#weepingwind

[theemoshark]

Mother and daughter ♥️

(Characters belong to @louixie )

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Weeping Wind Shaina Tranquilino October 8, 2024

In the small coastal town of Harrow’s Bay, the wind had always been strange. It whispered through the crooked streets, sighed between the creaking wooden houses, and moaned as it swept across the sea. To the townsfolk, this was just part of life. They called it "the weeping wind" and spoke of it in low voices, never lingering on the topic for long. Children learned early not to pay attention to the sounds it carried, and even visitors quickly learned to close their shutters tightly at night.

But for Thomas Harker, the wind was a fascination he couldn’t ignore.

Thomas had moved to Harrow’s Bay six months ago, a broken man looking for solitude. He had lost his wife, Cadence, in a car accident the year before, and the grief still sat heavy on him, an invisible weight pressing down on his soul. The quiet town by the sea seemed like the perfect place to escape the noise of the world and his memories.

Yet, from the first night he arrived, the wind seemed different.

It wasn’t just the usual gusts rattling the windows or the occasional high-pitched howl; the wind here carried voices. Soft, murmuring at first, as though speaking in a language he didn’t understand, but the longer he listened, the more they seemed to make sense. At first, he brushed it off as fatigue or the remnants of his grief playing tricks on him, but the whispers persisted. They beckoned him, always at the edge of hearing, tugging at his curiosity like a distant echo calling him closer.

One cold autumn night, Thomas sat by his window, listening to the wind as it battered the house. He could hear the faintest trace of voices again, almost melodic in their rhythm. This time, though, he strained to listen harder. Beneath the layers of howling gusts, he swore he could make out words—fragments of sentences.

“The sea… the sea is hungry…”

“Blood in the water…”

“A mother weeps…”

His pulse quickened. He wasn’t imagining it. He grabbed a notebook and began to scribble down the phrases, each more cryptic than the last. He stayed up all night, chasing the voices through the wind, trying to decipher their meaning.

The next morning, Harrow’s Bay woke to tragedy. A fishing boat had capsized, all hands lost to the cold depths of the ocean. The locals said it was a freak accident, a sudden storm no one had predicted. But Thomas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The whispers—those voices—they had warned him.

Over the next few days, the wind’s whispers grew louder, more urgent. Thomas began spending more time listening by the window, waiting for the voices to return. They always did, bringing with them warnings of death and disaster.

“She’ll fall… break… gone forever…”

That same evening, a child playing by the cliffs slipped and fell to her death. The townsfolk were devastated, but Thomas had known. He had heard the voices speak of it, yet he had done nothing.

The guilt gnawed at him, but so did the curiosity. What was this strange force in the wind? Was it truly a warning or just a curse? He started listening more intently, writing down everything he heard, hoping to stop the next tragedy. But with each new warning, he became more obsessed. He no longer ventured into town; he barely ate, barely slept, consumed by the voices that filled his nights.

“Fire… flames… ashes…”

Two days later, a house on the edge of town burned to the ground, killing an elderly couple trapped inside. Thomas had heard the warning but couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. He was losing his grip on reality. If he told anyone, would they even believe him?

One stormy night, when the wind seemed to wail louder than ever, Thomas sat by the window again, the notebook trembling in his hands. The voices were clearer now, sharper, as if the wind itself had grown impatient.

“The one who listens… must pay…”

He froze. The words felt directed at him.

“A debt is owed… your name… your blood…”

The wind battered the house, howling with a fury that rattled the walls. Thomas stood up, heart racing. He tried to shut the window, but it wouldn’t budge. The voices grew louder, more insistent.

“Your time… has come…”

Suddenly, a cold gust burst through the room, knocking him to the floor. The wind swirled around him, and in the chaos, he could hear them—hundreds of voices now, overlapping, shrieking, whispering, weeping. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was no use. They filled his mind, clawing at his sanity.

And then, as quickly as it started, the wind died. The room was deathly still.

Thomas shakily got to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. The notebook lay open on the floor, pages fluttering. He reached down to pick it up, but something caught his eye. Written across the page, in a jagged, hurried script that wasn’t his own, were the words:

“You listened too long.”

A sudden knock at the door made him jump. He stumbled toward it, pulling it open to reveal a figure standing in the rain, cloaked in shadow. Before he could react, the figure stepped forward, its face pale and hollow, eyes sunken and dark.

It was Cadence.

Her lips moved, but the words didn’t come from her. They came from the wind.

“You listened too long,” she repeated, her voice empty, a hollow echo of the woman he had once loved.

Thomas stumbled back, his mind reeling. He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The figure stepped closer, the wind picking up again, howling through the open door. The voices returned, louder, deafening.

“Now you belong to us…”

The wind surged into the house, pulling at him, dragging him toward the open door and the dark, stormy night beyond. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the storm. The last thing he saw was Cadence's face, cold and unrecognizable, before the wind took him.

By morning, Thomas Harker was gone, his house empty, the windows open, and the wind once again weeping through the streets of Harrow’s Bay.

The townsfolk would speak of him only in whispers, their voices low, just like the wind.

[chicken-scratching]

@louixie WAAAAAKEY WAAAKEY sorry its not much just a few doodles but I did wanna explore some more analogue horror concepts!!!! I did take some creative liberties with the narrative a bit and my own personal interpretation such as Weepingwind practically self harming herself by refusing to take care of herself

but Velvetquince is there too so it balances it out

@louixie its not much but I needed to get my daily crowsong quota in and my hyperfixations. You have to guess them (DO NOT LOOK IN THE IMAGE DESCRIPTION OR TAGS I USED THATS CHEATING.)

[theshuffles]

Silence of the Old Man - Weepingwind

[chicken-scratching]

"It's only a matter of time until even you become ashamed with me."

@louixie BABE ITS TIME FOR YOUR NEW FANART

I've been studying with a future potential artstyle to complement my more minimalistic rendition of the characters but I also wanted to explore the complex relationship Crowsong and Falconflight are bound to have

Crowsong originating from a broken family and having witnessed the torment of her mother torn apart from the thing she used to hold so dear traumatized Crowsong deeply and remained as a deeply and firmly rooted mindset about love

Crowsong has convinced herself to become prepared for whenever something good she has is to be ripped away from her and because of her history of being abused this manifests as rage and simultaneously, her fury doubles as a form of self-defense but this does mean that Crowsong does lean into a toxic relationship with Falconflight as she views him not as a pillar of support but as another rut that threatens her wellbeing if she were to fall into it.

Eventually of course with conciliation and reassurance from Falconflight Crowsong does begin to trust someone like she did Weepingwind and Omensky but that doesn't mean she didn't begin to trust herself

I believe the inevitable breakout between Crowsong and Falconflight resulted from Falconflight inability to truly sympathize with Crowsong. At least in the beginning, When Crowsong shows her dark side (PUN INTENDED), all that Falconflight sees at that moment is a rage-filled, selfish, and stubborn she-cat bent on her own ideals and mission. And while she can be those things this is only the result of a kitten who was forced to virtually survive by her own and with this Crowsong is also deeply terrified of any form of change because throughout her whole life change has brought nothing but torment.