“You know, prophecies aren’t an exact science, I’ve told you that a thousand times” the crone muttered angrily as she stirred the steaming pile of sheep’s gut splayed out on the small hut’s kitchen table. The young noble across from her waved his hand dismissively. “I know, I know, the cosmic variables reincorporating with the underlying universal principles of the godhead and comets and planetary alignments and the nocturnal emissions of eldritch beings blah blah blah. Frankly, I'm getting tired of your excuses.”
The crone snorted. As crones go, she was fairly young. Crone was more of a title than a description, although most that sought the title usually did so well after their grandchildren were grown and gone. This one, named Bluereaina by her mother, but Aina by herself and everyone else, had discovered she had a gift for the craft of Croning, and finding herself short of funds and unfriendly towards the concept of marriage had entered the career early. But now she had to deal with jumped-up nobility demanding to know the future and she was beginning to think that maybe that fat-faced miller’s son from her youth might have been the better life choice after all.
Thrusting one final finger into the rapidly cooling intestine, she grunted in satisfaction. “Got it.” The noble flapped his hands imperiously at the clerk standing nearby. Lazy bastard couldn’t even take his own notes. The clerk scribbled furiously as she spoke the words of foretelling.
“The Chosen One will be born of fire, blessed by the gods of air and peace. She will show signs of her greatness by which she may be known, and by those signs you shall know her. In the West she will be born, but from the East she will come, and the North and South will stand to her left and her right. Her eyes will be the color of unknown gems, her hair the texture of sacred grass. From all things will she set free those that seek freedom from some things, and in some freedoms she will find peace for the kingdoms.“
The noble stared at her as she finished her litany. The scribe scratched away with his quill, finishing with a flourish.
“What the hell is that.” The noble stated flatly.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“That’s the prophecy, why, don’t you like it?”
“It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense! Not to mention, the last prophecy you gave us said it was a “he” not a “she”, and said he’d be a…a…” the noble turned to the clerk in frustration, as the man scrambled through his parchments to find the previous prophecy. He read the main points in a tremulous voice. “Blond boy, born of a mountain shepherd, good with sheep and the ladies, will overthrow the guardians of the sacred caverns and be known as the chosen one when he claims the sword of ages from its resting place in the tomb of the Lost Ram.”
The crone smiled happily. “Yes, that’s about it. What’s the problem with that?”
“THE PROBLEM IS IT DIDN'T HAPPEN!” the noble shouted. “We sent soldiers to wait at the tomb of the Lost Ram, and the kid never showed. Your foretelling didn’t happen, and now you’re throwing this nonsense at me?”
The crone’s smile broadened, and she waived a finger under his nose. “Now listen here sonny, the last chosen one didn’t make it to the tomb because you pulled the garrison that was guarding his quiet mountain town away from their duties and sent them to go sit around a tomb. Because of that idiocy, when the mountain raiders came down from the Lithom pass, there was nobody to stop them. The boy lost his family, his flocks, and his home. Last I checked he joined up with a merchant caravan and spends half his time at the bottom of a bottle. No more destiny there, thanks to you louts! So this time, I’m not going to let you screw it up for everyone with your incompetence and meddling, so you get a prophesy that’s only going to make sense AFTER it happens. If you don’t like it, good luck finding another crone willing to deal with your nonsense, even if it does pay well.” With that, she held out an expectant hand, palm open. The noble choked on a few choice words that were unwise to direct to any crone, and stormed out the door. The clerk dropped a hefty purse into the crone’s waiting palm, then after a pause, added a coin from his own pocket. “I don’t know why I even bother to wager with you about these things. Even without the foretelling I should have known he wouldn’t have taken that well.” He paused as the still grinning crone flipped the purse to an open chest nearby, and tossed the coin spinning into the air, catching it as it fell. She winked at him and said, “Maybe you’d like to make a bet that they’ll still manage to ruin this somehow?”
The clerk shook his head and strode toward the door. “Not a chance.”