the monolith’s body surges with colossal billows of cumulus and cumulonimbus, their vast forms shifting like tectonic plates of vapor. They fold and unfold in slow, spiraling collapse, as if exhaling the breath of forgotten tempests. Deep within these undulating masses, lightning does not strike—it writhes in suspended arcs, spiraling through the mist in slow-motion flashes of silver fire, illuminating the storm’s vast, living heart. And then—the arcus arrives. Spiraling outward from the monolith’s edges, funnel roll arcus clouds twist in perfect, endless coils, their curling tendrils forming vast corridors of mist and shadow. They do not simply stretch; they move like the hands of unseen deities, spiraling toward the luminous river, as if drawn to its glow by some ancient, unspeakable yearning. They radiate a slow, thunderous hum, a vibration that can be felt in the bones of the air itself, a presence that suggests the storm is watching, waiting, listening