Something is stealing the words from the desert’s oldest walls, erasing entire stories as if they were never written.

High in the mountains, the wind has gone silent. Clouds hang heavy over the peaks, storms won’t pass, and the snow feels wrong beneath Bommie’s feet.

Dreams are fading. Where there used to be colors, shapes, and adventures, now there is only grey mist.

The desert winds are wild… and wrong. Sandstorms arrive too early and stay too long, scattering herds and burying precious waterholes.

The Wells of Whisper have gone silent, their wish-lights dark. Without them, the world’s promises will fade away.

The skyfire birds have vanished, leaving the mornings strangely dim. Without their return, the cliffs will crumble, and the winds will lose their song.

Lights in the valley flicker without cause, and shadows move in ways they shouldn’t.

A strange hum rolls through the loch, stirring the waters and waking the ancient stones below.

The oldest trees in the forest are turning to stone, their leaves crumbling like ash.

The River of Echoes has gone silent, and the voices of the remembered have vanished.

The dream-currents beneath the ocean are twisting into whirlpools, trapping thoughts and memories in their pull.

The Heartglade’s crystal pool has turned cloudy, and its light is fading fast.

Winter has failed to arrive. The rivers are low, the highlands bare, and the air tastes wrong.