In frigid Nordenhelm where fire is a god, they read their augers in the vomit of drunkards. That they drink mead is the only thing that makes the task tolerable to their shamen.
In Ilmac, in the wind-blown, obsidian towers of the High Skeptomancers they scoff at signs and omens, but they can discern what is likely to happen with their numbers and their reason.
In Syllabur the Cult of Silk claims to see the paths of fate in the trickle of semen on a virgin’s breast – but we suspect the old men lie.
The Hermit of Stoone, if pressed, will present his own secret to knowing the future. It is simply this:
To wait for it to happen, patiently.