by Narrator » Wed Nov 23, 2016 4:59 pm
Then, little by little, things begin to stick to the surface. None of them Will, but all of them feeling familiar somehow. Disturbingly so as she's drawn to the impressions that are full of blood and sweat. Desperate determination, anger and fear channeled into violence. The small flashes, like a spurned lover lashing out, catch fire like a tiny ember on a tapestry, spreading out. Hooligans clashing in Edinborough, a demonstration turned violent in Paris, a Warlord riling up his men in Uganda. Little by little the world of overwhelming chaos crystallizes into war-torn focus. Huge islands of metal pushing through the Atlantic, carrying hundreds of minds and a slumbering purpose of war, waiting to be called on. And every once in a while, here and there, the flames surge as minds call out as if they're responding to the invisible presence sweeping over them. Calls for help, pleas for mercy, conviction and resilience, all driven by the same little spark at the core of it. Some misguided, some clouded by hate, others more noble but struggling to reconcile the polarity of compassion and martial force. All of them driven, reaching out to something they don't even know is missing. Yearning. Calling out for something. For guidance. For a greater purpose. For Her.