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In the swathe of sky above a swollen pillar of thundercloud and maelstrom churns.
When the Wizard throws up his arms and claps, you see space folding and the air itself vibrating, dancing motes and flecks of dust thrashing against the unnatural light as if pounded in harmonic patterns stretched upon the skin of a drum.
There is a thunderclap, a detonation, and you feel an uncoiling pressure wave of invisible force rushing over the entire clifftop.
There is barely any sound, though perhaps you can hear a high-pitched distant ringing in your ears - but it feels very far away, very quiet. You feel the throbbing of blood in your eardrums but there is no sound. You wonder if this deafening blast of force could bring down a mountain; an avalanche that swallows all sounds.
You can see the horrid Thorn Fiends, the barbed insectile demons lurking in the trees, overturned upon their backs in excruciating pain, spiked chitinous legs flailing in the air. They appear to be severely afflicted by whatever the Wizard has unleashed.
Gradually the sound returns to your ears again. The Thorns Fiends are still paralysed and stricken with pain, but the deafening and crushing sorcerous aftershock is gradually dispersing. Yazdegerd is panting heavily, fatigued with exertion. You think he may have bitten his tongue a little, and there is a small trickle of blood running from his ears.