Where the Sky Ends - Malakai Stormwind

[Whirlwind]

(All images generated by Chat GPT)


In his dreams...




In his dreams he soared through an endless sky...
Even as he lacked for wings... Unbound...
Free...
All the realms spread below him...
The gleam of the endless horizon was calling...
And all around the rushing winds...

[Whirlwind]

Maiden's Kiss...


1357 DR, Town of Greenest in the Western Heartlands, Shrine of Shaundakul:






He dozed near the Rider's seat trying to sleep off a fierce hangover.

Even as a faint whispering breeze caressed his face, the jarring brightness of the morning and distant busy din of the town worked to stir him awake, assailing his senses with the distant demands of the day to unfold. So too the cold ground greeted his back with a sore reminder that the boundless sky in his dreams was ever more beyond reach.

Too much maiden's kiss last night... he mused irritably.

The cloying sweetness of the brandy clung to the roof of his mouth and it's effects had clearly not worn off.

His head swam with the shifting faces of laughing beauties he'd met in taverns and summer fairs, coalescing, more or less into hers... No smile clung to her scarlet lips however.

As he came to his senses, the mental picture of her features faded leaving only her eyes stained into the throbbing darkness of his mind. Red hair framing sad, staring eyes.

Sitting up and nursing his head, he pondered only briefly where she might be nowadays.

Waterdeep, maybe Yartar or even Everlund... he thought, sighing sadly. She was long gone though along with all her many secrets.

He tried remembering the feeling of her lips on his before their last goodbye.

In his groggy state he briefly pondered the others. Harbek the dwarf had returned to Mirabar with his clan records. Vardis was definitely back in Waterdeep in his dusty library and had likely given up on adventuring now.

Victor was there too - waiting in his tower with his duty and disapproving silences. An image of the old man's face flashed through his mind for a moment from their last meeting - He had understood but would he ever approve?

And what of the traveler? What would she say?

He could almost hear her strange voice in his mind.

"The past is an anchor tethered to your ankle. Fate is a wind swelling your sails, sa'luk."

He didn't like all this dwelling on the past and resolved not to drink for a month - a rule he knew he'd likely break at some point.

The only thing he desired more than anything in the realms right now was a hot mug of Sayushi's kaeth.

[Whirlwind]

Malakai of the winds... (Part 1)


1348 DR, Outskirts of the King's Forest, south of Arabel in Cormyr:




It was either during the sunrise before their wagons set off or late in the evening before they took inventory of their cargo did Alejandro teach them swordplay. They had been using a remote clearing on the borders of the King's Forest for the good part of a month and he had found himself enjoying this part of the day the most.

He knew that it was against the laws of Cormyr for commoners and merchants to wield weapons that weren't bonded with peace strings so Serrano had taken measures to carry these lessons out where the purple dragon knights or other agents of the crown were unlikely to patrol. There was always a measure of risk but the old Amnian had proven silver tongued in getting others to see his way, so the prospect of being chastised or told to refrain from such actions didn't appear to phase him one bit.

And it had yet to happen during the four years he'd been working for him. Most of these incidents were relayed to him by others in Serrano's employ though largely by his training partner and fellow caravan guard, a young man called Padrin who enjoyed embellishing details of these encounters.

Padrin was a willowy man of Chondathan stock with laughing green eyes who hailed from Deepingdale. Though older than him by three years he felt like he was swiftly catching up to him despite the extra training he'd received. Their sparring usually always went in Padrin's favour though due to his uncanny patience though Padrin genuinely seemed grateful for the challenge he provided.

Alejandro and his grizzled wagon driver, Franklin would observe from a small table and set of stools they'd set up by the side of the caravan, drinking spiced wine from pewter mugs and playing hands of cards, occasionally either man would stand up to provide some observation or correct some aspect of a stance or movement.

It was an day much like any other in this regard though in recent times, Alejandro had allowed his pupils to practice drills and sparring with metal blades in the last few months, blunted however to minimise the chance of real injury.

"What is this now?" mused a voice in the refined stylings that could only belong to one of Cormyr's numerous high-born lords.

The words spoken came from beyond the entrance to the clearing they practiced the swordplay and was joined by the sound of hooves clomping in the mudded ground and whinnying on their approach. No sooner heard did the presence of this young nobleman become palpable to their gathering did the clang and clash of their blades fall silent.

