If we're not supposed to dance
Then why all the music?
Stories. Everyone had a story. And most of the good ones involve one of two things. Explosions, of course, and storms.
In their days out, without a group, Wanderer enjoyed quite a few storms under thee open sky. Some say that they wash away all that needs to be gone. Things like pain, sorrow, guilt, want - and worse things yet in love. Others say they give. Give what, changed from story teller to story teller, but usually life. To the grass, to pelts. 'The rain from storms clear wounds,' a blurry face has once told her, 'they take what needs to be let go, and in turn, ripens the earth with it's memories.' Wanderer thought they were signifiers. They set the sky ablaze and shook the Earth to remind the people's below them that they were mortal; and that they need to go kick butt and do what they need to do before they die - because they will.
And so, always in search of a story, Wanderer had left the Tavern and took to wandering - how very unlike me - and soon, well. They found something. Something promising.
"Well," Wanderer greeted, eyebrows raised in equal parts amusement and curiosity as they studied the black dog before them. "Looks like the sea's a whole wardrobe richer."
They glanced out to the churning waves, watching how they melded with and pulled at the sky.
Storms were nothing but a promise. A promise of a story - and Wanderer was intrigued.
Oh no
Hope nothing intresting happens to me
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