Sirid gazed out at the horizon, the morning rays of the sun just
beginning to peek above the clouds. He was deep in thought, unable to sleep
the night before, considering the visions that had plagued him for the last
several months. War, the air thick with the smell of blood and the carnage
of corpses, loomed in his nostrils. The dead already numbered in the tens
of thousands. Cities had been razed, forests burned to cinder. Creatures,
nightmares really, streamed forth from portals that appeared out of thin
air. Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, the screech of a great roc
snapped Sirid back to reality. "I must consult with the Oracle," he
thought. Taking only what precious belongings he could manage, he left his
mountainous abode in the sky and took the first steps on the journey that
would alter his perception of everything he thought he knew. It was a long
and arduous year that he spent searching, but information on the current
whereabouts of the Oracle was at best, impossible. It was, because of this
dilemma, that Sirid was at last admitted an audience with the cloud giant
Oligarch, in his great cloud castle. "I find the pedantic level of detail
in these visions to be quite disturbing," the Oligarch intoned. "The Oracle
is nearly 500 years old now. Did you know? He is, without a doubt, the
eldest of our race. Thus, I present you with this possibility: It is my
strong belief that you, Sirid, are next in line to be Oracle." Though Sirid
staunchly believed otherwise, he could not deny the wishes of the Oligarch.
Transport was arranged the next morning to meet with the Oracle who was, in
fact, dying. When he arrived, the withered old giant was lying in bed,
tended to by the Oligarch's best physicians. "He can no longer speak, nor
see, nor hear. But he can feel if you touch his hand, like this," one of
them said. He was fast asleep, but when Sirid approached, he began to stir.
Sirid reached out and took the Oracle's hand as instructed. But the Oracle
instead reached up to touch Sirid's forehead, and darkness was all that
followed. When he awoke, he was back in the Oligarch's castle, attended to
by physicians of his own. "He's awaken," one chimed. "Alert the Oligarch
at once!" "Oh my, look at his eyes!" "I've never seen anyth..."
A giant among giants, this lofty being is possessed of celestial grace.
He is slender despite the dizzying height, with fair alabaster skin. Fine
nimbus wisps billow about and frame his sublimely handsome face and broad
shoulders. Yet his eyes are his most otherworldly feature, gleaming
iridescent, with a propensity toward violet. The colors shift and swirl
with tumultuous abandon, in what may very well be a glimpse into the divine.
Like the heavenly clouds above, however, his prevailing expression is rather
somber. Not in a melancholic fashion as such, but one that denotes
significant gravity. Whatever has delivered this myth from legend, one can
only hope that his mission is that of benevolence.