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body div#devskin0 hr { }

Stars and silence were his only companions as he trekked up the deserted mountain path. No even the wind’s howls greeted him as he forged onward higher and higher, the slope climbing and the air thinning. A silver crescent hung amidst the dancing stars overhead, clouds blown clear away by the rising breeze.

            Not so long ago, such a scene would have been Gael’s personal haven. Traveling staff in hand and rucksack over one shoulder, the ground beneath his sandaled feet, the sky above, the wind in his auburn hair and flowing emerald robes and nothing on the horizon but the schism where the heavens met the mountain ridge.

            But his little personal pilgrimage of sorts was beginning to feel like a restless walk without end. Was this not the very reason he had left the Langshiao Temple nearly three moons ago? To no longer feel like he was sitting in place as the world flew on passed him? To roam free and wild like the winds he commanded, sweeping across the land and felling injustice wherever he may pass? Yet three months later, here he still was wandering the passes and valleys without an aim in sight. Certainly the rare passerby he crossed along the paths wished him well, but he may as well have been a ghost for all he had affected since the heavy oaken doors of the temple had shut behind him.

            Pausing upon a slight outcropping that jutted from the mountainside, Gael lifted his leaf-green eyes skywards, breathed deep, before he loosed a small sigh, shutting his eyes and leaning heavy upon his staff. He had been raised to take each new breath as a blessing, but stranded in this directionless limbo, he couldn’t help the melancholy that rose up despite his youth. Altruism and compassion had served him well and true, but without a defined purpose or goal, they were becoming cold comforts to soothe the yearning for home and kin.

    Quick as the northern zephyr, the winds whirled and roiled around him, blasting back his robes as he momentarily shielded his head. The shock passing, he easily stood tall as he reopened his gaze, only for his jaw to lose all hinge.

    The streams of air twisted and shifted afore him several feet beyond the ledge, the rough shape of a man taking form, its basic and wispy imitations of arms curving to point eastwards, down a path he had not seen before, as the facsimile of a face affixed him with a gaze empty and cavernous.

    “Go.”

    And with that single sonorous syllable, just as quickly as it had appeared, the apparition dissipated into the ether, the winds falling dead.

    Gael released a breath he ignored he’d been holding, sucking in a new one, and another, and another as he finally loosened the white-knuckled grip he’d had on his staff.

    Was that…an omen from the Brother-Wind? An envoy? The deity itself? Gael would never have been able to describe himself as the most fervent of believers amongst his brethren, but even as he looked upon the revealed path, heart hammering despite himself, he knew he’d be madder than not to ignore what had just occurred.

    Practically soaring down the slope, riding the currents several dozen feet at a time, agonizingly silent minutes followed, until at last he heard a faint clanking of metal followed by a shrill shriek echo up from further down. This time he did not merely ride the currents, he clad himself in them, wind pushing beneath his feet and against his back as he jumped of the ledge, floating as a leaf towards the foggy depths below. At last he halted himself as he hovered maybe a hundred feet from the ground as he surveyed the clearing scene upon the wider pass below.

    A caravan of travelers sat frozen in fear, those on foot beside the carts pressing themselves as hard as they could against them, those within laying amongst the supplies and merchandise seeking to make themselves as small as possible. The reason was plain to all with eyes and sense, the sabers of the bandits that beset them rattling against each other as their owners barked harshly in a dialect he did not recognize. Two dozen, roughly, their crude leather armor burnished a bloody hue in the flickering of their torches.

     Gael did his level best to remain calm and collected, but even then, what exactly could he hope to accomplish against such a number of foes? He had never parleyed with brigands before, and he suspected his silver tongue would do him precious little good given he could not speak theirs. For a moment he wavered, bobbing as his winds nearly faltered. Spilling blood was a novelty he had never experienced and one he was in no great hurry to discover, dread dropping into his gut at the prospect, but it was the thought of turning tail and leaving these folk to their fates that nearly made him retch at himself.

    One of the brutes, perhaps their leader, stalked forward to a woman at the head of the caravan. She shouted at him, pleas or obscenities he knew not. He had seized her by her free arm with his own. In her other, she clutched a babe. In his, he raised his saber high.

    It never came down. Instead, the brute crumpled to the ground, his bones cracking under the armored sandals that crashed on top of him, the crunch seeming to boom across the entire mountain range and all the ears within it.

    The bandits stood as still as their captives, none moving an inch as the thing that had killed their comrade slowly rose up, staff in hand and robes bellowing as his piercing gaze lanced their souls.

    “Leave.”

