Makhru: Foundation

Blue-black roiling stormclouds as far as the eye can see.

The thunder that roars in your veins and speeds up your pulse.

The inky billows that hide neighbour, companion, enemy, danger, safety, all from one’s searching gaze.

And the winds that scream unceasingly, bringing savagery to the bruise-dark cloudbanks and lashing all in reach like a hail of unseen knives, flaying, merciless — and carving the paths through the endless thunderheads for the rivers of moon-pale lightning that flash and flow, sometimes left frozen and tangible, in the knife-winds’ wake.

Yet nestled in the shadows of the endless storm, drifting along the surface of frozen lightning and the echoes of thunder, are the cloudbowers; glossy, gently-glowing orbs with life in their bellies, of homesteads of windsilk grasses, meadows of thunderfruit, great cities of gleaming twisting storm-silver and wrought-lightning towers — and these primals claim kinship to the storms without, and always have, and always will. The storms’ bounty they claim for their own purpose, tying themselves and their bowers together with invisible bindings of promises and sharing of ichor, sharp as the wind’s own blades.

And though wild-bannered warlords may soar on black wrathwings through the storms by their uncountable numbers, none have yet brought that stormwar siege inside such refuges.

None, yet.

Some whisper of a change on the knife-winds, and a murmur of alien promises to storm-pearl war machines.

* air * tempestuousness * contrasts * shadow * comfort * honour *

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