Sound. Colour. Rhythms. Life. All returned in a instant to Pas... no Sapora, as the new storm raged overhead. The fog that covered her mind vanished, but the worry remained, compounded by the sudden emotionality possible. What was happening? She slowly opened her eyes and unwrapped her arms from around herself. She glanced around, taking in the richly coloured surroundings of the Shelter. How could something so humble as a Parshman Stormshelter be so beautiful? The rich brown of the floor, contrasted with the pops of yellow from the straw, to the flickering orange of the torch, hastily set up as every Sphere had gone dun by now. She watched the dancing flamespren, noting their own shifting beauty. She held up her hand towards the flame and stopped. Her arms. They were... beautiful. A deep crimson marbled with a deep ochre brown. Awespren burst into being all around her, and a warm feeling of... pride in herself.
Standing up, she noticed just how much taller she had gotten, maybe as tall as that mountain of a man Kelden. Maybe not. It would take a much greater transformation to do that. But some of those around her seemed to have done just that. She counted 5 around her that stood as tall or even taller than she, but had grown some sort of armour, covering them from head to toe, only leaving a small window to see their face through. Another 5 seemed to have grown outwards rather than upwards, remaining short in stature but much wider and stouter. One seemed just as limber and dextrous as she had become, but maybe a hand or 2 taller. The rest seemed all too content to sit around and contemplate life.
"Wh... what's happened to us?" Sapora cautiously broke the silence, marvelling at the musicality with which she spoke.
"Isn't it obvious?" The malen like her responded
"We've been saved. That storm has blessed us with minds, with bodies to fight, to resist. To seek retribution for all they have done to us!"
As he spoke, Sapora started to notice differences between them. His fingers were shorter, less dextrous than hers. His patterning more heavy on the crimson than the skin tone.
And his eyes were a solid red. That was a big one.
"We must rise! Rise above those who oppressed us! who enslaved us! Who took out minds and bodies, to do with them as they would! You've seen how they treat us, how every single one of them act as if we are livestock to be ordered around. They do not ca-"
"Some of them care" Sapora interrupted quietly.
"What?"
She looked down blankly. She knew some, at least one of them cared. About them, about her. But she had to wonder, would that change? Did he simply help her like you would help a shivering axehound, out of pity for a lower being. Or was it something more? True compassion? She had to find out.
"Names, call out your names, all of you. Your real names, not the embarrassments the Humans have you. Your real name." They all called their names, one after another, the shelled ones first and the stout ones last. They seemed to have gravitated together, forming to those like them, huddling against the confusions of the world. Well, Sapora couldn't do that. She'd started to recognise some of them, noting that the red eyed malen had "belonged" to the Sherrif. She had been particularly cruel to Parshmen, always acting like Jeosh, the Parshman, said that they would. And worse.
"We" he announced suddenly, "need to get out of here"
He ordered the shelled ones, he kept calling them "Warforms", to break down the door. However, that door was built of strong stuff, made to withstand the wrath of the Highstorm. The "Warforms" weren't going to cut it. As they tried and failed to open the door by force, one of the contemplative ones stood up and, with a long, thin nail that dripped with a black ink, slid the lock open and pushed it open. She mumbled "smarter, not harder" as she walked back to her kind.
They stepped out into the pouring rain, surveying their surroundings. The westernmost houses had all but been leveled, with those just beyond them not faring much better. The stormshelters had fared well, however, so there should have been no casualties. A beat, no a rhythm, that had been pounding in her head changed and mellowed in her head. It became more calming and peaceful, matching the drop in her own worry.
Then several armed guardsmen jumped out at them, surrounded them and shouted "What are you and what have you done to our town?"