A peal of thunder rang throughout the forest, a warning to man and animal to stand aside and witness Natures Wrath. Animals, in their instinctive wisdom, head for their warrens, their forested shelter. But yet man is not so meek. On the outskirts of the forest, a woman emerged. Her hair colored black, and falling straight down her back, and her skin a deep bronze. Clad in a well worn, yet supple tunic and trousers, the patina of the clothing long since faded the green color to all but a memory. A pack holds firm over her shoulders, a bottle fastened to the side.
She carries no obvious weapon about her, save the hint of a scabbard protruding from a pocket. Her eyes, painted amber, look towards the roiling cauldron of clouds that make up the storm, off in the distance. She hefted the pack to the side of her, grabbing the bottle, then allowing gravity to slip the pack off her shoulder and to the ground with a soft plunk. Her eyes never leave the clouds above as she uncorks the bottle. Another dagger of lightning alights in the distance, and a crack of ominous thunder followed, almost in reaction to the sight of the bottle. The woman does not flinch, her eyes unwavering at the sky, her feet stolidly placed. Gently, she places the bottle on the ground before her, never dropping her gaze from the clouds. She takes two firm, yet reverent steps backwards. A faint clap of thunder sounds, this time sounding pensive, and almost curious. The woman kneels down into her pack, eyes still on the clouds, and rummages around for a moment, producing a short and ornate branch of beech. Intricately carved with different symbols, a small sapling on the end of it wiggles precariously, the lone leaf wiggling for freedom with every movement.
The woman steps slowly forward, until she’s only a few feet away from the bottle standing upright on the ground. A relaxed posture, the beech branch in one hand, pointed to the ground. The wind stalls, the clouds slow to almost a standstill, and the rain stalls its fall to watch this moment. Like a snake poised to strike, she raises the beech branch to the sky, like a conductor about to start a symphony.
Then, as if recognizing its turn, the storm starts in earnest. A spine of lightning crawls its way down to the ground and alights on the ground, yards away from the woman and her bottle.
At this signal, she begins.
A flourish of beech branch as the rain falls, the thunder peals, and the wind howls in unison, beginning a battle of wills. The wind cuts through the air around her, the rain falling sideways as another lightning strike lands on the opposite end of the last one, and another flourish as the woman conducts the immediate call of thunder around her. All the while, the bottle sits, unfettered by what is going on around it, as solid as stone.
Another flourish, and lightning careens into the earth in front of her. The symbols upon her branch of beech begin to alight in a faint glow of teal. She raises the branch to the sky as a treacherous spine of pure energy tears down from the sky and dances about the branch. Tendrils of lightning play about the ground around her, and a faint teal encircles the immediate space around her, dissuading any tendrils from harming her. The woman conducts the lightning back, and it flies back into the sky, curling obscenely over itself. All the while, more tendrils of lightning rain down from the sky, targeting the rejected lightning. It glows brighter and brighter with each donation of energy, until it resembles a sphere. The woman eyes it coolly, branch held firmly in her hand, the end pointed towards the sphere of energy above her.
Another crack of thunder sounds in the sky as the sphere takes the signal and rushes to the woman. Her eyes narrow. The beech branch is now awash in the teal glow, all of its symbols alight, and on the end of the branch we see another sapling attempting to worm its way to life. With a final flourish of her branch, the woman drops to the ground, raises it to the sky with both hands, and cries out.
“By your leave, may we partake in your power, O’ Great Sky?”
At her words, the sphere stops. The rain almost appears to stop mid-air, and the wind holds its breath.
“I, Kamilla, wish to borrow your great power for use with my people.”
The sphere of energy moves back, slowly, and the woman stands up, both hands held on her branch of beech.
“I have prepared the proper vessel”.
The bottle, in all the confusion, still stands steadfast, but the faint light of teal from the beech branch has unveiled the various symbols and runes placed on the bottle.
“I, Kamilla, now await your response”.
With a deep bow, she walks back a few steps. And waits. A moment passes, and a peal of thunder calls in the distance, and with a great spinning motion, the sphere of energy compresses, smaller, smaller, tinier, and tinier until it can fit into the glass bottle. The wind breaths, the rain continues its natural course, and the clouds continue to roil in the sky.
Kamilla smiles to the sky, bows one more time, and with a hop and a skip, heads to the glass bottle. Cork in hand, she picks it up. Inside is the spinning sphere of pure lightning. It almost appears to look up at her as she corks the bottle.
With a gentle hand, she places the bottle in its space on the pack. And finally, the mask of purpose falls from her face.
“FINALLY!”
Kamilla raises a fist to the sky in excitement and did a little dance of happiness. She had been tracking this particular squall for at least 2 weeks in preparation. Checking with the local village and their weather watcher, ensuring that the proper symbols were placed on the vessel. Had the squall been allowed its fury, it could have devastated the upcoming harvest and caused starvation in the plains.
Finally, her antics over, she hefts her pack back on her shoulders, places the branch of beech in her pack and starts back on her way to the village, a day or so away.
