Redhawk Caldera [BOO] It's all a matter of personal responsibility.

A fell wind has picked up; heavy, and ugly, smelling of seaweed rotting on a beach somewhere and the layered petrichor of saltstone. The smell lingers to those that taste it, who recognize that it does not belong so far afield.

It is offensive; within moments it is catching in the trees and making their branches shudder in such a way—peeling leaves off, which collect in a tumult. For a moment, the reds and golds of the leaves are a hissing whirlwind, and a glimpse gives the impression of a shape in the mess of it: something masculine, broad-shouldered, and a touch malevolent.

The air quiets for a long moment. When it returns, it is imbued with a rasping sound like bark being peeled from the side of a tree, pulsing across the outskirts of Brecheliant, somehow unable to permeate farther. The wind dredges the trees again and this time, among the mess of it, a pair of golden leaves twirl and glint in the sunlight—a pair of eyes?