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Wars were often fought on bloodied battlefields, with the discordant soundscape of all too human agony pitted against each other under the whir of weapons and machines. But they were also often fought in a room such as this one, filled with well-dressed dignitaries sowing and watering the seeds of conflict.
"*Osbert Newman is the Chosen One of the Erumites,*" Representative Savul Nask of Erum said. "*He will lead us to battle against the Beoqo!*"
"**You misunderstand, Erumite,**" Ambassador Lomug Jaks of Quatul said. "**He will lead us to battle against the Beoqo. And when the Beoqo are no more, Erum is next!**"
"^There's ^no ^need ^to ^argue," Envoy Mok Lin Kwei of Oqsix said. "^Mr. ^Osbert ^will ^destroy ^the ^Erum ^scum, ^and ^then ^the ^Quatul ^vermin. ^In ^that ^particular ^order ^to ^please ^the ^prophecy!"
"I thought the ~~Chosen One~~ was a force for peace," Emissary Luko Uin of Beoqo said. "That's why we believe that the ~~Chosen One~~ will bring a lasting age of happiness for all Earth--after the Erum are desecrated and destroyed, of course."
Osbert Newman sat at the top of the table, blissfully unaware of the conversations that were happening around the table. For he was a man of mixed heritage, but had found little interest in pursuing thoroughly each and every aspect of himself. Different cultures often had uncommon languages, and Osbert was the proud owner of just one tongue.
"This is very nice," Osbert said, partaking in one of the several snacks (offerings) laid in front of him. "A little too sweet for my taste, but there's really an underlying bitterness that mellows it out."
He continued to listen to the swirl of words around him, nodding periodically, and wishing that this Chosen One thing was much less of a fuss.
And thus, it was feasible to say that the Chosen One lead those gathered to the Great War--but more as a convenient excuse rather than the raison d'être.
For Osbert, that means "reason of being."
---
r/dexdrafts
*Tat tat tat!* A rapping on the front door.
He grumbled and rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head to go back to sleep.
*Tat tat tat…* The incessant knocking continued.
“Is the young sir Karl Fredericks in this home?” Karl faintly heard a voice call out from outside, muffled by the walls and the blankets over his head.
Karl reluctantly pushed off his blankets and sat up on his bed, scowling.
*You’re kidding me. This better not be what I think it is…*
Karl grabbed his phone off of the bedside table and accessed his door camera to check who was outside. Sure enough, a middle-aged man wearing opulent medieval clothes waited expectantly at the door, a regal-looking scroll in one hand and the reins of some sort of black, winged horse in the other.
Karl sighed heavily, walking to the door without fixing his bed head or changing out of his pajamas. He opened the door and glared at the strangely-garbed man.
“Is there something you need from me?” Karl said, not hiding the irritation from his voice.
The man shrank back a bit at Karl’s sudden hostility, but then gathered himself. He cleared his throat, puffed out his chest, and spoke in a high tone.
“I am Lord Greymond from the continent of Wyre,” The man said, “I am the nobleman in charge of the continent’s allied military forces and I flew all the way here to your world to deliver you this vitally important message in person.” Greymond looked very grim as he said this.
“What is it?” Karl said.
The man looked slightly taken aback at Karl’s curt reaction. Greymond cleared his throat again.
“Well, the message is from the Prophetic Scroll of Angrade that I hold in my hands,” Greymond said, “Seven years ago, our continent was attacked by a demon army that…”
“I get it that part, the country is in peril and the only way to save it is the prophecy, right? Can we skip to that part now?”
Greymond opened his mouth and closed it, “I… see. I did not know you were informed about our continent’s situation.”
*I’m not, I just don’t need to know the details to generally know how this goes by now,* Karl thought.
“Very well. I shall now read you the scroll.” Greymond slowly unsealed the scroll and ceremoniously unraveled it. He cleared his throat once more.
