Storm

Yes, more Greek mythology. You know you love it!! ^3^

I've been told this is a little hard to grasp .-. Let me know, please!!

And, @Lovaticlovesbooks ~ This is the one I told you about!

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Storm

The air is tranquil. The room is tranquil. Blythe is tranquil.

The entire house is dark, except for the one desk light leaning over a hunched college student, both resembling the other quite remarkably.

The pencil is speaking in the hushed language of pen-and-paper. Curves and angles are streaming out, hard proof of thought and time taken. The top of the page reads “Greek Mythology Composition.”

Suddenly, there is a crimpling of paper, a boom of a deep shout, a crescendo of millions of avalanches, a roar of a beast dwindling out to the growl of a suddenly-awoken canine. The air is trembling. The room is being swabbed in white light. Blythe is leaping up from the desk. Her papers are fluttering and spilling to the floor.

The storm has begun.

Blythe is sitting now, melting into her swivel chair with one hand cupping her cheek. A sigh trickles out, and her tongue molds the puff of air into a word.

“Ohhh-kay.”

A stray gale drops through the window like a thief, and is sweeping the room with its ominous wail. Careless, forgetful Blythe, leaving windows open in the shadow of a great squall.

But Blythe is always known for her efficiency and memory.

Diamonds are collecting on the screen, rushing down to plop on the oaken sill. Blythe is standing, but she won’t move to the window. Her attention is a hostage elsewhere.

In the wreckage of broken ataraxia, a melodic voice is calling in wordless necessity.

Blythe is struck.

She's also frozen in place.

Why can’t she go to the voice?

Seconds before perplexity tugs her eyebrows down, the room explodes again. A crackling of a great fire, a spray of gravel bits, a splintering of an oak branch, a rumble of a speaker coming to life, a whoosh of wing over water.

A creaking of rusty door hinges.

They’re coming through the door, through the window, through the vent in the ceiling. Through the wall outlets and keyholes in boxes they’re arriving, beating their great dark wings.

A whirling hurricane of sound, feathers, and beasts is filling the once-halcyon room. A rainbow of bright colours is flashing, their sources nowhere to be found.

They tend to take pleasure in throwing their inhuman heads back in song and screech alike. One of these powerful moments is occurring now as one pauses in the frenzy. This allows Blythe’s petrified gaze to take in its features.

The raiders all seem to retain a posture similar to that of dark angels, though inky-feathered wings have supplanted their arms. Blythe is quickly scanning the creature. She notes the gnarled black hair framing the face of an angel. The angel’s rosy lips have taken the shape of a perfect ‘o’ and she emits a flawless high-A note. Her human bust is bound with a swathe of white cloth, leaving the torso-down to be clad in sleek black plumage. One leg is lifted in a flamingo-stance and in those foot-long golden talons she clutches a notebook.

With a flick of a wing, the being becomes one with the chaos again.

A mere second has passed between then and now, and that is all the time Blythe needs to realize that all of the beasts grip small items. Small items of hers.

A pencil, snatched from the jar. A wireless computer mouse. A tiny jewelry box adorned with nothing but that carving of a unicorn etched into the top. Even the lamp that formerly sat on her desk is held captive; its wire hastily severed. Blythe is trying to cry out, but her voice seems to have been filched as well.

She is soon distracted as a clawed foot emerges from the din, followed by two midnight-blue wings and a spiteful smile. Blythe’s breath flees her lungs as she finds herself lost in a pair of dazzling lime-green cat eyes. She’s barely aware of the four talons encircling her forearm.

The room is being washed in white again, driving the rogue colours away. The cat eyes are widening and the pressure leaving her forearm. Suddenly, all of the windows in the room are wide open with lace curtains flailing like captured ghosts. The uproar is still in an instant. The beasts are now gathered in a tight pack in the center of the room, crouching low; waiting apprehensively.

Blythe has three new visitors. Their entrance is so swift that it is impossible for the human eye to follow their movements. In through the windows they’re flitting, then spiraling down around the cluster of winged creatures. They send great winds raging through the room.

The angel beings are reacting by letting loose feral squalls from deep in their throats. Sounds of pure desperation.

The three men—as Blythe can now see they are—alight down around the posse and are beginning to speak with harsh tones in an unfamiliar tongue. All at once, the crew of unwelcome guests is rounded up and swept off through a single window.

Only one remains now: a wind man. His turquoise human eyes meet Blythe’s hazel gaze with pride, but with an overwhelming sorrow. He’s bobbing his head once, then vanishing all together, drawing the raging gales out of the room and into the rumbling night with him. A final sort of reverb soon follows him. The pitter-patter of the rain lingers, but eventually that fades too.

Blythe is alone.

She’s dissolving listlessly into her chair and choosing a pencil from the muddle of her desk. She’s languidly arranging her fingers around that pencil and touching the tip to the page. She’s dragging it along, again forming the curves and angles. A violet feather lands beside her hand as she’s writing “harpy.” A friendly breeze toys with her hair as she’s writing “the Boreads.”

She’s setting the pencil down.

The air is settling. The room is darkening. Blythe is thinking hard.

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.-.

Again, vote/comment if you liked it... I'm not so sure about this one. Thanks for reading!