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Kazqueth had a detailed and intimate knowledge of the past, the present, and the future. For the half-khehora, events were often planned out intricately decades in advance, his life an intricately choreographed dance of action and reaction that changed the threads of history. Thread by thread, he formed the tapestry he sought, and he enjoyed seeing the fruits of his labor come to life.

Sometimes, he forgot he was not omniscient. Sometimes, fate decided to remind him.

Kazqueth was in Taliuma, taking his meal at a bar in the seedier parts of the mercenary city after inventorying his take of the day. Kazqueth was a true seer, not some mere fortune teller, but he found that he could easily make money off of his abilities when used artfully. Money for its own sake was nothing, but money could buy him equipment for the group he nutured here in the city, and could raise a certain person out of poverty and into the ranks of the Order of the Onyx, and could buy him the shipment of valuable items he could not get wet to wherever he wished them to go. And it could buy him meals and board. He had plans for his money.

He was not foolhardy with his abilities – he did not use it for betting directly. Instead, at the races in the nearby desert and the bloody battles in the colloseum, he offered 'advice' for a fee to those who did, and he was careful with how he offered it. It had been several decades since he started this practice, and though known vaguely and trusted by some of the mercenary companies of Taliuma, he had not yet been kicked out of the arenas of chance.

Kazqueth, especially in the desert, ate a lot to support his powerful frame, and he paid for a second portion from the tavernkeeper as he mused upon the next set of events he was to set in motion or nurture. He brought out a small scroll from the cavernous pockets of his robe and began to read the awkward script on it – his own notes and reminders.

On the fourth night after the first spring full moon... yes, he had done that. He scratched through it with a grime-dipped claw, since his pen had run out. He would have to buy another pen, which was no trouble at all. Find the young Oblivionite. well, that was soon. They would be here, in the dirty streets of the miserable districts of Taliuma, disillusioned and dissuaded. If given money, they would turn their pain into passion, and carve a part of history for themselves. He knew that it would be his money that raised them, and he would find them and give it to them. Easy enough. Mysterious donation for L. yes, a package of money for the group he had sprouted here, to help them move towards his ultimate goal of a world ruled by magic. The package would be left by him, and received at sunrise. Whatever sunrise that happened to be.

He scanned a few more of his notes, murmuring gratefully at the next steaming plate of gods-knew-what came before him. He began to devour it hungrily, fuelling his body with it's not-quite-nutritious gruel. If it had a slight bitterness, he attributed it to burning or terrible cooking, things he could easily endure. He could afford better, but better could not afford him – a hybrid and, more scandalously, a half beast.

He looked back at his scroll, read through the rest and put it away, surprised at the trouble he had putting it into his pocket. His hands, he realized, were shaking. He stared at them eyelessly for a moment, disbelieving. He did not normally have such a reaction to food – his khehora blood granted him a stomach of steel.

He stood, shocked at how difficult it was to find his balance, and, his finned tail lashing, looked around him warily. Everything seemed oddly duplicated, and he recognized it as two times overlapping – the near past or future overlaid over the present. One of the bar residents, a scarred, unpleasant looking Dovaa, watched him intently. Kazqueth's gaze drifted down, resting on a series of unusual trophies that the man had. A khehora hunter? Kazqueth thought, backing towards the door. The vision hit him hard, as sudden and clear as they had been long ago, when he had been a mere youth and the ability had been new-minted.

The man, paying the tavernkeep. The man, giving the tavernkeep a smooth, wax-covered leaf. The tavernkeep, grinding it and slipping it into the food. The food, given to... him.

Kazqueth's heart made a painful double beat as he realized. Dragonbane He had been dosed with dragonbane.

Kazqueth knew this was not how he died, but he grew afraid nonetheless. He had to get out of here.

He staggered towards the door and shoved it open, lumbering into the street as the world seemed to dumplicate, then triplicate, then multiply further around him. He tried not to strike anybody, not knowing if they were there, had been there, or were yet to be there. Objects moved and flickered, up and down, side to side, in his way and not. Stones aged in a patchwork, then de-aged, then were gone, then returned. Time, he knew, was no longer clear to him.

Dragonbane was a poison. It could make a man vomit his guts to the ground and become dizzy with dehydration. It was not usually deadly to a Magescian, but to any khehora or dragon not of the Ysali clan, it was deadly. Organs failed. Nerves convulsed. Pain would follow, and then darkness. And then nothing.

Fortunately, it was rare and hard to find, growing only in the dragon gardens of the Ysali packs of the Terra Espanse's forests. Magescian attempts to grow it had failed, and no Khehora would dare to have it near unless the whole clan was Ysali.

