Some thoughts of no import

“You want something poetic, don’t you? Oh futures who cares, it doesn’t take a prophet to tell you Jepchy won’t win this war. I can tell you that when the treaty is signed, the shaman brought to bear witness, as every contract between northerners must have at least one, will release a pair of strange northern rodents. They’ll devastate the local wildlife to no end. You’ll have loads of dead birds and starving moles. How’s that for a concrete prophecy?” Excerpt from the seeings of Taisotin the lucid, the litany of days to come, second standard edition. “Looking at the most prolific prophesiers, Jin, Gubita, Ayela, what strikes us as the common thread? I believe it to be not just the scope and distance of their foretelling, but the murkiness. It stands to reason that whatever process is underway during prophecy, there is both an element of natural skill, but also a tradeoff. One cannot prophesize far and accurately and often; something has to give. I realize my fellows will not want

  “We’re not surviving till winter. Without a major effort, we’re not surviving to see the next Orphic caravan.” Illdo was none too happy to hear the captain of the guard in so melancholy a mood. In line with most of the shield, Illdo found the captain’s tone all the more concerning than the accuracy of the foretelling. After all, impending destruction was impending. But one could always keep a sense of humor. “You’ve been down ever since those two troublemakers got here, captain. Just let them go or execute them, either way we stand a chance. What you’re doing is just setting the Pontiac and the keepers against us and bringing none of the warlords towards us. Did you ever send that message to Worstone? Just a squad of riflemen would more than offset all you’re worried about.” The Captain didn’t bother staring at Illdo. He didn’t bother arguing. He didn’t bother responding. Instead, he glanced about at the despondent and atrophying mess hall that a few senior officers were now oc

  “When the oak sings, do you cry? When the willow weeps, do you turn your head? Turn man, turn man, you’ll end up dead!” The song was cheerful in tune and morbid in subject. Since it wasn’t the work of an emotional youth, that leaves only a marching song. “When the stars burn, do you look up? When the forests crack, do you look into their eyes? Turn man, turn man, it’s eating you inside!” The rhythm was off, and the rhymes barely functioned in tying the melody together. The song was sung in some form by every army north of Tellyphill. “And if the ground swallowed you man, would you care at all? If you fell a thousand miles, would you feel the fall? Rise man, rise man, do you care at all!” The lyrics were repetitive to the point of redundancy replacing the rhyming scheme. Armies loved it. Leaders of said armies were somewhat less keen but attempts at introducing songs more pleasant to the sophisticated ear inevitably ended with failure of some sort, from ignoring the rules t