The moon reigned proud in the evening sky. A hazy ring of mellow white forms around the crescent satellite, radiating celestial light and power. Her silvery glow is soft as she shines on the earth and its inhabitants. She is patient and nurturing, lighting up the streets of the village below.
The sky, in contrast to the nurturing moon is brooding and dark, not a single star to be seen. The dark blue might as well be pitch black. Swirls of navy blues mixing in with darker blues, monotonous and seemingly endless, like a pit with no conceivable bottom in sight. The clouds are quite shy this particular evening, the moon shines on their greying wisps as they travel across the vast skies.
Nearby the river, slowed to a glorified stream by the change in seasons, reflects the moon’s glorious profile, through admittedly, its perception distorted. On the broken surface of the water, float beads of liquid light. Sequins formed of moonlight that had fallen to the earth, that held their place as the waters underfoot continued their perilous journey around jaggy stones, to sea.
Night crawlers betray the sun as bewitched acolytes; they come out now, to bathe in the light of the moon, to drink at the stream. Soft clicks are heard periodically throughout the night as bats fly amok in the skies. Every now and again, an owl will make its presence known, it hoots ominous and accompanied by those of its brothers in the nearby shadows. Scurrying rodents, ruffle through the rubbish around the village in search of food, under the watchful eye of the moon.
As the night ventures on, the tranquil succumbs to atrophy. The zephyr is replaced as the gusty winds come out to play, rustling the leaves of cedar trees that densely populate the surrounding area. They howl against the windows of homes, eliciting frightened barks from stray dogs in response. The winds, ever powerful, coax the clouds into joining their assault on the children of Gaea.
Of course, that is accompanied by the odd din that comes from the homes of the villagers. Down the street from the square, the inn emits the noise of slurred chatter. Late travellers, guided to a safe place to sleep for the night by the lunar goddess, perhaps. Their drunken babble blends in with the crackle of the hearth inside. The brewing storm shan’t hurt them in there. Up the pebbled road perfectly perpendicular to the inn, the merchant's modest home, nicknamed “bedlam” by his neighbours, is still alive. Listening in closely, one may here the explosive domestic rows his wife and children endure. They do not have much regard for the late hour, their caterwaul would put terrified felines to shame. Their windows are no less malevolent, crashing against the walls, the crashes wake the baby in the house nearby.
As the chaos continues to grow, the cacophony of violent winds, thickening clouds and booming thunder prepares to storm. The moon struggles to protect her children, constantly eclipsed by the clouds she once saw as an ally. The river can no longer be seen, only heard as the rapid waters only pick up their pace and crash against the river shores.
Animals blindly scurry for shelter in the cedar trees as their boughs bend in surrender to the unrelenting anger of the winds. The moon momentarily makes her appearance, desperate to help but she is quickly silenced and engulfed by the duplicitous clouds. The thick, viscous darkness spreads much like ink would on wet paper, tendrils rendering the moon a mere memory.
