Droughts never bothered to settle in Aegis, the nexus of the Holy. Withering corn stalks contemplated life, bloomed between the violent kneading of reshaping gales. Floods traced the slimy limestone grottoes of the Craigs and only succumbed to sedition by licking at the diamond rim of the Edge.
Billowing flocks of robes gathered on the bridgeweaves suspended a quarter league above the Planar Rasa with no supports in sight. Shimmers hung around the shoulders of the proudest Holy: the tallest in ultramarine capes trimmed with infrared lace. Their whispers stitched the stalks in the meadows, caressed the soil to birth bounties, convinced the wild folk at the Withering to take their fetishes elsewhere.
Leave our crossing for the simple commands we deliver, they mumble. Shaped and impressed and blown onto every malleable mind that crawls, walks, flies, and blooms here.
Especially our own.