The rain plumetted in torrents onto the gnarled trees. The wind moved the trees until their bare branches looked like a wicked raven's talons, scraping the storm clouds in the vast, purple sky. 
Lightning ruled the night, flashing within the ominous, crackling clouds. It materialized, threatening to touch the ground and set the woods aflame. 
The sky roared like a defiant brute, unrelenting in its pursuit to strike down whatever creature was foolish enough to stay out. Whatever was out there right now was about to be scarred, or killed.

But he was out. He was there, running through the forest, searching in vain for shelter. 
His orange fur was tainted brown with mud, as if he were some mutated creature. His eyes, which were a dark gray, were round and frightened. His ears were amazingly long, and they dangled down by the ground, picking up dirt and twigs as he ran. The Xylon had not known how he got there, or what he was doing here. He barely knew where "there" was. When he had awoken in the midst of the storm, all he could muster to think was "The Creepy Woods. So, he ran. He did not stop, his eyes darting here and there for some sort of shelter from the storm. He screamed as he tripped over a branch, his face landing in the mud. He decided to stay there, just stay there, and die. He would be struck by lightning, or be picked up by one of the Woods' mutants. 
The rain relentlessly pelted his back. It felt both good and painful. Good because it washed away the blood and dirt that stained him, and painful because it dared to stray into his various open wounds. 

He wondered how nature and weather could be so malicious. There he was, a skinny little Xylon, running in the middle of a storm, and the storm was too stubborn to lift for him. 
There he was, beaten and tattered, wounded and shaking, with no warmth or protection. But did any of it matter, now that he laid here in the sopping ground, his breathing adjusted to the point of aching? His agony soaring through his spine, into his head and banging into his skull? 
He guessed not. He lay there, and invited the storm into his body. He let the rain run deep into his wounds without fight, and would have gladly let the lightning grind him into the earth. 
The thunder became part of him, shaking him to the core each time it shrieked. His body was in a tumult, and revolted the storm and the pain, but his mind...It felt good to his mind. 
The pain seemed to be some sort of stimulus, and caused him to giggle with joy. Why, he did not know. He lay there, cackling insanely in the mud. The lightning struck the sky above him, the thunder raced on the earth around him. 
But the storm did not harm one hair on his head. Only the rain stung, and even then, it cleaned his cuts and his gashes, unknown how many there were on his body. 
His ears were pinned back to his head, and his tail was wrapped around his waist. His fur looked even more orange now, thanks to the torrents from above. There was a slight green tint emerging from his fur.
Then the rain came in less a torrent. It slowed to a peaceful patting, and his laughter ceased. 
His features stilled, only his eyes blinking, as the rain soothed him to sleep. His face was contorted into a childish grin, as the rain slowly stopped, and the thunder made one final growl as the lightning flickered once more. 
The clouds began to lift, and over the course of several minutes the sun peeked through. The rays cast a beautiful shine on the clouds as they drifted apart. As the light touched the ground it seemed to heal, like a doctor visiting a battlefield. 

It was dawn, the start of a new day. Also a new life, as the Xylon would soon see. 
He would stand, and he would brush his dirty bangs away from his eyes. The insane glare would stay in his eyes, but the rest of him would heal. 
He would no longer care why he was here, nor where exactly he was. He would just live and yet live, darting from tree to tree, bush to bush. 

But he would always remember that night he weathered with the storm that almost killed him, but instead created him. He let the storm enter his body, and heal him from within. He would remember the glorious sting of the rain, and the dubious feeling of whether he would live or not. 
The thing that he would remember most vividly, however, would be the darkness. After that night, he yearned darkness. 
He needed it. 
He craved it. He wanted the clouds to come back, and blot out the sun forever, just so he would be able to be him, he who he was, whoever he was. 
He would remember that night, and forever be known to himself and those who saw him however fleetingly, 



How could anyone not know what he had become? 
Dark bounded through the forest, his body lithe and strong. 
He was not the same scrawny Xylon that limped from the woods that fateful night, when the storm leapt into his body. 
No, he was something much greater than that. The lightning had struck him, but more in an emotional way, to a point that his eyes were filled with it, and it coursed through his veins. 
He fostered the thunder inside his spirit, like a beastly creature fosters violence. 
The rain was his one and only confidante, even though it never answered with words; the rain answered with stinging consolation instead. 
As this storm-filled Xylon pushed himself through the woods, all that could be heard was what sounded like the soft pat of a stone to a pile of green leaves. 

The lightning inside of Dark's body was at the mercy of his whim, and as he called upon it to bring him to the town, no-one could see this enigma that dashed through the barren land, just past the main road, if there was ever one.