Slaakhamshy'y Yg'a'tedaar threw his head to and fro, ignoring the suddenly-falling snow and trying to taste the strange energy to the air. He was not one of the Tzeen'ksy that could feel and twist the God-Winds, but his elongated head had unlocked new senses when Slaaneth had gifted it to him. "Azyr'ksy!" he shrieked in anger, calling upon his Shaman in the only language he could still form the words of.
"The future is clouded," said the cringing man who claimed to see fate in the sky as he approached, and Yg'a'tedaar's crab-like claw snapped at the Shaman's head in irritation, though stopping just shy of crushing him. One does not destroy a Shaman lightly.
"Azyr'iakash?" he asked, and the Shaman shook his head. "Tzeen'iakash? Hysh'iakash? Ksy'akhshami!"
"This is nothing from the Blessed Realm, Slaakhamshy'y," the Shaman said, still shaking his head. "The sudden snow, the piercing sun. This is the work of southerners, it must be."
"Mnahn'akami?" Yg'a'tedaar asked, contempt and disbelief in his tone. "Mnahn'akami syha'hagl? Naflehye!"
Perhaps if he had used that opportunity to rally his followers to his side instead of scoffing at his Shaman, he may have been able to put up a defence and survive the day, and perhaps eventually been awarded the final syllable that would mark his ascension. But instead Slaakhamshy'y Yg'a'tedaar found himself looking down at the spears of ice that had punched through his armour and into his chest, and his final thought was that his patron would not smile upon such an inglorious and uninteresting death.