So much for our quiet practice he thought to himself irritably, warily pulling the hood of his cloak over his head to obstruct something of what he was. Thanks to his strange nature, his eyesight was sharp enough for for him to clearly pick them all out in the muted light.

The tall man's clothing was of matching refinement to his voice, the stylings of Arabel's moneyed families and he seemed to wear them proudly. The four men to his flank on horseback were less grandiose in their appearance and looked like seasoned guardsmen wearing dark grey surcoats over chain hauberks, all older than their lord by at least a decade or two and each with the kite shaped sigil on their left breast showing a silver watch tower with the top portion wreathed in flame and beneath the tower, a brass key presented horizontally. All of the men wore half-helms and plain-looking arming swords and daggers cinched to their waists.

The young lord might have been typically handsome if not for his prominent aquiline nose and widows peak of ink-black hair giving him a severe aspect. His attire consisted of a brown furred mantle of wolf or bear skin fastened with a brass chain over a stylish silver-grey doublet. The doublet sported a larger, better detailed version of the emblem upon his breast, with the ensemble completed by leather jodhpur style pants and finely made knee-high doe-skin boots, fastened with polished silver buckles. His fingers bore various gem-set rings and his haughty, solid looking steed looked to be a Cormyrean destrier from the finest stock. At his waist was sheathed a slender looking blade with a golden basket-style hilt, typical of the sort used in Sembia.

The noble slaked his thirst, swigging from a wineskin whilst staring around with almost lazy disinterest. The guards to accompany him soon fell behind him, two on either side. Screwing the stopper in place, he tossed the skin toward one of his guards who caught it deftly.

Though he cared little to remember such details, he recognised the emblem they wore as belonging to the Torchtower family who had holdings in the city of Suzail. Old Franklin had drummed the details of the noble families and their heraldic sigils into his head during their expeditions, but the brass key element was unfamiliar to him and he pondered if they were members of some cadet branch.

"Commoners fighting with bare steel... Don't the bards write enough plays for you people about this... This absurd foolishness?" Enquired the lord in a lightly flustered tone.

Alejandro stood up crisply, spitting the stub of his cigar out and crushing it under heel whilst smoothing out the creases of his scarf. He turned toward him and the others, a forefinger pressed to his lips as a request for their silence before bowing his head with practiced respect to the mounted noble.

"We are honoured by your presence, my young lord... Forgive all of this, we are simple merchants and so the odd bit of quiet sword practice is but confidence for the roads should..." if he had seemed serious during his instruction for their silence, he was now all of a sudden, jovial and welcoming in his tone. The change in manner and deference to the noble was uncannily swift.

"Should what? ... You feel the purple dragon knights of Cormyr are not fit to protect them?" The voice countered, quickly cutting off Serrano with amused haughtiness. There was only the merest hint of irritation to it but no outright hostility.

Even from where he stood he could hear old Serrano draw in a long, slow breath as if to calm himself?

Doubtful... Nothing phases you, old man... he pondered silently, watching the exchange with his blade lowered by his side.

"Meaning no disrespect my gallant lord, but we seek not to divert the attentions and more pressing duties of the knights with our troubles... Forgive my saying to, but I am of Amnian blood so... So..." Serrano seemed as if he was deliberately baiting the lord into asking.

"So what... Do not ramble now, merchant" The young noble answered snappily.

"Well now..." Serrano replied. If he seemed flustered for a moment, his cool, amiable tone returned quickly as ever.

He was never impressed with the accounts of Alejandro's politeness when it came to dealing with the so-called high-born, but now seeing it firsthand he found himself baffled with the Amnian's ability to ease the tension out of the interaction so far. He knew too that old Serrano was too good a blade for his diplomacy to be a one-sided courtesy if the idiot on the horse made the mistake of trying to teaching him a lesson in swordplay.

But it had never come to that according to Padrin's tales, as much as he imagined how old Serrano might perform if the peace strings on his main blade ever became severed.

Alejandro cleared his throat, speaking up clearly as the the light of the rising sun filtering through the trees of the clearing painted his mottled bald head and kindly features in an amber tone.

"The merchants in Amn, especially those like myself from Crimmor, as a mark of extra, ah... efficiency, We... How shall I say? Well... We take measures to defend ourselves. We do not have your brave knights back in my homeland to readily protect us."

The young man idly curled his finger through a loose tuft of a brown furred mantle worn over his shoulders and exhaled whilst listening to the old merchant speak. It might seem that Alejandro's respectful manner was working but it was too early to know.

