Chapter Text
Awful, terrible, the spirits whisper. Danger, suffering, death, they croon.
But they always do. To listen to them naively is to invite the folly that has been the downfall of a hundred dark prophets before him.
Zul has gained his high station by accuracy.
He casts the bones. He pores over his old records of prophetic whispers and visions and what actually came to pass.
He makes offerings to the lesser spirits, plying them with marrow bones and fresh berries. They give him glimpses. Some as vague as a sensation, others as clear as reality.
Withered stalks, sallow and crackling.
The smell of crisp, clean air.
A frost-rimed riverbeast calf, in sleeping repose. Its chest does not rise and fall.
Churning, slowing.
Snow accruing in the deep grooves of a golden carving.
A shiver across the skin.
Concerning.
He sketches the locales of his visions, matching them against the great encyclopedias of landmarks in the temple archives. He brings out his personal golden models of Zuldazar’s mountain ranges, triangulating peaks and distances. His acolytes labour with him.
Zul is meticulous. He is no village hedge prophet. His forecasts affect the actions of an entire empire.
When he calls together the Council meeting two weeks later, he brings a map, carefully scribed with notes. Here, temperatures will fall low enough to be a danger to livestock, he says. There, temperatures will go below freezing.
The gears of the empire’s communication backbone grind into motion. Messages are sent via pterrordax across Zuldazar and Nazmir.
Farmers harvest early. They grimace over the lost crop, but they have grown to trust the weather reports from the capitol after decades of reliability under the new head prophet.
Oils and coal and firewood are stockpiled. The upper class purchase heat wards and dense furs. Shaman commune with fire spirits, rallying them.
The streets of Dazar’alor are filled with anxious chatter as the common folk speculate. For some, they have never experienced cold in their lifetime. A pair of Drakkari priests, far from home, carouse in the streets in their excitement.
A cold snap is coming to Zandalar.
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Rastakhan insists on performing the solstice ceremony anyways.
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The steep hike from the Atal’Dazar temple complex to the viewpoint high up the slopes of Mount Mugamba is not for the faint of heart. Rastakhan takes to it with the ease of a pre-breakfast morning stroll, while Zul acquires a pinched expression an hour in.
“Want to turn back?” Rastakhan asks him jovially. “You look a bit taxed, my friend.”
Zul shoots him a baleful look. “I am fine.”
Rastakhan laughs and bounds to the side, leaping to the next level of the narrow switchback trail. Zul mutters an oath and hurries to catch up, gravel skittering under his feet.
It is a fine day and a relaxing walk, and Rastakhan is in good spirits. Small wildflowers, their curly petals dusky blue, dot the slopes where dirt has collected in the crevices of the bare stone slopes. They lift their leaves to warm sunlight; clear calm skies have relieved the brunt of Mount Mugamba’s typical high-altitude chill.
It’s a far cry from the cold front sweeping through the eastern coast of Zandalar, where life has come to a standstill while trolls huddle around fires, entryways and windows hastily covered with boards or skins to prevent heat from escaping.
Despite Zul’s carefully couched suggestions, Rastakhan wears only his typical regalia (which ignorant foreigners might call skimpy ). The prophet himself wears both a full robe and a thick fur cloak.
Rastakhan looks back to make sure Zul is keeping up. Judging from the sweat running down his flushed face, his friend is now regretting his overcautious choices. The cloak is too bulky to easily carry, especially when he's already toting a satchel of drawing materials.
“Zul!” Rastakhan pats his shoulder, across which is already slung a great oilskin bag of offerings. “I can carry your cloak.”
“I am fine, my king,” Zul grits out.
“A little warmer than anticipated, hmm?”
An irritated grunt.
“In fact… I could carry, you, too.” Rastakhan mimes a scooping motion. “Would make things a little faster, eh?”
It's hard to tell on Zul's already reddened face, but Rastakhan fancies that he sees a blush.
“Surely my great and benevolent king would not needlessly torment his lessers.” The admonition is diminished by Zul’s strained panting.
“Hah! Who could fault me, you are as slow as a Tortollan!” Rastakhan laughs and turns back around, but graciously slows down just a bit.
