Wind

No one was worried when the first 'calamity' struck. And the second. And the third.

And then on the dawn of a very odd day, Amihan woke to utter silence. The constantly-stirring chimes and knickknacks hung up around the lair had ceased to sound; the air was flat and still, and as she crept out of her nest, she saw that the members of the clan that had woken already - mostly their magically inclined folk - sat warily around the little bonfire in the middle of their camp.

"What's going on?" She hazards it in a whisper, and an irritable looking Shimmer flicks her stricken tail dangerously close to the Wind Prophetess' face.

"Shouldn't you know, O Great Lady of the Currents?" the coatl taunts, a northern hiss seeping into her words. "Are you not, after all, our very own Ambassador of Gales?" It's a little title Amihan wore with pride, denoting her status as a Wind flight representative. But now, it's spoken mockingly, and with the drag of the Vinetongue accent colouring her clanmate's words.

Amihan bows her head slightly, acknowledging the seniority of the Blightghost, and speaks resignedly. "I am the Ambassador. But that doesn't mean the Windsinger - blessed be - with all his breezy compatriots, deigns to speak directly to me at this very moment. I don't know why the winds have stopped, Shimmer." With that, she's heading toward the entrance of the lair: an archway made of boughs twisted together and wrought with iron bands, keeping the whole thing from flying apart. Behind her is a scoff; she knows why Shimmer had so harshly called her out, but doesn't know why the elder coatl can't just let things go...

As she slips past the tangle of roots that make up the clan's bridge from the island to the mainland, she notices how quiet and lonely the whole plateau has become. It's silent, without the distant howl of the storm further north, and still, since the kites that keep many clans' homes aloft hang limply there, probably by some magic...