You’re finally in bed.  You know the clean sheets and soft bedding shouldn’t matter to you, but they do.  You remind yourself that days of traveling in ash and ruin would make anyone desire something more familiar.  It isn’t the comfort that is the problem, but rather getting attached to it. At least that’s what you suspect Dolan would have said.  You feel your body relax, as your mind whirrs with questions.  Who forged this blade?  How is it different from the pike?  And why did it feel so much hatred toward the other weapon?  You haven’t felt hate like that since…  since… your thoughts fade, almost without warning.  Not in an alarming sort of way, simply in the way it does as your mind finally gives way to sleep.  

It is replaced by a sound.  Rain falling on stone.  You can’t see anything.  It is dark.  But you hear the sound of water, and can feel the vibration of it against the stone.  You want to delve deeper.  What do you focus on:  the sound of the falling water, or the vibration of the stone?

The rain keeps falling, but you have found yourself.  You are a rushing river.  Overflowing from high in the mountains amidst a powerful summer storm.  You roil with motion as the drops fall unto you, filling you up and disturbing you all at the same time.  An anger rises up within you, an energy that must be channeled.  Down below you in a small valley is a mountain town.  Not unlike Silverstone, it lies in your path.  You are a bounty of water, rushing with power and speed.  Perhaps they should feel it too. The skies fell unto me, and I shall fall unto them.  That is a balance of sorts. What do you do?