You speak of yourself as a storm. As if to warn me away. And in doing so, fail utterly, if that be your goal.
I am He who walks between. I speak with the embodiments of the elements, I cavort and hold friendship with those of air.
I follow the path of a lord of Storm, of night, of Winter.
You speak to me of your storm and I think, “Perfection.” Be you a storm. Strike wind and in fierceness know, in me you are home.
Should you care to make a place with me. Storms are not to be feared but loved. Shouted in joy. And should they calm, spoken soft words to and made ready for when next they stir.
Pelgris 