“You hear it, do you not: the way the ground beneath our feet growls at us like a hungry beast. It grows louder with each passing day. It is a sign of the end times, my dear friends, a clear warning from the Gods. The perils that await us at every turn are not by accident, but by design: the famine of Eterna is punishment for our impiety and greed. Sickness will soon follow, and it will affect both rich and poor alike.”
“You’ve seen it unfold before your very eyes, the changes; heard about the troubles from your friends, talked about it over family dinners, I’m sure; and yet many of you choose to ignore the suffering that now pervades our world. I’m here to tell you this, and only this: the days of your ignorance are no more. The Ashmother is awakening, and she is not happy with our actions. She sees what we all see, but refuse to acknowledge. Our time with her draws closer to its end.”
“Do you fear death?” the Doomsayer asked, looking out over the crowd. “Or do you foolishly believe, as some do, that it simply doesn’t exist? That you will be reborn as a tree under the same sun, or a bird that flies under the same clouds? Wouldn’t that be something? But when we speak of the end times, we do not mean for one person: but for all things, living and nonliving. Where will you go for safety when the whole world is engulfed in fire and ash, and suffocated by endless towers of smoke that put the Spires of Eterna to great shame?”
The Doomsayers were an industrious bunch, and they spent long hours prophesying the end of times for all of Vulkanon to bear witness. Before the rumbles, few listened to their speeches. At best, they were yet another noisy decoration for the city center, which hosted people from all across the realm, all with vastly different aspirations: from the finest craftsmen and merchants to some of the most despicable lowlifes in all Eterna, the Ashen welcomed all. Newcomers often struggled to adjust to the heat, but those who stuck around long enough commonly found their patience rewarded with gold and favor. The locals respected outsiders who learned to acclimate their bodies. It wasn’t an easy feat.
Some thought of the Doomsayers as a source of entertainment, and would stop by occasionally for a good laugh. But once the exodus began, their messaging resonated more and more; not only with the citizens, but the hagglers, thieves, and bounty-hunters of Vulkanon; and the lavasmiths, tanners, and glassblowers too. Even those who made a living as professional skeptics found themselves second-guessing their own intuition, when the city shook their tables at dinnertime. And although Queen Asurai denounced them publicly, and had likened them to cultists, she had a growing number of sleepless nights for which they were responsible. Whether they were right or wrong about any of their future predictions, people were finally listening.
“It is said that the First Kind who roamed Eterna, chose Vulkanon not for its hospitality, or the quality of its soil, but for the thrill: what better way to demonstrate one’s mastery of the natural world, then to tame the Ashmother herself, and carve out a home in her belly? I can think of none. And equally, I can think of no living creature with the courage to attempt such a thing in this day and age. Humanity has grown weak; our minds, fragile. We worship the First Kind not just because they were great, but because they were bold and daring. These qualities are all but gone amongst the living, save a few.”
“In fact,” the Doomsayer said, pointing over the crowd, “I see nothing but fearful men, too afraid to live but too afraid to die: trapped in a permanent stasis from whence you shall never break free. Souls such as these cannot possibly bear the burdens required of a great civilization or its cities, built long ago by superior bodies and minds: they —you, the denizens of Vulkanon— will be crushed!”
One of the members of the crowd that had gathered around to listen, didn’t like the language or the pointing, and he certainly didn’t appreciate the insults. He felt as if he were being singled out, and went on the defensive. He pushed through to the center and stood face-to-face with the Doomsayer, who had pulled back his hood when he sensed that someone was approaching. His head shined like a marble. Both men were fairly old.
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“My great grandfather was one of the most renowned lavasmiths that this city has ever known,” he shouted for all to hear. “His handiwork still hangs in the royal chambers after all these years, since the time of our last king. Many here are too young to remember such a time. But as for me, I’ve lived it. And I’ve carried on his traditions. Put my life and soul into this craft, only for you to call me weak. Do you think that bald head of yours wouldn’t crack like an egg if I smacked it with my hammer?”
