That was a barren age of old, a time when the pale dawn had yet to pierce the cold night. Warriors clad in iron had never beheld the open sky. Sharp winds held aloof the frozen heavens above. Warriors were meant to obey their charge. To smother, in their very cradles, those rebels skulking in darkened alleys, those who dared shake the towering spire. Yet at the songs that flowed from the strings of that young bard's lyre, the warrior laid down sword and blade. Not by tongues of treason beguiled, nor by promises of illusion swayed, the warrior yielded only to the caged bird's yearning for the sky, a hunger writ in the blood of every living creature. Be they paupers, bowed by bitter winds and clinging to the side of the boy, or maidens, wandering through pallid plains, calling upon a thousand winds and blossoms; Be they small sprites of the wind, hearts stirred by the boy's music, or soldiers no less hungered than those they were bid to subdue; Be they old poets bereft of their eyes, or craftsmen made wanderers, shorn of their hands, or the countless sick and ailing souls, their names lost to the wild winds' howl; All alike, steeped in that song — gentle as the morning breeze, warm as dawn light seeping into cold nights — would lift their eyes as one and gaze upon the sky, still far above. Even she, the God King's most favored confidant, that taciturn, iron-cold huntress, grim of tongue yet true of heart... Surely, 'twas but by duress of her erstwhile master that her fair hands were stained with innocent blood. For how else might a clutch of soft-spoken words have turned her away from the tyrant, and set her feet upon the path of those who stood against him? Though ineloquent by nature, she too must have longed, like her companions, for a gentler dawn to come... And so the silent warrior cast aside both duty and name, weaving her snare from within the shadows, Gathering, for the boy who sang of morning, the winds scattered across the long night, until at last they rose to blow against the towering wall of wind. "Let the nameless flowers kiss away your tears, and grieve not for the parting that tomorrow brings." "Until the breath of dawn fades my name, and reveals for you the light that is true."

"Iron blades fail to slash it, neither can imprisonment of stones confine it." "The wind has no fear of future, only constantly flowing in its direction."

That was a barren age of old, a past when gentle spring winds had yet to melt ice and snow. Cups of azure had never held sweet wine; naught but bitter songs flowed from mortal lips. The taciturn archer loosed the last arrow at the tyrant, lifeblood piercing the unyielding wind-wall. The chorus of defiance swelled, and the breeze surged into a tempestuous tide, striking deep into the heart of the lone king. Thus should have ended the rebellion of mortals against gods, for the Lord of the Storm was cast down from his high tower. Yet, before the heroes breaking free from their bonds could mourn their fallen comrades, a wild storm gathered, fraught with malice to engulf all who were granted a new life. That was the final lament of the tyrant — forsaken by all, his delusions unmade — amidst the wreckage of his throne. Even the frailest of gods, clinging to resentments as their twilight nears, can topple the mightiest strongholds wrought by mortal hands. Let alone the God King himself, whose might could sever the frozen sky, cleave mountains asunder with winds of wrath, and fell drakes with a single arrow. Those who had poured every ounce of their strength into the strife of godslaying could now no longer stay the unforeseen woe. The hope newly kindled upon the ruins seemed destined to be devoured by the wrathful storm, ushering in utter desolation. At the very instant when the roar of annihilation was about to strike, what came into view of the sprite, the knight, and all beneath the tower... ...was the boy, frail of form and unskilled in war. He strode into the raging wind while his fingers danced upon the strings of his lyre. Never has any song revealed the hidden secret of that hour, nor has any poem probed its very truth. The wind, which had teeth to rend the very bones of the earth, fell abruptly silent. It was a miracle that later devotees would call divine. None but the exalted God of Songs knows the words inscribed before the dawn...

Blood-red wine gleamed in golden cups, water-hued jade lay upon pale braids. Bare feet no longer tread slivers of silver snow; only slivered silver fall about her feet like snow. Beneath the shadow of the towering spire, amidst a prison of delusive enchantment, the huntress believed herself cherished by a tyrant. Consider the wandering craftsman who proffered to her a clockwork bird of pure gold, begging only for his life. Both his hands were hewn away by her King's cold, sharp wind, lest such a toy ever be made again for another’s delight. When the bloodline, long-steeped in ignorance, bowed down to the wrathful wind, offering her like a sacrifice to the king of the spire, the huntress, who once roosted with owls on withered boughs and danced with hawks across the plains, knew not that the Lord of Wind, feared by all, would elevate her to the place of favored counsel, so skilled was she with the bow. Before she met her king, she knew not the tenderness of love, nor the searing sting of hate. Before she met her king, no human heart had ever stirred within the huntress treading the plains. If there are those born with dreams of kindness and liberty, yearning to cleave the wind-wrought wall of desolation with their song, And if even Gods may be ensnared by their own delusion and conceit, doomed to drown in the barren dream called eternity, Then there are those, born wanting, only able to fill their hollow hearts with blind devotion. Awoken from blind love, she realized she was the only one who spoke with sincerity. For he spoke of love, but was only accompanied by razor winds. — Thus spoke one, a mortal knowing naught of love, to a god who could not know it. Even in the moment they tore each other apart, neither had ever truly known the other’s heart.