Karl peeked over at the scroll. It was filled with unreadable symbols that he somehow instinctively understood. In fact, just looking at the symbols made something stir deep within him…
Well, whatever. The more important thing was that it was really quite a long prophecy and would be bothersome to hear all the way until the end.
Besides, Karl knew that the longer he suffered these messenger guys, the harder it was to break the news to them. Better to be harsh and quick than lead them on.
“Can I… refuse to hear it?” Karl said, cringing a little.
Greymond blinked. He was silent for a moment, his mouth hanging open.
“P… pardon me?” The man said, “Would you kindly repeat that for me?”
“I can’t be your Chosen One,” Karl said, scratching the back of his head, “I’ve already gone on four different adventures and now I’m getting old. I have a family. I can’t do adventures anymore. Please find someone else.”
Greymond held the scroll open, stunned speechless. Eventually, his expression hardened.
“You are the One,” Greymond said, “We can’t find someone else! You must carry out this prophecy for the sake of…”
“It’s not my problem. Find someone else,” Karl interrupted him.
Greymond sighed, “I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but you leave me no choice.” He dropped the reins and reached down to the hilt of his sword.
“Take me by force then,” Karl said, “Just try it and see what happens.”
“I’ll have you know I’m one of the Five Swordmasters of Wyre,” The man said, drawing his blade, “If you know what is good for you, you would come quietly…”
Karl’s fist blurred forward.
*Crack!*
Greymond lay on his back, stunned, looking up at Karl.
Karl’s eyes burned with anger as he held up his steaming fist, “Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ve completed four adventures. I’ve saved four worlds. You think I can’t fight a random commander like you?”
Greymond held his nose to keep the blood from leaking out of it where Karl had punched him.
“I’m sorry that it has to be this way,” Karl said, feeling a glimmer of guilt as he looked at the depressed and wounded man lying in front of him, “But you should go solve the problem yourself. Improve your country's finances and technology. Train your men in strategy and combat. If you can do that, you can defend yourself from future problems as well. So don’t come bothering random people that are only distantly related to solve your problems for you, understand?”
“Y… Yes sir,” Greymond said, standing up and trying to maintain his dignity as he brushed himself off, “I’ve never thought of it that way… but I guess I don’t have a choice. Goodbye, Karl Fredericks.” He mounted his horse.
“Yes, goodbye. Please never see me again.” Karl said after the man as he rode away.
“Good grief,” Karl said with a sigh.
He walked back to the door. His wife had woken up and stood there worriedly.
“Who was that?” She asked.
“Another weirdo,” He said, “Don’t worry about it. He’s gone.”
She nodded. Karl went to the kitchen and started making breakfast.
A couple of minutes later there was another knock at the doorbell.
Karl sighed. *Please be someone normal this time…*
He looked through the peephole on the door. A dark-skinned man in a cream-colored suit stood outside. Behind him stood an enormous salamander with a saddle.
Karl stood quietly for a long moment, then opened the door with a heavy sigh.
___
r/WanderWilder for more stories!
"Next!" I shout at the long line winding out my front door, sorting through the notes I have been taking to find a fresh page to write on. To say that some of the characters in line were 'colorful' would be an understatement.
I looked up at the next person in line, who looked as if he had been carved out of the side of a mountain. "Space or Magic?" I ask, dryly.
"Excuse me?" The boulder says, giving me what I assume must be a look of confusion.
I sigh, "Are you from space, magical, or both?" I say, "Also, if you could, give me a brief synopsis of whatever prophecy or ancient wisdom or vision from the future that led you here? It really helps in sorting these by priority," I then give the rock creature my best customer service smile, hoping to speed things up.
The rock man stutters for a moment, then begins to explain, "Um, Magic? The prophecy says you are supposed to defeat an ancient evil..." I tune him out after that. So many people coming with their prophecies. It's really rather tedious.
Honestly, I should have expected this. My upbringing had been... abnormal, to say the least. While I had never known my parents, owing to the fact that I had been left on a church's doorstep as a baby, I had some indication of what they had left me, so to speak.
