Let the record show that on the third and final day of the Harvest Festival, as the sun climbed toward its zenith over Kashten Dell, I prepared to fulfill my duty as a Reader of the Church of the Prophet. This, in practical terms, meant standing in ceremonial robes that were at least one layer too warm, gripping my quill with the grim determination of a man who knew he would soon be transcribing cosmic wisdom in real time, and doing my best not to look like someone who absolutely did not want to be part of whatever disaster fate had planned for the afternoon.
From the waters of the sacred glade, the Prophet Rock looms large—scarred, ancient, and waiting. It has spoken of many things. Amazing things. Terrible things. Unfathomable things. Things that probably involved far fewer radishes than this festival currently contained.
I had seen this sight many times before, and yet, there was an undeniable heaviness in the air this time. The people felt it. I felt it. Even the goats in the agricultural display seemed to be chewing their cud with a vague sense of unease. People hoped for another year of a good read, but I’d learned that hope and prophecy were rarely the same thing.
Perhaps I misread the prophecy that day. Nowhere in the sacred glyphs did I recall a mention of being personally dragged into a chaotic, clusterfuck of an adventure. But, then again, the divine has always had a talent for omitting the most relevant details.
The Chronicles of Klept 