His retinue of guards were all silent, but the oldest of them had turned his gaze upon him away from Serrano, lifting the visor of his helm up to get a better look at him even with his head bowed and his hood concealing the loose bangs of his blue-ish hair.

"Forgive my interruption, lord Torchtower..." The voice of a man to the noble lord's right spoke up in a humourless yet firm tone, approaching from the flank.

To his right he caught a glimpse of Padrin's sidelong glance at him. His friend had his head lowered too and looked nervous. He nodded back to him before daring to look directly at the young lord with confident defiance. It was during moment could he feel the weight of their collective gazes upon him causing the other guards to lift their visors too to all gawk at him together.

Out of the corner of his eye he could also see the old Amnian merchant set his jaw and clench the hand hanging loosely at his side into a fist, their knuckles turning white against the brown, mottled flesh. Alejandro's jovial, calm facade seemed only to falter slightly once more, though more pronounceably than earlier.

"Again, forgive me, my lord and your fine company here... This one is..."

For once the lord and his men didn't seek to cut Alejandro off, allowing the old merchant to continue.

"The boy here is a worker in my employ... And ah, as you can see... of curious, exotic nature."

"That one is a... Genasi my lord." remarked the oldest of the guards, regarding him with a scarred and sterner countenance than his young lord who in turn seemed curious but unimpressed. The old guard spoke up in a booming, firm voice, the sort of voice used to belting out commands to soldiers across a battlefield.

"Before you is Lord Eskandar Torchtower, you are advised to lower your gaze and show respect to your betters, genasi."

Lord Eskandar raised a gentle hand to the guard instructing for his silence. The guard nodded deeply, saying no more as the lord tugged at the reins of his horse compelling it's slow advance away from the guards and toward him.

He could almost feel old Alejandro and Franklin glaring daggers at him even though he couldn't see them from where he stood. Somewhere from the canopy of the clearing a bird warbled in what felt like a mocking fashion, even as the winds were softly stirring through it's leafy branches.

The Lordling glanced back at the guard to have spoken, giving a nod of approval before turning back to face him. His voice seemed prideful as he spoke with his chin elevated high.

"My man speaks it truly, I am Lord Eskandar of the Torchtower family. Old blood of Suzail and nephew to Baron Elgard."

His horse snorted softly as Eskandar placed a hand upon it's corded, muscular neck. From where he stood the young lord was pinning him with an irritated glare, though upon drawing closer he seemed equally baffled when looking directly his way.

"Bold aren't you?" Eskandar whispered under his breath, his voice almost a hiss.

He felt his own gaze faltering slightly, opting now to avert it. He wondered too late if overstepping his bounds here was such a wise move though did not think to lower his head even whilst the notion surfaced in his mind.

To the hells with you, pompous bastard came his next thought. Growing up in Cormyr he had never cared for the highborn regardless of what Serrano, Franklin or his foster parents had said regarding their role in protecting the country and and one's expected conduct around them as a commoner.

"Lower that hood, strange one... Let me see what you are and I would hear your name too..." the young lord continued in an icy tone.

At this point he felt compelled to look back at old Serrano for direction. The merchant locked eyes with him and scowled lightly, dipping his head sharply back in the direction of the noble and his staring guardsmen. He could see now that his employer looked visibly tense for the first time during this exchange.

Upon looking back at Eskandar could he see the aggravated chagrin writ palpably across his pale, sharp features. One of the guardsmen shook his head before spitting on the ground in disgust, whilst the oldest with the scarred face exhaled sharply through clenched teeth in pure disdain.

The noble didn't so much as blink, continuing to pin him with a cold stare whilst impatiently awaiting his response.

"Come on boy, answer him!" the old guard with the scarred face barked. This time, Lord Eskandar said nothing to coerce the silence of his men and so he lowered his hood to give them all a better view of his strange features.

Some how he found the courage to return the young nobles gaze and replied in his own distinctive, breathy voice.

"My name is Malakai" he said all at once, adding with the faintest tone of sarcasm:

"Of the winds... My lord..."

---

• House Torchtower - House sigil details my own creation.
• Laws of Cormyr - Peace-bonded weapons and lowering ones head to nobility.
  