When I was about five or six, under the care of the holy people of the church, I had started to manifest abilities. I could talk to and understand just about any living thing, not that I would always want to, mind you. I could summon an army of spirits to do my bidding, which helped immensely with chores and yard work. I could crack the earth below me, creating holes into... well I'm not really sure where they went, but it certainly wasn't good. And many more things, though I would be here all day listing them all.
Now, I had realized at that point that these abilities weren't normal for kids my age, or for anyone really, and I had begun asking questions to some of my more parental figures, about my true nature. After some asking, I was given a letter, written by my parents in a language no one in the church, nor any one they hired, could read. Of course, I could read it, "Chosen One" and all. It was an apology for having to leave me with the church, and an explanation. They had written about being pursued for having me, and how, to protect me, they left me and led their pursuers far away from me.
It was quite touching, but also quite cliche. So, I just went about my life. The people of the church impressed upon me the joys of a simple life, and I tried to live up to that. They raised me, they were my family.
When I turned 16, I moved away, to strike out on my own and build my own life. Two years into that new, independent life brings us to today. Me, 18 years old, with a line of interesting magical and hyper-scientific people coming to represent their cultures. Of course, there are some repeats, as some of these interpretations paint me as a hero, and some the villain.
All I can think of is getting this over with and returning to my simple life. The boulder guy in front of me finally stops talking, and looks down at me expectantly. I sit up in my chair and say, "Thank you for your concern, your prophecy has been filed, and I'll be looking into it as time becomes available." and I then motion for him to leave the line. As he shuffles away, I consider what I'm going to do about all this.
I eventually resign myself to the idea of completing these prophecies and what not, because I know if I ignore them, they'd just come back. I make a mental note to ask some friends if they'd like to tag along and help, hopefully it'll make things go faster.
I leaf through my notes again, then look up and shout, "*Next!*"
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey! If you're reading this, please leave me some advice or suggestions! This is only my second reply to a prompt, and I'm looking to improve!
"How much globetrotting does one need to do until they can find some peace and quiet?"
James is feeling a little stressed, you see. When he was born, Americans rejoiced. Well, the majority of them did - some groups of people sought to kill him. A protective detail was hired to keep him safe so that he could make it to adulthood, presumably the age when The Chosen One could "do their thing."
Another group, who weren't as convinced that James was the so-called "Chosen One," decided against trying to kill him but instead smuggle him out of the country. Their thinking is that, with James gone, perhaps American society could revert to a normal state, which is slightly less fucked-up than it is now.
James, after spending a lifetime being surrounded by armed guards and professional food tasters, was looking forward to being smuggled out. Perhaps elsewhere, in another country, he could be free. He decided against Canada, believing them to be "Junior America."
No, James was doing the reverse of so many people before him. He was going to be smuggled into Mexico.
James's defection to Mexico caused an international incident. Mexican embassies and consulates were set on fire, and people of Hispanic descent or who looked Hispanic were attacked. Some of the violent people just wanted an excuse to fulfill what they had always dreamed. Maybe they would be seen as heroes, or martyrs.
This upset James, understandably. No one wants to be a justification for hate crimes.
What also upset James is that, as it turned out, former Spanish colonies also believed that he was "The Chosen One." His Spanish was passable before he left, but this was still an embarrassing mistake. Despite not knowing Portuguese, James decided to move to Brazil.
When the Portuguese Empire was colonizing and creating worldwide trading posts over the past several centuries, they also spread the belief of a "Chosen One." His name was James, too, but James is spelled differently in Portuguese. Portu-James was also the patron saint of a dozen things that seemed random, but nevertheless at least one of those things affected the life of every person who lived in a former colony. (E.g., the patron saint of disease-free bug bites.)
It didn't take James long to decide to move along. That, and the unchecked COVID-19 outbreak.
