You rummage through your belongings, gathering up anything that might be useful, might be helpful. It's coming soon, the rain is becoming more incessant, and you can feel yourself coming undone. Quickly now. A robe, only visible to True Unbelievers, and a book only readable to the same. The place is in tatters before you find it, a small cache, holding many iron coins and a solid, if slightly rust-eaten, kirpan knife. Iron will be helpful in either form. You swing the knife to and fro a few times, feeling the balance. Contraband, according to those damnable automatons, but you have your ways. You dash out of the alley, feeling the gale-force wind on your back, the rain and hail stinging as it slashes against your skin, digging deep gashes in the flesh. The wind is blowing you apart, scattering you to every corner of the world being unmade, as the burning acid rain stings and gnaws at your skin. Somewhere, below and above and all around you, thunder cracks.
Light. Searing light is all you can remember about the storm. You feel yourself being unmade, but the iron clasped in your hand grounds you. The pain racks you, but it too fades. Terror comes, but it too fades into blissful, serene nothingness. And then, it all comes rushing back, after some indeterminate eternity in this endless, empty void. Far below you, you see the world sprawled before you, and you fancy yourself a god, or perhaps made into a bird, before you feel yourself falling. Your knife--it's in your hand, blood flowing down the blade from your palm. As you lean, you find you can direct yourself. Do you go into the heart of the city, to see what it might have become? Or do you go to the wilds, to find whatever should lurk beyond the city walls? Or maybe, you push yourself towards the mountains, harsh and unforgiving, but rewarding? Or perhaps, you can glimpse somewhere else to reach?
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Topic: The Whisper of the Storm [SG] (Read 2434 times)