Note: These Twilight Years (or Les Temps Crépusculaires in its original tongue) is a homebrewed TTRPG setting adapted from Paizo’s official Golarion setting. Read the Preamble!
IMPORTANT NOTE: this text has specific spacing and indentation that I couldn't get to work properly on mobile. Sorry if you're reading this on a mobile device it's a mess, it's much better on desktop!
“What is prophecy?”
On a late afternoon, the day of the new Long Moon, Anisha was awake and thinking of signs and omens.
The others would say “Yes, as always”, but she sadly knew better. She would sleep and she would dream, not that long ago. Was it a few decades, small little centuries, who even had the memory to know except her? Certainly not all the children around her, naive little things.
Well, hold on, was it right before the man-god ‘disappeared’? And when
her sweet mad-prophet died, so that would put it at… 140 years ago, just
about. Maybe more, she couldn’t quite remember when Rivele went mad.
They were always a bit mad, as seers tend to be in her experience,
but at some point the corridors in their mind became a bit too
confusing and all the good parts of them got lost inside. She wished
she could find the door in there, knock on it loudly, bash it open, let
her lover out, but no luck. She nearly got lost herself in the attempt.
Anyway, when Rivele lost it and whispered their last cryptic clues, and
when the pompous idiot-god failed to return on his divine birthday, all
the dreamers and prophets around broke. She was still unsure why,
something about it had always felt off to her. She had her ideas, but it
never quite fit.
Many died in various interesting ways (oh the stories she could tell),
wandered off in faraway places (real and/or imagined), forgot
themselves or everything else, debated to death about the horizon of
existence, the theological implications of sneezes or about whether
or not having eyes should be considered heretical. Things were all
around chaotic in the prophecy-telling world, the heads once full of
dreams were emptied, and madness filled the void. Now nobody had
any idea what had happened, what was happening and what would
happen which was apparently a scary and terrible thing. “Isn’t that
how it usually is?” she’d said, but they didn’t get the joke.
One of the only prophets that got through the visionary mayhem
unscathed did so because she was, as always, black-out drunk.
Arathema, the “Full-Prophet”, had always been full of various
substances, which didn’t impede her truth-saying as much as you’d
think, and in this case her body being more alcohol than water
seemed to have given her immunity to the psychic massacre. Maybe
that was her destiny, maybe that was the reason she was how she
was, maybe it was one of those cosmic jokes, but although she was
always laughing at everything she was never sober enough to
comment on it.
That’s when she started making her unfortunate “gifts”, and the one
Anisha got “for clarity and protection against procrastination” did just
that.
No more sleep, no more dreams. Thank you so much Arathema, very funny.
Where was she? Ah yes, awake and thinking. Awake on the first new moon of the new year, on a cold Abadius day. A grim day if you knew your calendar and anything about Brother Pain, but also a good day for fortune-telling! She laughed at that, a dash of dark comedy is good for the bright souls she often said. To the inquisitive looks around her, she answered “Don’t bother, you wouldn’t get it.”, which was very probable : few knew as much about the stars, the moons and all the sacred days as she did. Few knew, or vaguely recollected, as much as she did in general. Signs of the sky, days of the gods, nights of the stars, and omens. All of this to remember them and their words. Long age had its benefits.
The recent celebrations for the solstice had lifted everyone’s spirits, but as always the rest of the winter was a depressing stretch of hours and days. For her especially, the gray days and cold nights followed each other without end, and with the sun being so shy she would spend a lot less time with company and would busy herself in her old things, awake, awake.
What did “awake” even mean, really? What was it like, how did it feel, how
would you describe it to someone when you’ve forgotten what it feels
like, when there was never anything else? Everything, everywhere, all the
time, every day, was “awake”. Her mind would wander, she would rest a
bit, maybe close her eyes and enjoy the silence of night, but that was it.
Her mind never stopped, her thoughts never gave her any rest.
Time seemed to her like a long walk along a hallway, sometimes she
would see interesting vistas through the windows, peer at secrets
beyond doors ajar. She walked along many others and it made some
of her time enjoyable, but still a very long and repetitive construction
of cold hard stone, and one she could not escape from, damn the
architect. The hallway had certainly given her the time to do and
learn many things.