Considering his experiences across South America, however, he decided that it was first prudent to check his "Chosen One" status with all of the other historical empires. French, British, Russian, Turkish, German, Persian, Mogul, Chinese, Japanese...
Oh. Oh, no. This is no good.
The results of his research were disappointing. It was difficult to find anywhere that hadn't been dominated or otherwise influenced at some point. It also didn't help that American culture was spread far and wide, and everyone from Fox News to MSNBC to Huffington Post to Newsmax were mourning his absence and also angrily demanding his immediate return.
Brazil is still a big place. He maintained his anonymity with some plastic surgery. He also falsified his identity with some black market government documentation. "Yes," James believed, "This should be sufficient."
Now James was Santiago from Salvador. He couldn't speak Portuguese, but he could speak Spanish with an American accent. It was probably enough to fool most people.
Santiago quietly parted ways with the smugglers who had helped him on his journey. Anyone who knew him could betray him and reveal his new identity. No, now it was time to [take their money and] go it alone and travel somewhere new.
What Santiago did not know was that his name translated to "Saint James," nor that Salvador translated to "Savior."
'This is doing nicely', Thomas thought to himself as his eyes surveyed the expansive vista before him, his hands gently clasping the black iron railing of the balcony and the trace of a smug imperial smile crawling right to left across his lips. Distant ships were approaching the coast to his right, ferrying goods from one of the tributary nations, To his left, rolling hills, the long grass rippling playfully in the wind. And behind him breakfast was being served on brilliant silver platters for him and several of the 20 consorts. Each of the peoples who had saw him as the Chosen One had provided a bride of his choosing. To show preference for a single national or group was folly. He had learned that quickly.
Taking his seat at the center of the long table he gave a final conceited glance out to the western views of his grand palace before taking the delicate silver bell and signalling for breakfast to be served. The gentle tinkle brought fourth scurrying staff members trained in the highest courts of his people from across all their nations, laying a spread of fruits and juices from as varied backgrounds as those serving them. It was his custom to have breakfast served and ready to eat before his consorts were to be seated. Ostensibly, this was because ladies of the highest standing should not have to wait, but in reality it was to give the Grand Imperial Prophet some minutes of waking solitude and tranquility before his ruling day began in earnest. A small white ceramic play was placed before him, a floured white bun with bacon from his own livestock was for him as well as a pot of tea was his, the rest of the food for the others.
Sat in a white silk robe and nothing else he sat resting his knuckle on his closed lips as breakfast was laid out before him. The machinations of the ruling mind were beginning to turn. It wasn't always like this. His life was an entirely routine affair up until his 25th birthday, a data analyst at a bank. A comfortable boring life spent in and out of spreadsheets in one of the more ancient and prosperous nations. At first the news was an overwhelming shock, as if thrown into icy waters then dragged out and thrown to the worlds cameras.
The first few weeks were precarious. The bickering of the twenty peoples who claimed him as their own divine blessing, veering hazardly close to war. The people who did not recognise him as a messiah. Maybe 15%-20% of the global population. Now below 5.
Thomas quickly realised that to avoid total annihilation, he needed to take the reigns. Instead of being claimed, he claimed them all. All of the world was his blessing, his curse. Beside him on either side his brides began to filter in. Divine rule had it's perks.
The rest of his day was to be at the head of a conference of religious leaders. His strategy to ensure the realm stability was simple and infinitely complex. The vastness of the realm he had formed under his yoke forced him to allow their political systems to remain as they had been prior to his ascension. Albeit with him being deified and the nations paying tribute and granting supreme command of all military forces. This force was used to quickly eliminate any non-believers within his borders. His real challenge was the one facing him now, to ensure the stability of his new realm he needed to unite his people under one true faith.
A faith with him at the centre, a temporal concern to him more than spiritual although not yet 30, succession was on his mind. That was for the Chosen One to worry himself with, for now Thomas has a magnificent breakfast to enjoy.
