Dawnlark Plains wanted: big bad wolf

Sam scoffed. Not at Blackwater — which was a perfectly serviceable, slightly unimaginative name for a deep body of water — but at the word prophet.

He knew what one was. Prophets foretold things, and, in every story of his childhood where one had featured, the seemed to have a rather high opinion of themselves. Sam's opinion was that they had all smacked their head on a rock when they fell out of their mother.

He could have left it at that, but he was getting hungry, and they were heading in the opposite direction to the one he had bet all of his wolf bucks. So, just to be petty, he said, "No, you aren't. That's not a thing. They’re just being nice to you because you're useless." Petty snowballed quickly into cruel.