Something is coming. An edge has shown itself to those with the gift of foresight, be they seers, oracles, prophets, mages, or diviners. The imagery takes many forms, but shares threads.
The stench of blood.
The flash of steel.
The creeping shadow.
Struggle, strife, and suffering.
The drip of blood.
The cackle of the dark.
Death and the dead walking the world.
The gasp of pain.
The razor’s edge of Nothing.
The endless void.
Beyond this edge, nothing reveals itself further. The threads of fate themselves can’t be followed and read. The edge is ever shifting, unplaceable when, yet ever looming. Somedays, it reads within the day. Some, beyond years.
Yet it is coming. The weave of Fate itself is, after all, unavoidable. And what lies beyond, no seer’s vision will foretell.
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