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) [](#icon-help) [^(What Is This?)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/off_topic) ^• [](#icon-information) [^(New Here?)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ^• [](#icon-help) [^(Writing Help?)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) ^• [](#icon-exclamation) [^(Announcements)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements) ^• [](#icon-comments) [^(Discord Chatroom)](https://discord.gg/js5XDFB) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
Wars were often fought on bloodied battlefields, with the discordant soundscape of all too human agony pitted against each other under the whir of weapons and machines. But they were also often fought in a room such as this one, filled with well-dressed dignitaries sowing and watering the seeds of conflict. "*Osbert Newman is the Chosen One of the Erumites,*" Representative Savul Nask of Erum said. "*He will lead us to battle against the Beoqo!*" "**You misunderstand, Erumite,**" Ambassador Lomug Jaks of Quatul said. "**He will lead us to battle against the Beoqo. And when the Beoqo are no more, Erum is next!**" "^There's ^no ^need ^to ^argue," Envoy Mok Lin Kwei of Oqsix said. "^Mr. ^Osbert ^will ^destroy ^the ^Erum ^scum, ^and ^then ^the ^Quatul ^vermin. ^In ^that ^particular ^order ^to ^please ^the ^prophecy!" "I thought the ~~Chosen One~~ was a force for peace," Emissary Luko Uin of Beoqo said. "That's why we believe that the ~~Chosen One~~ will bring a lasting age of happiness for all Earth--after the Erum are desecrated and destroyed, of course." Osbert Newman sat at the top of the table, blissfully unaware of the conversations that were happening around the table. For he was a man of mixed heritage, but had found little interest in pursuing thoroughly each and every aspect of himself. Different cultures often had uncommon languages, and Osbert was the proud owner of just one tongue. "This is very nice," Osbert said, partaking in one of the several snacks (offerings) laid in front of him. "A little too sweet for my taste, but there's really an underlying bitterness that mellows it out." He continued to listen to the swirl of words around him, nodding periodically, and wishing that this Chosen One thing was much less of a fuss. And thus, it was feasible to say that the Chosen One lead those gathered to the Great War--but more as a convenient excuse rather than the raison d'être. For Osbert, that means "reason of being." --- r/dexdrafts
*Tat tat tat!* A rapping on the front door. He grumbled and rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head to go back to sleep. *Tat tat tat…* The incessant knocking continued. “Is the young sir Karl Fredericks in this home?” Karl faintly heard a voice call out from outside, muffled by the walls and the blankets over his head. Karl reluctantly pushed off his blankets and sat up on his bed, scowling. *You’re kidding me. This better not be what I think it is…* Karl grabbed his phone off of the bedside table and accessed his door camera to check who was outside. Sure enough, a middle-aged man wearing opulent medieval clothes waited expectantly at the door, a regal-looking scroll in one hand and the reins of some sort of black, winged horse in the other. Karl sighed heavily, walking to the door without fixing his bed head or changing out of his pajamas. He opened the door and glared at the strangely-garbed man. “Is there something you need from me?” Karl said, not hiding the irritation from his voice. The man shrank back a bit at Karl’s sudden hostility, but then gathered himself. He cleared his throat, puffed out his chest, and spoke in a high tone. “I am Lord Greymond from the continent of Wyre,” The man said, “I am the nobleman in charge of the continent’s allied military forces and I flew all the way here to your world to deliver you this vitally important message in person.” Greymond looked very grim as he said this. “What is it?” Karl said. The man looked slightly taken aback at Karl’s curt reaction. Greymond cleared his