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Help me write a Prophecy, please. Yandrinoth players stay out!
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<blockquote data-quote="Piratecat" data-source="post: 1802502" data-attributes="member: 2"><p>Be aware that it's a lot more impressive if the prophecy is repeated by the holy man, but it was written down a couple of hundred years ago. That adds a whole extra level of majesty and mystery to the realization. It's also cool if the prophecy is slipped into the story sounding like it's about someone or something else, and the PCs gradually recognize that it's about them instead.</p><p></p><p>Also realize that if someone's character dies, your prophecy is somewhat screwed. Let's hear it for vagueness!</p><p></p><p>"It is written that in the year of dark snows in the time of my grandfather's grandfather that an old man named Ulaf was struck suddenly mad while drawing water from a well. His strong voice became a constant mumble, and months of his words were lost before a clever neighbor girl named Aintha realized that he might be prophesizing. She then appointed herself his caretaker, and scribed every word that he would say, so that it would be saved for posterity.</p><p></p><p>"Her actual tome has long since been lost, but its final verses -- just before Ulaf died -- sang in my dreams last night. I repeat them for you, as I did in my dream, but I know not why."</p><p></p><p><em><p style="margin-left: 20px">In the time of the Ivory Road</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>When the shapeless ones emerge from their deep burrows to mock the tones of man</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>They will come.</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>They will come, I tell ye! Away with yer filthy rag! With their dragging feet and nasty little whistles and no noses. How will they smell the soup? They shan't, they shan't, for they will <em>be</em> the soup, changing and e'er-flowing from one to the next, long fingers wrapping on crunching bone. They want me! They want this place, for they are called by the oxcart! They choose to hide in the chosen, they choose to sup with the victor, and they love to betray. Oh, we are lost, we are lost, we are --</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>I wish they were all.</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>It is from the oxcart that the other will come. Girl, you may think that the stinking pits sit in the long shadow of heaven, but that is a lie. That is a silly myth they teach you in the pews of the church. The sulpherous ones come from the arching darkness above, set in motion as the stars turn, and they are not the only ones, but those others DO come from below and these first ones come from above. As I said. Were you not listening? If will be your liver they sup on first, you see, if you are not dilligent. Mark me, girl! If you do not shout loud enough, those far ahead can not hear, and so will die unknowing.</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>The falling reins make the difference, after all. (*winks*) It sets all in motion, and when the whip snaps upon the world the near-star will break open like rotten fruit, and outwards they shall pour. They shall start near and spread far, and who may stop them? Not surely the sunken beast of Il'tombil, that which sleeps in reverie and rouses the hideous song. Not the flitting chits of the dreaming land, returned after so much time. Unless. . . yes. That one! He is of their line, and the other is taken by their kind, and she totes the mystery of the sunken one's slow dreams. Perhaps they can prepare, if they are fast enough? If they look? </p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>But woe, I can hear the giggling of those beneath. Do you know what they say? The blasphemous abominations may rise in the far places of the Obsidian King. His kin are still there but he's long gone, oh yes, gone from that place in the darkness and stone, but what he left behind may well be enough. I spin, I spin, whirling through a child's laughter as we all fall away into the writhing teeth. My belly aches. Less of the turnip soup, please, my dear. For turnips bring madness, and teeth, and turns the world into the nothingness of a beetle's tongue. Do not let the bearded ones bring forth the nightmares, and do not let the shapeless ones subvert the blessed, and do not let the stinking ones devour the babies in the night. Not many arrayed against such horror. Five and one, for six minus one is five. He shall dance atop the trees, and he shall wear righteousness like a shield, and all shall face the dream ahead. They all fall and we all fall, for I see down within and I. . .</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>Down from above and up from below and into the darkness they seep. Six and more to meet the foe, one less than they really will keep. </p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em>And now, it is gone? I can sleep? Bless you, for I hear only rain and not the silent screams of the creeping ones. It is a blessing, a blessing of Mithras, and surely not the last.