Time. But what good was “clarity” when she could never dream,
never rest, never do anything but think, impotent with her
words? Words, words, more words than her poor little head
could hold and it was becoming difficult to tell the difference
between her own words or those of others, between one thing
or another, between one moment and the next:
When had she made her blue tea, was it just now, was it a
moment ago? Had it just been brought by their crowned
cousins in the north, had they been cultivating it here
themselves for over 100 years? Was she talking to Arathema
yesterday, would she see her dear Owl tomorrow, would
sweet Rivele ever get better? Had it been so many years?
Was she imagining this, thinking or remembering some
other time, some other story? Hadn’t she been talking
to Qufran about something important just before, or
has that not happened yet? Was it before or after it got
dark, or the cycle before? Or the cycle before that? Or
the one after?
What do the leaves say,
where does the road go,
Does it matter?
Oh by the Hag, shut up.
What has she been doing? She has her old mug in her hands, lukewarm blue tea in it, a little fire in need of wood, the sky is a dark-ish gray… that doesn’t help much. It could be any hundreds of days, it could be morning or evening.. more clues will be needed. Here, other people are around the campfire, specific faces, familiar voices. That narrows it down.
The bellowing little girl is here, arguing about something, she can’t see her but the noise level and colorful obscenities are unmistakable.
Then Galt has been through the worst of it by now, proud and forging its
own path after so much hardship. So tall and strong, barking Raya, such
powerful muscles with which you hammer our metal and your mind into
tools. Your frail parents managed to feed you while the Taldane Misery
tore through the Expanse, shame they didn’t have enough for their own
stomachs. When we found them, they looked like heroic little statues,
skeletal soldiers protecting their child with undying hope. And so their
sparks flew to you and your own fire was born, a flame of revolt that
could never be quelled. I dread to share my teary memories with you for
fear of dousing your heart. You don’t know how much hope you give me.
Yes, that narrows it down. And who’s guitar is that she hears, seemingly joyful yet with such sorrowful undertones? The mercenary with the bright eyes who recently arrived.
A disarming smile and dexterous fingers that wield her instrument as well
as her sword. She hides a weapon under her clothes better than she hides
the fear with her playing. I remember her eyes, haunted, terrified. The
lich has come back, the lich has killed all your friends, the lich has turned
everyone, the lich is here. Poor Esfir, don’t blame yourself from running
my girl, anyone sane would have done the same. What would you be
doing in those dead lands if you’d stayed? Is that what your golden eyes
see even from here, all the way to the other side of the lake? Do you see
your hometown still, do you see the dead? Did you ever leave?
Someone is dancing to her tunes, a beautiful figure with such practice, such control, and such a hard shell. The thorny cartomancer from our mystical cousins in the west, here to see other worlds and complain while doing so.
Annoyed and bored Vicente. Beautiful and harsh Vicente. You don’t fool
me, although you are a good actor. The acid in your words eats at your
mind, your boredom a mask, your thorns a warning: stay back, it hurts.
The semblance of laziness a poor disguise to the harsh and obsessive
control he wields over himself and his body. Why commit to an exchange
with our caravan if you hate it so? What do you blame yourself for, what
did you do? Did you ever read the cards of your own fate?
A quiet pair of eyes stare at her from the back, a knowing little smile. He knows she’s a little lost, he’s the only who noticed. He’s the only who looks, whether awake or not. His little eyes wink at her while his mouth spins a grand tale.
A breeze whispers through the camp and shares a story, Melker is only
interpreting. His salt-eaten hair and beard a wonderful catastrophe, both
always so curved his head looks like a crescent moon. Our stormy
storyteller, our daydreaming scout. The others think you control the
winds, you say you only listen. I think you talk back, and I know they also
scare you. I’ve seen the recent shivers, heard what you mutter in the
night.
Next to him sits a little bundle of warmth and moss under a wide hat. Listening intently and gently scratching the cat purring in his lap. Colors around him are brighter, bursting with life. Plants seem to breathe when he does.
