Prophet

The Prophets of the city of cedar carry no blade and wear no armor. They walk the roads in plain robes with a staff in their hand, and the giants of the gilded city fear them more than any army.

A Prophet is not a sorcerer. A Prophet has no secret art, no stolen knowledge, no bargain with anything in the dark. What a Prophet has is a Maker who answers. When a Prophet stands before an enemy and lifts the staff, the sign that comes is not theirs. Fire falls from a cloudless sky. Frost forms in the heat of noon. A swarm rises out of the dust, or a darkness that can be felt rolls over the enemy's camp, or a whole company of raiders is struck blind in the middle of a charge. The Prophet asks, and heaven answers, and the Prophet is always a little afraid of it.

This is why the Prophets are few. The gift cannot be learned from a book or bought in a market. It is given to those who walk humbly enough to carry it, and taken from those who forget whose it is. The Prophets never speak for their Maker. The signs are the message, and they are loud enough.

You strike harder at a single foe than any calling in the world. Small coals of fire flicker from your hand while a creeping frost weakens the enemy's defenses, and every sign that lands makes the next one stronger. When the moment comes, you lift your staff and fire falls from heaven. You can hold an enemy still as stone, strike it with terror, stifle its mouth before a spell is finished, and in the worst moments a hidden shelter closes around you and no blow can touch you.

The Prophet ends fights. The only question is whether the defender can keep the enemy's eyes off the Prophet long enough.

You want to be the one who ends the fight. You want to stand in plain robes before a giant in golden armor and watch fire fall out of an empty sky. And you understand that the power was never yours, which is exactly why it will never fail you.