The Thoreskyn Prophecy, who really did not like the name he had been given, woke up from his afternoon nap to the faint tingle of someone pulling at the strings of destiny. Or, perhaps, something. The Thoreskyn Prophecy, who preferred the name Rock so we will call him that from here on in, had felt the strange feeling a few times before.

Once, when the gods built the world from the scavenged remains of a giant space platypus (or so he had been told. He had been asleep during that time). Another time when the three fates had saved his life. The three sisters had truly sacrificed much for him, he was grateful for their service. Now, if only he actually had the gift of speech he could interrupt their “meeting” and tell them that the fated apocalypse was continuing its course. But alas, he couldn’t speak, because he was a rock.

And to clarify, Rock himself wasn’t prophetic in the typical sense. Whatever had carved the prophecy into him had given him a terrible case of skin foresight. The gods literally wanted to kill him for stone acne. Rock would sigh very loudly at this, if he had a mouth. But, alas, he could only write on himself if someone spoke to him directly, and the three sisters were rather too self-absorbed for that.

Additionally Rock also wouldn’t really call what was unfolding before a “meeting” so much as a “talking.” Jinstori, the eldest sister, was just repeating some of Rock’s lines over and over again when given a chance to interject. Pyrstin, the middle sister, was silently focused on Rock’s final line again, and Rebecca… Well, Rebecca’s sacrifice was taking its toll.

“What do you mean you’re in Eden? You mean the cesspool Eden? You have the big championship tomorrow, the team has been wondering where in Absurdia you’ve been for the last week. Their big star for the past twenty years can’t just walk off without telling anyone.” Rebecca shouted into her talkstone. Apparently the youngest had taken on a hobby job as a sports talent agent about twenty years.

It did help that Rebecca had access to the Grimoire of Selected Lesser Athletic Victories. Still, this revelation bothered Rock. He was great at remembering. The end of the world (or at least a metaphor for it) was etched in his stone and he was very proud of it. Rock reflected back on the strings of fate that had been pulled, ending his afternoon nap. Had that had anything to do with Rock’s apparent lapse in memory?

“Yes the game is tomorrow and your manager is pissed. Wrap whatever it is you’re doing there up, and get back to Tavornac ASAP. The team needs their star player. Asisi Vermouth.” Rebecca spat.

Asisi Vermouth? Rock recognized the name. Hadn’t the Grimoire of Selected Lesser Athletic Victories (which Jinstori had accidentally left open on the “V” pages for a few decades) say Asisi Vermouth retired after losing? Rock sunk deep into contemplation, pulling at the memory of a hundred years passed.

“I’ll call up a wizard. You’ll probably vomit mid-spell. You probably deserve it for walking that far off over the course of three days. Take care of yourself Asisi!” Rebecca hung up her phone.

“Sorry guys. That client has always been a bit of an odd duck. Not really sure how he found me in the talkstone directory to begin with, but here we are.”

“It is excusable, sister. There are many accidents in life. Sudden wanderlust is a common cause of death in many places.” Jinstori said, sage-like.

“Returning to our discussion, sisters. I agree with Rebecca that it is wise to wait to inform the mortals of a potential apocalypse. The gods will notice, eradicate the Thoreskyn Prophecy, and we will have no means by which to convince them otherwise.” Pyrstin said.

Rebecca nodded, and sent a quick text on her talkstone. It buzzed again.

“One second. Jinstori, you should tell Pyrstin your thoughts on this while I take this call. Sorry. A potential high value client is calling and I have to take this. Once in a lifetime sort of thing, you understand?” Rebecca walked out of the room, leaving the two fates who actually prioritized saving the world to bicker among one another. Wisdom, Rock knew after an eternity of existence, did not necessarily come with a penchant for cooperation.

If only he could speak. Maybe, just maybe, Rock could find a way to get the three sisters to inform the world of the dire situation that was to come (whatever it was), and that something tugged at the strings of fate. Something powerful enough to manipulate the lives of the eternal fates. Something powerful to make the literal embodiment of prophecy itself (or at least, the literal embodiment of a prophetic skin condition) doubt its own memory. The prophecy older than the world itself had doubted its own mind which was literally written in stone..

And if he could do that, tell them that the threat was rapidly approaching, the sisters might even have a chance to unite the entirety of Absurdia. And they all might live. But until the fates dismissed their spell, he was stuck hundreds of feet below the ground, with nothing new to watch. Maybe one day he would have someone new to watch. Whenever that was, he feared it might be slightly too late.