There was only the drumming sound of his own heart as he laid his back flat against the cool stone wall. He was somewhere in the Ossan district of Divinity’s Reach but how he came to be here, and why, he couldn't even remember. What he could still ‘see’ and the reality around him were two different layers. The vision was fading, but it clung to the corner of his eyes like strands of smoke.
There were times when he had to escape; flee the buzzing of the crowds, or any place where emotions collided. But even removing himself from the world could sometimes prove to be an exercise in futility. It was simply too late, and those emotions were now his, as countless voices inside his head. This wasn’t one of those times.
Ah, yes. He remembered now… Diviner’s Sage.
His client was an Elonian noble, having residence in one of the lavish houses within the Ossan district. To be honest, any individual who could afford the Blue Oracle’s ‘dream walking’ sessions were either nobles, very successful thieves or merchants [no difference, really], or within the top brass of a successful organization, legitimate or not. The Diviner’s Sage needed for such soul wanderings was hard to obtain - the plant only growing in parts of the Maguuma Jungle - and producing very few viable seeds. Obviously, Fakhri always shoved that bill over to his clients, alongside his services. It was the latter that really could put a dent into one’s wallet, as the act of forcefully triggering any vision always took a heavy toll on the man. His health and mental stability had a price, namely many pieces of gold.
Considering how taxing this whole ordeal was on him, Fakhri quite often refused to lend such services and would instead be called upon to read runes - at a much more palatable fee. However, if one could convince him the cause was worth his personal sacrifice - and if the coins were right - he could sometimes be swayed. The disappearance of one’s youngest son being amongst such exceptions. Thus he’d spent the good part of the afternoon going over the facts, questioning whoever could have information, and finally sat in the boy’s empty room. His eyes traveled over the boy’s possessions, at least what could be seen without opening any drawers or cabinets, until settling upon the bright rays of sunlight filtering through the windows, and the shadows they casted on the wall. The sun dipping down, the sky ablaze in orange hues. The joint was lit, the smoke entered his lungs in a few long and deep breaths… and within minutes, his mind was no longer ‘here’.
Some would be all too eager to call him a charlatan; and many would be right, after all. But when it came to his visions… they were all too real. The obstacle, however, was establishing the ‘time’ those visions took place in, as they could be anything from the past, the present, or the future. Sadly, even now with over a decade of, shall we say ‘experience’, Fakhri had never been able to control this aspect of his visions, forcefully triggered or not. All he could do was relate what he’d seen and felt, with as much details as possible, in hope this information could be of use to his client. By all accounts it did, for he had returning clients and new ones brought in from word of mouth. This little parenthesis now concluded, how was that dream walking coming along?
The joint was spent, its last ambers crushed into a small ashtray. The man was still sitting in that chair, head heavily dipped towards his chest. The sun had not finished its course in the sky, making one wonder if time had passed at all. With sluggish movements, Fakhri grabbed the stack of paper and the fountain pen he had requested prior, and started to write. It wasn’t the frenetic writing of one waking from a feverish dream, but rather a slow and meticulous endeavor; there was no need to hurry, as he knew those images would remain with him for a long time. His penmanship was impressive and easy to read as he laid word after word on the blank sheets, forming strings of memory into the shape of sentences. When he was done, he pushed himself up, his expression stoic, and left the room. He’d pass by his client, his pale gaze meeting theirs. The blank sheets now darkened with ink were handed over, and the man was gone.
His mind still reeling from what he’d seen, his heart heavy with the truth, he’d wander the district until he’d stumble upon a spot away from wandering gazes. A cigarette was lit, the acrid smoke bringing his senses back to the present, to the feeling of the cold stone wall against his back and the drumming of his own heart. Memories of how and when he came to be here returned to his mind, the vision still clinging to him like tendrils of smoke. The memories, he feared, would be long to pass, haunting his nights with the cruel truth.
