User blog:Leea/The Tale of Voronwe, Chapter 85

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4th Era 171, 7th of Second Seed, Pyandonea
Truly, this was one of his master works. If he ever bit the dust - which he never saw happening, but still - he wanted this storm to be the one he was remembered by. The culmination of his "life's work," if you will. Simply put, it was perfect. The formation of the clouds; the fist-sized hail practically jingling in them like pocket change, ready to be set loose with the full force of an aimed pitch...not to mention the lightning, which had extra power to ensure fires wherever it struck, even through the rain. The rain itself would be coming down from the heavens like waters let out of a swollen floodgate. Then, last but not at the very least, the cyclone force gales ready to topple structures like a child's hand knocking down his sandcastles on the beach.

Orghum watched the summoned storm make its way across the swath of water that separated Pyandonea from Summerset. Water spouts and heavy downpours were already obscuring his vision of the hazy strip of southern Summerset. He smiled a little, his lips curving with intent. The sea it rolled over would only strengthen it. The rain it shed now was being replenished as it raced over the water to its target, then it would "feed" upon the warm, always summery air that gave Summerset its name, causing panic and misery for untold citizens there.

The smoke and steam from the braziers and offering bowls before him were wafted in the direction of the storm, blown by the last gusts of wind from behind him. It reminded him of a gentle push a parent would give a child to go and perform well at school or in a class play. Orghum's smile became evil, cunning, imagining his "child's" performance.

* * *

Orghum turned to the apprentice behind him. "Clean up the altar." he said simply, then gathered his robes about himself and strode purposefully away. He was likely going to tell the King of the "masterfull success" of his blasted storm.

Avramil sighed...once Orghum was out of earshot. Sighing audibly when next to the Headmaster was grounds for hard labor - such as gathering dangerous ingredients, like Sea Serpent saliva - because he had long ago deemed it to be "disrespectfull." He stared at the altar. It was ancient - like many of the things on this island - and was heavily smoke-stained from the many offerings and rituals conducted here over the millenia. The only good thing was that Orghum didn't expect him to clean off the stains, as they were more or less permanently ingrained into the stone that made up the altar. Avramil sighed again, before rolling up his sleeves and gathering up the bowls in the crook of his arms.

As he set them down next to his feet - to allow free hands to extinguish the still lit braziers - he worried about Balasian. He was on Summerset. He likely already could hear the storm coming, if not feel its effects within a miunte or two. He waved his hand in a circular motion over the first brazier, mumbling the incantation. The fire went out with a puff of acrid-smelling smoke which stung his eyes, making them water. Blinking the irritation away and twisting his nose at the odor, he repeated the extinguishing with the other brazier, shutting his eyes tightly against the smoke he could smell but not see. When he opened his eyes, the smoke was gone, but the smell remained, this time burning his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose and pinched it shut against the sensation. "Ugh...blasted smoke..." he grumbled quietly, before stooping to pick the bowls up again.

As he walked back to the Hydromancers' main campus, he briefly glanced back at Summerset. It was fully obscured by the summoned war storm; only the nearly-black mass of roiling clouds was able to be seen. He turned back to campus and continued walking. He hoped Balasian and Curwe would be okay. He hoped Orthendar would be there to save them. He must.