“If it makes you feel better then be my guest! But anyone with an arm can swing a hammer. Such acts do not make one strong.”
“And anyone with a tongue can fabricate lies about the end of the world, so where does that leave us, Baldy?” the lavasmith said, unblinking. The air was sweltering hot, and many in the crowd were fanning their faces to cool off. With every passing second, the lavasmith felt the fire inside of him grow. It was a temperament that had plagued his family —and better yet, all masters of the craft— for generations. Something about dipping metal in molten lava and beating it with a hammer for a living tended to lessen a man’s patience, even if the act itself was quite cathartic. His mother always joked that lavasmiths, unless they were shirtless and swinging a hammer, were a bunch of hotheads.
“Your anger is misdirected, friend,” the Doomsayer said, unbothered by the insult. Every word that came out of his mouth had the same foreboding tone, and it drove the offended man crazy all of a sudden. His hands clenched up without him even realizing it. But amongst those who did notice were the Doomsayer, and he quickly developed an idea. “I’m a purveyor of the truth, which is oftentimes uncomfortable. If you’re looking for something sweet, that’s the job of candy. The truth is bitter. And it's the crudest of men, who are but useful tools for lords and kings, and who pride themselves in how much they can drink without passing out, that are the most unwilling to accept it. They fight with reality as much as they do their egos.”
“The cultist who spends his days fantasizing about the sky falling, as if the Gods themselves whispered it into his divinely-appointed ear, wants to talk about my ego. Not only does he preach, but he’s a comedian too!” the lavasmith said, laughing with all his might. Some in the crowd laughed along. Others watched silently, their eyes darting between the two.
“Do you claim that everything is normal? That the sounds are merely a group hallucination? Come now, don’t embarrass yourself in front of these fine people! What would your great grandfather say, if he saw you in such a fractured state of denial?”
At that, the lavasmith took the bait: almost reflexively, he punched the cultist with a fearsome right hook and sent him to the floor. Almost instantly, he fell unconscious. For his age, the lavasmith was strong; and he was intent on demonstrating it for all to see. He kicked the cultist with his leather boot and knocked out his front teeth. His mouth pooled with blood. Then he kicked him over and over again in the ribcage until he felt them break. The crowd watched in shock as the cultist recoiled from a flurry of blows. The lavasmith didn’t stop until he heard the sound of final defeat: a bloody death gurgle. It was impossible to fake, and impossible to recover from.
By the time the guards had arrived to disperse the crowd, the Doomsayer was already gone and the lavasmith had already ran off. Elder Plineas limped to the scene of the crime, took one good look, and winced: the blood flowed from the dead man’s mouth like a broken fountain. A quick trip to the market had taken a brutal turn. Although he shared people’s concerns about the rise of Apoch, the Doomsday Cult that had seemingly infested every major city overnight, he couldn’t stand the sight of blood.
It was the second cultist death in the space of a week, and both were equally violent. The other had been sanctioned by none other than the Queen herself, much to his dismay. Whether or not the gossip was true, seemed to Elder Plineas irrelevant: the accusers brought forth no solid evidence. For all that he knew, she had sentenced an innocent man to death. But however many times he explained that to her, she was steadfast in her decision and refused to hear reason.
And for the Elder, that was just as troubling a development as anything else because it meant she no longer valued his counsel as much as before. She listened less, and demanded more. Her decisions were more informed by emotion and impulse than anything else, and they leaned more and more towards cruelty than empathy. It was an unwelcome change, a shift in the Ashen spirit, and he saw the effects trickling down. He shook his head and said a prayer as the guards dragged the lifeless body out of people’s way, towards the lava pits. People gazed at the corpse, even those who were normally disinterested in anything that didn’t shine, and suddenly the end of the world felt closer than it ever had. And it scared them.