A nomad clad in a bronze scaled outfit designed as a wyvern dances slowly upon a mountaintop.
Around him, precariously balanced, other nomads play a haunting tune on bone flutes.
The wind rises and falls, at times overpowering the flutes, but they only serve to play off each other in harmony.
Slowly the nomad's voice is heard chanting louder and louder in the tongue of the Windwalkers.
>>Seasons come and change, let the Wyvern die it is its time. Scales come to rest and the panther rises to hunt.
The wyvern-nomad then sits down, and is revealed holding a drum as he lets then outfit fall from his shoulders. A rapid rhythm arises from the drum, and the flute players disappear in flashes of red and black only to be replaced by other drummers in similar flashes of light.
A crescendo builds then comes to a thunderous silence.
As a female nomad appears, in a flash of black light, clad as a golden panther, the drummers bow then vanish.
She slinks toward a small altar scattered with runes. Pulling a knife from within the skins, she cuts across her palm and lets her blood fall before the altar before swiftly binding the cut with a clean strip of cloth. Taking the runes in her other hand, she then kneels, her face turned to the sky, observing the stars in their patterns.
Minutes pass by before the wind seems to whisper, now! and she casts the runes.
Studying them for a moment, she then stands and returns to the center of the mountaintop. Slowly, the figures reappear: first the wyvern-nomad, then the flutists, and lastly the drummers. They all kneel before the panther-nomad.
>>The omens for the year are as dark as the tainted winds that reach us. Yet, the golden panther shall hunt, and not be the hunted.
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