Maris hated prophecies.
To be fair, when it came right down to it he hated a lot of things. Maybe even most things. The problem with most things was simply that they tended to get in the way of what you actually wanted to do. Most things were, simply, a distraction from ones goals. Which were simple enough. Maris was, at heart, a wizard. Or would be if he had a heart. Which he didn't, but he never let the absence of any major organs worry him. Organs were, like most things, simply another distraction. Like most wizards, all Maris really wanted to do was stay at home and read black and ancient tomes of forbidden knowledge, study the magical arts and learn some new spells. Admittedly most of the ones he ended up learning were explicitly violent. But those were the ones that came in most useful when someone was trying to interrupt. They also came in pretty handy on the rare occasions he ran out of arcane secrets no man was meant to know and had to go out looking for more. This was, he felt, the ideal way of life for any self respecting student of the magical arts. The simple fact that he was dead just meant that he theoretically had more time time to do it than most.
Or at least he would if the mysterious masters from the lower levels didn't keep sending him out on these tedious bloody errands. There was always SOMETHING they wanted done. Something distracting him from his studies. No sooner had he picked up the Forbidden Grimoire Of Flaying And Dismemberment (second edition) than they'd send him off to deal with some hateful happenstance or other. At this rate he'd never get to the chapter on peeling of a mans skin and then making it chase him around until he died of blood loss and/or terror.
And so it was today that Maris found himself hating prophecies. Some half crazed geriatric decides to spout off about some child or other being destined to strike down the Infernal Lord Of The Thirteenth Sanctum, and what happens? Does anyone take the clear, simple and obvious course of action of simply IGNORING them? Maybe push the old goat into a volcano and then make some quip asking if they saw that one coming? No. They decide to call up Maris and send him out to "deal with the situation". Maris thought briefly about some of the more hilarious diagrams he'd skimmed over. "Clearly" he thought to himself "I haven't got anything better to be doing".
Empty sockets regarded the surrounding woodland with cold loathing. Maris didn't get out into the surface world much, a fact for which he was deeply grateful. The trees stretched out in all directions as Maris trudged wearily along, pausing only to check on the rather large sack that was slowly and painfully scuttling along behind him. Or at least that's how it might have appeared. Obviously the it wasn't the actual sack that was doing the scuttling, but the hapless Rat-Things that were almost crushed underneath it. The sack was rather heavy after all, and it was all their tiny frames could do to move it along. However Maris was buggered if he was lugging a great weight like that around, and so he let the Rat-Things get on with it.
Woodcutters. It was always bloody woodcutters in these stupid prophecies. Or sometimes perhaps a fisherman or some other trade that inevitably lived miles from the nearest signs of civilisation. On the rare occasions the chosen one was born in a village it was so remote and tiny that one had to wonder if the foretold champion would even be able to grasp the sword of destiny in his pudgy, six fingered, webbed claw. Still, when your in that situation anyone outside the immediate gene pool would like a princess, so it did make them easier to deal with. But today it's another bloody woodcutter. In the middle of the bloody woods, miles from bloody anywhere. Maris wondered briefly where it was these woodcutters managed to find anyone to bear the legions of miraculous children they inevitably seemed to produce. But then decided that maybe there were at least a few question he really wasn't all that interested in answering after all.
A powerful knock rang through the confines of the tiny hut, rattling the door in frame and startling the occupants within. One of whom promptly began crying rather loudly. "All in all" thought the man as he got up from the table, picked up his axe, and went to answer the door "not the ideal end to another long day". He opened the door a crack and peered out into the twilight. A tall figure, swathed in black robes stood outside. The hood was pulled down over the figures head so that the face was not visible. In one armoured hand it appeared to holding a clipboard.
"Conroy Woadsun?" it asked in flat, dry voice.
"Aye" The man answered wearily. There was clearly something odd here.
"Married to.." the figure seemed to glance down at it's clipboard. "Melrina Woadsun?"
Conroy fingered his axe nervously. "What's it to you?"
"And you recently had a son born, correct?" The figure pressed on, ignoring the mans question. At midnight of the 13th day of Akramos under the full moon in the shadow of willow?"
"That's a rather personal question stranger." Conroy stated in what he hoped was a vaguely threatening manner.
"Yes. Oddly specific too wouldn't you say? Care to answer it?" Said the figure in what was definitely a vaguely threatening manner.
"Could be...." Conroy said cautiously. He had no idea what the hell was going on.
"Look, I can hear the bloody thing, so can we spare all the buggering around. Does it have a birth mark in the shape of a.... " The figure glanced down at its clipboard again. "Oh, that's never a sword!. Anyway, shaped like this." It proffered a piece of parchment with some elongated blobs drawn on it.
"Why should I..." Conroy started to say, but was quickly cut off.
"Look Mr Woadsun. It's very possible that your child has, shall we say, a destiny. I'm here to verify everything and make sure things proceed.... according to plan. So if you could just just show me the damn birthmark I can make sure you get what's coming to you."
"Errr....."
"And then I can go away and leave you in peace. Formalities you understand. Won't take a minute."
Utterly bewildered by this stage, Conroy gestured to his wife, who was attempting rather unsuccessfully to pacify the wailing infant.
"Bring him over here a minute woman." He opened the door a crack more, but the mysterious figure made no move to come forward into the hut. The infant took one look at the black robed figure in the doorway and redoubled it's crying.
In the flickering light of the lanterns Maris took in the series of blotchy marks on the childs arm that someone apparently though looked like a sword. This was definitely the place.
"Right then, I think I've seen enough. Mr Woadsun, your child has undoubtedly been chosen by destiny." Maris took a scroll from his clipboard and passed it to the confused woodsman.
"Whats this then?" Conroy asked, uncomprehendingly.
"That, Mr Woadsun, is a scholarship for the Weissburg College Of Philosophical Economics. And this..." He said stepping aside to reveal the large sack laying on the path behind him. The sack was open to dying light of the sun, and coins glinted in the amber rays. "Is the funding to take you and your family there and set you up quite comfortably. You won't need to cut wood for a living anymore."
Conroy started forward towards the sack of coins. There was gold in there. Copper, silver and GOLD.
"Well, have a nice peaceful life" Said Maris as he retreated into the darkness. "Don't worry about getting killed by evil warriors which then prompts your son onto a quest for vengeance against the forces of darkness that only he can ever hope to conquor or anything. I'm sure he'll be quite happy, fat and useless by the time the apocalypse is ready."
Entranced by the riches before him, Conroy Woadsun wasn't even listening.
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