Bara Cailín 5: 19 ‘the fruit of whim’

A lightning storm takes hold and rolls across the sky with jagged ferocity, stabbing the darkness.

A booming voice rings out through the tumult.

Ten voices.

One Hundred.

Legion.

Five.

‘Welcome to Terminal Transit.’

The suffering we are now visiting upon you is simply the fruit of whim.’

‘We mean you each and every harm you are currently experiencing.’

‘Only us.’

‘Listen.’

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