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Welcome to The Dream Archive. I write all kinds of things and catalog them here. I hope you enjoy.

The Stormmaker

High above the world at the peak of Godmount stands a lone figure. Neither God nor man, he straddles the crossroads between this realm and the next, scattering the buildup of the energies that gather there. Wind, rain, thunder, and lightning swirl and spread to him as paint to an artist, for he is The Stormmaker, and all the sky is his canvas.

It is he who directs the Four Winds, sending them across the world. To him the sailors pray for strong winds, to him the skymen pray for calm winds, to him the forests sing for air. Gentle as a brush stroke, he sends the breeze to tousle your hair, harsh as the hammer strikes the chisel, he sends forth great twisters to churn through the deserts. With sighs and shouts alike, the winds blow from him, calm and violent, pleasant and worrying, mirrors of their maker.

From him the storms do form and flow, sheets of rain and rattles of thunder, washing clean the lands of men. To him the farmers pray to visit their crops, to him the children pray for reprieve, to him the ocean cries for more. Brutal as a swordsman, he crashes down great bolts of lightning across the earth, with the sadness of a widow, he coats the grasslands with endless tears. With cold fury and bottomless passion the storms flow from him, serene and terrible, life-giving and life-taking, aspects of their master.

The affairs of mortals are beneath him, the whispers of Gods beyond him. For he is a crossroad: destined to never touch soil nor ascend to the heavens. It is he who keeps the celestial balance, his great storms keeping mortals at bay from the Gods, and obscuring the path the Gods once walked to the earth below. He is both chaos and the master of it, the truth behind the great lies of the way of things. He is life, the air in your lungs, the rain on your face, and yet he stays apart, unable to be one with those he sustains.

High atop the Godmount, the Stormmaker watches all there is and was and feels only duty, his purpose, and jealousy for his equal. For where there is life, there must also be death, and while his place is to watch the Gods above men, so to must there be a place to watch souls below men. His role is the omniscient detachment to life, his sister’s is the intimate relation of death. For she is the Soultaker, and through her hands must all men pass.

A Lemon

The Starlit Siren