Ilmatar’s golden wings did her well, shining brighter than the haze of morning light, sprouting from her back like a new-year bud. With these, she descended to the lower sky where the clouds danced among themselves and spirit children rolled and played on journey to Celeste. Her power ebbing in her soul, desire stirring in her bones, she summoned a storm, turning the clouds noxious and dark, raising it until the skies were lit by terrible lightning, and mortals feared divine rage and cowered under roofs and shade. Ilmatar threw the vial of Mother’s blood into the heart of the storm, exploding the clouds in gold, blood rain falling upon the land. Lightning within the cloud surged and coiled until the cloud fell apart, dropping from it a body newly made towards the ground. Ilmatar flew with godly speed towards the Living Earth, catching the body within her arms and flying quietly down to land. There she laid the body upon the earth, blackened and scarred by the scourge of the storm, the power sewn into his bones, stirring him to life. Ilmatar had brought to life a son, and she named him Procellus.