 

A grand black brazier lit with teal fire.
Ra’Zevir Thoruuz, ketz kuul narthuz.
“The Demon Chalice, boon and bane.”

 

Elves, orcs, and men fall upon one another, many corrupted with fangs and feral while others sling red hellfire flanking demonic warriors.
Daldel donothka aka kurav ta’nak tazug.
“Marshal men or join his domain.”

 

Scarlet consumes all sight. Screams rattle and fade. The blood of battle drowns you. You jolt back to lucidity briefly choking.
 

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A figure, long since dwelling between life and death would once be privy to these blessed insights. Now, the entity would be naught but a watered down echo of what it once was. And yet... Memories and emotions fading, it tried to cling on... Acceptance or denial, the future was vague still... And what memories it had left, would certainly draw it to the places that mattered to it in life...

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As the shaman peacefully slept, he would be hit with the vision of the West being covered in flames, as he saw the shape of a horned figure stood above the flames. When the vision subsided, he would suddenly jolt himself awake, in a cold sweat "Whub da zkah..." He would speak in cold sweat, as he slept within the confides of a large tree "Probableh anuda dream...But worth chekin it out latur. On da uda hand, if da forezt burnz, let it. Dezert ahm hozher anywayz." He'd chuckle to himself letting the vision linger for a moment, as he took a drink from his flask of rum that was laying on the floor, before turning around and going back to sleep.

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The cursed woman woke in a sweat, the Ilzakarn churning through her head even as she made for a glass of water. A tongue rolling over her own bat touched teeth, an eye running over the markings on her hand. "That time of the season again..." She soon returned to her bed, making sure to sleep soundly once more. 

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Apollonia of Akritos woke up with a start, sweat beading on her forehead as the alarming vision overtook her for what seemed an eternity. A sudden wave of nausea touched her, and she retched, barely able to keep the contents of last night’s souvlaki down.

 

The spirits had whispered to her, she deemed, but this was not the work of ordinary spirits she regularly consulted with. This was something darker.

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