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A tornado howls. The nocturnal cyclone stretches towards the ground below you, churning it into a fine dust with its twists and whirls. You hang from stygian clouds, defiant of gravity, rejected by the earth. For all that the clouds roil in this storm, you are not troubled by footing. Bolts of lightning are traded by the earth and the sky, pillars of fire in the night. You wear a robe of light purple, hemmed with osmium bands that seem more liquid than solid, and you flash from place to place.
The ground is green, covered in trees, and studded with glinting, needle-like spurs of metal. The wind twists what trees it can't uproot into a spiral, giving the impression that they're dancing around it in fearful reverence, lest it shift and consume more of them. The spines are equidistant from it, the foundation of the bars on the cage of a typhonic monstrosity. Lightning flashes between them all, in great and constant circles of energy.
Beneath, above, this is mirrored. Ripples in the clouds' consistent chaos spark, branches of power leaping up from the pylons below, a cage in truth. Lesser circles surround, etched with stars, empty, discs as smooth as glass. You step between those, moving, never still. You are restless, and they draw your feet like stepping stones in a pond, disdainful of distance.
Between these points, boiling, the clouds writhe. Monstrous visages form and dissipate, a vast cauldron of unrealized horrors. The glare of lightning renders those close impotent, unable to menace against the backdrop of such power and fury, but further faces fare better, jutting forth, an endless army born of symbolism and paranoia. They swirl as the trees do, commanded by the omnipresent power of their better.
You, too, are drawn in by the storm. You run with it, a heady rush born of movement quickening your circuit around the bars. The points on your path spiral inwards as you pick up the pace, until they merge with the circle they had once surrounded and you begin to draw the lightning itself into your wronghanded dance.
Around and around you go, until the Tempest is transmuted into a swirling pillar of actinic glory.
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You wake in your bed, head pounding. You must have moved about while you were sleeping, because you're so thoroughly wrapped up in your many, many blankets that you can't escape them. Of course, this isn't exactly displeasing to you, the sheer bounty of the fluffy hoard you've been ensconced in bringing a grin of nigh-draconic smugness to your face, but the giggling behind you would suggest that you've suffered this fate through less than natural means.
Your friend has been staying with you over the weekend, because you're sick and your sister can't always be at home. She's been very kind, but it's inevitable that, since you've been sleeping or otherwise incapacitated for so much of the day, she would get bored and do something mischievous. And you, poor invalid that you are, unable to defend yourself! You let out a faux-piteous whine as you realize this, redoubling her mirth, before your exhaustion drags you back into the depths of dreamless sleep...