AMIA ARCHIVE • View topic

Steam rises off the curdled entrails spilled into the snows of Brogendenstein. As the tribe gathers around their shaman, his neck adorned with the shaved phallanges of frost giants, they await the pronouncement of prophecy. Nearby, the sacrificial nibbler twitches, blood in the corner of its beak frothed by the bitter chill in the air.

The shaman foresees no coming of doom. No promise that tonight's hunt will be fruitful. No indication of the chieftan's health and general life expectancy, or when the next damning blizzard will force them into starvation.

All he sees are the small and large intestines, knotted. A bulging stomach. The rock-laden gizzard. And no stirring from the sharpened stick reveals anything but congealing viscera.

*******

"The reply is hazy," the old gypsy woman mumbles, her arthritic fingers perched like talons atop her cold crystal ball. The husband and wife from the nearby village, who have been struggling to conceive a child and now wonder when providence may provide them a bundle of joy, look at each other in consternation. "I am sorry," she adds. "Try again later."

He demands back the silver that crossed her palm. She denies it. But when the wife reminds the old gypsy that five other people have gotten the same answer from her in as many days, the crone begrudgingly digs into her coinpurse and returns the divination fee.

"Has the art forsaken me?" she asks the domovoi lurking by her hearth. A gust of wind, clearing the soot from the creaking floorboards, is her only answer.

*******

The Oracle at the Shrine in Winya can only bathe in so many springs of purified water, breathe so many flavors of incense, appeal to so many of the Seldarine before coming to the realization that something is dreadfully wrong. Her oracular reverie, perched high upon a double mattress of virginal dove down, brings only a meaningless eight hours of darkness. She does not dare claim that they are forsaken by the Seldarine.

Perhaps fasting will help, she decides, and when the servant's bring her a meal of ambrosia and nectared tea, she declines, bidding them bring only fresh water and a day's ration of bread to last her a tenday.

*******

"Birds, birds, birds. Come on, Lucinda, can't we just spend the day at my place," the youth asks, teasing the young mystic's lips with the gift of a fresh strawberry from the fields near Bendir Dale. "I'm sure we can find a lot more interesting things to do than watching birds fly over hills..."

"It isn't just bird-watching, dummy," she nudges her overamorous partner in the ribs until he falls over into the soft grass. The sun is high, the sky is blue, the clouds drifting lazily by. "It is augury. Oh, look! Here comes a flock of seagulls now!"

From the western coasts outside Cordor, a flock of gulls soars through the sky in a V formation. But then they change into a W. And then into a T, but with one of the bars at the top bent backwards. And then into something vaguely resembling a pear. And finally into a diasporic pattern that is as chaotic as the clouds themselves.

"Huh," the young mystic bites her lip, frowning. "I have no idea what that means."

"It means nothing at all," her young lover smiles, pressing a hand to her heart, and then to the low collar of her blouse and beneath. "No one can see what's going on. Come on."

As he wraps his soft lips around her neck, she settles into the grass and stares, over the curl of hair around his ear, at the flock of gulls flying off into the distance.

*******

The Seer of the Spiders, deep in a sanctuary in Ultrinnan, whisks a goblet of virginal elf blood over a subdued blue flame. When the liquid is warm to her black fingers through the smooth glass, she pours it steadily onto the flat center of the smooth mandala on the floor. Deep grooves in the stonework provide a network as perfectly patterned as an Orb Spider's web, and as the blood begins to seep into the grooves, it spreads out into a pattern.

She smiles as one leg of Llolth unfurls, heading northwest. Two more seem to curl out, turning from empty black to brilliant red to the northeast.

And then the unthinkable happens. A thromboid in the hand-carved veins - some speck of dirt, pebble or rock - blocks the flow of sacred blood into a pool that wells up out of the groove and spills haphazardly into other grooves, producing not a perfect image but a mere blotch. A stain on the engraved network at the Seer's slippered feet.

Cursing, she flings the goblet of blood across the sanctum where it crashes to the far wall, shattering into crystalline dust. Howling in a fury for her servants, she demands to know which has offended the Queen, and offended Her so deeply that She would deny the Seer her gift.

The males cringe and whine. They exchange glances. A silent communication occurs. All it takes is their desire to survive and to evade the priestesses' lash that encourages them all to point at the last favored among the servants. A unanimous condemnation. A quickly invented lie about lusting after the Seer's daughter.

His blood stains the web-like mandala even further, so much so that no discernable pattern forms beneath his pleading screams.

*******

Meram, the Faculty Head of the Divination Department at the Mystran Monolith, sits in her chair, her hin legs dangling in the air above the floor. One of her pupils attends nearby, mesmerized by the repetitive cosmic cycling of energy within her divining instrument.

