I read omens. I spend my days elbow-deep in entrails, interpreting the meaning of a swollen gall-bladder, a small liver, a stomach ulcer. Not their meanings to the animal sacrificed to aid my divinations, of course -- a healer's job, that, and by the time they come to me, it's a bit late for that. No, I see a coming storm in a kidney stone, a famine in a writhing mass of intestinal worms. I see the future in a stinking pile of guts.

And how I wish I didn't. I would not give up my gift, not for anything, but some days, long days and hard nights, my dearest wish is that it could be tea leaves or cloud formations or the movements of the stars that call to my talent, that hold the secrets of the future for me.

But it's not. This is the only way I know how to do what I do.

And I don't like what I'm seeing now. Darkness in every organ, swellings and tumors and parasites. I've been through half a dozen sacrifices, and they all say the same thing.