You’ve been here so long Mac, you’re growing roots. You’ll end up like me,
stuck here like a useless stump. You are the most incredible of all, so
much lost yet still overflowing with love. Always more to give to others,
never anything left for yourself. A sad bouquet we’d be without your
flowers, but I worry about you. Where does your sweet smile gets its
sunshine now? Is your lost sun still following you, haunting you? Believe
me, I know the pain never quite leaves. Though you might find love again,
it will never replace him.
Ah, the little bird is here! Right in the middle of the crowd. Of course. Look at him, all grown up, soon graying feathers and growing wrinkles. Shoulders bent, the weight of the world on him.
Qufran, Havuran, Kavran, so many names in such a short life. Such a little
life, nearing its end already? Don’t go my little bird, don’t go yet. I feel it
would kill me. You’re the only thing I have left of him. I hear him when
you talk, see him with you when you walk. I know I should stop looking
back, you’ll be nostalgic enough for the both of us. No, no, I’m getting
turned around. You have some years ahead of you still, although a blink to
me. A kind and steadfast Passer you still are, but you’ve been an impatient
teacher. The next Passing worries me.
Her memory spun back into place, she was somewhere in the fourth decade of the new century, couldn’t be earlier than 4740, probably a couple years after that.
Wait, it was an oathday and almost Calistril wasn’t it? The year was
certainly 4746, according to the dusty charts and the calendar that..
She was tired, she wanted her mind to stop, please stop, just once.
“Hey, Nisha, are you there?”
There she was again. She turned to the voice.
“What is prophecy?” asked Shintan. He looked intensely focused, trying to work something out.
“Little ram, why are you asking, you already know what it is.” she answered kindly. She always enjoyed the young boy’s way of talking, how he thought about words and languages, and how he always seemed to ask questions he already had an answer to. His mischievousness and impatience could drive Qufran mad, but he was certainly teaching the boy to think. His thinking was as stubborn as the rest of him. A white-hot soul, she thought, could become powerful fuel when he was old enough to control it.
“Prophecies are the messages of prophets, usually predictions or warnings about our future.” she declared with slight waves of her hands.
“And who are prophets?” the boy immediately followed, looking very serious.
There he was again. She smiled.
“You know this one too, what is Qufran teaching you? A prophet is…” she hesitated, to her this was a particularly broad and historied topic to boil down. “Anyone really, who can claim to have a connection with things beyond ourselves and to share prophecies on their behalf. All the Wyrd and everything else, you know.. Ah but this is difficult to say. You remember the old Zest?”
“I think? He was like an alchemist, but also he told really good stories.”
“You were very little then. A “Seeker-Poet” he called himself, a very strange man. He talked a lot about our Wyrd and about the Temple Wars in the south, apparently even wrote books about such things. He gave us a few.” she paused and threw a quick glance in Qufran’s direction.
Not only did Zestial write books about such matters and about the
Expanse’s folklore, he had written a book about us, the Trilen Vorda. One
of the few times she’d seen Qufran angry. Zestial never understood what
he had done wrong, he was still in shock the next morning when he
packed his things and left.
“He would use all those words he had, to ‘map the whole thing’ he’d say the damn fool. It includes things like spirits, elements, gods, whatever ‘Egregores’ are.. do you know?”
“I have one of his books. Egregores are like.. spirits, but more. Things people believe that become real, but they go… somewhere beyond where we are, like the gods.”
“Hah, so you do know. Interesting words, but be careful of people like him and their ‘maps’, they get so wrapped up in drawing them they don’t realize the whole place’s changed under their feet. But then you know his phrase.. what was it: the Wyrd is ‘at once the universal in the particulars, and the particulars in the universal’, do you know the one?”
“Yes, I have it,” he answered as he pulled the book out of his bag. The damned kid knew where the conversation would go. Very well, let’s see where you’re taking me. Never a straight question this one.
“It says ‘The mythology of the Wyrd describes at once the universal in the particulars, and the particulars in the universal. In all their stories emerges the concept that all actors are moved movers, their whole world an infinitely interconnected and constantly shifting dance.’”
There was an expectant pause as Shintan looked up at her.
“Well, you seem to have all the answers don’t you? What do you need this old woman for? Trying to coax my secrets out before your first Meraphuri-trial are you?” she sighed dramatically, but suddenly understood what he was doing. “Oh by the Sharp One, we’ve had this conversation before haven’t we?”