He must have thought me a Khehorian Kazqueth thought, darkly amused by the fluctuating world around him. He knew, in truth, that the world around him remained the same, his body firmly in the present. But his mind raced through time, confused, his ability no longer controllable as the poison started to do its fell work upon his nerves. Had he been a fullblooded khehora, he would have likely fallen dead into his plate. Even with powerful healing Peisio magic, he would have succumbed to weakness and, after some vague staggering, fallen outside of the bar. And, even if the poison had not killed him then, the man would have followed and finished him off. He would have been butchered, taken apart and his pieces sold to magicians and alchemists and collectors through the lands.

Kazqueth had his Oblivionite blood to thank for his survival. Instead of a certain death, the poison would shriek through his system and leave it eventually. Already, he could feel his body trying to exile it from him, his lungs and gills clogging with thick, stained mucous that he coughed and gagged on as he staggered through the streets. But he had been given a considerable dose of it – a whole leaf's worth – and it blazed through his blood and mind, making him want to howl from the pain. Time itself became a mire. He followed the vision of his own future self, leading the way to what he hoped would be his salvation. If he turned back, he could see himself, staggering along behind him, following the future he was carving with every step. The discordancy of it all, as he crashed into things that were there but would not be there, as he struggled to avoid killing anybody with his prodigious strength simply because he percieved the wrong time, made his body convulse and he retched painfully.

He longed to stop and lean against something as he threw up and freed his body from some of the caustic toxin, but he knew he could not stop. He could see it, as if he had scryed it intentionally with his third eye – the man, with a group of Dovaa that Kazqueth could only assume was the rest of his hunting group, following him. If Kazqueth stopped or turned into a blind alley, they would be upon him.

So he lunged forward, his every movement sending his balance into an agonizing turmoil, and sending all of time – from deserted coastal desert to metropolis - spinning around him like a top. Hours became moments, moments became eternities, and all he knew was that his fate was in a certain direction, guided a certain way by his own future self.

Finally, he came to a doorway. He leaned on it, attempting to open it, but his limbs were numbed, a curiously warm sort of numbing, and he could not feel his own flesh enough to control his strength. The door latch came off and splintered easily in his hands, and his desperate shove broke the door free completely from its hinges. He fell through the door's ghostly past self, and its restored future self, to the very solid floor of the place with a heavy thud. With claws that gouged deeply, he lifted himself up before the vertigo hit again, and with it a powerful sense of deja vu. His sight cleared for the moment, only the now revealing the storefront to him. He had seen this place before. It was familiar and in conjunction to other things. He knew where he was, and he attempted a laugh, before the gagging thickness of his lungs forced him to give up. His body shaking as with fever as he reached for a nearby humanoid figure.

“Help...” he managed, struggling to see clearly as his Sight spiraled out of control yet again...

Water.

Kazqueth could not say that it had never felt sweeter, or cooler, or better. He had been in enough scrapes to know its heavenly feeling on a fevered, injured body. That did not stop him from opening his gill slits wide to accept the water, letting it clear away the gunk that had accumulated on the delicate gill rakers in an attempt to rid himself of the caustic substance that ratcheted through his system.

Scaley eyelids fluttered open at the sudden influx of magic, equally soothing, equally cleansing. He shuddered, convulsing as the poison moved and shifted and struck like a serpent in his bloodstream. Empty eyes stared at Lithian, recognizing him.

“You...” he managed, struggling to speak through a throat clogged with pain. He could see... much. Too much, still. He squinted, trying to make sense of the myriad of images that danced before him. They were a blur. Kaz knew, even through the confusion that gripped him, that words would help it all make sense. Words had worked before, words would work again, words will save me from the infinity he thought deliriously.

So, he began to use them. His words. They bubbled out of him as he tried to catch and hold onto the visions, to perceive some semblance of reality for even just a moment.

“Your girls... are beautiful...” he managed, bright eyes amid dark skin flashed before him. Confident smiles. Much hardship. “But... fierce. Fierce, yes...” he babbled. “Fierce... and proud.” The girl he saw was proud. Bloodied, but proud. A victor of even a small fight, against four children who had insulted her. “Brave girls... yes. Proud... I think... I think you will be proud...”

Kazqueth coughed and hacked, his babble resuming as his throat cleared. “You will be tired, yes, very tired. And few will understand the cause. And you dare not... not... leave. Not leave...” he struggled to hold the vision for a moment, “Because... because it lingers, now... then... before... inside of you. Lingers and grows...”

He was healed enough to know he was making little sense, which only made him need to speak more, to see more, to hold more. To try to catch the elusive clarity that his visions brought like the cool water on his gills, the tidal magic in his body, the feeling of poison, leaving...

