The Prophet of Judgment Day

In times of trouble or sorrow, there is little consolation in being right.

--Zoraidia the Sage

Lightning sparked and raced across billowing storm clouds in a blood-red sky, but the Prophet's dark eyes were intently focused upon the hourglass held in his right hand. The sands were quickly running out, and as the sparkling grains fell to the bottom, stars began to fall from the sky.

There is still time, he thought, chancing a quick glance at the world far below him. It is not all lost... not yet. The winds began to howl around him, snapping his cloak behind him like mighty wings, and he glanced at the hourglass once more. The last grains of sands were falling, spilling over the ones that had fallen before, and the shimmering surface of the glass reflected the flashes of lightning and the brilliant streaks of falling stars.

With a sigh lost among the howling winds and booming thunder, he clenched the hourglass tighter in his grip, even as his left hand tightened around the horn it held.

There is still time, he thought once more, but even as he thought it, the last of the grains dwindled and then slowly, slowly fell.

And for an instant, there was a terrible silence.

The Prophet lifted the horn to his lips.