Topic: The Time Hath Come

Nevermore

Date: 2010-09-27 00:31 EST
It's coming...

He lays the cards. For the first time, for the hundredth, he's not sure.

In the place he lives in, that he exists in, nothing is certain. His life comes and goes in the currents of time and fate, as uncertain as the winds that carry him along.

None of it matters. As he looks at the cards, he sees it again.

A wave of blackness, of darkness and despair and corruption, sweeping across this land, laying asunder all in its path.

It's coming.

There is nothing he can do to stop it, nothing he would do. The powers that be have decreed this to be so, and it will happen.

Still, he looks again. Shuffle, reshuffle. Split, cut, shuffle, cut, draw.

A wave of blackness. Death. A swath of desolation, of destruction that would forever leave its mark on the land.

There is no escape from it.

Red eyes, behind which a soul blacker and colder than the depths of space lurks and lingers.

There is no warning that he can give to the rest of the world, no alarm he might raise.

He cannot interfere.

All he can do is keep looking...and try to see the outcome.

Nevermore

Date: 2010-09-27 12:19 EST
The bones are cast.

And still it is the same.

The wave of darkness. The stink of death, the cry of despair.

Destinies, just waiting to be altered.

He knows it has already begun. That nothing can stop this thing from coming.

The bones are cast again, and yet the vision is unchanged.

A single bright star standing against the darkness, and as the darkness reaches it...its light is snuffed out.

No single light can stand against the wave of darkness.

Another light stands before the wave. And another. And another. And others, a multitude standing against the tidal force. One by one, they are crushed. Some added to the darkness, some simply tossed aside, others crushed and extinguished.

If he were the man he had been, he might have despaired at such a sight.

Somewhere within him, the corpse of that man rolls over and cries out, and then falls silent once more.

Mortal affairs are not his concern, nor can he interfere...even if the man within him had been more than the cold remains of a life best forgotten, even if he truly wanted to.

One does not stand in the way of the flood.

Nevermore

Date: 2013-06-06 04:43 EST
~The Southern Glen~

He sat by the lake, bare of all but breeches and the feathers trailing from his long, lustrous black locks. A nearby fire, small but well fueled, well tended, and with a fair bed of coals, illuminated his features as he dipped a small pot in the water licking the ground just before his knees. The pot was laid on those coals, which glowed with a heat so intense it neared on being white-bright, him taking a moment to shake a few drops from the pot which dared cling to the metal which would in moments cause those same drops to cease their existence as they knew it.

While he waited for the water to boil, he turned and reached for a large rawhide pouch nearby his knee. The ritual was so familiar to him, he did it with no thought, but for his one drive, the nature that had been instilled within him by powers he did not understand, nore did he dare to attempt to.

He had to see.

It was why he lived out here. Why he kept his home deep in the forests of this glen, why he avoided people altogether. Whenever he was around them, he had to see.

Those that found him were compelled to come.

Because they, too, had to see.

But they were few, and he was thankful it was so. Those that did come were not the poor victims of the Fate he sometimes had to dole out.

Some of which was deserved...

...some of which was not.

This all took a short time to pass through his mind as he pulled open the rawhide sack and extract from it some tea leaves. The amount he took from it was more than sufficient to brew himself a very strong cup. But that was all right. The tea was not meant for drinking.

With the coals so hot, he barely had time to get the makings ready before the water was simmering rapidly, with the amount he had put in it, perfect for perhaps a quarter of a cup. Taking the pot from the coals, he poured the contents into the cup, reaching out to dip the pot into the lake once more before he set it back on the coals, then cast the tea leaves into the steaming water.

The cup was picked up then, the tea leaves allowed to settle and absorb the water as he murmured a song in his native tongue, then looked within.

A man who walked the same path, over and over again, so many times he could do it even if blinded. But this man was not a man, he was more, much more...and yet less, at the same time. One troubled by the growing darkness that the Seer himself also felt, and growing impatient, anxious for it to show itself. One for whom Death followed in his wake, not for the man-who-was-not-a-man, but rather for the wicked that waited to fall beneath his blade. One who nevertheless walked his path, patience his ally, waiting for the evil to show itself. One determined to protect those he saw as his family...those he loved.

The vision appeared before his eyes as he looked into the cup. The darkness was everywhere he looked, no matter how he looked, no matter where, and as before, there seemed to be no stopping it. The last time the darkness came, it had been driven back, but still it left scars on this land, ones which, while no longer visible, still remained, all but forgotten by even those that had been there to witness the wounds being inflicted.

The cup was extended to the lake, swished through the dark water to rinse it of nearly all of its contents before he set it before him, reaching out for the pot where the water was already boiling. He'd filled it knowing, beyond a doubt, that once again...

...he had to see.

The ritual was repeated. Water poured, tea leaves cast in, the wait for them to settle and absorb the water before he peered into the depths of the cup once again.

A derelict building. Three shadows meeting in the dim light, desolation and decay surrounding them. Their faces unseen, but their intentions clear: to destroy, to tear asunder that which sought to bring light to the darkness. More darkness, more shadows surrounding them, drawn to them, either seeking to join with them or already allied with them. The darkness increasing, spreading, reaching out from this one place, this gathering of shadows, seeking to cover the land in horror, in terror and death and decay much like that which surrounded them...or else seeking to subdue, to enslave and ensnare others, to force them to their will.

He shook his head, shutting his eyes against the visions, trying to will them away. It couldn't be happening, not again.

Suddenly, with a violent gesture, he hurled the cup from his grasp at a nearby stone. The porcelain vessel for his visions shattered violently as it struck a sharp edge of the rock, scattering shards everywhere.

The darkness was everywhere, and soon it would gather, if something was not done to stop it.

But what could he do?

The answer was simple.

Nothing.

Even were there someone who would listen to one such as he, he could not.

It was not his place to interfere. All he could do was See.

He wanted to weep for what he saw, for his impotence in matters such as these. He was a warrior once, proud and honorable, and were he that man still, he would side with the light. He would fight, and even if he died in darkness, he would die with honor and pride. Just as he had before.

But he could not weep. No tears would come.

He could only hope that something might rise up, something bright enough to drive back the darkness to the depths from which it came, before it desecrated this land further.

But, as before, hope seemed a distant thing...