"Whispers of the Spirit Wind"

The shaman stood motionless against the dying light, as the the sun bled into the horizon behind him when darkness would soon meet the earth. The spirits had spoken to him in the depths of his trance, their voices carried on the wind like distant thunder. He had seen shadows moving where none should be, felt the weight of something unseen pressing upon the land.

His staff carried his spirit guide, the great eagle, while feathers adorned his chest, talismans of wisdom and power, but even those could not shield him from the warning he had received. The ancestors had shown him a vision—of fire licking the sky, of hoofbeats pounding like war drums, of a darkness creeping over the plains, consuming all in its path.

He turned sharply. There was no time to linger. His people had to be warned, preparations had to be made. War, famine, or something far worse was coming. He could only pray that the spirits would guide them through the storm that lay ahead.