---The old Prophet---
Prospit has always been the planet of Prophets and Seers. Many Prospitian can see future events in their dreams but most of them forget before they wake up. Prospitians born with stronger gifts were called Prophets: they had vivid visions of the future and would make prophecy to share with the population.
Long before our story take place, an old Prospitian man was known has Prospit’s greater prophet. He would not make prophecies often, but when he did, they always came true. The prophecies he spoke were always vague and mysterious. One thing was certain; they were telling the tales of heroes, of wars and of history-changing events.
The old Prophet saw the Skaian Wars happen hundreds of years before they could even be foreshadowed ; decades before Prospitian knew another planet existed behind the Veil, before the initial causes of Prospit and Derse’s rivalry could even exist.
He saw the wars tear Prospit to shreds. He saw the beautiful golden cathedral burned to the ground and millions of corpses on the planet’s paved streets. He kept that prophecy to himself, willing to protect the Prospitians from themselves, for he knew they would not be able to handle such a terrible fate. He took this burden on his shoulders, endangering his own sanity.
Years passed and he kept this secret to himself, praying everyday that something could save his beloved planet. On the night he was to die, he saw something that changed everything. His vision was bright, even more vivid than the one showing him Prospit’s end. He saw a group of young people as Prospit’s sole hope. He saw a kid who had to stop the war, who had to become the ruler of all the Skaian territory and bring peace upon it. Only he could save Prospit from its terrible fate by unifying all kingdoms.
The Prophet feverishly wrote a prophecy to share with the world. Now, there was hope; he could share his burden for there was hope for Prospit.
He made his way to the Temple of Life [for more information, see the Temple of Life section!] where he found the Head Priestess. But his fate was already decided and he collapsed to the ground, holding his chest. He knew the heart attack would kill him; he was over 120 years old and knew his time would come soon. Reaching for the priestess’s hand, he shoved the paper to her and clung to life long enough to whispers his last will:
“You have to protect him” he panted. “You have to help the Heir... save the world.”
And he was no more.
Prospit bid its greater Prophet farewell in a magnificent ceremony officiated by the head priestess. As his eulogy, she preached about all the good he had done for Prospit. But more importantly, she read the prophecy about the Heir:
“She will take control of the Purple Land.
Her wrath will consume all living souls
And burn our lands to ashes.
Only the Heir, born under the 13th sun of the 4th month,
Will have the power to stop this Evil.
On his birth, the Wind shall rise on Prospit.
He shall rule over Skaian Land.
He shall take that burning world a bring peace upon it.
But the Heir won’t be alone:
To shield him from harm,
The Page, similar in almost every aspect,
Will precede him in this life.
He will be made orphan on the day the Heir is born:
He shall give his life to him.
Other souls will help the Heir to bring peace.
They shall rise from even the darker pits
And together they will create a new world.”Prospitians didn’t know what to think about that prophecy. They knew the Old Prophet was never wrong but they couldn’t figure out who the “She” supposed to bring destruction upon Prospit was. As for the birth of the Heir, it was perplexing since Prospit had always been a windless planet.
The prophecy was kept by the Head Priestess: she made it a personal duty to carry on the Old Prophet’s death wish: protect the Heir and help him save the world.
Eventually, she grew old and acknowledged the fact the Heir would not be born during her lifetime. She passed her duty to her successor, entrusting her with the task of making it official responsibility for all Head Priestesses to come.
Decades passed and no sign of the Heir was seen. Every year, on April 13th, Prospitians would gather and wait for the wind to rise.
Thirteen years ago, on that morning, the flags decorating the planet’s roofs and walls started to undulate lightly. By noon, gigantic gusts of wind would throw panicked citizens off their feet. No doubt was possible: the Heir was coming.
Somewhere on Prospit’s moon, a woman was in labour. A few hours later, a baby boy was born. He was as average as a newborn could be. But his fate was already decided. He was taken into custody, away from his parents. But not before his mother could name him; he was named John.