Zul does not typically accompany his King for ceremonies such as this. In fact, Rastakhan usually makes the trek alone (and much faster). With the otherwise inaccessible path beginning from the heavily guarded Atal’dazar, there’s no need for bodyguards.
But this time, Zul had requested to accompany the King. With his usual obligations in Dazar’alor disrupted, this was a chance to acquire visual references from the viewpoint to add to the archives, he’d explained. Rastakhan, well used to Zul’s obsessive habit of recording apparently inane details, had cheerfully agreed.
He enjoys Zul’s company, after all.
Two hours after their morning departure, the pair ascend the final flight of narrow steps and reach the viewpoint.
The level outcrop offers a beautiful vantage down upon Dazar’alor’s golden pyramids, gleaming distantly in the noon sunlight. Thin clouds smear across the edge of the deep blue sky, which melds into the ocean in a distant pale gradient.
The temple itself is of ancient Dazarian construction. Its ornate gold-framed entrance is embedded into the face of the mountain, flanked by intricately worked gold reliefs depicting the rising sun and scenes of Zandalari life. Centered within each is an angular raptor face not unlike the ones on Rastakhan's own armor, snarling mouths gushing fresh snowmelt into tiled channels that funnel it off the edge of the outcrop.
Rastakhan slaps Zul on the back. “Well done, my friend! You made it!”
Zul wheezes, then staggers towards one of the fountains and proceeds to stick his head under the chilly deluge. Sighing in relief, he fumbles at the clasps of his cloak and lets it fall. His robe is dark with sweat. Droplets of meltwater trace their way down his lithe figure.
Rastakhan tears his eyes away. He heads into the temple, offerings in hand.
The solstice ceremony is a simple one, and Rastakhan completes the rites quickly. When he emerges from the temple, Zul is standing before one of the golden reliefs, sketchbook in hand. The prophet’s brow is furrowed.
“We should be going,” he says. “I have reason to believe the weather will turn sour.” A pale hand gestures to the relief. “That carving of the brutosaur with the rays behind it over the there, see it?”
“Mhm.”
Zul angles the sketchbook towards Rastakhan. It’s flipped to page containing a pencil sketch that bears considerable similarity to the carving. “This is from an unplaced vision last week. Those blank areas are snow.”
Rastakhan casts a skeptical look at the sunny sky. “There is not a cloud in sight! Surely it will happen some other day.” He pats the diminished but still generously sized oilskin invitingly. “And what about our lunch?”
Zul sighs. “We can eat on the way down.”
“You cannot call that a meal! We have had so little time together, my old friend,” Rastakhan cajoles. “Sometimes I forget we used to cavort about the country together in our youth, hunting devilsaurs and killing heathens, when now I only see your sour face when we rot at council meetings!”
“Mmm… if you so desire a meal, my schedule may allow for dinner,” Zul offers hesitantly.
No, Rastakhan can’t do that, even if it greatly appeals to him. A private dinner has connotations that lunch does not, ones that he doesn’t want to force on his good friend, who has never demonstrated one whit of interest. Rastakhan is keenly aware of how an overture could be mistaken as an order due to his kingship. He has heard the stories of his grandfather’s depredations.
Time to try another tack.
“Zul, Zul, Zul. There is something I must confess,” he begins gravely. “The solstice ceremony takes a full day, correct? Two hours to ascend, at least three to perform the rites, two to descend. It has been this way for centuries.”
“Yes…? Oh, my apologies - I thought you had already completed the ceremony. We can wait-”
Rastakhan waves him silent. “I am done.”
A moment of confusion. Then realization dawns. Zul’s stern face twitches into a smile, then a grin, and then he is laughing, eyes creased with mirth. “You snake! This is why you would entertain no suggestion to skip the ceremony! It is your day to slack off!”
Zul is laughing so hard he needs to sit down. Rastakhan’s heart is full of joy. Oh, if he could see this every day.
“Now do you see? If we return now, Riva’Hakata will know it only takes half a day at most, and my freedom will be gone, replaced by hours of audiences! I will have betrayed a secret entrusted to me by generations of weary rulers!” Rastakhan dramatically puts a hand to his heart and puts on a pathetic expression. “Surely you would not do that to me, my friend?”
Zul wipes tears from his eyes. “Of course not.”
Rastakhan beams.