Watching From On High

"...that which is, cannot be, but by the preceding intervention of causes extra sui. The error of the Cheldrun is in the presumption of substantial independent ontological viability."

From the canopy of a towering Sygola tree, hundreds of meters above the forest floor an old Anakarix father and his son observed the distant Cheldrun port-city of Matamos, sharing lore.

The son, close to the age of proving, turned to his father curiously, "Does that mean they don't trust the spirits?"

A few miles from their perch, another ancient tree was felled.

"Yes son, that is what it means."

Koriakalys, ranked Dawn Sage among his people, was a proud grandfather, but even so his heart was heavy as he looked into the future and saw, with certainty, the doom of his tribe. His own son, so promising, perhaps even capable of achieving a distinction in Soul Eloquence during his upcoming trials, would not live long enough to learn the lore of his elders. For nearly three centuries Koriakalys had lived by the maxim of his people that all knowledge is desirable, but now he wished to the depths of his being that he could be ignorant of the doom awaiting all that he loved.

Year after year, dating to shortly after his own trials, Koriakalys had ascended this Sygola tree to his customary perch high on the top branches - a patch of bark rubbed smooth by the scales of his belly. From this place he had observed many things. He'd witnessed the night of bonfire skies - when the Cheldrun irrevocably destroyed the peace of Karia. He'd seen the birth of Matamos as a tiny protected harbor town. He'd studied the alien contours of Cheldrun architecture as Matamos grew from a few dozen bamboo and paper houses, to a heap of gunmetal tenements, jutting into the sky like stubby fingers on a grasping hand. The distant mountains had been unscarred by strip mines when Koriakalys began his watch. The expanses of hydroponic farmland had been forested then. Never had Koriakalys tasted the acrid reek of burning blackrock when he started his vigil.

Now, however, with each flick of his forked tongue he sensed not only the direction of the wind, or the scents of approaching animals, but the life running out of the planet in plumes of dark smoke.

The son looked with admiration at his father's many many dewlap piercings, each one a memento of victory in philosophical debate. "Someday, will I have as many piercings as you father?"

Koriakalys looked away from his son, toward the distant logging activities to hide the sorrow in his eyes. "Of course, my son. Probably more."