"Get them within the circle."
A dark shadow descended upon the village as impenetrable black clouds rolled overhead, chittering screams echoing down across miles of open farmland while wagons full of the season's harvest trundled over the narrow bridge that led into town. A fiery-feathered woman stood at the far end, symbols arrayed before her feet, protective runes emblazoned with her power. The masterful weaver who had scratched them into the ground, a full month of his labor inscribing his magic into a circle around the village, was out there now, at the farthest farmhouse trying to help two elderly terata make it into town before the storm hit.
"But Rishara, you don't need to stay out here. When those clouds come down--"
"I'll be fine. Go."
Little Yanchu's ears drooped, and then he was gone. He was dreadfully worried about his father, the weaver who--with her aid--had protected this place. She