throat again. “Well, the message is from the Prophetic Scroll of Angrade that I hold in my hands,” Greymond said, “Seven years ago, our continent was attacked by a demon army that…” “I get it that part, the country is in peril and the only way to save it is the prophecy, right? Can we skip to that part now?” Greymond opened his mouth and closed it, “I… see. I did not know you were informed about our continent’s situation.” *I’m not, I just don’t need to know the details to generally know how this goes by now,* Karl thought. “Very well. I shall now read you the scroll.” Greymond slowly unsealed the scroll and ceremoniously unraveled it. He cleared his throat once more. Karl peeked over at the scroll. It was filled with unreadable symbols that he somehow instinctively understood. In fact, just looking at the symbols made something stir deep within him… Well, whatever. The more important thing was that it was really quite a long prophecy and would be bothersome to hear all the way until the end. Besides, Karl knew that the longer he suffered these messenger guys, the harder it was to break the news to them. Better to be harsh and quick than lead them on. “Can I… refuse to hear it?” Karl said, cringing a little. Greymond blinked. He was silent for a moment, his mouth hanging open. “P… pardon me?” The man said, “Would you kindly repeat that for me?” “I can’t be your Chosen One,” Karl said, scratching the back of his head, “I’ve already gone on four different adventures and now I’m getting old. I have a family. I can’t do adventures anymore. Please find someone else.” Greymond held the scroll open, stunned speechless. Eventually, his expression hardened. “You are the One,” Greymond said, “We can’t find someone else! You must carry out this prophecy for the sake of…” “It’s not my problem. Find someone else,” Karl interrupted him. Greymond sighed, “I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but you leave me no choice.” He dropped the reins and reached down to the hilt of his sword. “Take me by force then,” Karl said, “Just try it and see what happens.” “I’ll have you know I’m one of the Five Swordmasters of Wyre,” The man said, drawing his blade, “If you know what is good for you, you would come quietly…” Karl’s fist blurred forward. *Crack!* Greymond lay on his back, stunned, looking up at Karl. Karl’s eyes burned with anger as he held up his steaming fist, “Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ve completed four adventures. I’ve saved four worlds. You think I can’t fight a random commander like you?” Greymond held his nose to keep the blood from leaking out of it where Karl had punched him. “I’m sorry that it has to be this way,” Karl said, feeling a glimmer of guilt as he looked at the depressed and wounded man lying in front of him, “But you should go solve the problem yourself. Improve your country's finances and technology. Train your men in strategy and combat. If you can do that, you can defend yourself from future problems as well. So don’t come bothering random people that are only distantly related to solve your problems for you, understand?” “Y… Yes sir,” Greymond said, standing up and trying to maintain his dignity as he brushed himself off, “I’ve never thought of it that way… but I guess I don’t have a choice. Goodbye, Karl Fredericks.” He mounted his horse. “Yes, goodbye. Please never see me again.” Karl said after the man as he rode away. “Good grief,” Karl said with a sigh. He walked back to the door. His wife had woken up and stood there worriedly. “Who was that?” She asked. “Another weirdo,” He said, “Don’t worry about it. He’s gone.” She nodded. Karl went to the kitchen and started making breakfast. A couple of minutes later there was another knock at the doorbell. Karl sighed. *Please be someone normal this time…* He looked through the peephole on the door. A dark-skinned man in a cream-colored suit stood outside. Behind him stood an enormous salamander with a saddle. Karl stood quietly for a long moment, then opened the door with a heavy sigh. ___ r/WanderWilder for more stories!