“The blizzard... did they mean you to be there?” he whispered, feeling his muscles tense, then relax. He gasped, his massive, scaled chest heaving like a bellows, “Did they mean to leave you to the dragons?” his eyelids fell, half closing over the gaps in his skull – the empty heritage from his mother, the witch, the eccentric, the dragon-lover... the bereaved... the broken... The heritage that saved me

“But... had they not...” his breathing slowed, “You would not...” his eyes shut, “Be as happy... as you are...” and with that, the tide of magic went out - The last of the poison was flushed from his system, and Kazqueth fell into a dreamless, exhausted, sleep as his body began to recover...

Time had passed. Kazqueth knew this groggily as he drearily awoke, becoming aware that he was somewhere, in a place... on a bed? It was, in fact, the falling of his arm and a part of a fleshy wing from their precarious placement on the too-small cot that had jostled him awake. He didn't bother to place them back on the cot – it would be too much effort to do so, to curl into a ball and return to the nothingness. He was tired and he ached. In fact, everything ached.

How much time had passed? What had happened?

He sniffed the air, snuffling hoarsely. The smells were unfamiliar, though he knew some of them as healing herbs.

Where was he? When was he?

The present, obviously he thought, listening to the sounds around him. That he had asked the question at all revealed something of the events beforehand – clearly, something had gone wrong with his Sight. It had happened before, and he had always been confused after awakening, with muddled memory and an odd sense of time.

That, and the throbbing feeling in his head. And the icky feeling on the back of his throat. Something had definitely happened, and he had lost control of his Sight. But what? All he could remember was a blur of confused panic, unintelligable without time and context and blurred further by exhaustion. He needed to know to remember, and rest to remember further.

He groaned, a deep rumble of a sound as he forced his aching mass out of his resting position, his body reluctant and unhappy to be leaving the prospect of sleep behind. But he was hungry, he could feel, and thirsty, and he needed to know where he was. Sometimes, the best way to find the answers to your questions was to knuckle down and ask. He felt as though he creaked with every movement of his muscles as he pulled himself upright and opened his eyes. He immediately regretted it as light stabbed into his head from his third eye, making it the throbbing into a full fledged headache. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head with his meaty paws, grimacing.

Now he really wanted to know what had happened to him.

Kazqueth gratefully accepted the water, drinking it down with a series of massive gulps and letting its coolness wash away some of the poison's remains that clung to his throat and insides like tar. The headache twanged like the tautened string of a guitar as he moved, a reminder that, water-related regeneration or no, he would still be a while yet. “Hurting... mmm. No. Aside from the head, no.” He rumbled, grimacing again as his body ached, “Alas, I lie. I have some soreness as well.” He gestured to his body – it was, honestly, everywhere. He reached for the pitcher and finished it off. The water was restorative, reinforcing and interacting with his own native magic. He returned the emptied pitcher somewhat guiltily. “And yes, I am thirsty.” the water hit his stomach, and it rumbled amiably. “Ah.” he said, “Well, since you offer, you would not, perhaps, have any fish?” He said hopefully. After... the events of yesterday, whatever they might have been through the gradually clearing blur of his memory, he deserved some of his favorite food. That, and they were highly nutritious.

If he could get him such a meal, the question was easily forgiven. “Fresh...” his stomach rumbled again, “I bow to your medical experience, however.” It was – very lightly – teasing. Kaz knew a lot about medicine, and about his own body. But he was also not actually a healer. On the off chance that there was something he didn't know, he wanted to give Lithian a chance to correct him. “If cooked fish would be easier for me to handle at this point, given the poison, then cooked I shall accept. But...” he said, trying his best to smile pleasantly, “I much prefer fresh.” He accepted the refilled pitcher and drank, somewhat less enthusiastically this time. A third of the water remained as he sat up a little further, testing his balance. Much improved... but, he discovered, not completely restored. He lay back down, sheepishly, as a memory returned to him. “... I'm very sorry...” he said, “About your door.”

Very true. Kazqueth thought, settling back on the bed (which was a little too small for him, but he was used to such things). At least he had not seriously injured an innocent person in his frantic struggle. He also hadn't injured the hunter, which was somewhat of a shame, but if that was what fate decreed, then so be it.

Convinced, now, that he should not try to move for a while longer, Kazqueth followed the healer's command. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to organize his fuzzy, frantic, panicked memories into chronological order. So it had started with... oh yes the tavern. The tavern and a poisoned meal... Bleh.

