The Maelstrom

"Rain, Wind, Wild, and War."

The People of the Maelstrom, your people, shout from the top of their lungs, prancing around the bonfire in the middle of the dry earth. It has been seven weeks with no rain, and everyone knows the truth. That is why you scream on top of the pyre, the edges of your feet blistering, with no feeling beyond your knees.

You have angered the Storm.

"Rain, Wind, Wild, and War."

The only solution for your mistake. The Maelstrom must be summoned. But it will not come from the sky - not with your sin like a pox on the land. No, it must come from within. Some spirit, perhaps a ghost of the man you once were, struggles against the binds, watching in panic as the fire climbs over your chest. But you, or at least, this part of you, feels acceptance. You are an effigy, an object of reverence. No one in the village spits your name. They only speak-

"Rain, Wind, Wild, and War."

---

You rise from the ashes of the pyre, and look directly at the rising sun. It doesn't burn your eyes like it used to, but you don't recall it making you... uncomfortable? With an idle thought you reach into the smoldering brush, and produce a smoking stick. It becomes something else with your will. Something the People of the Maelstrom wouldn't understand. You press it to your lips, inhale, and-

Ah.

---

Scream. Howl. Screech.

The Maelstrom looms overhead.