The Howling

The villagers in the remote valley were accustomed to the gentle seasonal breezes that carried the sweet scent of wildflowers in summer. But once a year, without fail or warning, an uncanny wind would come barreling down from the surrounding mountains and shock the countryside.
On that fated day, an eerie stillness preceded the oncoming gusts. Birds would go silent as cattle grew restless, their bleats and cries echoing across the meadows from their pens. Not a breath of natural air stirred in the trees or the golden fields of wheat - until the rogue wind struck.
It started as a distant, low roar building to an anguished howl as the massive whirlwind of dust descended into the valley. No door or stable could be secured against the brute force of the wind. It ripped up sections of thatched roofs and sent them swirling dangerously through the air. Market stalls, chests, and even oxcarts were tossed and overturned in the village streets.
Families huddled together in shaking homes, their eyes wide with terror as their shutters and roofs rattled under the frenzied assault. Windswept debris battered the village buildings while crops and trees bent violently against the powerful gusts.
Then as quickly as it came, the furious wind died out, leaving devastation in its wake. Though the rogue wind arrived in the same season each year, it never appeared on a predictable day. The villagers could not anticipate when their orderly world might be thrown again into chaos.
Frightened whispers spoke of wrathful spirits upon the mountains, a curse within the land itself. But the true origin behind the devastating wind remained an impenetrable mystery. The people knew only to fear its violent return each summer, though they could not hope to understand or control its untamed power.

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Manifestation

In the days leading up to the dreaded wind, an eerie glow emanates along the mountain ridges at dusk. Shimmering white lights dance across the night sky.  The villagers gaze up apprehensively at these ghostly auroras, which echo the chaos to come.
As the rogue wind stirs, a funnel cloud forms among the peaks, snaking down the slopes. Strange crackling thunder booms through the valley, devoid of storm clouds. The air becomes charged with a burning, electric scent like the tang of metal.
When the wind finally hurtles forth, it seems alive with a will of its own, bent on wreaking havoc. Dust devils swirl in its wake, formed by some supernatural magnetism. Menacing black clouds trail the gales, spewing tendrils that lash the land like the grasping claws of demons.
Once the wind passes, an oppressive stillness weighs upon the ravaged valley. Birdsong and cricket chirps are silent as if snatched away by the otherworldly storm. In the unnatural hush, the trees stand bent, and trails of debris lie strewn about by forces beyond nature's laws.

by Midjourney

Type

Natural