He tried not to lick his lips at the smell of fresh fish. This meal, he could already tell, would be better. He rumbled thankfully and in anticipation as he brought out one of the fish. It was as fresh as it could be – possibly even still alive. Perfect.

“If.” he quipped, though his appetite was not usually, in all honesty, that big. Usually. As he happily polished off the fish – scales and all – he realized he really was ravenous. He 'eyed' the bucket - Perhaps his quip was more apt than he thought.

He started on his next fish. “Your family...” he said, between mouthfuls. He may as well address the kargoth in the room, which was how he tended to babble when he was sick. Likely, he had said things. These things might have been unnerving... or apt. The second fish went down as neatly as the first, and the third fish was now in his paws. And still, he was hungry.

First things first, however: He knew the healer's name – aye, and more than that besides – and so it was only fair to give Lithian his name in return. “My name is Kazqueth. Kazqueth Uryan.” Perhaps Lithian had heard his name spoken in Taliuma's streets, perhaps not. He doubted that the healer frequented the tracks or the pit, and he kept a low enough profile that only certain classes of people really knew about him. A few mercenary companies, a few gamblers, and a few of the poorer people of the port city, for whom rumors were as much a commodity as food (and in a far less limited supply). “I am, as you may have discerned, half Oblivionite mage and half merkhora. Of the Peisio clan.” he started on the third fish, breaking off it's hidden spines before devouring it, too.

Yes. Bhavardis had been his name. It was no longer. Kazqueth didn't entirely know why, but he knew he probably would find out.

“We have not met before. You would not have forgotten me easily.” Kazqueth hooted his amusement, finishing off the third fish neatly. He was certainly unforgettable, with his mountainous size and nightmarish features. A flicker of memory – a frosted scene, with dragons bringing forth a blizzard upon their prey... a lone dovaa, left behind by his group... an ally...

Ah. He had babbled. Such things happened when his Sight went awry. “Did I speak of... a blizzard, perhaps?” he asked. “Though I have been caught in a blizzard on a trip to Aisko” and had thankfully brought a warming stone with him to survive it, “And though I have fought Aiskala dragons...” or, rather, his companion had fought them with the help of some fire spells, “You were right to be reminded, for I was not speaking of my own experiences. They were yours.” He paused to drink the water, thirst giving him an oppurtunity to reveal his Seer abilities slowly.

He closed his eyes and brought up the scene, wincing at the mental soreness. He hated poisons like that. “You were on Aisko with other young Dovaa for training. A group of older Dovaa invited you along to hunt with them. They brought you away from the campsite and left you behind... as children will do when they wish to be playfully cruel...” Unpleasant memories threatened to interfere with his sight, of his own valuable lessons in trust and the capacity of Magescian children for outright nastiness, learned as a child in his natal village. He had so wanted, then, to make the small people his friends, but he had soon learned to settle for not having rocks thrown at him... or for Khehora. Or, now, to care not at all. His mouth dried, and he forced the scryed vision to continue – he was making a point. “I think they only meant to scare you, not to cause your demise. However, dragons tend to put a hitch into such plans. They are rapacious and cunning and bow to no ruler, not even their king... But you survived their attack, barely, and were found by another...” he opened his 'eyes' and drank the last of the pitcher, lying back and letting his own water-fueled magic ease the headache that pounded behind his brow. “Someone you care deeply about, now.”

“No one has spoken to you of me, yet... yes. I know of you.” Kazqueth said, resting for the moment.

Whew...

Normally, using his Sight did not exert him, intentionally or not, but these were very unusual circumstances. It was not often – thankfully – that he felt so pained and tired in such an ethereal way. “In fact, I have known of you for quite some time, and also that we would meet... Although...” he reached for another fish, “I didn't think it would be quite...” he gestured to his weakened body “Like this.”

He knew he was talking in riddles. The seers of legend and lore had done so, and Kazqueth did too. After all, it was fun, and it communicated the strange vagaries of space and time and the illogical connections of causality better than trying to describe it outright. He would have been lying if he said he didn't enjoy the sense of mysticism that he wove around him, and it had the practical side of manipulating perception and behavior to his... and, he supposed, the universe's... ends.

But, he could see, the time for playfullness was nearing an end. He had led the healer on for quite long enough, and Lithian Fedele deserved an explanation. Before he started on his fourth fish and third pitcher. “I knew of our eventual meeting because I am a Seer. I see things of the Past, the Present, and the Future.” He watched Lithian tiredly from his resting position, trying to see how the man reacted. Rarely was he so candid, and somehow, the riddles were more believable than the naked truth. Another reason, he guessed, to speak in riddles.

“It is the truth.” he affirmed, “But do you believe it?”