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BELLWETHER
You are the BELLWETHER — the belled lead sheep. You never attack: the FLOCK is the weapon. Two dozen bleating boids follow your bell — your health bar (every sheep lost is health gone), your economy (spread out and they graze, growing WOOL that pays for abilities) and your artillery (a tight, fast flock TRAMPLES; damage scales with mass × speed). Spread to feed, tighten to fight. Spend wool on a STAMPEDE charge, a projectile-blocking RING, or a snap-SCATTER dodge that implodes onto anything inside. Recruit rams, decoy black sheep, goats that headbutt darts out of the air, lambs that grow up if kept alive. Four storybook meadows, four bosses that attack the herding verb itself: a Great Wolf to intercept mid-leap, a magpie-wolf that STEALS YOUR BELL — and a wolf disguised as one of your own sheep: it never grazes, its gait is a beat off, its eyes glint ember. Permadeath; every sheep has a name, and the game-over page is a storybook epitaph for everyone you lost. Daily Fold seed.
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