Excerpt
A short, plump Yib monk stood on a balcony at the top of a large stone tower that overlooked the expansive Yib monastery. It was an unusual mix of the plain, and the extraordinary, as tenets from thousands of religions across the galaxy combined to form a patchwork of culture that sparkled with breathtaking beauty and simplicity. A warm summer breeze wafted through the room behind him and sent a small cloud of dust swirling up around his feet like a brown whirlpool. Yet his robe did not seem to notice, as it remained surprisingly still despite the strength of the breeze. He reached up and adjusted the hood of his robe, pulling it further over his face as though drawing deeper into the shadows within. He brushed lightly at the simple brown cloth it was made of, and then tightened the rope-like belt around his waist that held it in place. After a moment he turned and studied the room behind him.
It was made entirely of an emerald green marble, surrounded by a circle of thirty six simple, stone pillars that appeared old and scarred with time despite their relative youth. Small birds nested in the domed roof of the tower as the evening chants and prayers echoed up from the courtyard below. He inhaled deeply as the smell of flowers drifted through the air around him, creating a sweet, perfume like fragrance in the air. As he watched the twin suns quickly racing towards the horizon, he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairway below. He turned around just as eight other monks in robes of various colors and designs stepped out from between the pillars and formed a circle around a large, black orb that sat perched on a pedestal of pure white marble in the center of the room. He soon joined them. They chanted quietly to themselves for several minutes, and then turned their attention to one among the group who was dressed in a light green cloak covered in aquatic symbols.
"What is your message today prophet? Why have you called this meeting?" asked one of the monks in a deep, solemn voice.
"A great danger arises from within our midst," said the monk in the green cloak, his voice deep and menacing.
"What kind of danger?" asked another.
"A race has arisen among us that will destroy the nine and take the galaxy for its own."
"Who are they?"
The prophet raised his hand and waved it over the orb. It shimmered and changed to reveal a picture of Earth.
"It is the Chappagi. They will conquer us all and destroy the peace that the nine have brought to the galaxy."
"That is absurd! The nice races have stood as guardians of the sentient worlds for over four millennia! There is no way such an insignificant race could overthrow them. You are mad, I tell you! Mad!" shouted one of the monks.
The prophet glared at the other eight from under the darkness of his hood.
"I am a master prophet, of the great house of prophets. We have never been wrong. We correctly predicted the betrayal of Severen, and the attack of the Origgians. Our people have been accurately prophesying the truth for over two millennia, and I tell you now, unless they are destroyed quickly, the Chappagi will overthrow us all. They will conquer the nine and put every creature in this galaxy under their foot."
The other eight monks mumbled to each other and discussed this revelation vigorously amongst themselves. Finally, they fell silent. One of the eight, the plump monk who had been first to reach the top of the tower, stepped forward and threw his hood back to reveal the reptilian face of a Gayik'Von.
"As I suspected. You are no longer a prophet of the Yib, but a mouthpiece for the fear of your own people," he said angrily.
"My prophesy is true! It will come to pass!" cried the prophet.
"Your prophesy is flawed!! The Gin have no lust for power and conquest. They have grown powerful out of fear of you and your people. Fear breeds fear, and fear leads to suffering, and death."
"Yes, their death! They must die!" cried the prophet.
"NO! We will not sanction this prophesy, nor will we sanction the genocide of an entire race on the simple word of a prophet whose own species has much to gain from their slaughter! Your own speech gives away the true nature and intent of your prophesy, prophet. Since your eyes are blinded by your fear, and your prophesies flawed due to the tempest within your own spirit, we hereby strike your title as prophet from the record, and declare that your prophesies go unheard from now until such time as your spirit, and your race, are in line with the truth."
The prophet hissed. "Fools! You risk your own destruction at the hands of these monsters!"
"If they were truly monsters, and our eyes each saw the same future as you, then we would agree on your verdict. But our eyes see the real truth. We see a race that is still in its infancy trying to stand up and walk in a world full of giants. How can a giant fear a teetering child? Go now, prophet, seek cleansing and find the true vision that is within your heart."
The prophet growled. "Then their victory has already begun, and your doom sealed," he hissed.
"What are you saying? What victory have they gained against us?" asked the Gayik'Von.
"They have already divided the nine races, and turned us against each other. Without our unity, their victory is assured. The only question that remains now is the season of our destruction."
Four of the monks in the circle gathered around the Gayik'Von as he stepped back several paces, as if to separate himself from the prophet. The three that remained gathered themselves around the prophet as though to defy the Gayik'Von.
"As you can see, the division has been made and we are no longer united. Open your eyes and see the truth, before your blindness becomes the death of us all," hissed the prophet. He tossed back his hood to reveal the fish like face of a Varnok. He pointed his webbed fingers at the Gayik'Von, and said, "Mark my words. Your fall will be the greatest of the nine, for you will be the first to suffer at their hands!"
The Gayik'Von snorted. "Fate shall show us who will fall and who will remain, prophet. But remember this. So long as our five races exist to stand against your unholy union of four, the Gin will remain safe, even if we must fight to our last dying breath to protect them."
The Varnok prophet glared at him. "We shall see."