Irene
Aravan island
Eight days before destruction of Aravan island...
Crackows circled around the golden-hued sky; inclemency and severe precipitation: heavy sheets of rain, gale-forced winds, and extreme frostbite clung to Aravan Island like a pup embracing its progenitor.
With every gust of wind, crackows squealed with their red beaks against nature; the sudden changing of it not only made humans antsy, but a panoply of species were equally appalled by it.
This was one of the many first times Irene beheld a new species: winged with a leering grin, their quarry was to chase a golden disk that perpetually covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
Although she had become used to those raucous, low guttural growls... nowadays, she found no humor in those angry screeches and squawks that reverberated in and around Sover.
In her exceedingly arduous life, she had heard many birds; whether it was the fluting of a thrush, the shrill screeches of hunting hawks, or her favorite, the queedle of a blue jay.
Yet the totality of that assimilated knowledge paled in comparison now as she heard those crackows constantly protesting against the abrasive forecast.
She turned her gaze upon the door. It yet stood, as though the night's violence had failed to teach it ruin. That defiance was enough. Fronn answered it with steel drawn in a single, whispering breath, his stance already shaped for killing. No hesitation lingered in him, only the cold readiness to cut down the man who had dared name himself a knight of Jorath's battalion.
Irene had taken hold of the moment as one might a wayward hound—firm hand, no strain. The chaos bent around her and stilled; not a drop of blood was paid for the obedience. Her voice carried then, level and edged.
"We are of the capital as well. Jemriah, exile or not, remains the son to King Kaisran. You would name us traitors and stand unbroken? Leave now, before I see you remade as something fit only to limp in circles."
The knight's gaze lingered, measuring, as though weighing the cost of defiance against the certainty of her tone. Something slipped from him then, a mutter dragged low beneath his breath. Irene caught only a fragment, thin as a blade's reflection.
Nametri Manos.
With that, the knight was gone, wading through mud-slicked roads of Aravan village towards his vessel.
Irene was filled with trepidation; the situation around them had turned from exuberance to cumbersomeness. A juxtaposition that she didn't appreciate yet, its inevitability left her feeling lethargic as well as perplexed.
As if this was not enough, Jemriah had increased her apprehension by saying: "We should leave; the sooner we get out of this place... the better."
Jemriah, her only sustenance in this plight, now bellowed prayers to Aravan. It sounded like a dirge, which now returned to Irene's mind like a ghoulish cast.
She added a silent prayer to the elven god, Frenrir—a god whose affections were deeply entranced by animals and herbs.
A prognosticated event in elven lore observes that those who wish to be espoused out of their own race shall face rigorous consequences.
Catastrophe and destruction were something that Irene was acquainted with, but now, at this crucial circumstance where everything appeared to be convoluted and disheveled, she could perceive herself saying: "Use the powers that Aravan has bestowed upon you; that's the only way."
"We don't know what's coming or even who's coming... Leaving this place... sounds good enough to me," Jemriah said.
Irene always appreciated the fortitude and benignity Jemriah showed in the direst of situations.
But the question still nagged her; Irene's amiable face, which had paraded a whimsical humor, was now cast with deep creases and lines that filled up her whole countenance. Her disposition was now disoriented; in her mind, it felt like a vilification of her character.
The question of a soothsayer still gnawed at her mind, irreparable and irrevocable. Respite was not her alternative; it never was. She heard the question still, whispering and attempting to draw a reaction out of her.
The question... he had asked me... of something that I still cannot counter.
What if a portent is so adamant on bestowing a prognosticated event that turns in cyclic redundancy; would you have his indefatigable attention, or would you be willing to face the inevitable consequences that span and pervade a world filled with a panoply of hate and preposterous judgments which make one feel like a debarment from his own land?
Answers... Except for gesticulating her disapproval, she had no answer for that soothsayer.
Perhaps she never shall. Yet if there dawns a day when choice can no longer be deferred, when the quiet arithmetic of blood asserts its primacy over all other allegiances, she will not falter. In that crucible, she shall cleave to her son, ineluctably and irrevocably, and Jemriah, for all that he is or was, will find himself relinquished to the margins of her will.
The world of Sumaka through the eyes of a light elf—
Our soothsayer never lies, even if a bitter truth has to be blurted out; he'll rather die than lie. A common misconception is that if a portent is purposely being obfuscatory, then that entails that either a god is involved or a catastrophic event is about to permeate the whole world. It'll enfilade hills and valleys... cascading waterfalls will torrent kingdoms.
Species will cease to exist. Flora, instead of being verdant, will burn and be resurgent once everything is over.
Both of these are ad populum fallacies; nothing is certain... nothing is guaranteed.
Prophecy may be immutable, but here it is an ever-changing phenomenon. Even gods can die; even gods bleed.
If a sentient being wants to be an iconoclast of existing divinities, then he should resolve himself to the service of tombs.
Tombs are the primary truth...
The rest is spurious...
A deliberate propaganda that preaches enlightened despotism instead of plurality.