Acetio | Blogma

The Seer of Island #10 had said that he had never intended to provide answers to anyone, but that did not stop his reputation from growing.
From what his sister described, he had arrived on the island by makeshift raft, like many before him, seeking some of the ordnance rumored to have been stored there, but found the island deserted.
Unlike the others, however, he didn't leave.
Instead, he dragged his raft and supplies to the center of the island, put up a crude lean-to, lighted a fire and fell into deep contemplation, staring into the flames, wondering what he could possibly do next.

The troubles had continued long after anyone had predicted; long after the ones who had started it had been killed.
Those who remained struggled each day to find food and protection from the destruction that moved like fire from town to town.
The seer had come looking for weapons, in the last place he knew to search, but found nothing, and at this moment he gave up - resigning himself to whatever circumstance he might encounter.
He still had his rifle, but no bullets. Still, he held it in his arm in the way one might hold a stuffed bear, watching the flames until even the embers turned black.

The messenger came one night, very late.

He was out of breath and could speak only in a hoarse whisper. His skin was stone-cold from the wind and rain he had run through. We offered him tea and soup, but he would have none. He would not even sit, he said his message was urgent, that there was a terrible danger at his farm.

His voice became quiet, and only those standing next to him, leaning close could hear what he said.