Writing Wind

Writing the wind. That's what we called it in those days. Not riding, which would have been an adequate name for what we did, I suppose. Oh, no, we called it- and it was- much more than just that. We rode the wind, true, but we wrote it as well. We were the masters of the wind. We told it which way to blow. We told it where to take us, and how to handle our luggage. It was our home, our refuge. We were the wind people, and what we did was as important to life as was food. In fact, we helped the food. We brought the clouds full to bursting with rain; we swept the cold away. We kept the land thriving.

When the Summir Clan moved to this world, however, all that was changed. We became nomads, with no wind. We traveled restlessly on bare, broken feet, wandering aimlessly and searching, always searching. We thought the wind would return to us once it realized how cruel the Summir people were- harsh and unforgiving, brutal and fierce. But the wind didn't come, and the Summir people did not care about our lands or our peoples. We were left with no rain, little respite, and no help from the wind, which we once shaped with our own hands and our own minds.

We became people of the earth. We had been thrown out of our Eden, so we tried and tried again to form a new one. Without the wind, it was hard. We had to do everything with what we had, without aid, and without the helping lift of the wind by our side. We became low, and we stayed that way until we saw we had been waiting for.

The wind returned, and we rose up with it against the Summir people.