Dismal Omen Luro

Silently, the owl followed them between the hanging vines. Tall, skittish; bulky, jovial; short, with a temper to match. Luro watched each of the young hunters in turn and smiled to himself. Perhaps it was pride that led them to take the road less traveled, or the misguided notion that untrodden paths lead to greater rewards. Naivety had all but blinded them to the forest's dangers, and before long, they would surely pay the dire price. A soft hoot echoed through the dark forest, setting off a ripple of tension in the hunting party. The young men exchanged uneasy glances, but they pressed on nonetheless. The fools—there was nothing there but a steep fall. Luro flitted closer and opted for a closer branch this time. His second call drew the attention of the leader, whose face paled at the sight of that blind silver eye. The floor decided to fall away at that very moment, detritus scattering into the deep void of the hidden cliffs below. With a startled yelp, the bulky man leapt backwards, nearly flattening his smaller companion. In hushed and frightened tones, the men quickly decided to abandon their venture, fleeing under the cold watch of the moon. Such was the power of Owl's dire omen—for Luro was punished by the Great Spirit, and his call would forever herald misfortune. But none knew the whole truth of it; whether he rejected his own beliefs or buried the truth in the dark nights he inhabits. No one save the strange little girl and her prophetic book. Luro would have his justice and free himself of those shackles—but was blind to the key in his own hand.