The StormChilde watched. His family, those scared, wretched people who brought him into this world cried, and screamed. Though all one heard was the howl of the wind, and all one could feel was the scorching lash of the dry storm.

As the first whips of lightening struck his tormentors outstreached hand, the StormChilde smiled. When the screams reached his ears, he broke out in laughter. Mocking, manic laughter was carried throughout
the village, turning their saviour and protector into the villiage’s worst nightmare.

It wasn’t always so, in fact it wasn’t supposed to be this way thought one small girl, as she listened to the wind. She hid under her blankets and whimpered as cruel laughter lashed the panes. M’Chele covered her head, prayed to the gods, and squeezed her eyes shut till the winds quieted. In time, sleep helped her. Where she dreamt of a kind boy, with silver eyes, and a temper like summer the summer storms.

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