</p></em></p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><em></p><p></em><p style="margin-left: 20px"></p><p></p><p>Whatcha think for a start? Okay, chew on that for a bit, and then I'll identify the various euphemisms.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Piratecat, post: 1802502, member: 2"] Be aware that it's a lot more impressive if the prophecy is repeated by the holy man, but it was written down a couple of hundred years ago. That adds a whole extra level of majesty and mystery to the realization. It's also cool if the prophecy is slipped into the story sounding like it's about someone or something else, and the PCs gradually recognize that it's about them instead. Also realize that if someone's character dies, your prophecy is somewhat screwed. Let's hear it for vagueness! "It is written that in the year of dark snows in the time of my grandfather's grandfather that an old man named Ulaf was struck suddenly mad while drawing water from a well. His strong voice became a constant mumble, and months of his words were lost before a clever neighbor girl named Aintha realized that he might be prophesizing. She then appointed herself his caretaker, and scribed every word that he would say, so that it would be saved for posterity. "Her actual tome has long since been lost, but its final verses -- just before Ulaf died -- sang in my dreams last night. I repeat them for you, as I did in my dream, but I know not why." [i][indent]In the time of the Ivory Road When the shapeless ones emerge from their deep burrows to mock the tones of man They will come. They will come, I tell ye! Away with yer filthy rag! With their dragging feet and nasty little whistles and no noses. How will they smell the soup? They shan't, they shan't, for they will [i]be[/i] the soup, changing and e'er-flowing from one to the next, long fingers wrapping on crunching bone. They want me! They want this place, for they are called by the oxcart! They choose to hide in the chosen, they choose to sup with the victor, and they love to betray. Oh, we are lost, we are lost, we are -- I wish they were all. It is from the oxcart that the other will come. Girl, you may think that the stinking pits sit in the long shadow of heaven, but that is a lie. That is a silly myth they teach you in the pews of the church. The sulpherous ones come from the arching darkness above, set in motion as the stars turn, and they are not the only ones, but those others DO come from below and these first ones come from above. As I said. Were you not listening? If will be your liver they sup on first, you see, if you are not dilligent. Mark me, girl! If you do not shout loud enough, those far ahead can not hear, and so will die unknowing. The falling reins make the difference, after all. (*winks*) It sets all in motion, and when the whip snaps upon the world the near-star will break open like rotten fruit, and outwards they shall pour. They shall start near and spread far, and who may stop them? Not surely the sunken beast of Il'tombil, that which sleeps in reverie and rouses the hideous song. Not the flitting chits of the dreaming land, returned after so much time. Unless. . . yes. That one! He is of their line, and the other is taken by their kind, and she totes the mystery of the sunken one's slow dreams. Perhaps they can prepare, if they are fast enough? If they look? But woe, I can hear the giggling of those beneath. Do you know what they say? The blasphemous abominations may rise in the far places of the Obsidian King. His kin are still there but he's long gone, oh yes, gone from that place in the darkness and stone, but what he left behind may well be enough. I spin, I spin, whirling through a child's laughter as we all fall away into the writhing teeth. My belly aches. Less of the turnip soup, please, my dear. For turnips bring madness, and teeth, and turns the world into the nothingness of a beetle's tongue. Do not let the bearded ones bring forth the nightmares, and do not let the shapeless ones subvert the blessed, and do not let the stinking ones devour the babies in the night. Not many arrayed against such horror. Five and one, for six minus one is five. He shall dance atop the trees, and he shall wear righteousness like a shield, and all shall face the dream ahead. They all fall and we all fall, for I see down within and I. . . Down from above and up from below and into the darkness they seep. Six and more to meet the foe, one less than they really will keep. And now, it is gone? I can sleep? Bless you, for I hear only rain and not the silent screams of the creeping ones. It is a blessing, a blessing of Mithras, and surely not the last. [/indent][/i][indent][/indent] Whatcha think for a start? Okay, chew on that for a bit, and then I'll identify the various euphemisms. [/QUOTE]
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