[Whirlwind]

Malakai of the winds... (Part 2)



The tension lingering within the clearing felt suddenly heavier than the humid summer air. The young Lord Eskandar regarded him silently for a moment longer before nudging his destrier forward another pace as the blue-skinned boy cast aside his hooded cloak.

"A curious creature indeed." The nobleman spoke softly, studying him as one might some rare animal brought from distant lands. "And a bold one too it seems."

A snort from Torchtower's horse might almost seem to provide assent, all the while the lord's gaze drifted to the blade hanging loosely at Malakai's side.

"You practice with steel despite lacking leave to do so. You fail to show proper respect when addressed by your betters."

The corners of his mouth curled faintly in disdain.

"I find myself wondering if you've the skill to match your insolence."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than old Franklin muttered a curse beneath his breath. Serrano merely folded his arms, watching carefully before raising his voice.

"My lord..." the old merchant began.

Eskandar raised a hand dismissively before climbing down from his steed. His men took the reins of the horse as the noble studied the muddied ground of the clearing for a brief moment.

"Silence... I will not have him flogged or dragged before a magistrate."

The nobleman's eyes never left the exotic fool before him, this self-styled 'Malakai of the winds'. Something in the strange commoner's sarcastic and defiant tone was irksome, enough that he and his retinue would pause here to silence it as duty dictated. The lad was admittedly handsome - not the forgettably florid and ill-defined, rustic visage of one tolling the fields or whatever dull trade busied them. Malakai was sharp featured, bearing pale blue flesh and keen blue eyes. His tousled mane of charcoal of hair drank in the blue of the sky even beneath the branches of the trees overhead.

He shrugged and exhaled. Nothing earned of proven legacy, nothing special - he considered for a moment, knowing well that the realms were full of talentless curiosities after all.

"A lesson is required. Nothing more."

The noble spoke with cool, arrogant certainty, his hand settling upon the intricately golden basket hilt of the slender blade at his waist. Malakai noticed the carved sapphire set into it's pommel but his gaze remained leveled.

"A duel." came Torchtower's next words.

Silence followed throughout the clearing. Even the birds seemed reluctant to sing.

Malakai felt Padrin glance nervously in his direction then retreat back toward Serrano and Franklin.

Part of him knew he should refuse. Another part—larger and considerably more foolish—felt his pulse quickening with excitement. An opportunity to show this noble prick up in front of his lick-spittle guards. He did well to suppress a smirk, feigning surprise.

"A duel?" he repeated in his distinctive breezy voice.

Eskandar nodded once.

"First blood."

Serrano exhaled through his nose, though the old Amnian word's followed carefully, laced with the rehearsed tones of a man used to sweet-talking and bargaining. His 'protest' seemed calculated.

"Please my lord, the boy is merely-"

"A commoner?" Eskandar interrupted impatiently not so-much as studying Serrano.

His expression remained intent and strangely calm.

"That much is plain... But surely your 'student' has nothing to fear from a gentleman."

A few of the guards chuckled. Only the scarred-faced man of their number remained quiet, stern and composed.

Malakai's jaw tightened.

Before Serrano could continue his apparent protest, the genasi stepped forward.

"I accept."

The merchant closed his eyes briefly, whether in annoyance or satisfaction, it was difficult to tell.

The clearing was quickly prepared, horses secured and tethered at a safe distance.

Weapons were inspected.

Terms agreed.

No interference.

First blood.

The young noble removed his mantle and passed it to one of his retainers. The genasi watched from the other side of the clearing as he stretched off, rolling his neck and shoulders to loosen up his muscles.

Without his fancy cape, Eskandar appeared fit and leaner than expected by Malakai, the noble looked like he was no stranger to exercise - but likely the kind of physique honed from some master of arms lessons in some walled-off courtyard. The lordling seemed the type instilled only with enough discipline required to signal status through careful displays of martial skill to his noble rivals, likely for the attention and affection of some high-born tart.

Still, there was little wasted movement about him as the noble drew out his fine looking blade, practicing some slashes, thrusts and parries to warm himself up. Every gesture and movement seemed deliberate - Torchtower seemed capable, maybe not old Serrano's level but certainly far beyond Padrin.

Malakai was determined though. He vowed not to let his mind wander as he had in other duels, to focus as Franklin had reminded him endlessly and above all else, embarrass Torchtower utterly in front of his men. He practiced some movements of his own, and accepted Serrano's rapier.

"Here... Use mine, boy. Try not to embarrass me," the bald merchant murmured.

