Lore, Poem, Scenic

Be they unprepared.

Upon the winds comes a message, not by echoes, calls or horns. A message in a language lost by those who themselves grow separate from nature itself.

How clouded can the mind become where filled with not but lustful intent, and lack of self-control to give in to every single whim.

And closed are ears and eyes and sense to those who seek comfort and luxury, and entertainment of every sort for cheap, for thrills, and without delay.

They will be the first to feel long after the message has arrived. For they without the warning will be thrown into the cold of Winter snow, the heat of unforgiving Summer, or the rains unrelenting of Spring or Autumn storms.

For the winds come with a message to be felt and seen about. To be smelled and tasted as the coming rains on parched and cracked earth.

A storm looms upon the horizon of the world. One made not alone of rain, wind or thunder. But one of fate which brings a new spool or thread to weave into the world.

Fate weaves what it sees and dreams, and fate too has desires. Too long upon an unaltered path where horrid things and people grow, and fate will intervene for life, for death, for changing worlds which few would ever imagine.

But fate weaves with a favoured thread, one which it now reaches for. A thread to make or unmake all, a thread dyed deep with blood.

And on the wind comes through a message, not echoes, calls or horns.

But the breath of fate as it prepares the thread to join the woven world.

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