Penned in a spidery script by an attendant of the Assembly.
Two hundred years before the opening of the dark portal, Brother Wainwright of the Boralus Sanctum proclaimed that the world was going to end.
He was known to be adept in the arts of the hull, according to the many scriptures and writings of the Tidesages from when he was alive. It was said that any ship blessed by him on its maiden voyage could not sink; icebergs would be repulsed from its hull like rain on a window, that fallen oaks would be crushed to splinters, and even a leviathan would find itself turned aside from its advance. The blessed oak and sanctified pine, while far from invulnerable, did seem to be unusually strong when touched by his holy words and anointed oils, and it is true that the ships he blessed never sank on their first voyage, as evidenced in the merchant records of lost profits and the scriptures of lost souls.
It was in the blessing of the Dancing Kelpie, a merchant vessel intended to carry grain to the kingdom of Khaz Modan in exchange for their arms and armour, that Brother Wainwright was overcome with visions, of which he claimed to have been granted by the Tidemother herself. He convulsed in fits, proclaiming a narrative of prophecy - which was, regrettably, not recorded in full - before biting his tongue hard enough to sever a chunk of it, burying what remained of his prophecy in a gargle of bloody saliva and red froth. He did not stop proclaiming what he saw, and struggling against all attempts to assist him, for two hours; after which, his tongue was re-attached, and he slept for three days.
Religious prophecy is far from unique to Brother Wainwright, though the manner by which Tidesages glean the future is far less dramatic. The Tidesages will often examine the movements of the waves for insight into ill omens, or examine the size, height, and volume of seaspray to determine the severity of storms, with the most gifted finding their predictions accurate to storms yet to come, years in advance. The fish within the seas, when not guided by the Tidesages into awaiting nets, often offer insight both practical - such as the arrival of predators that may disrupt the balance of the ecosystem - and auspicious, such as the prospect of a plentiful spawning season. It is not, however, only the seas that offer insight. Sister Glazer, who lived some fifty years after Wainwright passed, was adept in reading the signs of stars by their light and position in the sky, and was remarkably accurate in determining when, and if, a lost sailor would return. She predicted that the crew of the Wayward Spirit would return after they were presumed dead at sea, and within a week, all sixty-seven members had washed up on the coast of Tiragarde Sound.
When Brother Wainwright awoke, however, his personality had been much changed. He had, before, been introverted and quiet; a man who kept his head down, and opinions to himself. The religious revelation changed him, and he became a preacher of the wild-eyed and bombastic variety. He would speak to anyone that listened and many who would not; shouting his omens and predictions in market squares, at the executioner’s gallows, and when performing the mundane duties expected of any Tidesage. It was initially expected that something had gone wrong. Brother Wainwright was not widely known as an adept seer, and had never held much of an interest in the seas, storms, or the skies, for determining the future; even after his marked change in personality, he still exhibited little interest in actively searching for the future, in favour of proclaiming what he had already seen. Some within the Monasteries suspected that a mundane damage was the cause, as though it was never stated so openly, a delusion, snapping of the mind, or an altered state of mind can be indistinguishable from divine revelation.
The substance of his words were that Kul Tiras, while the only ones who saw the truth of the Tidemother’s love and favour, had nonetheless angered the ocean Goddess. He predicted that, after four seasons of rain, the seas would rise to swallow the land entirely. It would only be those aboard the ships that would survive, but the Tidemother would test their faith. They would live on these ships until their provisions had run out - not a morsel of food nor drink could remain on any ship - and would have to survive on her bounty alone, until she saw fit that we had earned her love once more. Only then would the seas lower and we could return to the land, changed as it would be, to begin anew.
Dramatic predictions of this sort were not unique to Brother Wainwright. A century before Brother Wainwright was born, a small group of Tidesages left the monasteries to dwell on a small islet, having proclaimed a similar need to sustain themselves on the bounty of the Tidemother alone. Their crops failed, and the sect starved, for food was of the land, and the land was wicked. Other, more fanatical sects of the Tidesages, largely lost to history, were born, and died, at sea. They traversed life on ships, small boats, and rafts, when necessary. Entire generations lived and died without setting foot on solid ground. Their sect slowly faded as much of history will, through a slow decline and failing to sustain their numbers. The apocalyptic beliefs of Brother Wainwright are not unique to Kul Tiras, either.
It is said, in the oral legends of the Briarhorn Tauren tribe, that their cultural preservation of nature is to avoid an apocalyptic event, where the Earthmother turns her fiery eye too closely to Azeroth in search of the last remaining life, and scorches the world in the process. The legend is an ironic one, which the Tauren acknowledge; for the Earthmother to turn her attention so closely to the world that she burns it would require Azeroth to already be dust and ruin. Fanatical sects of the Church of the Holy Light believe that there will be a final confrontation between the forces of Light and Shadow. Distinctions vary in the beliefs of those present; some believe that any who are not affiliated with the shadow, including non-believers, often considered at odds, such as warlocks and other practitioners of dark arts, will be on their side. Others believe that while soldiers, shamans, and druids might be on their side, practitioners of dark magic, no matter how well-intentioned they may be, shall fall on the opposing side of this cataclysmic battle. Others believe anyone who does not openly worship the Light will be on the side of the shadow. Others still strike a balance, and suggest that the Light is more metaphorical, and while leadership will lie in the faithful, those who are nonetheless reverent of the natural world, of civilisation and order, or hold other ties of duty and faith, will be on their side.