    They did not. Whether because they could not understand him or they had more spine than he had given them credit for was unknown. He no longer dared to care.

    He whipped his staff around, twisting and winding up, then swung it across, a bursting scythe of wind catching several in its wake, hurling them over the broad ledge and into the abyss below.

    “BEGONE!”

    Whatever spine they had was promptly lost, and they fled to preserve whatever other organs they still had, dropping their swords and literally running for the hills, screaming as they went, tripping over themselves to escape back down the mountains and the specter of death that had come for them.

    Gael breathed deep thrice, both to steady himself and to clear his mind of his first taste of violent death. He began to lose the battle for his stomach just as a hand laid itself on his back. He turned to come face to face with the woman from before, her hazel eyes wide but her stance steady. She had steelier nerves then he, it seemed.

    “Th-thank you, kind sir. Bravery backed your hands.”

    His involuntary chuckle rung hollow. “These hands shake, madam, as surely as any man’s.” And are now covered in blood, he added to himself.

    “But not any man would have done what you just did. Not for utter strangers.”

    “I didn’t see strangers. I saw innocent souls that needed help that I could give.” He replied easily, for the truth should always be easy. “And we need not remain strangers, if it please you. My name is Gael. And where are such fearless souls headed?”

    Finally having a name for their savior helped to finally set them at ease, the caravans’ occupant uncurling from their fright. The woman graced him a small smile.

    “Desperate souls, she corrected, headed to Eatherium to seek better fortunes.”

    He had to stop himself from gaping. Eatherium? The City of Mancers? Every man, woman and child knew of it. And he would certainly be more welcome there than many, he mused. “And you know how to reach it?”

    Her lips curled further. “Many paths are shown to those who wander, sir Gael. Perhaps showing you the way in our company might serve as your recompense? I know of little else of equal value we could hope to offer.”

    Gael stood there, transfixed for a moment as he gazed skyward once more as the dawn began to break over the horizon. Was this his destiny? If not, might the legendary Bastion of the Elements be where he might find it?

    Had it truly been the Brother-Wind that had set him on this path for a purpose?

    Gael knew the answers to these questions no more than any other. But as he looked over the faces of the people he had saved and drank the feeling of accomplishment that sank into his bones for the first time in what felt like eons, but a single thought arose as he nodded, sun streaking over the peaks.
Perhaps one must first wander to learn how to truly soar high.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Stars and silence were his only companions as he trekked up the deserted mountain path. No even the wind’s howls greeted him as he forged onward higher and higher, the slope climbing and the air thinning. A silver crescent hung amidst the dancing stars overhead, clouds blown clear away by the rising breeze.

            Not so long ago, such a scene would have been Gael’s personal haven. Traveling staff in hand and rucksack over one shoulder, the ground beneath his sandaled feet, the sky above, the wind in his auburn hair and flowing emerald robes and nothing on the horizon but the schism where the heavens met the mountain ridge.

            But his little personal pilgrimage of sorts was beginning to feel like a restless walk without end. Was this not the very reason he had left the Langshiao Temple nearly three moons ago? To no longer feel like he was sitting in place as the world flew on passed him? To roam free and wild like the winds he commanded, sweeping across the land and felling injustice wherever he may pass? Yet three months later, here he still was wandering the passes and valleys without an aim in sight. Certainly the rare passerby he crossed along the paths wished him well, but he may as well have been a ghost for all he had affected since the heavy oaken doors of the temple had shut behind him.

            Pausing upon a slight outcropping that jutted from the mountainside, Gael lifted his leaf-green eyes skywards, breathed deep, before he loosed a small sigh, shutting his eyes and leaning heavy upon his staff. He had been raised to take each new breath as a blessing, but stranded in this directionless limbo, he couldn’t help the melancholy that rose up despite his youth. Altruism and compassion had served him well and true, but without a defined purpose or goal, they were becoming cold comforts to soothe the yearning for home and kin.

    Quick as the northern zephyr, the winds whirled and roiled around him, blasting back his robes as he momentarily shielded his head. The shock passing, he easily stood tall as he reopened his gaze, only for his jaw to lose all hinge.

    The streams of air twisted and shifted afore him several feet beyond the ledge, the rough shape of a man taking form, its basic and wispy imitations of arms curving to point eastwards, down a path he had not seen before, as the facsimile of a face affixed him with a gaze empty and cavernous.

    “Go.”

    And with that single sonorous syllable, just as quickly as it had appeared, the apparition dissipated into the ether, the winds falling dead.

    Gael released a breath he ignored he’d been holding, sucking in a new one, and another, and another as he finally loosened the white-knuckled grip he’d had on his staff.

