Storm of the Century
By: Naught Posted on: May 28, 2011
As the great blizzard howls, the mentor hands the novice his goggles, squinting through the bite of the cold. He lights his pipe and urges the young man onward through the pass. They both picture the warm light and raucous sounds of the Dancing Boar just around the corner, although they know there is much ground to cover. The mountain is steep and slick with ice, but the young man does not falter. The aspiring monk stumbles again in demonstrating his Tekura: his extremities have gone numb. The master looks at him, looks through him. Steam drifts from the tea that awaits them, for neither can drink until the lesson is over. The snow is almost to the young man's knees, but the silver belt awaiting him urges him onwards. He inhales and presses his palms together, pushing all of his doubts out into the bitter wind. The force of his successful Kata melts the snow around him as if it were another defeated opponent laid before him. The master slowly rises and pours the tea to his student with equal measures of care and pride. The novice feels the goosebumps on his arms and notes that his teacher has none; there is much to learn. In the east, clean-shaven men in fullplate kneel for the coming of dawn, but none can tell when it arrives, for the gray clouds unfurl to the end of the horizon. Even the rose constellation in the sky cannot penetrate the heavy cover of the storm. The blanket of snow makes even shanties look picturesque, and the floating flakes remind them of the purity which they hope to attain. Those in the northern tundra note the extended grayness, but feel nothing new. Brushing the hoarfrost from their beards, they draw their furs about them and begin the day as any other. Over the blighted isle, the snow is corrupted before it falls upon Deadman's Peak. Flakes descend, red in hue, alongside ash into the city streets. Those stricken by hypothermia fall for their own folly and those still standing observe them without feeling. The city is made more powerful as the weakest are trimmed from its ranks. In the forest, both the bees and the bears hibernate in their proper place. Every being returns to its respective home to await the thaw. The fur of both predators and their prey shifts to white. Rivers and streams, though choked with ice, push on in their relentless effort to reach the realm of Neraeos. On Eagle's wings, I have watched the land shift under the force of the storm. I have been blown in every direction and fallen into the snow, where my limbs broken and my blood stained the white-covered plains. All this I have observed, yet one thing has not changed. Despite the low visibility, even deaf heads turn at the sound. The Orphean serenade resounds through the woods, mountains, and villages to show us the limit of our sight.