Requiem Nimbus

written by Crimson Stripes

illustrated by Sin, the Weaver in Blue

As it crawled its way up the horizon it consumed everything and anything, every shape of color, every ray of light, and every corner of the eye.

It didn’t matter where you were—only that someone else had been there, that they had enough reason to come back, and that they always would. The storm was their vessel. It brought them back a little less than alive, a little more than dead, but not exactly something in between.

Contrary to cliché, the inhabitants of the storm have no inherent malevolence, nor are they god-fearing by any means. No, these souls do in death as they did in life; this much is known to those who cross the storm’s path on regular occasion.

As you take the storm’s air in with your breath, consider the following:

• Is this your first encounter with the Requiem? If not, is it coincidental or purposeful?
• What do the winds blow with them? Just people? Pets, maybe? Plants, even?
• How does your world react to the citizens of the past? With glee? Contempt? Indifference? Or a combination of the above?
• How do the long-forgotten digest the new world around them? Do they even try?

Story Arc: Stars of the Midnight Range

Muck and mud and steel and wood and blood and bones—the definitions of war, the spillages made in pursuit of ideals. We’re told a death with resolve is the only one that matters, that such a thing can only be gained on a battlefield. Yet always omitted are the bodies snapped in twain, the minds infested with itches, the souls stretched and malformed, incrementally, day after bloody day.

First Gathering

It’s been a long time since those years where soldiers sat in trenches and foxholes, but the silence of stalemate stays, as do the cracks of gunshots that eventually break them. With the storm comes those who once were, and with them came the world they once lived in.

Scene Play

Though the chaos of the old wars stayed in it grave, the victims were dug out of theirs. With each came their own struggles, their own traumas, somehow entirely different from, yet perfectly identical to, the last and the next: they are hopelessly condemned to a suffering that’s already happened and will happen again.

Deck Burner

With whatever bit of time the storm lends them, they cry. Not with words, not with voice, not even in tears. Their cries echo in the soul, turning into a pain that cripples mind and body. If only there was someone to reach their hands out or lend an ear to them.

Laid to Rest

Action or inaction, the storm will pass as it came. That much is set in stone. One can only hope these saddened souls found their peace during their stay, that they returned with new eyes and whole hearts, for it’s the fate of all to join it one day.