Malakai grinned, taking the blade from his master. It was a well-honed, perfectly balanced blade with a swept hilt - less ornate than Torchtower's weapon - of Amnian styling and possessing a slightly curved grip. Still, other than Serrano's initials on it's fuller, there were no weave-infused runes or jewels set into it.

Nothing to provide an edge other than his own skill in wielding it. The genasi met his master's gaze and smiled confidently.

"I make no promises..."

Serrano sighed softly exchanging a quick glance with Franklin, but seemed oddly calm despite his pupil's over-confidence.

The two men took their positions.

Noble and genasi - Several paces apart.

Waiting. Watching. Studying each other for openings.

A breeze stirred through the low grasses to encircle the clearing as Serrano, Franklin, Padrin and the Eskandar's men watched from either side of the 'arena'.

The lord saluted.

Malakai returned it mockingly.

Then steel flashed.

The opening exchange of blades were quick but cautious.

Eskandar advanced behind measured footwork, his blade moving only when required, his expression measured and focused. Malakai flowed around him, the faint beginnings of a cocky smile writ upon his cerulean lips.

The spectators held their breaths, watching keenly with growing surprise.

Again and again the noble attempted to establish rhythm.

Again and again the genasi spoiled it with his strange unorthodox style, but with traditional techniques woven in to break patterns and counter Eskandar's cadence. He moved like wind through tall grass and it almost seemed as if the faintest, keening whistle of it lingered about Malakai as he changed position and adjusted his stance. The genasi was never quite where expected. Never entirely still.

His footwork drew murmurs and lofted brows from the guards.

Even Serrano's brows rose slightly with evident pride watching Malakai wield his blade. Padrin caught the old man's look briefly, but he was largely engrossed in the combat, seeming amazed at how focused Malakai was fighting the noble on equal level and using their teacher's more advanced techniques effectively.

Not twice, but thrice did the genasi nearly land a touch, his blade arcing downwards, forcefully to interrupt Torchtower's careful defensive parries.

"The Athkatlan triparite", Padrin whispered excitedly to Franklin who merely nodded, speaking softly as they observed the fraught duel.

"Aye, though the lordling is using Selgauntan Incartata to counter... Neither cancels the other out."

For every inch almost gained by Malakai, did the noble's blade appear where it needed to be and forced him back - if only for a moment.

Metal rang and clanged as their swords slid apart.

They circled and met again. Then again and again. Eskandar's haughty irritation slowly became concentration as their dance continued.

The noble was discovering that the strange blue boy from the caravans had real talent. And he did not seem out of breath or even appear to breathe at all.

Talent alone won't be enough, 'fool of the winds.' he thought sharply as the genasi deftly cartwheeled away from one of his ripostes.

As the duel continued, the difference between them slowly emerged.

Malakai fought with technique, but unrefined technique married to improvisation, instinct and acrobatics. Eskandar fought from discipline - learned from technical treatise on swordplay and his time under two of the finest dueling masters in Suzail.

The sharp nosed lord yielded ground when required. Pressed his advantages patiently and studied the genasi's habits as he waited.

And all the while the enchantments woven into his elegant Sembian guardblade subtly aided his defence. Small adjustments known only to himself, so he thought. Tiny corrections. Almost imperceptible.

Minutes passed as the winds themselves seemed to whip up in the clearing and the nested birds above had flown away, startled by the action below. Serrano slumped down on Franklin's empty seat by the caravan, rubbing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath to calm himself. He had sensed the outcome of this duel much earlier, wise to the nature of Torchtower's blade but keeping the knowledge to himself.

Franklin glanced back at his friend, then back toward the fight noticing the sweat beading upon the the genasi's brow. He sighed, seeming to understand himself that it was almost over.

He observed Malakai's stance faltering, his movements becoming less refined and frantic as he over-extended himself.

Then came the boy's mistake.

A sloppy feint followed by an over-aggressive lunge. The sort of daring attack that had occasionally worked against Padrin when all else had failed.

Torchtower had anticipated it yet again as their blades met violently.

"I don't think so!" He hissed and for a brief instant Malakai felt his rapier twist violently in his grasp.

The enchanted blade guided the bind perfectly.

Serrano's weapon tore free from his grip, flung to the side as it spun end-over-end into the grass.

But before he could recover, Torchtower's cold steel crested upwards and flashed across his face. What followed was the sensation of pain exploding beneath his lower lip and along his chin.

