Hoshor Plains [bwp] bar the windows and the doors

dawn breaks that day like most that came before it; grey, with the dull drive of rain into the earth and a wind that chases the clouds eastward. it does not arrive with a blaze of light and cotton-candy coloured clouds, but instead a barely perceptible lightening of the grey that permeates into every hollow and rise of the landscape below. the river that curls through the golden grassland (tinged green, now, by all that that has come to erupt through the ever-damp soil) has swollen, barely, as is to be expected, and the water laps a little higher up the bank than should be the norm this late summer. small, reaching arms of the river have sprouted from the main rush of water, making their careful way into the grasses. 

the sound is the only warning. the roar of it, dull thuds and cracks that can not immediately be traced to any one potential source; it is a storm, a gale, a train, a peal of thunder. hoofbeats, barely heard above the sound, as distantly some great herd of bison pull away from the water. 

it comes in a great rush of iron water, coloured by stolen silt and rock and lives. vegetation; twigs and undergrowth and trees that churn near the surface, colliding and disappearing beneath the water before being ejected again to repeat the process. for a moment, the rush seems to be confined above the river itself; to travel the same path as it does. 

the front of the great rush, water made beast, charges by and the river takes on new life. its banks are made redundant, the water swelling headlessly, crashing into whatever stands between it and limitless expanse. the red swell discharged trunks and heavy branches as it dissolves the fragile bank; the trees that one lined it falling prey to the water with great cracks as they to topple into the flood, only adding to the torrent's arsenal.

the deluge roars onward.

written by thalia