Chosen Ones

*From the writings of Brother Pavel, whilst serving his sentence of Solitude. Clergy eyes only.

"When the sky turns wrong, and the ground quakes and splits, and Fate and Fortune feel their strength slip, seven there shall be who step forward. A Noble, with hair of gold. A Priest, with mission sacred. A Bard, with singing strings. An Archer, green eyes so keen. A Soldier, with painful past. A Thief, his family lost. And a Farmhand, born on a moonless night."

- Translated from my copy of the Book of Futures, Age of Renewal, Cryptic Uncertainties, Passage 47

These seven saved the world fifteen years ago.

The Book of Futures was written in 3071 BE, by our account. An anthology of prophecies collected from various sources, and compiled into a rough chronological order. Between transcription, interpretation, and sorting which prophecies had already passed, the original scholars who scribed this book had become quite adept at predicting the future.

They relayed these prophecies to various kingdoms and rulers, warning of upcoming disasters. Drought, famine, war, disease, and even weather. Soon, this order became very much relied upon. And over time, became its own religious power. Certain doctrines had to be enforced, of course. If just anyone read from the book, they might try to avert a prophecy, or profit from it. This could, and often did, cause domino effects that threw off the Book's accuracy. So, apart from some abridged copies and pamphlets, the exact words of the Book itself became sacrosanct in this rising clergy.

The clergy guides people through prophecies, but it is heretical to avert them completely. Famines may be softened by storing food beforehand. But changing farming techniques or planting different crops is a direct opposition.

Wars are more difficult. At best, the clergy might talk both sides down to a few token battles. But especially when a prophecy dictates one side as "victorious," it is a tenuous balance.

Which doesn't stop things from going wrong outside of the Book's scope. Either by a prophecy simply not existing to be recorded, lost to time, or simply some fluke. Centuries ago, The First Folio was partially destroyed in the Coup of 1356 BE. While mostly salvaged and restored, some writings remain lost. All we have are secondhand recordings, many differing from others. We did our best to maintain them.

But sometimes, something slips through the cracks.

Fifteen years ago, autumn of 923 BE, a man attempted to remake the world in his own image. Attempted to harness the primordial energies of the Gods Fate and Fortune themselves, and become himself as a god to mortals. The restored remains of the Folio text make no mention of this man, or where he came from, or how he would accomplish his goals. It only roughly outlines the journey of seven vaguely-described individuals, who step forward to end the threat he posed. And with no promise that they'd succeed.

Seeing signs of this uncertain calamity, we stepped in as usual. We sent out missionaries, seeking those who might fit these criteria. And so we did. Six individuals, each matching the prophecy's description. And of course, a Priest from our own order, "with Mission Sacred."

My mission.

I was tasked with bringing these individuals together. Of maintaining the spirit of the prophecy, while letting the words flex as needed. Letting them lead, while nudging them in the right directions. Following the instructions given to me by my Superiors, I guided them along the pre-selected path. When the Book mentioned "A chasm with an unseen bottom," we crossed the waterfall of the Southern Gorges; the bottom hidden by rushing waters. Where the Book mentioned "A forest where creatures hunted them," we crept through the Dream Woods, avoiding the gaze of the Watchers.

And when the Book claimed they "would go through hell," I pushed, pulled, begged, and cajoled them to take a shortcut through the Golem Fields. A shortcut that just barely kept us on the schedule they knew nothing of.

I will speak no further on this. May those fields vanish forever.

I guided my companions as needed. Did my best to keep them on their quest, keeping their spirits up. I think the Bard may have suspected, but he never confronted me. He simply did his best to keep his friends motivated on our shared goal.

And yes, after a long, grueling journey, with twists, turns, and plenty of details I'm sure you've already heard sung in the Ballad that the Bard composed, we were victorious! The world saved! The threat abated, and with us seven still alive!

But the Ballad does not tell everything.

The Book describes seven individuals. Vague yet precise. And as is wont to happen with chance, more than one individual may match that description. Most soldiers have painful pasts. Many thieves have lost families. And I cannot count how many nobles have golden hair, or how many peasants happened to be born under a new moon.

And how many priests might be on a sacred mission of their own?

It was not just seven who stepped forward. I do not know how many. But along our journey, I met two of my Brothers from the order, following their own paths. Each guiding their own parties. Each trying to keep the prophecy alive. I bumped into Brother Thomas in Kentsfield while I was running a minor errand at the market. He was cheerful, convinced that his group was the one foretold by the prophecy. I wished him well as we parted. My last words to him.

I encountered Brother Anselm much later in our respective journeys, at a worn down inn at the kingdom's edge. His hands trembled. Didn't say much about his party, or their route. Kept mumbling that he could still "fix it." I didn't ask what he meant. I told myself it wasn't my place. What could I have possibly said?

Anything. I could have said anything. But I only wished him well on his path, and prayed that it led to life.

Neither of them are here, now. I do not know what fate befell them. Their Bards did not live to compose songs of their exploits. So many people were dying, then. Old. Young. Rich. Poor. No one was safe. The death toll was blasphemously high. Is still blasphemously high. I lost track of how many razed or desolated towns my route took us through. And so I have no way of knowing where their journeys ended. I acted as shepherd, guiding my small flock to a destiny that was coincidentally theirs, when every step might have been our last.

There were no "chosen" ones who saved the world. Just seven souls that a prophet once glimpsed through the smallest of keyholes, locked behind the door of time.

Seven souls, who happened to follow the vague words of this prophet — and reached the right destination by pure chance alone.

A God did not choose us. A prophet did not choose us. The Book did not choose us. We were the single grain of wheat that escape the millstones. Nothing more

How many died because we succeeded? The clergy Superiors won't tell me. It's "not important," they say. "The pages turn, the chapter ends. The next step is always forward." My Brothers are gone, listed as "Lost in Duty." Fourteen lives, including theirs. But I know. I know, there must be so many, many more Brothers and Sisters gone. May they forgive me for living. And may my Solitude for my transgression against the writ be penance enough for them, as well.

The years of our calendar count down, as always. Decreasing as we draw toward the Book's final page. A weather report with a star chart confirming the date, declaring a bright sunny day, nine-hundred years from now. Sometimes, I wonder what will happen, then. Will we start a new calendar counting up? Or will Fate and Chance close our book once we're done?

I can only take solace in knowing neither I nor my friends will be called to deal with such machinations again.

Brother Pavel, 7th of March, 908 years Before End

May Fate Accept Our Diligence.