Faerie Faerie

24- Impulse

24: Impulse

Grengal did not believe in the old Gods, nor did he give patronage to the Good Folk. He successfully drove the beasts, Fawn and Centaurs, from his woods to their deaths on the cliffs and the points of pikes. He had the Fae stripped of their wings, and sold in parts to Alchemists and Smithes. He did not acknowledge the vermin, but he did have those that dabbled in the arts under his employ.

Seers, Clerics, and a Priestess or two. Usually a pair, but with the latest turn of events he had only one Cleric. He was an elderly man whose form was bent, fingers gnarled into useless claws and eyes milky with blindness.

Iaxo Cispat nudged a bottle and his servant poured him a glass. The liquid smelled heady and appeared as thick as stew. "Ah." the old man rasped, "To what to we owe the honour?"

Grengal looked at the eunich who stood by Iaxo's side. "I arranged everything. Has the outcome changed." he demanded, a sense of urgency in his voice.

The cleric tapped a long curled talon of a nail on the goblet. His servant tipped it so he could take another hearty swig.

"Priest!" Grengal snarled.

"Do not get cheeky with me boy!" the old man snarled back. He couched into a kerchief then hobbled over to a table. Despite the condition of his hands, Iaxo was still able to move and pick up little things. He dropped small feathers, dried lizards and small bits of rocks that Grengal could have sword were human teeth. He tipped a flask, a device made of metal holding it in place so it tipped evenly, pouring a foul smelling substance over the items.

The concoction bubbled, thick vapors coming off the top. Iaxo motioned Grengal and his servant back. He gripped the small cauldron and took in a the vapors. The inhales seemed much more than his frail form could muster.

Grengal listened intently for the prediction. He had worked so hard for years to clear this stain that was on him.

"Your future, your past, and your present are bare." The voice that came out Iaxo's voice have multiple octaves speaking at once. "We ask Tribute, for this moment." Grengal deposited small bits of gold onto the table. The entity sniggered and rasped. "We demand flesh, drink, and meal."

Grengal frowned, then pulled the small satchel from his shoulder. He passed it off to the Eunich, who opened and inspected it. A skinned and gutted hare, already bled mostly dry, but left uncooked. Iaxo reached into the bag and wrung off the carcass' head. He bit into the skull, sucked out the eyes, then dropped the rest into the pot.

"Ask your questions." the voices employed.

"My future. I've done everything you've said," his hands opened and closed nervously, "How does my future look."

The old man chewed as the cauldron brewed. He opened his mouth and a voice over took the others, a woman. "The lands will stay in your rule for as long as your blood flows ," a male voice broke through, "Strength amoung your people. Unity and peace for decades--no-- centuries to come-- under the green banner."

Grengal let out a breath of relief. He had intervened, fate be damned.

"But..." a child's voice employed.

"But?" Grengal's brow furrowed and his mouth turned into a frown.

"Little ones in red... They shall defy your Utopia... standing against you with their army plad in midnight and raven..." The old man cackled, then choked, weezing then breathing easier moment later. "The Holy Mother will lead them... her mantle of Onyx, while her children bare silver and pearlescent crowns-- She will destroy you... this mother of Red." A female child giggled with the old man's mouth. "This Daughter of Blue."