Snowflakes danced their endless, manic descent, grinding into white dust as the streets echoed with urchins covered in cruel, red sores screaming their lungs off. That was how every Furormas was in the City-State of Wratheria: angry, boisterous, insane and without care.
But not for you. You stomped through the snow with your robes flapping behind you. They were a hive of activity, these streets, and it sickened you. Young whelps pilfering old men. Wives beating their husbands. The everyday folk that now flooded the streets were stomach-churning.
A man should be able to walk through his neighbours' house at the peril of his life. Wife and husband-beaters should've had their arms broken and legs mutilated for sport. Children should be drowned at birth. These blasted frenzied citizens are charged as if they'd been touched by a Demon of the infernal planes themselves.
There was no inner rage.
No calm, collected, seething hatred.
No passion.
On the 1639th year of the R.A.F calendar of the City-State of Wratheria your eyes were ripped open, fixated on the writhing form in front of you. Even as those ceaseless urchins plague you with fervor that would make even the most cold-blooded vampire hang their head in frustration, you could only stare forward.
"Wakey, wakey!" the rotund fool bellowed. You recognize him, Peter Greerson, human and most idiotic of all fools. What in the Realm Davida does he want, you wonder.
Your silence only incites the old man to continue his mindless provocation.
"Wak’up! It's Furorm’s! Doe a'body wanna slap slap tha face of a old fat man? N'aww? Th’n the Ar’c-Wizad, imself? Giv it to him, hard and fast!"
...WHAT!?
You clenched your fists. The act gnawed and clawed at your sanity more that it was even possible for 128 years of your life, more the dignity and grace currently being stripped away from you.
The wretched thing sat cross-legged on the floor, smacking his gums and goading passersby to smack him in the face. They did it, too. Some