Storms are Coming

[Abaddon]

Abaddon stood in the large open window well of the Bell Tower. Ingram’s bells hung silently behind him as he looked out into the night. The wind was blowing the rain into the top the bell tower. Drains carried the water back out onto the rim of the tower and poured it down spouts that looked like the mouths of birds.

The storm was raging, and the bells, heavy and swaying made for an interesting back drop. Abaddon stood facing out over the tiny hamlet of Far Reach. Even in the storm he could see the ramshackle structure of the Tipsy-Tavern, not far off. While it was certainly less ramshackle, than it was before, thanks to the support of the House.

Abaddon slowly reached up and let his hand slip around the back of his head. There rested the leather strap that held his mask in place. So long, had he worn the mask, that it felt like an old shoe, and took some doing to get off. And old shoe for an old man.

The mask was light in his hands, black on the inside contrasting with the white porcelain. His skin felt good under the cool night air. He stepped out into the rain, letting it fall down onto him. Large cold drops splashing on his lips and nose. His black and white hair, bedraggled and mussed from the wind.

He closed his eyes, and felt the buildup of electricity. The hair on his neck stood up and he could feel tingling in his shattered leg. He felt the heat and surge as energy struck the top of the tower, and showered the ground in sparks, hot against the night. Then he felt the pressure of tiny clawed feet on his shoulder.

“Hope no one sees you. They might find out you are surprisingly plain.” Yazel whispered into his ear.

“I never claimed otherwise.” Abaddon said, shoving the creature away from his ear.

“You love spring so. Storms, rain, change, power. What’s not to like?” Yazel said, resting on the Magi’s shoulder, claws tapping.

“Every season brings something. Spring brings the lightening. You can’t fight lightening. It’s a surge. You can only redirect it. You can not create lightening. You can only pretend.” Abaddon said, whispering into the wind.

“No one knows about pretending more than you.” Yazel said sharply. “Seriously. They hate you. They will betray you.”

“No. We are here to protect them. We will do what they can not. We will do what they will not. We will do so, because we are the ones who can.” Abaddon says, shaking his head.

“And yet, Tellinium was kidnapped. Some protector you turned out to be old man.” Yazel hissed.

“He will die. It is prophecy. I believe he will die and bring an army back from Mistriallia. The elves proved he was a threat. Kidnapping them was a mistake. But they have the long centuries to plan.”

“So do you.” Yazel said with a spit of black ichor.

“No, I have plans with in plans. But we will do what we must.” Abaddon says, slipping his wet mask back onto his face.

[JOAT25]

*Light spills onto the grounds as the front doors of the House open, followed by the cacophony of children's voices filling the air. Several dozen children of varying ages run into the rain, some heading for the towers where they reside while others leave through the gate, trying to make their way home before they become entirely soaked. The door closes behind them, once again leaving the grounds in the shadows of the storm.

Shortly, at the base of the bell tower the heavy door's lock opens with a loud thunk. Light leaks into the bell fry for a brief moment before the latch slides heavily back into place. Footfalls echo up the staircase before Ingram crests the top of the landing, carrying two steaming cups. He walks to the edge, stopping beside Abaddon and offering one cup.*

"Tea." is all he says before taking a drink of his own and staring into the raging storm.

[Abaddon]

"yes thank you." Abaddon says taking the cup and holding it in his hands. "I love this time of the year. The weather is wild, unbound. Like the people."

[JOAT25]

"Yes." Ingram nods slowly. "Unbidden and directionless." He takes another sip of his tea as lightning splits a tree near the outer wall, the deafening crack of thunder washing over them. "A shame that such strength cannot be harnessed and directed toward something productive, rather than spent lashing out at nothing."