Michael (III)

A grisly, grating moan spread across the warrior tribe as they discovered their kin at the shrine.

They heard still the beyond's war drum beating across their hearts, and they thrashed like raging bulls in grief.

Michael's spell ceased stasis; the red cloud of his blood began to softly rain on his tribe.

As droplets of scarlet caressed them, dripped down their faces, the texture of the beyond's symphony thickened and revealed its many facets to them. It vibrated and echoed so much more than the brutal percussion they had solely known. The mourners keeled over in plaintive understanding. Michael's sacrificial spell had left them anguished at a brother lost, but opened their hearts up to wells of shining music and magic they had never before experienced. It was bright and deep and pooling all around them in swirling wisps of blue and every color.

Michael's tribe was once one of warriors.

But Michael wasn't one.

Michael the Healer stitched together the gaps in his tribes' spirit and made them whole.