Inktober XIII: Ash
"The village had just faced the full brunt of summer all at once, and now sits in the white wasteland of winter." Captain Farche calmly enunciated the sentence before suddenly slamming the scrap of paper down onto the table. Nobody in the room moved. They all knew so much as a flinch would anger him beyond belief. Though considering his anger now, seeing his teeth grinding and aggressively resettling a persistent back a cowlick as he talked, they weren't sure how far he would go.
"So we have this 'miracle child' under our eye for what, four? Five days now? An' this is all we get out of him?"
"Well, Captain," Brent said, standing and trying his best to suppress a stammer, "he has said that... that he doesn't have the proper materials nessecary, for the, um..." Farche stared at Brent, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, before Brent slowly took his seat. Farche shook his head.
"Who in the nine hells does he think he is? King Tylote? You," he said, pointing to a guard standing near the door. "Tell 'im that all he can get is whatever he can pull out of his own ass." Farche stared at the guard, who looked to everyone else at the table.
"Hey hey hey, what'd I just tell you to do?" Farche said, running towards the guard, who quickly exited the room and made headway down the hall. Farche slammed the door behind him with a huff.
One of the other studies at the table stood up, someone with dark glasses and a thick pair of sideburns that Farche could never remember the name of. "Captain, the prisoner does have some point. Other oracles have claimed that they can tune their forecasts with the help of divining rods, salt, or crystals."
"Really, now? Tell me, could he actually tell us what the hells this is supposed to mean?" Farche asked, waving the scrap of paper.
"If he is able to get into the same state of mind, then yes."
Farche stood in silence for some time, a first for many of the audience, as he unfolded and refolded the alleged prophesy. With a huff, he folded it back up again and stuck it into his pocket. "Koffman, see what we can pull from the stores."
Paramarath laid motionless on the cold stone floor, body cramped into the tiny confines of the cell. He tried shifting one half-asleep arm up, only for the rest of his body to cry out in pain. He slumped back down, and felt waves of pain radiating from his wounds. He looked up to the opposing walls without moving his head, but still saw no ray of sunshine through the bars. Morning was still hours away. As he was about to let loose a groan, he heard the turning of a lock and willed himself silent. Overcoming the discomfort, he arched his neck to the main door and saw the two guards enter, with one well-looking man clad in navy blue cloth close behind. They advanced over to Paramarath's cell and unlocked it. He looked up, expecting to see a wielded nightstick or belt, but saw that the men in front only held various crystals and small cups. The men dumped the items out in what little empty space the cell still had before it, allowing many of the smaller items to spill over Paramarath's head and neck. "Now that you got your toys, you'll actually tell us somethin' useful about this, won'tcha?" he heard a gruff voice from above, likely the well-dressed man. As Paramarath tried to raise himself, he found his chin in a large, firm hand forcing his view down to a slip of paper in another. He trained his eyes on the paper, almost afraid of what might happen if he meets this man's eyes. Without averting his gaze, he grabbed whatever crystals could fit into his hands and glared at the words as he felt his stomach drop, the dark characters soon shifting and filling his vision with darkness before it faded into a muddied grey. Paramarath could see the same village as before. He could make it almost seem like a quaint hamlet in the winter, if he squinted hard enough. Many of the houses were covered in white, with warm lights of red and orange lighting up the windows and insides. It was a picture to warm his heart, if he was able to convince himself of anything but the truth he already knew. Gathered in a dark, open area, what Paramarath guessed must have once been a town square, numerous people stood huddled and shivering. They were bundled in rags and simple cloth, many of them streaked with whites, greys, and blacks. Though the sky overhead was dark and clouded, they carried no torches. They were warm enough already. At the center of the very rough circle was an older woman whose ginger hair shone brightly against the muted landscape. Though most of his forecasts were simply visual, he had no trouble hearing her out as she called to those gathered around her: "... no longer suffer. All that you have lost are simple assemblies of wood and fiber. But as I look out over you tired masses, I can see something more than the suffering or loss that you may think you have. No, what you all have is potential now. There is some potential that has guided you here, but I can see now burning against this ashen snow that your own potential far outweighs that." As the woman turned to address the crowd, she stopped over a section of it where Paramarath was, observing. From his perspective, it was as if she was looking directly at him. "I believe you have the potential to escape this dire situation. Others' potential may have lead you here, but your own will take you wherever you want to be." As the people around him cheered, they sounded muddled and underwater as Paramarath's vision faded, images quickly receding into letters and soon enough, forming a plain sentence on paper just in front of him. The gruff voice spoke up again. "Well, anythin' different now? Any signs?" Paramarath nodded, no longer feeling the scars on the back of his neck. "Definitely."
Paramarath laid motionless on the cold stone floor, body cramped into the tiny confines of the cell. He tried shifting one half-asleep arm up, only for the rest of his body to cry out in pain. He slumped back down, and felt waves of pain radiating from his wounds. He looked up to the opposing walls without moving his head, but still saw no ray of sunshine through the bars. Morning was still hours away. As he was about to let loose a groan, he heard the turning of a lock and willed himself silent. Overcoming the discomfort, he arched his neck to the main door and saw the two guards enter, with one well-looking man clad in navy blue cloth close behind. They advanced over to Paramarath's cell and unlocked it. He looked up, expecting to see a wielded nightstick or belt, but saw that the men in front only held various crystals and small cups. The men dumped the items out in what little empty space the cell still had before it, allowing many of the smaller items to spill over Paramarath's head and neck. "Now that you got your toys, you'll actually tell us somethin' useful about this, won'tcha?" he heard a gruff voice from above, likely the well-dressed man. As Paramarath tried to raise himself, he found his chin in a large, firm hand forcing his view down to a slip of paper in another. He trained his eyes on the paper, almost afraid of what might happen if he meets this man's eyes. Without averting his gaze, he grabbed whatever crystals could fit into his hands and glared at the words as he felt his stomach drop, the dark characters soon shifting and filling his vision with darkness before it faded into a muddied grey. Paramarath could see the same village as before. He could make it almost seem like a quaint hamlet in the winter, if he squinted hard enough. Many of the houses were covered in white, with warm lights of red and orange lighting up the windows and insides. It was a picture to warm his heart, if he was able to convince himself of anything but the truth he already knew. Gathered in a dark, open area, what Paramarath guessed must have once been a town square, numerous people stood huddled and shivering. They were bundled in rags and simple cloth, many of them streaked with whites, greys, and blacks. Though the sky overhead was dark and clouded, they carried no torches. They were warm enough already. At the center of the very rough circle was an older woman whose ginger hair shone brightly against the muted landscape. Though most of his forecasts were simply visual, he had no trouble hearing her out as she called to those gathered around her: "... no longer suffer. All that you have lost are simple assemblies of wood and fiber. But as I look out over you tired masses, I can see something more than the suffering or loss that you may think you have. No, what you all have is potential now. There is some potential that has guided you here, but I can see now burning against this ashen snow that your own potential far outweighs that." As the woman turned to address the crowd, she stopped over a section of it where Paramarath was, observing. From his perspective, it was as if she was looking directly at him. "I believe you have the potential to escape this dire situation. Others' potential may have lead you here, but your own will take you wherever you want to be." As the people around him cheered, they sounded muddled and underwater as Paramarath's vision faded, images quickly receding into letters and soon enough, forming a plain sentence on paper just in front of him. The gruff voice spoke up again. "Well, anythin' different now? Any signs?" Paramarath nodded, no longer feeling the scars on the back of his neck. "Definitely."
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