stormy phil A crippling hail falls from the steel gates of the night sky, talons of thunder pass over the town. The storm's anvil pulses with light and runic bells boom and ring out, chasing demons from their hollows. Guards cluster on the roads passing through the edge of the forest, striking down any that would rush by. The hunter's net spreads out and closes beyond the low wall, stabbing blades in the hay bails. The discipline continues, until a string of flame and steel tipped shafts enclose the town fringe. In the midst of the army, a pit of billowing horned fire emerges. Sooted figures cast their javelins down into the flame's inky darkness, only to see them shoot back like the quills of a porcupine. Drenched in screams and blood, the great one emerges, sparks and ash follow its sickle as it cleaves a path through the boundary of light and dark. Long poles of ash raise around the pit and metal wires shoot above them, following the arc of arrows, dancing over the forks and barbs, blown by the wind. A ricochet of lightning strikes deep into the pit. The wires twist and hot excrement bubbles violently forth, splashing out across the men, settling into slow creeping piles. A voice rises in the deep, a rumbling gurgle of both pleasure and pain, and the ground begins to steam. Men wade into the excrement, slicing blades and thrusting spears blindly before them. Their shields push the sludge back into the pit and it burns in the flames. By morning, the pit is sealed; bodies are buried where they lay and a sigil of protection is embued across the pile. Years later, a temple dedicated to the storm's wrath stretches over the site. That stormy night is now gone from the collective memory of the town and surrounding area, except for what is chiseled in the markers and monument of the slain. 240702 what's it to you? who go blather from