Starlight was a time for ghost stories, and this was just one more.
---
It yawned up from a place sick with aether.
Ravenous, hungry. Longing. Consume! Devour. Need.
An arrow loosed from the bow, that exists only to move from here to there, and displaces all in between.
Those below shivered when it passed overhead.Â
Need. Want. Need. Terror. Kill!
It was an ugly thing, raw and writhing, the feeling when it brushed those sensitive like that of hearing a scream, like feeling someone tremble, like the smell of vomit. Luckily, it was just a brush, the lightest touch as the thing roared overhead and through. It was an arrow from the string.
For aether, it did not travel in what someone would consider a direct path by the map. From Mor Dhona to Ishgard isn't that far. This was a matter of aether, though. Of hearts. Of souls. Of need, and rage, and desire, and inexorable longing.
Kill. Kill! Look at me! Help me! Need me!
It twisted the air around it, polluted the water beneath it, tainted soil and rock, doused and inflamed fire. Its very existence made the elements writhe in protest silent to all save those forced to hear their mutters.
Perhaps at the speed of a thought - the speed of an arrow, fired from Mor Dhona, arriving in Ishgard - or as wayward as a summer breeze, it arrived in a poor Roegadyn woman's room in the Brume, and it entered her body, and she fell onto the floor in a seizure, her muscles writhing, her form overtaken, her mind a blaze of pain as it grappled heedlessly with the thing her sister had created, and then
Kill. KILL. Save me! Please, SAVE ME!
---
When Restless Wind came to her senses, she was on the floor of the room she had rented, her body aching all over, as weak as if she'd grappled with the flu for a week, and as terrified as if she'd seen the apparition herself.
"Flower..." she whispered, her voice rent asunder, and when she rose from the floor, it was with a new purpose.
---
It yawned up from a place sick with aether.
Ravenous, hungry. Longing. Consume! Devour. Need.
An arrow loosed from the bow, that exists only to move from here to there, and displaces all in between.
Those below shivered when it passed overhead.Â
Need. Want. Need. Terror. Kill!
It was an ugly thing, raw and writhing, the feeling when it brushed those sensitive like that of hearing a scream, like feeling someone tremble, like the smell of vomit. Luckily, it was just a brush, the lightest touch as the thing roared overhead and through. It was an arrow from the string.
For aether, it did not travel in what someone would consider a direct path by the map. From Mor Dhona to Ishgard isn't that far. This was a matter of aether, though. Of hearts. Of souls. Of need, and rage, and desire, and inexorable longing.
Kill. Kill! Look at me! Help me! Need me!
It twisted the air around it, polluted the water beneath it, tainted soil and rock, doused and inflamed fire. Its very existence made the elements writhe in protest silent to all save those forced to hear their mutters.
Perhaps at the speed of a thought - the speed of an arrow, fired from Mor Dhona, arriving in Ishgard - or as wayward as a summer breeze, it arrived in a poor Roegadyn woman's room in the Brume, and it entered her body, and she fell onto the floor in a seizure, her muscles writhing, her form overtaken, her mind a blaze of pain as it grappled heedlessly with the thing her sister had created, and then
Kill. KILL. Save me! Please, SAVE ME!
---
When Restless Wind came to her senses, she was on the floor of the room she had rented, her body aching all over, as weak as if she'd grappled with the flu for a week, and as terrified as if she'd seen the apparition herself.
"Flower..." she whispered, her voice rent asunder, and when she rose from the floor, it was with a new purpose.
People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
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