rogue_3

Valarqvin meditates in the cave, oblivious to the passage of time.

The sound of the wind and snow cannot reach her here. Other than her own heartbeat, breathing, and the blood pulsing through her veins, the only sound she hears is that of the mist condensing on the rock wall, slowly forming into dew.

The foresight of the Cyclopes gazes only upon the future. The vision left behind by the Cyclops who became the King of Sarkaz a thousand years ago continues to be passed on through generations: The shadow will spread towards Terra from the end of the icefield. That which is real will collapse and shatter. There are no corpses upon the land, for the land itself is covered in void.

At first, their kin who died on the journey to the north saw neither icefield nor demon for their entire lives. They passed on a prophecy they could not understand to their sons and daughters, like a blind man opening a coffin to sketch the face of the deceased as they lived. Now, the clan lives in the mountains, watching the icefields to the north as the nature of the vision is revealed along with that of the icefield's.

It has not changed the duty of the Cyclopes. She... they are still waiting, waiting for the far future, the finish line of fate. Until then, her job is to delay its coming.

Valarqvin's thoughts do not stop there.

She sees herself extend an invitation to a group of southerners who approach the research station. As they speak, she foresees dead bodies strewn across the ground, their faces blurred, their laughter and mirth brought to an abrupt end. Leaving her holding a flower that should not exist, with an endless sea of flowers behind her. Even so, she chooses to shake the hand of the survey team's leader.

She sees herself assist a few young shamans with whom she is acquainted, on their way towards the frontlines where the warriors are. As they share a treehouse, she sees a procession of warriors corrupted by demonic influence, a reckless campaign, and hunger in a snowstorm. Even so, she chooses to fulfill their fevered hopes.

A plethora of thoughts pass, and she sees herself walk out of the cave with resolve.

Finally, she realizes that she is, for once, reminiscing about the past. The foresight of the Cyclopes gazes only upon the future, but the myriad possibilities in the many visions eventually converge upon a single memory.

She sees the black snow rise slowly into the sky, while she walks towards a child crouched by her family's bodies, weak and in despair.

Fate is warning her. She foresees an unfamiliar icefield. The child has grown to adulthood, but as an unrecognizable, blurred silhouette, one that is being extinguished by her Arts. She foresees herself running away, but a black arrow pierces her chest and pins her to a tree. She foresees the child becoming her judge and executor. She foresees a wilting flower, a broken bow, and a piece of tattered clothing outside the door.

She knows that all this pain is destined to occur.

But she closes her eyes. All that's left are the painful, clenched, trembling sobs.

She embraces the sobbing child.

In her warm embrace, the child finally opens the floodgates, and a tear flows onto Valarqvin's collar.

She opens her eyes, and a drop of dew had fallen onto her skin, still bearing the scent of the rock wall.