He stumbled backwards and fell squarely onto his backside upon the dry dirt ground - soundly defeated despite his valiant opposition, his confident grin replaced with an expression of wide-eyed, worried alarm as his pale blue hand rose instinctively to the fresh wound.

Warm blood coated his fingers.

Silence settled over the clearing, the winds calming again, replaced with the soft whisper of the breeze.

Eskandar lowered his weapon and remained stoic, even as his guards cheered.

"First blood has been drawn" barked the old scarred-face man. The guard did well not to seem smug about this, but looked toward his lord with an expression of pride at having taught the genasi a lesson in courtesy and superior noble skill.

The duel was over.

For a moment the young noble seemed tempted to say something, sheathing his blade smoothly into it's scabbard as he approached Malakai with marked wonder, taking a tired, deep breath as he mopped some sweat from his brow with a handerkerchief produced from a belt pouch.

But rather than savouring the victory by gloating or offering some cutting remark another voice interrupted.

"An impressive display, my lord."

Franklin stepped forward, seeming to stand taller and more confidently than Malakai or Padrin had typically observed of him in the past.

The bearded and grizzled wagon driver reached into his tunic, a calm smile sprouting on his lips as he produced a ring. It's golden band gleamed in the morning light and the embossed sigil of a purple dragon rearing proudly upon its face.

The reaction was immediate.

Several of the guards stiffened in surprise.

Eskandar Torchtower's eyes narrowed with evident irritation.

Franklin offered the ring without ceremony even as Malakai watched, clutching his chin and appearing sullen from his defeat.

"As you can see my lord, authorisation's been issued through the right and proper channels."

Both he and Serrano smiled faintly, though Serrano appeared more interested in observing his bleeding student, seemingly content to let Franklin do the talking.

The noble accepted the ring and examined it with cold detachment. He then looked toward Serrano who answered with a polite shrug and a slight smirk on his face.

"Apologies, my lord... But I think my man was right to wait in showing you it..."

Eskandar exhaled slowly.

The expression crossing his face suggested he had suddenly discovered the entire affair had been considerably less satisfying than expected.

After a long moment he handed the ring back.

"So it would seem."

His gaze drifted toward Malakai who had finally stood up with his arms tightly folded across his chest. The boy was staring off sideways at the ground, still glowering at having been bested earlier.

Despite the blood running from his chin, he looked up and back at Torchtower.

Still staring back.

Still refusing to lower his eyes.

The noble regarded him thoughtfully, running a gloved hand through his ink black hair to straighten it. Exhaling irritably, he tilted his head back to speak but his words were more measured and neutral in tone.

"You clearly possess skill."

The words sounded reluctant and lacking in emotion.

"More than most."

Malakai managed a crooked smile and mirrored his gesture, tilting his head back as if to mock him in subtle defiance.

Eskandar exhaled through clenched teeth as his guards glared in unison. Whether amused or annoyed, he continued almost quietly.

"Learn restraint."

He turned away with solemn dignity, seemingly satisfied at his provided instruction as one of his guards presented his horse to him.

"It may preserve your life longer than talent alone."

With that the noble reclaimed his furred mantle and mounted his horse.

His retainers followed soon after, the sound of hooves fading into the forest leaving Malakai and his companions alone once more.

---

• Sembian Guardblade

[Whirlwind]

Lessons Learned... and Learning Lessons (Part 1)

1334 DR, Tempest Mound, outskirts of the Stonelands, north of Cormyr:



The winds had always been louder around the descent to the Tempest Mound.

At least, that was how Malakai remembered it when he was eight years old and had wandered far enough from those lonely hills to know that not every breeze carried the same voice. There had been winds in Tilverton that smelled of horse sweat, cobbles and river fog. Winds that tasted of dust and salt. Winds along the northern roads that carried wheat chaff, campfire smoke and the murmur of merchants complaining and sharing rumours.

But the winds around the Tempest Mound had seemed different.

Lonelier.

They stirred and curled about the scattered stones of Shaundakul's forgotten shrine and ran whispering through the yellowed grass as if they had some errand of their own. As a boy, Malakai had been convinced they did. More than that, he had been convinced they spoke to him. His half-elven guardian and adoptive mother, Shalendra Dawnsong had shown him the holed pillars built by the Shaundakun faithful centuries earlier present there still, encircling the ancient, crumbling stone throne where their offerings were left. Some of them jutted from the earth at angles, like the prongs of a broken crown. Still however, the keening whistle of the Stoneland's winds provided their song, proof that the presence of the Rider lingered there eternally.

