There is little glory in the hard work of the night's watch- but somebody has to do it, so it usually falls to the young and the unnamed. He was a little older than most and not the most combative; he tended to be careful and wary and hadn't yet found glory in some great deed. He took the watch without argument, for who was he to argue?
The night of the great storm, the stars above burned clear and bright. He waited and watched. Perhaps another sentry would have focused on the mountain pass or the treeline, but he watched the sky. When the clouds started gathering, obscuring the starlight, he had a prickle of intuition. They were coming in fast, a thundering herd on the move. The group would be annoyed that he woke them up for anything but serious danger- and he knew this was serious. Running around their sleeping forms, he bellowed and shouted, rousing them from their sleep. "Storm's on the way! Get up, shift your hooves! Move!" The group was listening to him, actually doing what he said. It was the first time he'd ever had authority, but there was no time to bask in the glow. There was a storm on the way, a bad one from the look of it. Fully awake and not drowsy like the sleepers, he herded the party to shelter, hidden from the storm in a small craggy cave.
They had to dig their way out the next morning, but they survived. That was what mattered. After all, battle prowess means nothing if you're not alive to use it.
