The spirits have been restless lately. Not in a bad way, more like they're waiting for something. I've been walking the shattered lands for months now, planting totems in the broken earth, listening to spirits that have been screaming since the Cataclysm with no shaman to hear them.
Grandmother would say I'm collecting stories the way some people collect debts. She's not wrong.
Someone suggested I write them down. The stories, not the debts. Although honestly, the list of people who owe me for saving their lives is getting pretty long too. Maybe I should start charging. "One terrible pun per resurrection" seems fair.
So here we are. A chronicle. A journal. A place to put the thunder and the quiet alike.
The storm walks on. And now, it writes.
*— Mist*