I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
This is not the world he knows.
It spits him out into the middle of a summer storm, but it is not the kind that falls underneath his thumb. He is disoriented, confused, and he throws back his massive head as the wind whips around him. His white eyes open wide to take in the tempest, but try as he might, the elements do not answer. He growls, clenching his back teeth, but the skies do not answer. They defy him with their every move. The wind grows more fierce until he can hear the branches cracking nearby. The rain falls faster.
The ferocity of it sends a thrill through him that is matched only by his anger.
His fury as he realizes that this is not his storm.
This is not his to command.
Morrowind has never experienced anything like it before. As long as he can remember, the elements have come to heel—but this? This disregards him entirely. This ignores him completely. Snarling, he glances down and the fury becomes touched by something like fear. A frown crosses his features that deepens with each passing breath. This is not his body. This is not his storm. This is not his home.
He takes a step forward and feels the weight of mortality settle across his shoulders. The aches of the living become entrenched in him—make themselves known. Fury and fear become confusion.
Where is he?
Why is he here?
He swings his behemoth’s head around but all he can see is the storm, the dark, the winds that whip around him. There is nothing around him. No-one to answer his questions.
He is mortal.
He is powerless.
He is alone.
MORROWIND