"Meram. Reports are coming in from all over the island, and even beyond. The Sight is - "

"Stunted. Weak. Missing." Meram unsteeples a finger beneath her petite nose, raising it as a point. "Blind."

"Yes, magister. Even my own studies have had to come to a halt. I cannot even properly divine the time of day..."

Meram hops down from the chair, and takes a deep breath. "I can tell you the time. The time is short. There is not much of it left. That is the only time you need to know. It is the only time we can know."

*******

All across the Amian island, and stretching to areas beyond it, the Art of Divination comes to a standstill. The future is a hazy collection of blank imagery. Static. Even the gods have gone mute.

People turn to the diviners, asking, "Why?"

And for the first time, they truly feel it when they respond, "I don't know."

Xaviera, gripped by the dark mood that has seized her often over the last few days, looks over the construction site for the rebuilt bath house, her new temple. Heaving a deep sigh, she walks, head down, to the temporary shelter she has erected over a makeshift altar, lit fitfully by a single candle threatened with extinction by the night breeze.

She kneels before the altar, protecting the flame with her body, gazing into it. Its light seems to shatter into a spray of diamonds as tears fill her eyes, spears of flickering orange lancing off into the darkness. She forces a smile at the sight, imagining the rays flying off over the island, gentle arrows of love touching sleeping faces, perhaps lodging little bits of pleasant dreams in slumbering minds.

As her tears roll down her face, she sings softly, a tuneless call, whisked quickly away by a wind turned suddenly cold.

O my Lover, my Most Holy Princess
Let this, Your house, rise up and keep us safe
May Your touch on this cold marble bless it
May those who shelter in it breathe Your breath

I pray that all who see it here remember You
That Your presence lingers here for all of time
May it offer warmth and welcome in the darkness
Protecting all within from frost and rime

I beg of You that You will never leave me
That the light you give the world is ne'er extinguished
You shone in darkest corners of my soul
Sent me reason, sent me purpose, banished anguish

You give life meaning, offer us Your comfort
And teach us all there is about the world
I beseech you, Goddess, do not go from me
And should the world grow dark, Your house endures

May it hold You as a mother keeps her child
Sheltering Your essence from the storm
And if, O horrors, this last refuge crumbles
I give myself to You with open arms

Let me, goddesses, hold you all unto me
To all I have invited, You are light
And without You the world is in ruins
Your statues will be smashed by dark mens might

With grasping hands they tear the world asunder
Committing blasphemies in better names than theirs
And if the sky should fall and crush all life
The stench of death will fill the once sweet air

Let me at least remember You within me
To Your beauty may my last breath hearken
So even at my sad end there is still
A tiny spark of love left in the darkness

Torin watched the woman quietly as she stood over her basin of fresh seawater. A lithe finger dipped into the pool of rainbow-color for a moment, painting a trail of chaos across the surface before the finger withdrew and flicked the drop of water aside. Her lips quirked and her brow wrinkled in a look of unmistakable frustration.

She never got frustrated. Never. Something was wrong.

"What's wrong?"

"I wish I knew, Torin. I wish I knew."

The reply came reflexively.

"Don't wish."

The woman sighed and shook her head, and turned back to the pool of water.

"Don't you have things to do?"

"Yeah... I do. See you later. Don't get too worked up over this, alright?"

Torin walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The woman sighed again and smacked a hand into the water, splashing herself in the process.

::

Thick ruby-red clouds of the burning ossra oil was drifting through the room, a creation of snake-kin spellcasters which acts as a poison to all unscaled ones but grants benefits for the serpetine beings. The battasss ossra produces extreme clarity to mind, but it did not help. The only effect was that the room now smelled of scorched milk.

The yuan-ti pureblood let out an angry hiss, her thin blue forked tongue flickering out of her maw. It was not often her hot temper managed to surface, but the astronomical objects did not align in any way which would allow her to glimpse what had yet to come, and neither were her divination spells working.

::

Weston knew it was exactly out-of-bounds, but he knew what he was considering to do was improper of a meer noviate. All the same, he wondered if it was possible. He needed a way to find a very specific, special date. One that few knew for it wasn't meant to be known.

He took to the main temple hall after his morning duties and prayed before the alter for a time. While it was in honest prayer at first, his mind became scattered and he could not help himself any longer. Weston built up his courage to step into the small room with a divination pool.

Sister Nightingale had told it him was useful for contacting back to the temple using a ley-line crystal the portal rods reacted to. And, indeed, she had taught him the prayers meant to establish the mild telepathy when somebody was there to tend the pool. Otherwise, he knew nothing of it.

Weston approached the small basin with steady and stil slowed steps. The water was clear and shimmered gently as his breathing put a ripple over the surface. What was he supposed to do, though?

It would not matter as Weston let out a small yelp of surprise. He had barely begun to place his hand on the side of the stone pool when the water turned something of a poisonous and acidic looking green. He watched it at two paces back, but there was no further change. The blessed waters looked, to him, to have been tainted by a cruel hand.

