The battlefield transcended mere warfare and devolved into a canvas of raw and feral slaughter.
High Shaman Zephyra did not give the paralyzed enemy chiefs a single second to solve the mystery of her recovery.
Standing atop the ridge, her face carved with cold, unforgiving resolve, she lifted her carved staff high into the darkened twilight.
"Fleeing rats," Zephyra's voice hissed through the gale, carrying the weight of a century's worth of ancestral fury. "You dare think about trampling upon the Veynar. Now, let the world drink your blood!"
She slammed the butt of her staff into the limestone.
BOOM.
The single cyclone turned into two and then three.
Her long white hair whipped wildly as she raised both arms to the sky. The emerald cyclones grew even larger and more vicious, their outer walls merging into a singular, colossal wall of rotating, razor-sharp wind that stretched across the entire valley floor.
