I really don’t understand the perverse pleasure people get from trying to tear someone down to their foundations. Yesterday was no tornado – straight line wind at best, one to test the timber of my being, only slightly rattled, slightly blown askew. So haughty this wind, not knowing one who has drank the storm could easily devour their very essence, but why trouble oneself with such blustery brawn? No, best have the true tempest, born from the heart and soul of a storm than from some frustrated cloud masquerading as a thunderhead barely able to quench my thirst let alone the Earth Herself.

Yet if that dark little cloud should muster the mettle to become a true tempest, I shall drink it fully, completely, take it within and make it my own, drain it of its power and bask in its strength. They know not the Mother Of Lightning, the Lover Of the Tempest. They know not the source of my power or prowess, they only know that I choose not to use such in their insignificant presence, for I do not cast pearls before swine.



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