The Story Laced Within

"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.
You stand at the edge of the Barrow Garden, watching the autumn leaves fall off of their slumbering parents, then coast gently to the ground. They cover the long path ahead of you, stone stairs ascending up and over the hill, into oasis.
"Don't be afraid," the Gatekeeper says. Her auburn hair nearly blends into the background, but her blue tunic gives her away, set against one of the guardian statues on either side of the stair. "You'll see it coming. It will be an arrow."
You nod uncertainly. She smiles, and gestures up the path.
You see that many walkways begin and end here, as if this central location reached out to all the others. The massive vessel in front of you shakes by some rhythm, which vibrates the stone of the pathway beneath you, and continues on back the way you came. There is a blue glow to it, which flashes and darkens to the beat.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It starts as a low whine, but then magnifies into a hiss, and then a scream. Before you can cover your ears, the sound is loud enough to shatter the glass jar, and sends you tumbling to your knees.
Oh god. You think. Did I do it wrong?
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."
Each step is agony. Past the guardian statues. Past the last mortal you may ever see. Through the red trees that line the edge of the world. As you crest the hill that leads to the Barrow Garden, you spot a man in the center of the path. He wears all blue, like the Gatekeeper, but his hair is a crown of fire, and his eyes are empty. You feel your heart skip several beats as he lets go of the bowstring he was holding. An arrow cuts the wind back down the path, headed straight for you.
With a sickening lurch in your belly, the walkway shatters beneath you. You search wildly for a handhold, but find none. You notice briefly that all the walkways are crumbling, as if by design. They ripple backward from the vessel, fleeing from it. As you fall into Father's bowels, darkness overwhelms you. No rubble strikes you. You never hit the ground. But the sound of the vessel consumes you. It pounds at you, overwhelming all of your senses. Is this really what Father wanted?
The sound doesn't stop. You feel blood slipping between your closed fingers. The black mass above you descends, and the world begins to fade. You hear yourself take a shuddering breath, and the crunching of gravel as you fall onto your back. The Gatekeeper hovers over you, frowning.
"Not ready," she says. "Next time."
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
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? And the Gatekeeper...
You keep shaking her, but she won't wake up. Something's wrong... She's never slept this long before. Neither have you. Glancing skyward, you see that there are no stars left. They've all burnt up without her, and heavens hang darkly, staring down like some all-seeing eye. With a deep breath, you reach underneath the cabinet, and pull out a glass jar wrapped in wire. You speak the words, and slowly remove the metal ribbon from the edge of the lid, causing the runes etched along it to burst with small motes of light. You've never released the Glasswing before. It was always her.
It feels like an age passes, but you slowly remove the butterfly without touching its wings. With shaking hands, you place it upon her lips, and wait.
And wait.
And wait...
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Ruin. Fate. Death.
The Clock waits for no one.
Scream. Howl. Screech.
The Howl lives on with you.
Anguish. Fear. Anxiety.
The Arrow comes for you.
The Maelstrom looms overhead.