She once had a name, one given her out of respect for her power then taken away when she was deemed unworthy. That name meant messenger and earthly, but it also meant complete and universal. Before she moved on, she would teach us that penury did not yet define her penchant for destruction.
They called her Hermine. She imbibed from the chalice of seas and spat it upon the plains of the world. In great torrents she drenched the earth and threatened to wash away the realm of the drylander. She took life in great gulps, washed away sustenance and shelter, and in the end she sped away with nary a thought for that caught in her wake.
Yet even as the sun broke through her once impenetrable shield and touched the new ocean land, she proffered one last gift to remind us that taking her name did not take her power. With great suddenness the skies darkened and the winds blew. Then, just as the seers had warned, great writhing fingers of heaven began to fall in twisting and turning dances, each seeking to devour, to destroy.
And as suddenly as they had appeared, her tornadic minions vanished, each taking its fill and returning to the ether from which it came, each leaving behind a remembrance of the beast we once called Hermine.