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[Prophecy] Dead Days Made Young


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I am posting this on behalf of an anonymous author. Credit to them for the writing.


[As per its nature, only characters with an application allowing for the scrying of prophecies such as Seer, Vivication, Naztherak, and so on can observe the contents of this post IC]


The vision came to those who sought -



Those who peered in mirrors, in brass vessels - it came in the number sticks, and in the waters of shallow pools;


It came in crystal balls and in scrying dreams. It bled and danced vividly from those who searched for truth amidst a sconce of flames;


A song. Old, melodious. Tragic as it was beautiful. A song of old days. Of dead days. It came amidst the broken image of elves with skin like porcelain and voices like gold, about a great, towering black tree.


It came from the voices of great stone halls. From temples with great names, that lurch the hearts of faithful men.


A great hawk plummeted with a thousand voices as its screams and was torn apieces,


And then it stopped.


And all was black.


Then a flame flickered - illuminated a sea of shadows. A single candle, amidst the coming dark. The flame danced and wavered. Its form swung back and forth, widened and split.


And there stood a great, burning eye. It watched and it knew. It seized and it saw. It bared the soul and it spoke;




W H A T  D O  Y O U  S E E ?


And all was black. Not the black of sleep, but the long dark, the likes of which beheld when a child first contemplates what it means to be dead.


And then the smell of the World returned; the breeze of the wind. The cobbles at ones feet. The fires of the hearth. The light that split from a great crystal ball. The reflection of a mirror, of brass, and of water.


One woke - dreading the dark, and musing the words of the eye that illuminated when all was pitch and shadow.

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43 minutes ago, satinkira said:

"Prophet of flame.."

An elf pondered over a stone idol.

"Even in Sleep, you command us."

Elsewhere, a one-eyed elf of brown hair and blue eyes cold sweats. He shivers and shakes, murmuring often of the baleful eye, of pillars beneath soil, and of a darkness to come. Silenced only by the wroth of that which he served, whispers turning to stillness, a loneliness of sound quelled only by the dripping of blood from his now broken nose.


"No riddles."

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