Novadis, the Seem-Witch...

    Her name was Novadis, and she was a Veyen Seem-Witch. She sat surrounded by crystals in tiny metal frames in one of the more obscure and hidden chambers in the Citadel. Like all members of her ancient race, she had no eyes: the space where they should have been covered by a patch of smooth skin. The Veyen, almost unique among the many different races and breeds of the Realm, had absolutely no capacity for sight, relying instead on their uncanny ability to foresee the future to tell them what was about. She turned slowly in her large chair, rotating it first to one side, then to the other. She enjoyed the privilege of  being Ghazen’s chief psychic, with her network of Veyen spies, secreted in towers about the city, all reporting telepathically directly to her. And when she saw fit, she allowed Ghazen to see what she could see. She span her chair to face the door just as Ghazen entered, causing him to jump mid-stride. Taking a moment to regain himself, he closed the door carefully behind him.
    “You wished to speak with me?” He said, straightening his vestments.
    “Boychild.” Was all that she said. She spat the word ferociously, flecks of spittle flying from her lips onto her black sackcloth robes, the traditional garb of her kind. While a Veyen acolyte, one not truly versed in the ways of her people, would wear a pure grey robe to demonstrate their purity, their not having chosen a path, those that followed the ways of light as they graduated were clad in lighter and lighter robes. And those that followed the path of darkness, well Novadis was a prime example. Her robes were blacker than black, and seemed to shimmer with an impossible ebon sheen.
    “Boychild? What’s that supposed to mean? ”
    “In this city.” She replied. “Soon. And he will be your downfall, Son of Master Kindly as he is.”
    Ghazen frowned. “But that’s impossible.”
    “Impossible is nothing. Miracles take longer. Nevertheless, he shall arrive and he shall be your downfall.” She smiled, revealing a set of gnarled and crumbling yellowed teeth.
    Ghazen drew close to the old crone, his face mere inches from hers. “How will he get here?” He growled.
    “Unsure, that much is clouded. But here he will arrive... soon.”
    “What do I do to stop him?” He licked his lips anxiously.
    Novadis laughed expansively, rocking in her chair and coming perilously close to headbutting Ghazen. “He cannot be stopped. He will not be stopped.” She laughed again, an infuriating noise. “But there may be a way…”
    “...to stop him? Then tell me, witch!” His eyes frantic, Ghazen glared at the eyeless woman, trying to find a way to enter her mind, to drag her secrets from her.
    “As it always is, the future is malleable, flexible. It is not rigid and cast in stone. The boychild can be defeat, but it will take great sacrifice and tactic on your part.” She cackled quietly to herself as she opened up her mind to Ghazen, allowing him to see the other futures she could see.
    Ghazen bent over the old woman, his back beginning to ache. But the pain was a diversion, one he shut out as he watched in his head the wonders she was showing him. When she had finished, Ghazen stood up straight, placing his large hands on the small of his back as he did. “Do you know,” he said, “someday I intend to find out a way to force you to give me a straight answer?”
    Novadis smiled enigmatically. “Yes.”