Brother Wainwright was not, after all, correct. The nation of Kul Tiras still stands. And yet, the rain was heavy in the spring following his visions. Crops failed to take root in the muddy water, and those that did were buried in mudslides, while lambs drowned in the fields. The rain continued into the summer, where storms ruined much of what harvests had managed to take root, and lightning struck many ships as they returned from the mainland kingdoms. Many grew increasingly suspicious that this wild-eyed fanatic might be correct, as he rang his bell and preached his word. He did not appear to want to set sail when the time came, however. He appeared to believe that he was to be drowned with the rest of the unworthy. It may have been a quirk of his visions that he believed as the chosen messenger of the Tidemother, he was foremost amongst those who would not survive. He may have simply thought that his word was more important than his survival. The rain did not relent in the autumn, and in the winter, a spell of unusually warm weather meant that the rain continued then. The technically minded might have used the snow or the hail to discredit him, but even the solace of pedantry would not console them. Some who heeded his words did, in the end, set sail, leaving in lightly supplied ships in hopes of becoming worthy in the eyes of the Tidemother. Many of those who left did not return, and perhaps they perished at sea, hoping they would be worthy still. The failure of prophecy might have inspired them to take new lives in Gilneas, or Lordaeron, or Stormwind, or perhaps to venture beyond the horizon entirely.
The rains relented eventually, and the world was not drowned. The cause of these rains was never found. Meteorological phenomenon was examined by the secular, while the faithful might have believed this was a mere warning from the Tidemother, if what the Prophet saw was indeed true. Brother Wainwright did not stop preaching, however. He continued until he was an old man, even long after he could no longer muster the energy to stand and shout and ring his bells, he insisted he was right. He insisted that time would prove him correct. The seas would rise and drown the world. Most ignored him, however, and assumed he had gone quite mad.
It is with this knowledge that I consider the ways that we tell the future. In a certain sense, Brother Wainwright was correct.
After all, was the corruption of the Tidesages not an attempt to drown Kul Tiras? Those adept in the priesthood of the sea did, as many will recall, go renegade, and declare their intent to conquer the island nation. Perhaps the four seasons of rain was a metaphor for the conquest of the valley, of Drustvar, of Tiragarde Sound, and finally, Boralus. Brother Wainwright might have seen this in his visions, and yet interpreted the offered prophecy too literally. We might consider the Horde assaults on the mountains, the sound, and the valley, as well. Might not the Tidemother have sent an abstract vision for the war of the Alliance and Horde engulfing Kul Tiras? Further still, we might consider the Naga, who had interwoven their schemes with the corruption of the Tidesages, who reaved the coasts of Kul Tiras and Zandalar. It would be foolish not to, as their Crucible of Flesh and Storm brought with it terrible schemes in service of their Queen. The Tidemother might have been warning him of their advance, and that the oceans were not the sole dominion of Kul Tiras.
Further still, the Abyssal God might yet have been forewarned of, and yet Brother Wainwright would have no knowledge of these visions. Zandalar, the Naga, and the Abyssal God alike would not have meant anything to him, and he would have lacked the ability to determine what he was being warned of. It is often the case that, in those gifted with sight of the future, considerable time must be spent in the interpretation of prophecy.
The excessively abstract prophet might see false signs in every glance of the future, and struggle to parse meaning at all. The overly literal might assume the abstract to be taken at face value, and make predictions so specific that they are easily proven wrong. Imagine, for a moment, a cloth of prophecy that is immersed in the tidepools of time, and the objective is to syphon the waters of truth from the plankton and other detritus from the pools. The cloth is the medium by which the prescient can immerse themselves, and yet, anything that would allow the detritus of false meaning and irrelevance to escape would allow the visions of the future to escape. It is the fundamental challenge posed to the prescient of separating the meaning from the substance, a task no more possible than separating the letters of this page from the ink with which they were written.
Thoughts of the Tidesages and their corruption are heavy on my mind, as of late. We have seen the methods by which they have traditionally observed the future perverted and chained to demagogues, those who would use them for purposes other than gleaning the future. The seas have proven to be easily commanded by the Naga, and yet the Tidesages still turn to them for guidance and for insight into the future. How might they be led astray by a single sea-witch manipulating the tides for her own benefit, or amusement? The Naga, as well, have shown great skill in manipulating skies and storms with their magic. How might they use their talents to lead us astray, one wonders; can we be sure that the omens are the warning of the Tidemother, or are they simply tricks of more malevolent beings? How might charlatans use their magic and command of our prophetic gleaning for their own ends, to deceive us? This is to say nothing of the other methods by which the sea can become a whirlpool of mistruth. The Zandalari Shark Loa, Gral, can grant his followers similar powers to manipulate the waters, to say nothing of how the Shark Loa might disrupt the seas for his own, strange reasons. In the years since Kul Tiras has rejoined the Alliance, it seems increasingly clear that the Tidemother alone does not grant dominion over the seas and skies, and thus the art of prophecy cannot be woven from tide and cloud with infallibility. It appears clear to me that these methods cannot be trusted any longer. .
