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Movement, action, change, direction. Some believe they come from within, from the soul or perhaps the heart. Perhaps they are right, or perhaps they are wrong.

Pegasi, the Tribe of the Sky, believe the wind comes from their hooves. Deer, scions of the elements, believes the wind sprouts from nature. Buffalo, the plains shamans, believe the wind draws from spirits. Yet despite the views of many, they agree that the wind has one destination: where it pleases. For the wind is unbound, truly free. A freedom that is shared with those who follow it's siren's call, leading those few to travel. Many follow it for a time, leaving it's delicate grasp to settle upon the land or sky. Yet others, those few among the few, embrace it's hold and allow it to lead them wherever it may. These are known as wanderers, named after the wind itself as it leads them wherever it may.

Many speak of the Wandering Wind, some even choose to worship it's steady push, and yet none truly understand it. Some it chooses to lead to glory, to that which they seek or need. Others follow it's path to ruin and shame, perhaps even death itself. And yet it leads, uncaring of who or where. As any true wanderer will claim, as though passed down by the breeze itself, that the journey is where the purpose lays. It shows no favor in destination, beginning, or fate. Even the path it sets can lead anywhere, as twisting and unpredictable as one would expect. But it will always lay a path, waiting for someone to take the first step upon a great journey.

Some have lost their way, as all travelers do, confused by misplaced directions and impossible turns. Worse are those who have lost the will to continue their travels, never to find it once more. The Wind, ever present and silent, may seem to have left their spirits hollow and worn. Their legs tired, their souls tattered, and their minds misted by fear, grief, or even anger; these are the ones who will reject the Wind's gentle touch. And so they will stew, and wait, and cry, until one day they stand upon a threshold as they once did. The Wind's gentle caress will push them onward, out into the world as they face themselves. Some will choose to once more reject the Wind, casting it's affections aside to leave it forever. They choose to craft their own life, shunning the Wind's call until it no longer plays for them. Others... others feel the Wind once more inside them, and take their first step once more. They return to the Wind's embrace, casting their fates again to it's fickle grasp.

The Wind, it's motives and direction so mysterious, serves those who follow. For as often as it is claimed as a master, it is but a servant to those who follow it. It leads simply because there are those who still walk in it's wake. It emboldens because there are those who still desire it's embrace. It fills the sails of those who need it as long as there are those who travel the oceans' vastness. And it will die when there is no need for it's mystery. When the world stands still, it will cease. None know if it dreads this day, though it is said that it will arise once more, when something looks to the sky and desires to see where the clouds travel.