Saturn

Won in The Arcanists Lorebook- Write the Lore to win challenge

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I do not wish to see.

I realize that you are busy, but you are also, they tell me, a collector of curiosities, and among all of our gracious gods, The Arcanist is most keen to ever so often, lend some of his luck to one of the oddities of our world.
Perhaps I am one of them.
I do not mean to be so forward, I will not ask for your fondness outright, I shall never be that presumptuous.

Lend me only the time it takes to tell you only a little of my tale, and may you judge for yourself if I endear myself to you.

They call me The Oracle, in reverent tones.
When they have left my company, they whisper among themselves how I could be an Oracle and yet not see. They think that they are being kind, these words in hushed tones, far from my view.
They do not realize that whispers to me, are louder than screams.

This is how I have made my living, in part.
I have been from birth, unable to stand my own senses.
To me, this has been most natural. It was only at the arrival of others that I began to think perhaps it was a blessing as well as a curse.

They came to me first rarely, then as their courage and their need grew in equal amounts, in twos and threes, large groups, emissaries from clans.

I gave them their answers, their cures. They never asked me how, but I sensed in their words and the way their feelings glowed to me, that skepticism turned to ease, then familiarity.

Over time, this familiarity has led down a path of words, innocent enough to the speaker, but laid in thorns for me. I hear everything. Every small whisper, every rustle of discontent, each tiny scoff so low it might have been a bee's murmur, yet to me was an accusation shouted.

Painted Protobeasts are ugly, they say.
To me he is silk under the waves, an undulating breeze among the deep. How could this be ugly?
I am glad that he does not understand their feelings of him, hidden by a mask of cooing words upon each visit.

The oldest among them will find another target upon me to consider.
They will say, how could someone of the Earth Flight have such delicate wings? It isn't proper, they look as though they may shatter under the slightest breeze. Hardly fit for the dedication and work of Earth.
The first time I heard this, it hurt as much as I'd ever felt.
My wings were none of their concern, and I certainly was not about to tell them that indeed I was afraid to fly at all, I felt weakness upon all of my body, weighed down by the light, the rain, the air itself.
One time became several, then too many to count, each as sharp and painful as before.
I acquiesced. To quell these feelings within, I have added a set of strong metals to bolster my frail wings.
It may only be adding weight upon weight, though if I pretend I could fly at any time, I may have begun to believe it.

The youngest will comment graciously upon my colors, exclaim how lovely I am, how much of a credit I am to the Earthshaker in my duties and Earth itself in my visage.
Then, they will turn from the path, walk on with the overt lightness in their steps that is particular to one with something on their mind, and when they feel they are out of my reach, ask each other.
How can she see with that Sage outfit? How can someone ever be an Oracle without seeing?

Oh, my poor misguided, frustrated, cynical pilgrims.
I could see if I were to remove my cover, but the act of it would near destroy me, I am sure.
For I feel so much, so heavily, in all aspects already.
The wind may be pleasant, though to me the sensation of a gale is a raking pressure. I can stand it until it subsides, but the air weighs upon me so.
I can see your intentions as clear to me as they are muddled to yourself, every one of you that approaches.
Your moods and thoughts are a book in the language of colors, the slight shift of your limbs, a hesitation, a too bright tone of voice, claw tapped on rock impatiently, ever so briefly.
Each scrap that you give to me, no matter the origins, I can tell you what it is made of, where it is from, how much of the dye or metal has been lost to the ages, what kind of hands have held it before yours. Was the maker or owner someone soft and gentle? Is this the last evidence in a crime left so long without justice that it has hollowed your community from the inside out? I will tell you what features the culprit will have, by the sensing of these alone.

As for those who arrive in the middle of the night, they are fearful that they may be turned away, that I will not be able to attend to their task without the light of the sun paving the way to clarity.
They need not worry. The sunlight is a veil upon me as well, be it harsh to a feverish burning sensation, or in the lovely days of an overcast sky, just tolerable, a blanket of weight.
The sunlight is very well for all others who could stand to look upon the land under it's veil, but this thought terrifies me. Even under these layers of smooth and comforting clothing, I can see the light of my own lanterns burning steadily, a grounding force that guides me when I am uneasy, a welcome light without the overwhelming power to blind.

Dear Arcanist, all of these examples I have laid for you are but a sampling of my life and it's unusual qualities. Perhaps you would see fit to grant me some of your endearments, as I have been put to a task now unlike any other. There is a hatchling on her deathbed, and only I have the knowledge to read between each rattling breath for a cure. Her clan came to me last night, and the air itself was a mire of lamentation as far as I could reach. I would not refuse such a request.

I only ask one small favor of you in return. To reach this young dragon yet to live in time to save her, I must fly. In truth I do not know if I am able, though I think that my fear is not unfounded, and my intuition on this has not been false to me either. In this dire circumstance however, I must.

This is the reason that I have written to you this night. The next morning, at the sun's peak when all is blinding pressure, I must take my first flight. I can only hope against myself that it will not be my last.
If you have found something in my tale, please grant me your boon.

Soon, I will fly- or I will fall.
I do not wish to remove my cover, and I do not wish to see my own fate.
I have seen so many fates already, let mine be as it may, at your mercy.
If I fall, there will be nothing but to be shattered upon the rocks below.
If this is to be my fate, nothing else, I would wish that the pieces of me not lay upon the ground forever, but be lifted into flight, to circle the world itself and watch over all as stardust, in a flight forever above and beyond all of the pressures of the world above and below, that I could not achieve in life.

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Winning notes:
'And the winner is... @Onceler! The almost poetic way you structured your story about Saturn was really interesting, very fitting of an Oracle. I enjoyed reading about her internal conflict, and the way you shaped her character through that! Your entry is one of the few to be in first-person form, which- while I don't personally have a preference for it- really heightened the experience and felt more like something the Arcanist would have been actually reading, instead of a third-person retelling of Saturn's story.'

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True familiar:

Painted Protobeast

Familiar

This would look sensational in an ornamental pond.

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