    Was that…an omen from the Brother-Wind? An envoy? The deity itself? Gael would never have been able to describe himself as the most fervent of believers amongst his brethren, but even as he looked upon the revealed path, heart hammering despite himself, he knew he’d be madder than not to ignore what had just occurred.

    Practically soaring down the slope, riding the currents several dozen feet at a time, agonizingly silent minutes followed, until at last he heard a faint clanking of metal followed by a shrill shriek echo up from further down. This time he did not merely ride the currents, he clad himself in them, wind pushing beneath his feet and against his back as he jumped of the ledge, floating as a leaf towards the foggy depths below. At last he halted himself as he hovered maybe a hundred feet from the ground as he surveyed the clearing scene upon the wider pass below.

    A caravan of travelers sat frozen in fear, those on foot beside the carts pressing themselves as hard as they could against them, those within laying amongst the supplies and merchandise seeking to make themselves as small as possible. The reason was plain to all with eyes and sense, the sabers of the bandits that beset them rattling against each other as their owners barked harshly in a dialect he did not recognize. Two dozen, roughly, their crude leather armor burnished a bloody hue in the flickering of their torches.

     Gael did his level best to remain calm and collected, but even then, what exactly could he hope to accomplish against such a number of foes? He had never parleyed with brigands before, and he suspected his silver tongue would do him precious little good given he could not speak theirs. For a moment he wavered, bobbing as his winds nearly faltered. Spilling blood was a novelty he had never experienced and one he was in no great hurry to discover, dread dropping into his gut at the prospect, but it was the thought of turning tail and leaving these folk to their fates that nearly made him retch at himself.

    One of the brutes, perhaps their leader, stalked forward to a woman at the head of the caravan. She shouted at him, pleas or obscenities he knew not. He had seized her by her free arm with his own. In her other, she clutched a babe. In his, he raised his saber high.

    It never came down. Instead, the brute crumpled to the ground, his bones cracking under the armored sandals that crashed on top of him, the crunch seeming to boom across the entire mountain range and all the ears within it.

    The bandits stood as still as their captives, none moving an inch as the thing that had killed their comrade slowly rose up, staff in hand and robes bellowing as his piercing gaze lanced their souls.

    “Leave.”

    They did not. Whether because they could not understand him or they had more spine than he had given them credit for was unknown. He no longer dared to care.

    He whipped his staff around, twisting and winding up, then swung it across, a bursting scythe of wind catching several in its wake, hurling them over the broad ledge and into the abyss below.

    “BEGONE!”

    Whatever spine they had was promptly lost, and they fled to preserve whatever other organs they still had, dropping their swords and literally running for the hills, screaming as they went, tripping over themselves to escape back down the mountains and the specter of death that had come for them.

    Gael breathed deep thrice, both to steady himself and to clear his mind of his first taste of violent death. He began to lose the battle for his stomach just as a hand laid itself on his back. He turned to come face to face with the woman from before, her hazel eyes wide but her stance steady. She had steelier nerves then he, it seemed.

    “Th-thank you, kind sir. Bravery backed your hands.”

    His involuntary chuckle rung hollow. “These hands shake, madam, as surely as any man’s.” And are now covered in blood, he added to himself.

    “But not any man would have done what you just did. Not for utter strangers.”

    “I didn’t see strangers. I saw innocent souls that needed help that I could give.” He replied easily, for the truth should always be easy. “And we need not remain strangers, if it please you. My name is Gael. And where are such fearless souls headed?”

    Finally having a name for their savior helped to finally set them at ease, the caravans’ occupant uncurling from their fright. The woman graced him a small smile.

    “Desperate souls, she corrected, headed to Eatherium to seek better fortunes.”

    He had to stop himself from gaping. Eatherium? The City of Mancers? Every man, woman and child knew of it. And he would certainly be more welcome there than many, he mused. “And you know how to reach it?”

    Her lips curled further. “Many paths are shown to those who wander, sir Gael. Perhaps showing you the way in our company might serve as your recompense? I know of little else of equal value we could hope to offer.”

    Gael stood there, transfixed for a moment as he gazed skyward once more as the dawn began to break over the horizon. Was this his destiny? If not, might the legendary Bastion of the Elements be where he might find it?

    Had it truly been the Brother-Wind that had set him on this path for a purpose?

    Gael knew the answers to these questions no more than any other. But as he looked over the faces of the people he had saved and drank the feeling of accomplishment that sank into his bones for the first time in what felt like eons, but a single thought arose as he nodded, sun streaking over the peaks.
Perhaps one must first wander to learn how to truly soar high.