“The God of fire and judgement has a church filled with nutjobs that torture themselves everyday. The church of the God of water is even worse, they cut their balls off and start eating a soup only diet. The God of wind’s church... we don’t talk about that here. But the God of harvest! Now that’s one worth worshiping. You can get drunk everyday with the wine you make and are even required to have a large family with people. The only bad thing there is the mandatory polycule, which is weird when up to 20 people get hitched all at once.”
-Priest of the God of water (Drunk)
Fourth Oracle
She was running in a field of wheat swishing a piece of stick she pretended was a lance. She always wanted to be a knight, one that stood up for honor. Maybe that’s who her mother was. She probably inherited her knightly prowess from a secret bloodline of dragonslayers.
She laughs as she thought of the stories her mother told her of what she did when she was young. Stories of sailing the seas in search of a pearl that could make salt or one where she braved dungeons of bone and darkness. She laughed.
She knew those stories were probably made up, but it didn’t hurt to dream.
She stomped her feet on the muddy trail that stretched to a simple cottage of thatched roof and wooded wall.
“Mom! Mom! What’s for dinner!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, making sure even her neighbors could hear her.
“Shut the hell up you little brat!” A portly woman with tan skin and scars came out of the kitchen with a grin.
She tackled the woman, still holding the pointy stick.
“Oi watch it you twerp, you’re gonna take out my eyes.” The tanned woman took the stick out before giving the girl the biggest hug she could give. They laughed as they had laughed like everyday was a miracle, a gift they could spend together, in this small cottage. A girl and her mother, somewhere far, far away.
Caipha smelled the baked bread and stew and turned towards it.
“Your favorite you little rascal, some rabbit stew.”
She licked her lips and went straight to the table. She grabbed her bowl and started thumping it in a rhythm. She called for stew to be served, annoying the old woman.
“Fine, fine, kids these days.”
The little girl grinned as she had gotten her desired result.
Works everytime.
“Alright one bowl coming right up!” The woman placed a bowl infront of her. It was warm and fragrant, like a bowl of home. Her stomach grumbled and licked her lips.
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She picked up the bowl and prepared herself to drink.
Then something buzzed. A fly.
She blinked and opened her eyes and saw something else in her hands.
It was something wet and sticky and smelled like iron. It was wrapped in white cloth. It was heavy and it stained her hands with red.
She dropped it and screamed.
“M-Mom!” She looked around, but her mother was gone.
But something else was infront of her, it was something robed and headless. She could see the oozing red. She could see the throat. She could see a dagger in her hand covered in scarlet.
She dropped the dagger and felt something burning behind her eyes.
The decapitated head began to speak beneath the cloth.
“Wake up...”
“What?.. M-mom, please where are you..” Tears filled her eyes as white invaded her vision. It was as if her eyes were being covered in chalky rock. The stream of tears touched her lips and she tasted something....salty.
The head spoke again, this time the cloth burned to cinders and a face of a tanned woman spoke without any ears, eyes, teeth, tongue, or nose.
No
“Wake up..”
Then she screamed.
She woke up in cold sweat, her hands and knees shivering from frost that wasn’t there.
What..what was that dream?
Her memories were slowly slipping away. She knew the dream had weight to it, like something so close to her heart, but she could not tell what the contents of it were. Every second that passed made her mind forget little pieces till no remnant remained. It was as if a nonexistent story still dug itself inside her.
The moonlight hit her milky eyes. She could not see, but she could feel the heat from the sun.
It was always so bright. The rays of moonlight and sparks of flame were always so bright. For seventy years she’s been plagued by these unknown dreams. She started having them when she was only nine, before she joined the church, before she had any notable memories to speak of.
She’s 79 and stuck in the body of a malnourished child. One that bore more bone than skin, more scars that supple shapes, and more burns than any smith.
She wrapped her eyes with cloth and grabbed her cane. She held a bell close to her as she stood up from her bed and prayed to God.
Afterwards she thanked him for the days that were given to her.
She had no name, she had no ties to the world, and she had no plans to change that. She could only foretell wisdom and nothing more. She was known as the fourth oracle and she needed nothing more...
She was the fourth child birthed under the fallen sky and because of that she bore witness to beauty that burns all things trivial. She could see the ephemeral and see the panoply of intelligent design, but in exchange she was given the curse of being severed from the machinations of fate. Time did not touch her and harm could not befall her, yet even as something like she was, she was respected and revered by the church. She was an agent, one of plans, poems, and portents. But she was not that unique, not really. She was merely thankful to still be here.
She could tell others what was, what will be, and what is, but the decision to act upon the wisdom did not lie upon her. It was not her part to do so. Nevertheless it was work that needed to be done, regardless of the pain it brings.
She scratches the collar in her neck. It was tighter than the previous year and much tighter than the one before.
She strolls past the halls and brushes her hands upon it’s walls. She notices a crack and smiles.
She rings the bell in her hands, one that had a strange pearl in place of a standard clapper. It did not chafe, it did not dull, it did not bend, and it kept the same sharp ring as it always has these past few years. She does not understand why, but she feels calm when she hears it.
Slowly the cracks were filled by hard motes of calcium and grains of precious salt. They compacted into a smooth shape, one so dense that it was stronger than the plaster the wall was built with.
“Blessed be to you Oracle. What mischief are you up to now?” She hears the familiar voice of a man, one that was sharp like silver, but burned like reddened iron.
“Nothing old friend, just fixing some cracks.” She smiled. Her masked friend was always so jovial these days. It showed with the glow of his soul, a silver heart that had spikes used by shrikes.
“This is hardly fit for one such as you, fourth. Tell me, are the nightmares still keeping you up?” The masked man spoke with gusto like he always does.
“I’ll be fine Olphir, these old bones just need a little blood flow is all.” She rung her bell and saw the little sparkles of crystalline dust float and dance between the rays of sunlight. “What brings you here this early Olph?”
“I didn’t think it was possible, but the forest has started spreading what people are calling huntress nymphs. Various villages have been cut-off from each other and most of the churches have started to deploy oracles of their own.” The masked man says all this with a grin. “Tough times are coming and it seems that something else is happening miles from here, in the city of crossroads, Olipas.”
“Olipas? The city beyond the forest?”
“Aye, something unholy is brewing there. It appears we were right to come here first.” He lost his smile and he stared blankly at her. “Were cornered on all sides fourth, the black churches and the undeads aren’t going to take this lying down. We need to move now.”
She sighed. A nightmare and now this. It appears not eve she was spared a moment’s rest this time.
“Very well Olph, prepare the carriage, we’re going immediately. Wake the paladin.” She gripped her bell as it started calcifying the air. “Let’s go to war.”
