As one peers through the morning mist, one can easily make out a trail of swirling brown dust against the vast statuesque backdrop that is the horizon itself. Beyond the relentless cycle of the minor sandstorm, picked up playfully again and again by the west wind, is a lone vehicle.

As the West Wind whispers her blessings to the solitary group of travellers, she wafts towards them, and to her delight, there is joy to be found in toying with their possessions.

The gleaming white silk that answers her calls to flutter freely. The brilliant golden locks that dance with her rhythm. She chuckles softly as she seeps beneath mysterious green material, shouldered by the same silk-clad man, then out again. Under and over. In, out.

Excited, she winds round and round the adjacent person. Two jaded eyes scintillate a brief verdant gratitude at the comfort of her embrace; a pair of hands momentarily relaxes at the wheel under her soothing presence.

She explores further, discovering a pair of legs perched near the shoulder of the silent driver. She creeps along, finding her way past denim, past leather, and finally drifts alongside wisps of blood red. Red hair that obligingly flits along under the commands of her waltzing spell.

Amongst all these little joys to be had, however, there is a sensation of… wrongness.

One cannot sense the usual cheerfulness that accompanies jovial travellers, nor can one expect to anticipate such a delectation arising out of this group. There is none of the tingling and pleasant sensation that precedes blissful happiness, or at the very least, peaceful contentment. Nor is there a hint of even such a sensation drawing nigh.

The West Wind investigates. She winds around the red haired man's hand, the hand which - she notices - has been hovering unconsciously and aimlessly above the space beside him all the while.

The space.

Finally, the hesitant hand comes to a disappointed conclusion and lands softly, dispirited, on the empty seat.

Empty seat.

She frowns, stirring up more cycles of sand and dust in her troubled wake.

She can feel... she can see... the spirited energy that once horde the seat, a missing presence that is spiralling around her in an invisible yet powerful call for help, exhausting all the inexhaustible energy it once held.

Then, it is gone.

Circling the expanse of the sky above where the aura made its evanescent appearance, she wills the desperation of the force to return - she wants to know more. It is then that the reason behind the mounting moodiness radiating from the realms of the vehicle comes clear to her.

She sighs silently, as trees seemingly nod their heads in slow, sad agreement. She twirls towards the dull pale blueness that is the sky, trying to escape the tension of silence between the members of the group, who are discernibly waging a war of unsaid words.

With a few more silent blessings, she sends the usual concoct of dust, the cycles of sand, roaming around in the shimmering air under a tired sun...

...just as the denouement of karma wanders uncertainly in the face of a shattered world, under unforgiving scrutiny.

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TBC