Fear the tussle, the wind chimes, foreboding tolls tell the wind the way she blows. Wake now, pack now, leave now. Chance is best left to those who dare to dance with the wind.

“Hurry now, Edmond, winds are picking up!” said Crowley.

Their journey was still far. Edmond stamped the campfire, threw away suppers waste, picked up his chime staff, and hoisted on his backpack. “I'm ready,” said Edmond the Seer.

They paced with calm urgency on the snaking road. Winds rippled through the grassy plains. Their packs jostled; the staff jingled. It was a quest to outrun the winds, to find good shelter, to tell a story for a good night's sleep. Edmond knew the way the wind blew, but not this day.

“It is strange. I did not foresee the weather to be like this!” said Edmond.

“Perhaps your age has made you senile?” said Crowley, glancing the dark clouds behind.

It was a ridiculous remark to Edmond and he waved his staff dismissively. His weather forecasts were accurate, he wouldn't be a seer at his age otherwise. An inaccurate forecast was a bad omen, a terrible thought for Edmond to ponder. He picked up his pace, eager to put away his thoughts for a warm bath and bed.

Edmond is right, of course. You know the way the wind blows, and it is because you dreamt it. Go on, then. Blow where you wish, but don't forget to record it, for dreams are nought without your pen.