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He needs to move if he is to speak of this. And so he stands within the moving air, the movements of his own body unconsciously conforming themselves to the gliding touch of the breeze. His voice grows soft once again as he continues, “The Exiling is not a thing, not a state. It is an action, a movement that does not stop. It is not something that has happened to me. Even as I stand here with you, even as I rest in the stillness of night with you in my arms, it happens to me, this relentless and impelling force that drives my life away from my people. Like the wind itself, its movement does not stop.”
“I chose this ....”
His voice grows cold as speaks. “”Outsider knights came into our mountains those years ago and in their reckless questing awakened the Devouring Wind, the great predator who feasts upon the children of the clans of storm, the One whose whispers spoke to you this very night, scores of our people fell before we knew what had set upon us. My wife was among the first .....” He falls silent, his eyes filling with tears that do not fall and breathes deeply as the pre-dawn breezes begin to stir.
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One does not control the Wind.
One enters it, feels its freedom. And moves.
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