It took him a few minutes to relax, assuring himself he would not be blamed for having discovered that somebody must have attempted sabotauge; for unknown purpose. Just...that he'd discovered it trying to do something he wasn't of permisison to.

It's was a full moon night when Tu'jol danced around the forest, naked, swinging her sword around in a beautiful display of choreography. She stood under a patch of moon light that had found it's way through the tree branches and leaves that are the sky of the forest, humming beautiful melodies out loud. She goes mostly undisturbed during her ritual dance to the Dark Maiden. Though at the end of her sword dance, she felt no different, only tired. She thought aloud:

Perhaps this sword dance wasn't up to par with what I've done in the past...

Tu'jol felt she should dance further, stronger, better, in order to make up for what she thought, perhaps, lacked. And again, she felt nothing, only now she had exhausted herself. She fell to her knees, breathing heavily and sang a prayer up to the moon glow in the sky:

Sole savior of Drow,
Dainty dancer, moon lit, aglow
Dark Maiden,
Shine your vigorous light upon us

May you radiance guide us
Through the dark of the night
May it shine so bright,
That its light,
Illuminates those lost in the webs of the wicked

Holy beam in the black
To-

Tu'jol stopped suddenly when she heard footsteps approaching. Those foot steps turned into sounds of quick movements in the distance. She slowly moved to pick up her bag and sword and a hail of arrows came right at her. She was able to avoid all but one. It pierced right through her right calf muscle. She lipped through the pain and hid behind a tree. She quickly tried to put up a "Greater Sanctuary" spell but it failed to work. She stood there, dumb founded for a second before being snapped out of her shock by the sounds of advancing danger. She quickly went through her bag, pulling out a potion of invisibility and drinking it. She limped away to another tree near by and watched. It was a trio of Elves with bows at hand and short swords at their sides. Her eyes widened and she quickly limped away, heading toward the Shrine. Once far enough away, she began to sob. Scream in a pleading voice as she limped as fast as she could:

Don't forsake me! I beg you! I've tried to do nothing but honor your name, uphold your dogma and love you with all my heart! Please... please don't leave me alone in this cruel world... don't forsake me, my goddess...

Tu'jol sobbed all the way to the Shrine, collapsing near the practice ring, tired, hurt, but most of all, heart broken. She laid there, bleeding out and sobbing. She spoke quietly to herself:

Whatever I did to deserve this, it was never my intent to let you down... Please... I implore you... don't forsake me... don't forsake me...

Tu'jol continued to bleed out while she sobbed, laying in the grass. Meanwhile the Elves caught on to the blood trail and followed in all the way to the spider valley. Noting that it went to the Shrine, they frowned and cursed, mad that they could not kill her before she got away. It did not matter she was Eilistraeen to them.

Some time later, Elrienia spots Tu'jol and rushes over to help her up. She walks her all the way indoors, asking what had happened all the while. Tu'jol simply replied:

I'm not worthy, Elrienia! I've let her down! I've let her down!

Tu'jol continued to sob as Elrienia helped her to her room and alerted anyone who was around that Tu'jol had been hurt and was inconsolable.

*Mentaki twitched as he glanced over the crystal sphere which levitated before the Magus' hand. He poked it with a gloved finger, and caused it to begin rotating again, this the third time he had attempted, growing more and more simple in his seekings each time, he just shook his head heavily in dismay.. his green-toned, elegantly inscribed form-fitting face mask glimmering. *

After a long moment he leaned back in his chair.. and began to write on a nearby parchment.*

It appears something is terribly wrong, afflicting the flow of fate, the machinations of time, the river is disrupted.. Unless.. there is no.. future to be had. . . I must find out whats going on with this at once!

*With an abrupt stand the man levitated his staff to him, and stormed out of his room and into the streets of Cordor.*

The tiny ticks of gears locking into place, and the light clink of metal fingers drumming on the desk were the only noises he made, for the longest time. Then, light scrawls as a diagram of bizarre angles and shapes was drawn, from memory. Minutes pass. Then the diagram is torn up, crushed, and tossed into a small pile of identical papers. This elf repeats this behavior again, each time searching his memory for anything different.

Vyashir has rarely ever seemed exactly this dour. A special occasion indeed!

"What's wrong?" Eventually, Vy makes a brief exclamation in reply.

"I don't mean to be a Cassandra, But I believe we're all doomed."

"What's a Cassandra?"

"Supposedly, according to Myth, Cassandra was a woman in ancient Netheril who was loved by the then-nearly-Demigod Savras, Lord of Divination. He gave her many gifts to win her affection, the greatest of these was the gift of prophecy. Every time, she spurned his advances. Realizing his folly to give such a dangerous gift, and unable to withdraw the gift he bestowed upon her, he cursed her. She could foresee the future, all right, but her words would fall upon deaf ears. Her words were twisted by his curse so that no one could be convinced by her that she actually had foresight."

