The wind swirled and stole the dark dust from his sight.

The wind boomed over the bare rock above, stole his voice, and howled off with it to the frozen nightmare of Thiiringen.

The wind stole the words away, but he yelled them again as he came closer.

A wind stole across the plain and stirred Brent's hair.

The wind stole in through rotted chinks in the mountains' shell most likely.

But the wind, impatient and snatching, stole each scrap of heat his body produced, casting it into the south, gone, useless.

No matter how much he drank, he could not compensate for the amount of water the sun and the wind stole from him.

"Oh," she whispered, but the wind stole her voice.

The wind that was always with us on the plain almost stole his words away.

Milledge circled beneath the ball, but the wind stole it.