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The storm-souled archdruid stood atop his haven in the tempest's heart: a sphere of calm within an abyss of tearing black clouds. Despite the raging winds that protected the sanctum, the harpies had carved their way into it to destroy him.

Grafted with their sickly wings, the hunters circled him warily. He was no simple prey, and they warily readied their arms as the druid quietly sang, reading from a scroll held in aging hands.

The calm air shifted, and its once buoying gusts now seemingly bereft of anything at all. The hunters struggled to stay aloft, like a fish trying to swim without water, but fell out of sight and plummeted down towards the vicious storm once more.

As the druid returned to rest, the harpies' voices fell silent one by one, rent apart by the howling winds.

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