When he was five, Shalendra had first brought him here with Darvin and Zora, long-time friends of hers and seasoned rangers to visit the shrine. Like his foster-mother, they were all of the same faith and had helped the old priestess in tending to the shrine during the spring months of Tarsakh. Every year to follow as he grew taller and stronger was he taken to visit the site and help her with her sacred duties and gather rare herbs growing in the moorlands.

It had been during one of his many wanderings that he followed what he believed were whispers carried upon the breeze toward the crumbling remains of a centuries old watchtower overlooking the Stonelands on the only trail leading to the Mound site. The ruined tower had been little more than a broken finger of stone jutting from a low ridge, long abandoned by whatever lord, scout or unfortunate fool had once thought it wise to build there long ago.

Wise to her son's restless nature, Shalendra had warned him away from it a year prior having learned to her mild chagrin how much he enjoyed wandering and climbing if not keenly observed.

Naturally, this had only made it more interesting to him given the lack of anything else to do out here.

Now having reached eight years old, Malakai was slight and sharp-eyed, with pale blue skin that marked him as strange long before he had ever learnt the terms genasi or windsoul. His hair, dark as rain clouds, had been tied back poorly with a strip of leather he had stolen from Shalendra's craft-room back home, where the priestess wove clothing and blankets for them and then denied stealing with all the solemn confidence a child employed when crafting obvious lies.

The climb had begun easily enough. Malakai loved high places where he could see an unobstructed view of the sky in all it's glory. Small wisps of cloud painted it's boundless azure canvas above the desolate sprawling landscape of Stoneland below. Despite knowing he was forbidden, he found he couldn't resist such a thrilling challenge and sense of connection he felt to the sky when seeing it from a high place.

There were enough fissures and gaps between the ancient stones for his fingers and toes. Enough wide cracks for a supple genasi boy like himself to feel convinced that the tower had been waiting for him alone. Shalendra had firmly persuaded him not to venture here the last couple of years - making him promise not to, but this time he'd devised his plan to go before she'd awoken from their camp to prepare their provisions. Malakai had estimated two hours was enough time reach the tower, climb to it's top (with a couple of rests taken at observable ledges), descend and be back in time for his breakfast. Now already halfway up the wall of it's still-intact outer section he heard the shriek of a solitary kestrel hovering somewhere high overhead and took this as further encouragement from the Rider of the Winds himself.

In his impatient, overconfident haste he learned that by the time the lichen-clad stone shifted beneath his foot, he had already climbed too high to come down gracefully.

A portion of the old mortar cracked loose beneath his boot causing small shards of brittle rock to crumble and scatter. Then several larger stones tumbled after them. Only then could he hear them striking the ground below with dull, final sounds.

Malakai had clung to the side of the tower with both hands tightly - hanging on for dear life, suddenly very aware of the open air beneath him. Even as a faint constantly whistling breeze seemed to stir around the boy wherever he went, it had long since intermingled with the rushing winds up here that tugged at his tunic and ruffled his hair fiercely, no longer seeming quite so friendly.

Even as the pangs of panic had momentarily gripped at his stomach, he did not call out and dared not look down. The oddity of his nature helped him here however, for Malakai did not breathe as normal boys did so no breath could be stolen from him in surprise felt during the perilous moment. He need only calm his mind and cling tightly to the small out-crop of stone.

Aware of the danger however, he tried to find another foothold. Then another. But the old stones gave him none.

At last, when his small fingers had begun to ache and the pale blue flesh of his knuckles turned white the winds seemed to soften around him. Even from his lofty position he heard the crunch of boots over gravel far below.

"Well now..." came Shalendra's familiar voice from beneath him, carrying that mild tone she used whenever she found him doing something dangerous, foolish or both. "That is a curious place to enjoy your breakfast."

Malakai looked down for the first time, his eyes widening in quiet alarm.

The half-elven woman stood at the base of the tower with one hand shading her eyes against the late afternoon light. Her dark hair, streaked faintly with silver even then, had escaped the practical braid she wore when travelling, and her teal robes were dusty at the hem from whatever path she had taken to find him.

She did not look afraid and it irritated him more than he cared to admit.

