Into the dark, darkening night, a gentle breeze comes from skies high and sweeps down the faces of men. The cold that creeps over their skins is not akin from those that craw up your spine as you walk into a cemetery. Yes, that cold breeze is the same cold breath from the dead.
But this air that I feel has something incredible; this air that can fill my lungs also fulfills my soul and some hunger I no longer remembered I had. And I see in the dark sky a blacker mass that the wind brings in skies high: the roar of thunder, the cloud of rain, they are reaching out to me again. My perfect storm, for so long away, it is returning to where it came to fill my lungs and feed my soul, my hunger for power and purpose.
It is welcome, the storm can feel it, the sizzling wind sweeps up my face and I feel its powerful embrace. It recharges me and I am born anew, to see the world in a way that I alone knew how. The electric blue of lightning touches my skin and is transformed into a golden gleam. The hurricane sharpens the blade in my right hand, so sharp it can cut a thought before it is had. The rain arrives and washes away the pieces of past that cling on to me, memories of the time I forgot who I was.
And the breath of the dead that brings the cold, to me is the mark of greater events to unfold in this world that, once again, I am able to see. And nevermore shall my storm be swept away from me!