Student Spectrums

Victory awaits at the end of the night.

Bellows the Storm. Streaks of lightning. Growls of the thunder. Hunger. A young man continues his trek. Betwixt the mountains he rises. Tall stature, physical appearance of myth, of legend! The Hero has come, rejoice all! Young and old! Nobles, cobblers! The reign of the Storm is no more! Brave is he, courageous, determined; nothing can stop him. After all, he is the Hero! What good is he if he is without triumph? Without honor? Nevertheless! Tonight is a night of victory! Conquer!

Beyond the flashes, beyond the rumbles, a sky of darkness. Cerulean bleeds into the greys. An ocean floods the sky’s layers; a cry, a wail. The sky weeps a sorrow for the land, long ravaged by the Storm and her violence. Amidst the torrents of rain, amidst the fear, the thunder, shines a light, a ray of hope. Marches the Hero, drenched, yet determined, and wronged, yet willful! He won’t lose, he can’t! No, reader! For he is the long-awaited sign, a symbol of hope; he must win. After all, he’s earned this triumph. He deserves it. Long has he been wronged, robbed by the Storm. For years, he has trained for this very moment! Under his feet sinks the dead, most soil. Round the great pines howls the wind, an omen; a warning. Each cloud darker, heavier than the last; the screams of thousands. But no, reader! Fear not! For the Hero approaches, grip tight on his blade; his will, power, determination, bravery, hono—

A tremor.

The beating of the drums.

The thumping. 

The pounding.

Madness.

A dance.

Hither she comes.

Stands before him the monster. The vile beast. The Storm. Pale and toned. Seven feet tall. A wide grin envelops her face as her lips quirk upward. Half her body is obscured by a mass of silky black hair; it reaches the dead earth below her. Black knee-high boots—the embroidered dragons curl and twist in unruly ways; their golden heads glimmer against the droplets of rain. A fierce, unshaken might rests on the Hero’s face. The Storm’s left arm is covered in bandages; the left side of her face is hidden. Tonight, reader, she falls; her reign of terror shall end.

A deep breath.

Firmness in his step.

The pain, the suffering, all shall cease. It must! It will! Tonight, the land is free! Liberated! The blade unsheathed; the Hero swings with all his might!

His left arm is no more.

The cackle of a crow erupts from the woman’s—no, reader, monster’s mouth. Her thin, bony fingers slowly grasp the hair on her face and pull it back. The bandages unravel. The rain clicks against the gold rings adorning each and every finger; symbols of dragons, lightning, fire. She caws in a rumbling, unknown tongue.

Burnt.

Her entire left side is the same—burnt. Melting. Her left arm is a mess of mangled, raw, sanguine. A hazy, white eye glows in the darkness; the eye of the storm. Such a beast is not a creature of the Lord. A forsaken witch! She grips the dragon head of her whip.

A situation so dire, but the Hero mustn’t give up! No! He cannot, reader! He wobbles, yet stands. The beast shall be purged. Triumphant shall be the Hero. His courage, his honor, hope unwavered; he clenches the blade with his right!

First, flashes the whip—pure lightning.

Follows the thunder. A roar.

The Storm lunges.

Nil valet homo prae tempestate. “Man is nothing before the storm.”