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High above the mountain peaks, Silas walked the jet stream. He carried a crook made of lightning-struck oak.
He was a Shepherd. His flock was the Cumulus.
"Easy there, fluff-heads," he whistled to a group of white clouds drifting too close to a cold front. "You'll freeze your vapor off."
The clouds bleated—a sound like distant thunder—and corrected course.
It was a peaceful life until the Storm Wolves came. Dark, jagged Nimbus clouds with teeth of lightning. They hunted the gentle Cumulus, tearing them apart in squalls of rain.
Silas saw the alpha Wolf approaching a baby cloud. He didn't run. He raised his crook.
"Not on my watch," he growled.
He hooked the lightning crook around the Wolf's neck. The electricity surged. The Wolf howled, shattering into a harmless drizzle.
The flock gathered around him, nuzzling him with wet, misty noses. Silas patted them. He was soaked to the bone, but he smiled.
"Alright, alright," he laughed. "Move along. The sunset is in an hour, and we need to look pink for the tourists."