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Where the rains fall hardest
His fingers tighten around the handle of the Stormreaver, grasping so tightly his knuckles grow white. That the one called Larry Silverfall possesses still an affinity for the darkness of shadow is but to be expected. That meddling knights who style themselves inquisitors should involve themselves in matters such as this, however, betokens problems of no small size. “Paladins!” The air around him rings with the contempt with which he utters these syllables. Nothing good comes from such as these. The winds rise in time with the surging of his anger as the memories of the questing knights who unleashed the Devourer upon his people rise unbidden at the simple mention that word. The death of his wife, the empty retribution of the terrible death sentence he executed upon the knights, the bitterness of his Exiling and the terrible pain of his breaking all of this rises within him.
One memory, however, attains a terribly sharp focus in his pain – the memory of that day nearly eight years ago when he stood within the Scattering Wind and brought the terrible vengeance of the Sky People upon those knights whose arrogance had unleashed so great a terror upon them. The sound of their holy symbols tearing free from their necks in his grasp and their gasping for breath within a wind which tore the very air from their lungs – these things he has never forgotten, for it is a terrible thing to be the instrument of so great a vengeance as this. More terrible than any of this, however, was the sound of the Scattering as it seized their spirits and tore them to pieces, dispersing them beyond even the reach of their outsider god. Scattered, such is the fate of those that fall in such a wind, scattered and forever lost. There is no pride in executing such a sentence and to do so changes one forever.
The movement of the air about him changes, no longer responding to the breathing and anger of the man that those of this place so far from the sky have called the Windbringer. A movement of a different type asserts itself here as a harsh and bitter breath begins to nudge his limbs to movement. He stands once more within the Scattering Wind, once more the vessel of execution and he is a danger to all who live until the Scattering is satisfied. So simple it would be, to visit death upon these fools in sudden assault from the skies, to break the arrogant might of orders such as these whose bellicose masquerading in the name of goodness has brought so much death and pain to his people. The fools! Even now the one called Larry hangs in the balance, not evil, but still as capable as any of falling once more. And should such a fall happen ......
It calls to him now, the rage of the storm, crying out for him to surrender his wounded limbs to the freedom of its movement. Perhaps it is best to slaughter the lot of them, and let there be an ending ......
“One does not control the wind,” he says with a quiet intensity, “one enters it, feels its freedom and moves.” His eyes narrow and he winces at the pain with which life rushes out through his fingers and along the handle of the axe to mingle with the wind. “And if one would change the movement of the wind, he must first change himself.” The tugging at his limbs grows weaker in this mingling of self with air and he slowly gathers his breath. “You shall have your victim,” he whispers into the Scattering, “but only your victim.” He pauses a moment and continues, his voice small within the raging of the wind, “So be it. Let there be an ending.” He turns, then, turning his face away from the place of the knights and fully into the raging of the storm. He is a danger to all who live so long as the Scattering claims him. Let him then, be first a danger to that one whose death he would seek even were it not demanded by the gods of his people.
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