He pauses before beginning again.

"... She later predicted Karsus's Folly, the doom of her people, and the collapse of Netheril. None paid heed."

Those who saw Cerri would notice a fairly large change in demeanor. She would be very distracted. She would not look well, yet she'd be smiling.

There were no birds. Silence hung in heavy curtains over the forest, hazy with midday sun. Even the wind was subdued, like a child after a reprimand, walking on tiptoes as to not draw unnecessary attention. Alanna, stock still, her tail curled around her hind paws and back against a tree, lifted her muzzle to the sky, scenting the air

But she could discern nothing. She was alone. Twilight came, and the Bendir pack's lilting hunt-song did not reach the ears of birds above.

Stillness.

Quiet.

Even the trees seemed less alive, more like stones, their warm life- energy stunted as if they were hiding, bracing for some unforeseen impact.

From what, she could only guess.

"... I have never been this afraid."

A container of what appeared to be leather is removed from a pouch, fingers
trailing over the long worn down patterns covering it's surface. Having
unfastened the thin cord holding the container shut, it would be shaken, the
hollow rattle of bone on bone easily heard within, echoing off the walls of the
dank cavern.

Quickly flipping open the small case, the bones would clatter to the floor,
falling as they may in a pattern unreadable to all but the old magic,
something of raw nature. Lileth gazed at the many delicate fetish-bones
she had collected in her time, and for once saw.. only the bones themselves.

Making sure to collect each of the small bones in order, she notices one
missing, firmly wedged into a crack untill now unseen in the cavern floor,
It's surface clearly denoting the mark of ruin, upended, awaiting doom..

Warrick can briefly be seen watching Mike from afar, bowing his head and murmuring in thought.

~This.. isn't.. good.. whatever happens, I hope Mike's okay now and isn't asked to unnescessarily relive a visit there. ~

During her usual prayer to Silvanus, Arilia couldn't help but notice that he seemed cold and far away. Usually, he seemed near when Arilia prayed, but not now.

Arilia sighed and opened her eyes, whispering quietly to herself. "Silvanus, Oak Father, where are you?"

Tharchion Valkin Mulgin sits contemplating the words of another, "I Silenced Divination" echos in his mind, the possibilities at hand with this sudden end to divination endless. Flipping the pages in a tome valkin mumbles the words "Netheres , the Duke and his city hmm" over and over.

His lips Slowly Curve into a smile, Valkin closes the tome in his hands, only time will tell how this will end, i am certain that we can perhaps hasten our goals. With that he Stands Entering his Chambers With the Zatarch of the Circle of Five, "The Summit is at a Beginning" he states as he sits in his stone Throne, "New agendas are set in motion...chromotology"as the doors are closing the last words echo out " A Great ....Bastion of ...Neutrality."

At last, the birds begin to fly in formation again. The cast bones rattle with holy marrow. Entrails speak, flowing blood completes the pattern, and once again the gods have a voice. The face of that eternal clock, its hands pinned by a mysterious element, begins moving again in a recognizeable Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

As Vaelmith sits at the Monolith, hearing the news from a visitor, he just nods.

~Mission accomplished, Cap... ~

Some time later, Ulrik sits outside the Monolith, staring into a cooking fire as the sea breeze sweeps across the small isle. There, he sits, pensive for some time.

Yet, for some reason, he can not breath that sigh of relief.

*Hashal Swears at the sight of the renewed powers of Divination, Fuming for the rest of the week and throwing Dispels over his shoulder at every odd sound or flash he notices*...

A Tiefling Knight can be seen at odd intervals of the day, whether he be in Wiltun or in Cordor, grabbing and clutching at his chest as if to find something that had been misplaced.

In Cordor, Willow blesses the body of a dead Law Knight inside of Igor's mortuary. After blessing the body, in the name of Silvanus, Selune, Sheela Peryroyal, Kelemvor and Jergal, she feels the touch of her lord, Silvanus. For the first time in a long time, she felt her connection to the Oak Father again. Later, in Wharftown, she felt the connection to the Moonmaiden as well. She smiled, in knowing that the gods had ended their silence at last. One beautiful and heartwarming piece of information in a sea of despair in the life of the Hin.

"How's the water?"

"Water's fine, dear. Water's fine. Go get dinner for our guests, hm?"

"Cando."

*somewhere in a small caravan, the insides of a glass sphere swirl back to life, a gypsy woman smiles*

It seems, Radu...zat ve are back in business.

Xaviera smiles in relief as word runs through the streets of Arrabar in far-off Chondath that the seers and diviners are back in business. "Thank the Goddess. I knew they could do it."

Dark Days for Divination

Who is online