Within a hermit's blarg, a sleeping Shaman's dreams twist with the growing dissent of a concerned host of spirits. Visions plague her sleep with increasing severity. She sees dark clouds stretching from the west, she feels her body wither and scatter into ash. She is entangled in the earth's fate, and she is crumbling away. In the smoke rising around her, the spirits whisper hateful curses, and a long hand stretches down toward her people.
"Tor-urki Krug-dâgrim'u, UK-darûkrim."
One-thousand curses upon the children of Krug, traitors all.
"Ufum-Ilzgûl. Ufum-nûrzum'izubu..."
Fear the spirits. Fear our wrath.
The hand of smoke entwines its fingers around the citadel of krug-kind, and with fury wrung the life from their lungs.
Fiil'Yar awakens from yet another vision, still yet to discover its meaning. Though she was well-known as lazy and slow to act, the spirits of the wild demanded her attention. Rubbing her eyes, groggy, Fiil mumbles; "Perhaps it's time I return to my people."