Mindas The Ruined Lands
Visioness Parvai the Grey Deer, Seeker of Dawn, Sky's Decree
“Nature is her own historian; she needs no man to chronicle her past, and no queen to forge her future. She is timeless, true, and unchanging. I have heard her speak in songs on the wind and watch her write poems in rivers. She speaks to natural order, to the truth of circles, to the very seance that is life and death. Even as a child, I saw her beauty. Not in the words of the clouds, but as one envisions a prophet speaking to a dumbstruck follower. Nature spoke in the universal, giving me pictures, small pieces of information. The first time she spoke to me, I was a young girl in a small village, doing nothing of sacred consequence. Then, clear as the words on this page, I saw a candle dimly flickering, a lonely star in some distant grey field. I stood frozen, struck by some single truth of the moment. I could not say why, but I felt warmth, and safety. I knew this was not a warning, rather something calling to me from somewhere just beyond the grasp of my mortal sight.
“And like that, I was given what some might call a gift, though I would not. Nor do I believe that I am afflicted by curse, for curses imply distrust of nature, and vexation. I’m not quite sure that there is a word for the world between gift and curse, but I suspect that some cosmic similarity is found in the middle.
“My visions simply exist. It is for the best: the walk of the seer is lonely, filled with misgivings. Not of the gift, but of the seer. The Sky’s Decree, my order, has been praised as gods, lifted as kings, and cast out as heretics. Sight is complicated, and those who wish to use it as a weapon do not understand the gravity of Sight. Every word to those without is a delicate choice, able to kill without lifting a finger. This is the great harmony, a feather weight from catastrophe, a child’s breath away from unmaking. This is the true weight of the world. So we speak carefully, guarding intent, not fearful of our own words, because fear is written in the hearts of the blind. We speak carefully, knowing that an errant syllable can sway kings to war, when we ourselves only know pictures. We are the children of balance and the hymn of spiderwebs. It is with this in mind that I speak: from the opening maw, the cacophony of wolves, the widdendream of the hunt. I speak to those who would hear the closing of the pack upon prey. Those who conflate balance with weakness will find their weapons broken by the cold frost of their own infernal estimations. They will fall upon their own swords on the battlefield, their women will weep. Their children will be slaughtered, a lonely star snuffed out in a dark field.
“Those who believe that they have dominion over the dirt will speak to their history, calling their predecessors as birthright. They will bandy their words with bards as a victory for blood and steel, forged in fire and thrust between the rib and sinew of their enemies. They believe that they are the victors, for their small wars matter to the soil. But they are forgotten in history, ants in a field.
“For Nature needs no man to chronicle her past, and no queen to forge her future. She is unconcerned with the plight of our world. She is unchanging, and unlike those who wish to carve their name on a rock, she will not be washed away like so much sand on a beach.“Tell the Argolor that Nature will write her own history, for she will be victorious.”