Grim Views

The following is written on a series of loose-leafed parchment, bundled in a roll and tied with thread.

"Three arrowheads in the riverbed this morning, all facing upstream. Struggles against the current. Difficult times ahead.

Leaves soaked in swiftthistle tea. Shortly after midday. One leaf untouched by the hot water. A single force, undrowned by the tide of misfortune?

I see things. When I look at a man, I see the halo of greatness about his head for an instant, hear the whispers in my ear that he is destined for success. I see another, glorious and armored astride his skeletal dragon, and know that he will be destitute by the end of the week.

Everything means something. No leaf falls, no lightning strikes, no blade cuts without purpose. "Random" is just a synonym for "incomprehensible." But I comprehend, sometimes. I can at least see the patterns, even if I cannot always decipher them... but there is no such thing as randomness.

Everything has a purpose."

"Seven toadstools on the main path in the Drag. No rain for days.

Two clouds traveling against the wind. Summer is growing long, and autumn will soon be upon us.

Found a man in the Badlands, a human. He had been attacked by a mountain lion. His blood drew beautiful pictures in the red sand. He begged me for salvation, and then for a quick death. I did not grant either. Life is a precious, delicate thing that must not be ended without consideration.

Every life I take, every time I use my power to end a life, it is a careful, measured act. I do not kill out of rage. I do not kill out of fear. I kill when removing a thread from the tapestry enriches the work as a whole. I kill when I must, when I am destined to do so, and never otherwise.

He lasted many hours before he died. In his entrails, I read the fate of the child he seeded. It will be a fine monster."

Three leaves falling against the wind. The pattern suggested a fiery dancer, and I heard cries of the Ancients on the breeze.

When I set out from Thunder Bluff, a raven took off on my right. Ill fortune for the journey.

I find myself covered in ash when I return from the Mount. Inches deep, it clings to everything, stains my robes, my skin, even my teeth. I must look a ghoul. A wonder the guards do not shoot me down.

Calls in the deep. Oceansong and wavetale. The Deep Green calls, and I will answer. Therein lie the secrets of my patrons.

The stars are arranged, with the Haywain in the house of the Captain, and the Ewer bright against the Lovers.

I cast the bones, thrice times three. The Hanged Man every time.

I have been assigned a task to interview three officers of the Grim. Three? Or was it five? Three is a more auspicious number. Niggling details are difficult to recall when standing waist-deep in the tides of fate. Three. I have yet to interview even one. The auspices have not been right.

Patience. My Inquisitor will be patient with me, or he will not. I am no one, merely the Voice, the Hand of Destiny. Why would he bother with me? I do as I must, as we all must, no more and no less.

When the time is right, they will speak to me.

Dreamed of three crowns hovering over the head of a one-eyed man. Each was inscribed with silver heart-shaped filigree, but as I watched, they melted, leaving only the eye.

Saw a falling star in the early afternoon. Expect locusts.

The naga are swarming in the deeps. Murlocs, sea serpents, and worse beset the isles of the Horde. There is something down there, something angry and hungry and cruel, something ancient and alien and unknowable. I have seen its fingerprints writ in the landscape of Vashj'ir in letters ten thousand years wide.

Do I weave the skein, or does the skein weave me? I do not dictate the pattern. I merely weave the tapestry. I pull a thread here, snip a frayed end there, but my actions are preordained by the eye of Fate itself, the eye that sees the final picture. I am no more than an agent, my own actions as much a part of the tapestry as anyone else's.

I brought forth a wriggling thing today, covered with the slime and pain of birth, and let it, mewling, loose in the world. Its claws were red with my blood, its thousand eyes glaring in soulless hate. With each new fiend, my ripples expand, and the tapestry of fate grows ever more intricate. Each of my beautiful, horrible children is another chip of colored glass, moved by the kaleidoscope into ever new and more fascinating arrangements.


The beast's father did not appreciate the price he paid for his child's life.