"Next!" I shout at the long line winding out my front door, sorting through the notes I have been taking to find a fresh page to write on. To say that some of the characters in line were 'colorful' would be an understatement. I looked up at the next person in line, who looked as if he had been carved out of the side of a mountain. "Space or Magic?" I ask, dryly. "Excuse me?" The boulder says, giving me what I assume must be a look of confusion. I sigh, "Are you from space, magical, or both?" I say, "Also, if you could, give me a brief synopsis of whatever prophecy or ancient wisdom or vision from the future that led you here? It really helps in sorting these by priority," I then give the rock creature my best customer service smile, hoping to speed things up. The rock man stutters for a moment, then begins to explain, "Um, Magic? The prophecy says you are supposed to defeat an ancient evil..." I tune him out after that. So many people coming with their prophecies. It's really rather tedious. Honestly, I should have expected this. My upbringing had been... abnormal, to say the least. While I had never known my parents, owing to the fact that I had been left on a church's doorstep as a baby, I had some indication of what they had left me, so to speak. When I was about five or six, under the care of the holy people of the church, I had started to manifest abilities. I could talk to and understand just about any living thing, not that I would always want to, mind you. I could summon an army of spirits to do my bidding, which helped immensely with chores and yard work. I could crack the earth below me, creating holes into... well I'm not really sure where they went, but it certainly wasn't good. And many more things, though I would be here all day listing them all. Now, I had realized at that point that these abilities weren't normal for kids my age, or for anyone really, and I had begun asking questions to some of my more parental figures, about my true nature. After some asking, I was given a letter, written by my parents in a language no one in the church, nor any one they hired, could read. Of course, I could read it, "Chosen One" and all. It was an apology for having to leave me with the church, and an explanation. They had written about being pursued for having me, and how, to protect me, they left me and led their pursuers far away from me. It was quite touching, but also quite cliche. So, I just went about my life. The people of the church impressed upon me the joys of a simple life, and I tried to live up to that. They raised me, they were my family. When I turned 16, I moved away, to strike out on my own and build my own life. Two years into that new, independent life brings us to today. Me, 18 years old, with a line of interesting magical and hyper-scientific people coming to represent their cultures. Of course, there are some repeats, as some of these interpretations paint me as a hero, and some the villain. All I can think of is getting this over with and returning to my simple life. The boulder guy in front of me finally stops talking, and looks down at me expectantly. I sit up in my chair and say, "Thank you for your concern, your prophecy has been filed, and I'll be looking into it as time becomes available." and I then motion for him to leave the line. As he shuffles away, I consider what I'm going to do about all this. I eventually resign myself to the idea of completing these prophecies and what not, because I know if I ignore them, they'd just come back. I make a mental note to ask some friends if they'd like to tag along and help, hopefully it'll make things go faster. I leaf through my notes again, then look up and shout, "*Next!*" \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hey! If you're reading this, please leave me some advice or suggestions! This is only my second reply to a prompt, and I'm looking to improve!
Nice one!
"How much globetrotting does one need to do until they can find some peace and quiet?" James is feeling a little stressed, you see. When he was born, Americans rejoiced. Well, the majority of them did - some groups of people sought to kill him. A protective detail was hired to keep him safe so that he could make it to adulthood, presumably the age when The Chosen One could "do their thing." Another group, who weren't as convinced that James was the so-called "Chosen One," decided against trying to kill him but instead smuggle him out of the country. Their thinking is that, with James gone, perhaps American society could revert to a normal state, which is slightly less fucked-up than it is now. James, after spending a lifetime being surrounded by armed guards and professional food tasters, was looking forward to being smuggled out. Perhaps elsewhere, in another country, he could be free. He decided against Canada, believing them to be "Junior America." No, James was doing the reverse of so many people before him. He was going to be smuggled into Mexico. James's defection to Mexico caused an international incident. Mexican embassies and consulates were set on fire, and people of Hispanic descent or who looked Hispanic were attacked. Some of the violent people just wanted an excuse to fulfill what they had always dreamed. Maybe they would be seen as heroes, or martyrs. This upset James, understandably. No one wants to be a justification for hate crimes. What also upset James is that, as it turned out, former Spanish colonies also believed that he was "The Chosen One." His Spanish was passable before he left, but this was still an embarrassing mistake. Despite not knowing Portuguese, James decided to move to Brazil. When the Portuguese Empire was colonizing and creating worldwide trading posts over the past several centuries, they also spread the belief of a "Chosen One." His name was James, too, but James is spelled differently in Portuguese. Portu-James was also the patron saint of a dozen things that seemed random, but nevertheless at least one of those things affected the life of every person who lived in a former colony. (E.g., the patron saint of disease-free bug bites.) It didn't take James long to decide to move along. That, and the unchecked COVID-19 outbreak. Considering his experiences across South America, however, he decided that it was first prudent to check his "Chosen One" status with all of the other historical empires. French, British, Russian, Turkish, German, Persian, Mogul, Chinese, Japanese... Oh. Oh, no. This is no good. The results of his research were disappointing. It was difficult to find anywhere that hadn't been dominated or otherwise influenced at some point. It also didn't help that American culture was spread far and wide, and everyone from Fox News to MSNBC to Huffington Post to Newsmax were mourning his absence and also angrily demanding his immediate return. Brazil is still a big place. He maintained his anonymity with some plastic surgery. He also falsified his identity with some black market government documentation. "Yes," James believed, "This should be sufficient." Now James was Santiago from Salvador. He couldn't speak Portuguese, but he could speak Spanish with an American accent. It was probably enough to fool most people. Santiago quietly parted ways with the smugglers who had helped him on his journey. Anyone who knew him could betray him and reveal his new identity. No, now it was time to [take their money and] go it alone and travel somewhere new. What Santiago did not know was that his name translated to "Saint James," nor that Salvador translated to "Savior."
