It was near the end of the centuries known to scholars and sages as The Shattered Age, that the girl called The Eyes of Shadow was found, among the destitute, wandering masses. Her people had been displaced by more than a century of war. Their homeland long destroyed. She was said to have babbled as a newborn, speaking as one who had lived a full life and telling of places long forgotten or never truly known.
Dubbed witch by some, prophetess by others, it was clear that her grey and mundanely sightless eyes could, in fact, reveal to her things that once had been with such clarity and color that one would be left to wonder if she had lived the events, herself.
“Ridiculous,” the sages insisted. “She was taught such things, in a pathetic attempt to pass her off as something she cannot be.”
But, as time passed, her glimpses of the distant past began to rush into her sight with greater speed. For each day she lived, the images flashed through history by a year, sometimes more.
The day before her coming of age, she spoke to her caretakers at the Temple of Gulhir, the patron of learning and foresight, of things they knew to be true.
For their seers were warning them of the same dangers, growing and festering in distant lands at that very moment.
It was the morning after, her own life taking the step from childhood to that of a woman, that she awoke with a wailing scream, for she had seen the death of her father, a man she had never known, until that moment.
A death that came to pass, exactly as she had witnessed, only when the churning cycle of the sun, the moons, and the world had moved ten years further down their path.
Battles were fought over her, as The Shattered Age neared the fullness of its time, as forces vied against each other to have her within their control. To have her tell them of things which had been, or we yet to be, for word had escaped the temple that The Eyes of Shadow could recall all that she had ever seen, if only posed with clever enough questions.
In her final day, the very moment foretold by herself twenty years before, a priest of Therilas, the God of Death and Balance, came to her side. He placed a calloused hand upon her age-worn brow and spoke to her in soft voice, welcoming her to that which was to come.
She smiled up at him, her woolen blankets drawn up, the hearth in the stone room warming them both, a lone candle on the side table revealing how relief washed over her.
“You have something for me, child?” the priest inquired.
With an unsteady, weary arm she placed her soft hand upon his cheek and nodded.
“I knew you would come,” her thread-thin voice still carried warmth and life within it, as she began tell him of what she saw, as the breeze that would be her last breath slipped into the room to find her.
In that moment, the greyness of her eyes swirled and a shimmer of gold, flecked with silver chased away the haze that had been hers all her life. She looked up at the priest, who smiled down at her as a father might a new-born child, and the flickering amber light danced upon his welcoming expression for the pleasure of her only moment of living sight.
She closed her eyes in peace and spoke, her voice gaining in strength and fullness as she did.
“It will come to pass, on the morning when the black sun rises and sheds no light upon the world, that The Final Shepherd will gather the few souls that remain and lead them through the gate. And that Shepherd will, upon a chain of grey and un-shining steel, draw forth the Last Key and seal the gate from the side beyond, closing all chapters in the time of this world.”
She paused, sensing the darkness creeping into her skin.
“Know that this Shepherd walks among you, this day, but will have time upon this world lasting for age upon age, before the end comes.”
The priest stroked her silver hair, nodding only, although he knew she would not see it, even if she again opened her eyes.
“Know also,” she stuttered, the wisp that was her final breath having found her. “Know also that this Shepherd knowns not their own destiny, even in the smallest part. Take care, brother.”
This is how the prophecy of The Final Shepherd came to be known and recorded in the Stone Book of the priests of Therilas.
With its metaphor of a Shepard and other clues, I assume this account is of the Erigin. Is a similar tale woven into the fabrics of the other sentient races? If so, are the various metaphors entwined?
Greetings!
As this entry in the records of the followers of Therilas did, indeed, come from a region of the Kingdom of Luvallas, which is largely peopled with those called the Searigin (The Knowing Races), it is sometimes linked to their descendants. That said, Therlias, Gulhir, and the rest of the primary pantheon of Mynochral are generally not considered to be specifically associated with particular Knowing Races, although their Veerun, as later additions to the fold, retain a stronger link of that nature. This, then, introduces more lore that carries common threads of the age in which their story unfolded, at times touching upon the stories of others found to be on similar paths.
Of note, also, is that the title of Shepherd is, outside of agrarian usage, exclusively tied to the followers of Therilas. No other faith chooses to (or tries to) use this term, as it has been so closely tied to that one faith. The Shepherds of Therilas are charged with greeting the souls of the departed, from any faith, and encouraging them to travel the paths that lead them to their final destination.
That said, there are some for whom the other gods will send a messenger to claim them, before the Shepherds ever arrive…