[Prophecy] Umbilical Heavens

[Zarsies 6051]

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

 

 

 

A vision in sleep or a waking daydream, you are swept away to distant fathoms and drawn out from your body to the ether. In the swirling nebulas of the future your mind fixates on a ripple that rides across the sky and between worlds, a subtle wavering pitch that leads you through stars to an alien source. A whisper? A cry? A prayer?

 

Babbling brooks and bursting bubbles.

 

A trickling, slurring sound in a broken rhythm calls to you like a birdsong. The waves carry you closer, the slippery noise devolving into a wet churning.

 

Pitter-patter. Broadcasting sticky whispers.

Nothing matters. Woebegotten orphans, no whiskers.

 

The omen breaks into a vision; sprawling monuments of beastial heads, palatial ziggurats and silk-draped sandstone temples, and streets carved with canals and elaborate irrigation arches. Sparse cloud cover, a mixed blue sky, and a looming full moon upon an encircling sea. A capital befitting a theocratic empire. From the water breaches an immense carbarum trident wrapped in blood-soaked linen at the handle, sapphire as thanhium yet lustrous.

 

Diviner of the full moon. Followed.
Designer of apex predators. Swallowed.

 

In a flicker the sea becomes putrid oil, the temples are gnawed, clawed, and painted in slime, and the monuments twist into unidentifiable beastial features. The sandstone melts. The sky oozes. The buzz that called you resonates. The immaculate trident is replaced by a fetid gas that revolts all senses.

 

Thinking organs stuffed in jars.
Spying eyes hide between stars.

 

Atop the ziggurats shiver mucus-laden brains with abominable mouths that suck and spit the song that drew you. They writhe with dark limbs, eel-fleshed and toothed. A mere glimpse delivers a shred of doubt in what defines monsters.

 

Chorus of horror, sing your jubilations.
Scrawled in twisting ink; lamentations.

 

Sinking below the oily sea and the monumental temple structures lie networks of catacombs, vaults, tombs, and stelas. Hidden among them skulk mummified figures, feline heads bound in linens and lace.

 

Mortal pariah. In death, basking forever.
Immortal messiah. A sacrificial endeavor.

 

One such embalmed and dressed spirit violently flees through labyrinthine tunnels from a squelching, gibbering monstrosity with its dozen arms grasping and many more dozen eyes glimpsing. The mummy stows away in a deep cavity of forgotten tombs and frantically whispers a prayer, its hoarse voice a grave chant in your psyche.

 

Mother, hear me now
Past and future. How,
Could the all-seeing be consumed?
Send us a hero; violent.
White-furred with your trident,
For we spirits entombed.

Space and Time. The impossible climb.
Save us Mother from maw and slime.
Black and Yellow, the Kings war,
For ancient tomes we abhor.
Cleanse this plane of infestation.
Behold Time, Beauty's attestation.

 

The prayer repeats as your perspective draws up and away, shifting through layers of sandstone and marble temple infrastructure before settling upon a flickering image. Nauseating clouds linger around a pale-stoned pyramid whose bricks peel away to bizarre masonic fingers. The tide of putrid sludge and glossy oil coats the banks as they slither back and forth. Looming far above obscured by clouds is an amorphous black shape, tendrilled and eyed. At the heightening gravity of this figure’s scale and true shape, abject disgust and horror fills your belly like a rotten hot meal.

 

 

Then from the stupor you wake, nauseous and likely to retch due to a sense of minnows swimming in your guts. What nightmare was this? A cry for help or an omen of doom? Perhaps puzzled, perhaps inspired, the prophecy leaves you nonetheless burdened with a glimpse of occult knowledge.

 

 

[KudosMetro 124]

He remembered the gifts he once bore, a reminder within every waking day and every, ever, slow hour.  To hear the song of the spirits, to know each chant, each call, and now feel none.  The great channel of memories—that once he could've lived this vision,

and yet no longer.

The omen would set his heart aflame.  The grand trident a sign of his goddess—confusion. Each word of this prayer would invade his mind in a plague all so familiar, and yet so foreign.

A familiar chant, yet all so new.

Fear would cloud his mind.  Confusion invading his form.  Sickening to his being.  Things were going on—a call to the Moon Mother would never not stir him—

And so this Kharajyr woke, amidst the overgrowth of a grove.  He felt the silence of wind, his hand pressed against his chest as his cold-sweat subsided.  He saw nothing, heard nothing. 

And yet something in him stirred. 

Was it but a nightmare that so desperately wanted to be held? Was it a feeling in his figure?  Did it tell him to move?  To run?  To chase?

He was no Farseer anymore, and yet his blood boiled all the same.  He would never know what stirred him within the night, his path no longer one with the spirits. . . but worry filled his mind.  Whether it was his blood that boiled, as Kharajyr, or if it was a calling from the blood he once bore in the past that stirred him now—

Something felt wrong.

[tadabug2000 3507]

Eilys grew weary, ever-haunted by the visions she has been cursed with from birth. She sat within the confines of the church, all too aware of the sounds of outside as those evacuated Haense for the coming meteor. And yet, the church provided such peace and solace of the mind. Her stomach churned, and she knew deep down she must speak with someone.

[Qctho 178]

[!]
Weary and doused in cold sweat from the dream, a mad kharajyr with maggot-ridden eyes begins to fervently repeat the prayer of the dream; oe'r and oe'r. .

[Pallodium 469]

Ashes. O' sorrowful ashes.

Such a fallacy, unchained. A scar.

 

 

 

A being stood perched 'pon a sheer cliffside. Fogs rolled in and receded. The tide came and went. 

A ring gleamed upon a taloned digit.

 

They smiled.

[BenVader 19]

The Redskin woke up in a sweat, retching to the side as his vision returning to him from the lamenations of the vision he just bore witness to.

Was that a dream? A mere figment of my imagination or maybe. . . hmm.

The uruk sits there scratching his chin, pondering what the meaning behind such could mean.

It seems like a message, a cry; it called for me and I shall follow it to see where I fall