The wind assailed the coast. throwing daggers of rain at all who dared go near it. Farther inland, sheets of rain ran sideways, knocking over leaves and snapping umbrellas the wrong way. The wind tumbled and twisted and snagged through tree branches, snapping off the weaker limbs and even totaling the older trees. People stayed inside, they had been warned, if not by a look at the weather forecast, than at the wails and howls from outside their windows.
What most didn't know, however, was that these storms signaled the arrival of banshees. Banshees brought the storms with them, an omen before an omen. Those who knew the lore took time to make good on all promises, good and bad, for soon the banshees' shrieks would join the winds'.
Banshees felt most powerful int he wind. The way it carried their haunting voices, the way it whipped their stringy hair into a frenzy appropriate for harbingers of Death. People feared them, but all they were were Death's messengers. Death itself was beyond their control.
But the storms were not. They used them to pummel sleepy towns and large cities alike. No matter how many times they came, there were always some who were surprised, some who were blown off course.
But this was the way of the banshees. They had no need to explain themselves to anyone, except Death, and they never disobeyed Death. When they let the storm start to subside is when they'd make their calls. The flock would scatter to the houses of those descended from the lucky few old and noble families who had a member bound for the grave. When the found the proper homes, they would scream and tear at their hair, for Death was coming and all inside the home must know. They should prepare. They should say last rites.
Modern families who no longer believed in such things should shut their windows and draw their curtains. Surely the noise was just the wind, nothing more. Wind could damage, but it was a far cry from a signal of death. Shutting out banshees makes no difference, ignoring a letter doesn't change that it was sent and, once sent, it can't be unsent; once a bell has rung, no one can unring it.
Those who did know what the sounds at their window truly were, those who had noticed that only their home still had the swirl of a terrifying wind, would gather together and say their prayers. The banshees were not detailed in their proclamations of fate, no one in the homes knew whom Death would take, or how many. The families would make a meal and dine together, spend every moment they could with warmth and kind words. They knew they couldn't change Death's mind, but they could be peaceful before Death was at their door.
There were a few who did hear the cries, but thought they could outsmart Death. They would flee their homes and run head first into the storms, seeking shelter elsewhere, somewhere not marked as theirs, somewhere they could slip into anonymity. But Death would always find them on that road and would use the wind the banshees had brought to sweep them off their feet and into their fate. Death's mind cannot be altered.
As I listened to the wind rush past my window, rattling the small trees across the street and read the warnings to stay indoors, I wondered if I could hear anything else. If there were any voices, or screams, being carried to me on the wind, or if it was merely my imagination.
(Prompt by Neil Kaplan-Kelly)
What most didn't know, however, was that these storms signaled the arrival of banshees. Banshees brought the storms with them, an omen before an omen. Those who knew the lore took time to make good on all promises, good and bad, for soon the banshees' shrieks would join the winds'.
Banshees felt most powerful int he wind. The way it carried their haunting voices, the way it whipped their stringy hair into a frenzy appropriate for harbingers of Death. People feared them, but all they were were Death's messengers. Death itself was beyond their control.
But the storms were not. They used them to pummel sleepy towns and large cities alike. No matter how many times they came, there were always some who were surprised, some who were blown off course.
But this was the way of the banshees. They had no need to explain themselves to anyone, except Death, and they never disobeyed Death. When they let the storm start to subside is when they'd make their calls. The flock would scatter to the houses of those descended from the lucky few old and noble families who had a member bound for the grave. When the found the proper homes, they would scream and tear at their hair, for Death was coming and all inside the home must know. They should prepare. They should say last rites.
Modern families who no longer believed in such things should shut their windows and draw their curtains. Surely the noise was just the wind, nothing more. Wind could damage, but it was a far cry from a signal of death. Shutting out banshees makes no difference, ignoring a letter doesn't change that it was sent and, once sent, it can't be unsent; once a bell has rung, no one can unring it.
Those who did know what the sounds at their window truly were, those who had noticed that only their home still had the swirl of a terrifying wind, would gather together and say their prayers. The banshees were not detailed in their proclamations of fate, no one in the homes knew whom Death would take, or how many. The families would make a meal and dine together, spend every moment they could with warmth and kind words. They knew they couldn't change Death's mind, but they could be peaceful before Death was at their door.
There were a few who did hear the cries, but thought they could outsmart Death. They would flee their homes and run head first into the storms, seeking shelter elsewhere, somewhere not marked as theirs, somewhere they could slip into anonymity. But Death would always find them on that road and would use the wind the banshees had brought to sweep them off their feet and into their fate. Death's mind cannot be altered.
As I listened to the wind rush past my window, rattling the small trees across the street and read the warnings to stay indoors, I wondered if I could hear anything else. If there were any voices, or screams, being carried to me on the wind, or if it was merely my imagination.
(Prompt by Neil Kaplan-Kelly)
Ooooh, I like this spooky scrawl
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