"I was climbing," he answered nervously, looking upwards sharply to avoid showing her he was scared.

"So I gathered."

A brief silence followed.

Shalendra sighed, but not harshly. More as if she had discovered a goat on the roof of her house and was deciding whether the goat or the roof deserved more sympathy.

"Stay there then, little breeze. Since you have worked so hard to reach another 'nest', I would hate for you to abandon it before I fetch a rope. Hold on tight!"

It took some time before she managed to coax him down.

No miracles followed. No divine winds swept him safely into her arms. No shining hand of Lord Shaundakul appeared through the clouds to reward him for his bravery. There had only been Shalendra, the rope she had deftly tossed up, a great deal of patience, reassuring words when he rappelled down before jumping the last few feet.

Once his boots were finally back upon the ground, Malakai had expected a scolding for breaking his promise to her.

Instead, she brushed dust from his shoulders and sweaty mop of hair with a the small hint of a tired smile on her wrinkled face.

"What did the winds say to you then?" she asked of him, which caused him to frown.

"It told me to climb." came his embarrassed, breezy reply, avoiding her gaze.

Shalendra's brows lifted faintly as she studied her foster-son, speaking more firmly.

"Did it now?"

He nodded once, though with slightly less certainty.

She glanced toward the broken tower, then out over the Stonelands where the yellow grasess bent in long, shifting waves beneath the morning breeze.

"No."

He sounded sheepish admitting it to her. His answer was simple. Too simple.

Malakai scowled - as he followed her gaze toward the tower. She sensed with certainty he felt denied once more of his prize in reaching the tower's zenith and briefly pondered how such youthful energy and curiosity might be better directed or quelled. But the boy was young and she would rely upon her father's elven gift of patience to hear out Malakai's explanation.

"I heard it, mother."

"I do not doubt that, Malakai... Why then say no?"

She turned back to him, her expression softening with that occasional infuriating calmness he never knew how to answer.

"The wind never tells us where to go, Malakai."

She reached out and tapped him lightly upon the chest with her fore-finger.

"It only tells us where we are."

He looked unconvinced but he was at least listening attentively. Shalendra knew most eight-year-old boys when presented with practical wisdom that did not immediately flatter them or spark their imagination needed better ways to convince them. Even knowing this and smiled softly as she continued. She was old and had seen much in her life, but she would see to it he would learn her lessons for as long as he ever needed her.

"Birds read the wind. Sailors read it. Travellers, shepherds, hunters, scouts... Even we Shaundakuns. We all listen. But only fools obey every gust that passes their ear."

He kicked at a loose stone, appearing lightly frustrated and replied in a breezy tone of boyish uncertainty.

"I thought it was a windghost... Or Lord Shaundakul..."

"Perhaps it was."

That surprised him.

She crouched then slowly, bringing herself closer to his height as she looked deeply into his eyes and placed her arm around his shoulder.

"Perhaps the Rider sent a wind to stir your heart. Perhaps he wanted you to look out and see the roads beyond these stones. Perhaps he wished you to know there was more in the world than one shrine, one hill and one old woman forever telling you not to climb and to wash your hands before supper."

Despite himself, Malakai smiled.

"But a gift is not permission," she continued, more quietly. "And a calling is not a command..."

The breeze tugged at the loose strands of her hair.

"Shaundakul painted the sky on your flesh and breathed his winds into your blood. I believe that with all my heart."

Her hand rested lightly against his chest again as her other clutched the silver amulet she also wore to hang loosely around her slender throat. Even from this distance he could see the embossed symbol of their god upon it's surface shine with a fleeting gleam of sun light, even as the clouds were darkening the sky above.

"But he did not ask you to become a storm."

For once the young windsoul had no clever answer - he knew she was right.

That evening they walked back toward the ancient shrine together in the amber light of the setting sun, Tempest Mound rose ahead of them like some old, weathered sentinel. Shalendra spoke then of intrepid travellers lost among the hills, canyons and passes of the stonelands, and stories of the cruel monsters to make this place their home, of Purple Dragon Knight patrols who came seeking safer paths and of shrines that endured because someone chose to tend them rather than chase every horizon. At times her voice seemed resigned and weary, but her stories helped focus his attention as they made their way together along the rocky trailway.

Malakai listened.

Not perfectly.

He was still a boy. Blue and strange, but still a boy.

---

• Stonelands
• The Tempest Mound shrine doesn't exist in FR - I made it up.