It is the Primalists, of these other forces who command the elements, that linger most heavily in my mind. The Drake, Raszageth, rumoured to have been suffused with the power of the wind and sky, had summoned storms from her very being that ravaged islands for weeks on end, if the stories from the Dragon Isles are true. The rumours say that a second Drake, suffused through her being with water and ice, now resides within the capital of these isles. The Primalists themselves, adept in the elemental ways, have an incredible power over the sea and skies. It is concerning to me that, as our isolation ends, we have been presented with innumerable ways that the Tidesages can be wrong. Dragons, Cultists, Shaman, Loa, and other spirits could all, if they so choose, render a Tidesage’s assessment of the sea and sky moot, should they have chosen to interfere.
The seas and skies are not alone in this, however. The methods by which we have determined the future for generations grow less reliable with every passing year. The Kaldorei, the Tauren, and the other Druidic peoples of Azeroth have long faced the corruption of the Emerald Nightmare, adept in disguises and in deception. We cannot turn to nature for guidance on the future, as the nightmare, from the words of the druids, twists and corrupts all that it touches. Time itself grows elusive, shrouded in a maelstrom of potential futures and implausibility, and futures too dark to behold. The prescient most often see futures that require interpretation, or merely see possible futures of many actions that can be taken. The sands of time grow increasingly clogged, however, with the manipulation of mortals, using it for their own ends. Consider the Nightborne, who have abused magic that allows for time to pass swiftly or slowly for their own ends, or the unusual Dracthyr, suffused as they are with the grains of time that grant them their strange talents; becoming, in their talons, a method to heal, to strike out, or to cheat death.
The silent witnesses, the stars, appeared to be my only solace for some time; untouched by mortal intervention, used by so many peoples as they gleaned the future from the night sky. It may be true that the astral powers are used by mortal magicians, but the stars themselves remain untouched; they cannot be commanded to stir or move in the way that a meddler on Azeroth might wish. This, however, grows doubtful. Sister Glazer, in her charts and telescopes and orreries, has at long last seen her predictions struck out as the skies darken and grow sparser.
I find myself thinking of Brother Wainwright much on these days. I wonder if he was right, in what he saw, though not what he predicted. I envy his certainty in preaching, even to his old age and eventual death, as now, I do not think I could trust any vision of the future with certainty, as he did. The methods by which we determine the events to come are growing ever more unreliable, increasingly within the hands of mortals, and the path forward grows narrower with each passing day; some say, to a final confrontation of light and dark. The past expands beyond what can be conceived by a mortal mind, and yet the future grows narrower. We stumble blindly into events we cannot be forewarned of, into futures of which we have no foresight. The possibilities we can see, that will not lead us astray into ruin or falsehood, grow fewer with each passing year.
Most recently, I had the most unusual dream. I saw through eyes that were not my own, and walked through a wasteland of barren earth. It was night, and the skies were empty of anything that might provide light; I could see only to the end of where my lantern offered its sputtering sight. I walked in this endless wasteland until my feet bled, my hands grew numb, and my legs gave out beneath me. When I tried to haul myself to my feet, my fingers - bandaged from some injury I do not recall - found themselves in the sockets of a three-eyed skull. The fate of those who came before my lonely wander, perhaps? Residents of some world similar to Azeroth who had fallen to a grisly fate? A metaphor for prescient vision?
In the horizon of my dream, the ground slowly split, and a dim light shone from within. There were sounds, as well, like music; perhaps like a song, as the Tidesages so often speak of regarding the ocean. I spent what strength remained in my numb legs in getting to my feet, and staggering toward it, though I need not have bothered. The sands and stones trickled downwards, swallowed into the chasm. The song changed as it did, into some hideous scream as the ground swallowed me.
I awoke in a cold sweat. I did not have the same dream again, though it lingered with me in a way that few dreams have. I found myself drawn to one of Brother Wainwright’s metaphors; that prophecies are much like the ocean. The surface is easy to glean, clear, and decipherable. Prediction from events that follow the present are easy to have certainty in. The deeper one goes, the more difficult it is to find the meaning in memory and recollection, until one is left in the abyss where certainty is impossible. He said these as an older man, long after his prophecy had been disproven, or established as not being within his lifetime. I find myself also to Sister Glazer, and her interpretation of signs. In my dream, she would have been blind to interpret the future; the silent witnesses of Azeroth would have offered her no insight. All their eyes had been closed.
Perhaps my vision was one of an earth scorched to cinders by the scornful eye of the Earthmother in her search for that which remains from mortal folly and ruin.
Perhaps it was one where the surface, scoured by salt and sea, had no one left to inherit the bounty of the Tidemother.
There is precious little certainty left within me.
The past is expanding.
The future is receding.
The stars are going out.
