84 - Epilogue - Well Watching

Şessandrurra stared into the seeing waters, capturing every last trace of the Changebringer before their concord expired. As dawn lit the last day of their compact, the ancient oracle watched the young man make his way to the harbor with the white-skinned huntress. Her last foretelling revealed the pair boarding a ship bound for lands south of Duskrug.

Death's wildcard had not fared well in the kingdom of the Eagle Throne, even though he was now endowed with the title of hero. She was not surprised that he would depart their shores as soon as he untangled himself from the revelry of the Fearmonger's death.

She had studied him almost constantly over the three days he had given her. She found him to be earnest, yet he seemed to be more of a dreamer than a doer. Even so, the naga felt he was well suited to his mark. She could see that soon he would no longer be a bit of flotsam on the tides of fate. In the south, he would mature. From the glimpses of his future she had witnessed, Şessandrurra knew someday soon the Changebringer would drop his first rock into the currents of destiny, diverting the flow to follow a new course.

The Wellwatcher slid through her grotto, moving to her other greater wells. These she had locked onto as many of the sign-bearers as she had located. She had to see if it was safe to adjust the pool of the Death Marked now that he was hidden from her again. If any of the other marked ones were in a critical moment, the ancient naga would wait, not wanting to chance rippling fate.

The Tyrant slumped on his bloody red throne, looking bored and angry. Then again, the outlander, who bore the appellation of Blood King, was typically morose or irritable; often both. The powerful thrall who stood guard over him was also one of the omen-chosen. The towering Hokuntev the Titan glared around the scarlet throne room with all-red eyes, seeking any potential danger to his master, the Mark of Strength glittering on his muscled chest.

The well of the Destroyer she only glanced toward, as Necronias the Necromancer was a power she knew to fear. She kept her contacts with his pool as brief and light as possible. The Tower-marked death mage was tinkering with a new undead colossus. This one had six arms and was made from the bones of an obsidian dragon mixed with those of a sacred white tundra mammoth.

The Mage was too young to be of much importance yet. The Magocracy of Eldmara had trapped the First Mark, passing it down from one archmage to the next. The newest bearer of the Mark of the Mage had just reached his early teens, and yet his command of the elements of magic was becoming impressive. In a few more years, he would emerge from the insurmountable wards of Eldmara to bring the fight to the Blood King's legion.

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The Lovers still sought each other from across Illuminaria. Forever being reincarnated apart but remembering each other, the two marked souls were on their seventh life, still trying to reunite.

The Recluse was hiding himself and the Mark of the Hermit far from everyone. Şessandrurra hissed with displeasure at the waste. The Hermit-marked seclusionist rarely provided her with any enlightenment.

Details from the Sun's pool were hard to discern beyond its constant wash of light. The Joy-Giver had made his home far across the ocean into an unrivaled paradise. Unfortunately, since it had become a utopia, it became less and less prophetically significant. Endless happiness just did not tickle the tides of fate, any more than the Recluse's self-exile did.

The well of the Devil was a black, blank void, as it typically was. That scaled scoundrel had blocked her sight a moment after she found him. Şessandrurra had only managed to pierce the Despoiler's screen three times. Each of those cases had been when the Devil-Marked kobold had been strongly stirring the flow of destiny, making those three brief visions far more valuable than hours with any of the others.

The last two were those she enjoyed the most, the Believer and the Victor.

The Believer was born in the naga's own homeland, one she had left untold ages ago. The great Delta of Narzan had been conquered by the dragon-folk of Cazmaloq sometime in the last century or so. Such small fractions of time were hard for her to keep straight. Even more recently, a serpentine Narzanian had acquired both the Mark of the Hierophant as well as the legendary class [True Prophet]. This firebrand was converting the enslaved snake-people into an army of worshippers of the goddess Phree. Rebellions were breaking out all over the delta, and Şessandrurra delighted in witnessing their fate unfold.

The Victor, the Chariot's champion, was always fun to watch. A consummate schemer, he had risen to the pinnacle of power on the east coast of the southern Hornland. One of the few upsides of losing sight of the Changebringer was that the young man's ship was on its way to deliver the Death-marked to the Victor's city. The oracle was looking forward to seeing how the two marks would coexist in that fortress on the edge of the Dragon Sea.

To ensure she would have a way to watch Death's chosen when he was not with the Bearer of the Chariot, the eternal watcher realigned the pool she had been using for the young man. The naga let a drop of blood fall into the water that her agents had purchased from a very irritated brer mercenary. The blood belonged to the Changebringer's galeling companion. The woman did not have any wards against divination, meaning there was no issue with the blood not having been offered willingly. Şessandrurra would be unable to affect the blue-hired huntress, but she could watch the world around her.

And watch she did, certain that this Changebringer would live up to the title.

Book 2 - Wild Shores begins next Tuesday!

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