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Wyrlock stood vigil, staring into space, a short ways from the Chieftain's hut. For the better part of the day, he had ignored everything around him but the one thing he focused on so intently. It was not uncommon for him to be seen this way, listening carefully to the whispered secrets of the harsh winds... but there were no whispers today.
Instead, there was a constant howl of ill portents that only he was attuned to hear. For many hours he listened, trying to divine the exact nature of this prophecy before he presented it to his Chieftain. The exact details were vague, but he was confident that he could discern them. He would not sully his honor with another failed prediction.