It was the year of the terrible decree. The seer sat in the filth. Running his hands through the squelch. Driven here by harsh whispers of truth. Pushed over the edge. And he’d fallen. Into the pit of refuse. As the digested filled his nails and the stink his nostrils he did what he hated most now. He thought.
The 9th year of Servant Frey had turned into the deepest shade of sour (or was it sickly sweet?). Everyone saw it coming. Everyone knew it. Everyone talked about it. But few did anything. The few who did were befriended. Assimilated. Lulled.
‘You are here’
A voice uttered.
‘Questions need to be asked’
Silence. Sigh. Breath.
‘The answers are yours’
The seer put his filthy hands on his face.
‘Yes’, he sobbed.
‘Where were you?’ the breath asked.
The tears made lines on the seer’s face.
‘I have spoken once, and I will not answer’