“I already asked about prophecies! But you talked about old people for a long time, and then tried to tell a story about Distaoleun and the moon and forgot the ending. You gave up and said I should learn about the Wyrd more, and about how everything is connected.”
She pursed her lips and tried her best to hide a smile. “Yes. Well, you ask difficult questions little ram. My mind is somewhat of a maze these days.”
“Please Nisha, I want an answer this time. And no tangents.” he declared impatiently.
“Very well, very well, you’ve got me all figured out. I’ve lost my trail of thoughts with all this.”
“You said prophets shared messages from spirits and gods. So are prophecies just words from the Wyrd?”
She snapped her fingers, “There I was, thank you”. She made a grand gesture with her arms, clearing the air with the rattling of her charms. “So, you would think so wouldn’t you? But if you understand the Wyrd and old Zest’s words, then you know that everything that goes one way also goes the other. You know, the universal is present in individual things and vice-versa.” She looked at him closely to see him work it out. “Prophets claim they only interpret but…”
“Moved movers! They…” he searched for the right words, “They both move things and are moved by them, they can’t only be one of the two.”
“Not only them little ram, the Wyrd is, everything is.”
“Even gods?” he whispered.
“Especially them. The gods are as much forces beyond us as they are what we want, what we need them to be. All that they move also moves them. All that changes us is changed by us. Funny little words that Zestial, no such thing as an un-moved mover is there?” She realized the whole camp had gone quiet and was listening to their conversation.
“So when prophets share messages… they also change things?”
“When prophets make their prophecies they are both trying to read the world and to conjure it into being. The words of the gods are also our own. A prophecy is something that might be, and something people want it to be.” She looked in front of her, focusing a non-existent point in the distance. “Prophecy is a divination of what is, an intuition of what will be, but they didn’t understand! If we only repeat the words of spirits we do nothing more than talk to a mirror. As the prophet shouts their prophecies about what will be it has already moved. They don’t realize the spiral. And they are often wrong! Because they think they are only describing unmoving things, the blind idiots.”
Shintan was deep in thought.
She was ranting now, reminiscing. “That’s what broke ‘em. Things changed so much, and everything is happening so fast now. They were all so sure, so certain Aroden was… whatever he was supposed to be. That the gods were what they wanted them to be, or maybe what the gods think they are. They confused their intuitions with what was, their ‘map’ was all wrong. Things had changed beyond what anyone thought possible. The gods, the temples, the wars...” she sighed. She’d lost the thread, and it looked like most of her audience had as well.
“Sitting in a lonely cave and observing the world doesn’t cut it! If they wanted things to happen so badly they should have done more than predict them.” she muttered angrily.
Shintan stood up, looking at her with fire in his eyes. “I don’t want to be a prophet like you then.”
“And a good thing on Charon! Nobody ever said you should, and nobody ever said I was. Me, a prophet! How dare you.” she was a little shocked and hurt by his words, but brushed it off. “What idea have you got into your stubborn little head?”
“I thought you could know what would happen with all the omens you remember. But all the omens are wrong now. I don’t like how things are, and you said we have to understand before we act.”
“Yes we do. I suppose I am like a kind of prophet, trying to understand how things really are and how they might be. But by the stars I am not as foolish as they were. The word is wrong if you want to change things, I’m amazed the fools never realized how lost they were. I don’t think anyone has thought up a better one yet.”
“I don’t want to be a prophet, and I don’t want to sit and talk about old things all day like you. I want to be like a… a Warrior-Prophet. Does that exist?”
She burst into laughter at the image. She thought of her sweet Rivele in armor, shouting their dreams like battle cries, threatening the gods with a shining sword, fighting their visions into being. After all why not? All she’d ever done was think about the world, making her own ‘map’ of existence, trying to piece meaning from old words. Remembering them so they wouldn’t truly disappear. So many words, all her understanding for naught if not used. The world was spinning around faster and faster, changing without them. Maybe they should have a say in what it should be. Maybe she should participate.
“Oh little ram. If it doesn’t exist you’ll have to invent it!”