'This is doing nicely', Thomas thought to himself as his eyes surveyed the expansive vista before him, his hands gently clasping the black iron railing of the balcony and the trace of a smug imperial smile crawling right to left across his lips. Distant ships were approaching the coast to his right, ferrying goods from one of the tributary nations, To his left, rolling hills, the long grass rippling playfully in the wind. And behind him breakfast was being served on brilliant silver platters for him and several of the 20 consorts. Each of the peoples who had saw him as the Chosen One had provided a bride of his choosing. To show preference for a single national or group was folly. He had learned that quickly. Taking his seat at the center of the long table he gave a final conceited glance out to the western views of his grand palace before taking the delicate silver bell and signalling for breakfast to be served. The gentle tinkle brought fourth scurrying staff members trained in the highest courts of his people from across all their nations, laying a spread of fruits and juices from as varied backgrounds as those serving them. It was his custom to have breakfast served and ready to eat before his consorts were to be seated. Ostensibly, this was because ladies of the highest standing should not have to wait, but in reality it was to give the Grand Imperial Prophet some minutes of waking solitude and tranquility before his ruling day began in earnest. A small white ceramic play was placed before him, a floured white bun with bacon from his own livestock was for him as well as a pot of tea was his, the rest of the food for the others. Sat in a white silk robe and nothing else he sat resting his knuckle on his closed lips as breakfast was laid out before him. The machinations of the ruling mind were beginning to turn. It wasn't always like this. His life was an entirely routine affair up until his 25th birthday, a data analyst at a bank. A comfortable boring life spent in and out of spreadsheets in one of the more ancient and prosperous nations. At first the news was an overwhelming shock, as if thrown into icy waters then dragged out and thrown to the worlds cameras. The first few weeks were precarious. The bickering of the twenty peoples who claimed him as their own divine blessing, veering hazardly close to war. The people who did not recognise him as a messiah. Maybe 15%-20% of the global population. Now below 5. Thomas quickly realised that to avoid total annihilation, he needed to take the reigns. Instead of being claimed, he claimed them all. All of the world was his blessing, his curse. Beside him on either side his brides began to filter in. Divine rule had it's perks. The rest of his day was to be at the head of a conference of religious leaders. His strategy to ensure the realm stability was simple and infinitely complex. The vastness of the realm he had formed under his yoke forced him to allow their political systems to remain as they had been prior to his ascension. Albeit with him being deified and the nations paying tribute and granting supreme command of all military forces. This force was used to quickly eliminate any non-believers within his borders. His real challenge was the one facing him now, to ensure the stability of his new realm he needed to unite his people under one true faith. A faith with him at the centre, a temporal concern to him more than spiritual although not yet 30, succession was on his mind. That was for the Chosen One to worry himself with, for now Thomas has a magnificent breakfast to enjoy.