Myst, WIndwalker of Shaundakul

She remembered the first day that the wind whispered to her. She sat alone, like always, in the field that the children played with. She pretended she wanted to be alone. She heard the words they said. Unfortunately it wasn’t just the children, it was also their parents. Her mother and father would pretend not to hear them.

“White haired freak.”

“She isn’t even an elf, but look at those weird ears…”

“Her hair moves…”

“I don’t want him to play with that girl, she’s just wrong.”

“I feel sorry for her parents, to be saddled with an abomination like that.”

Her parents never the extent that she heard these things. She always seemed to be in her own world. Especially in nature. She felt the heartbeat of the earth. She felt the throbbing blood flowing through the veins of the wild animals she came across. But more than that the wind spoke to her, gently, ever so gently. It caressed her pale skin, lighting her almond shaped eyes with an inner blue fire.

“I am your only master…” the wind whispered. “I will take you where you should be…”

As a child she had been so sickly. Always sick with whatever was going around, and it was only by the grace of the gods she survived to adulthood. Fevers, chills, they were no stranger to her. She would spend a good portion of the winter at home in bed away from other children, including her siblings. Her siblings which shared none of her strange traits. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if her mother and father weren’t dark skinned, and dark haired people of their Shaaran tribe. They had lived in Calimshan their entire lives, and they had all seen those descended from Djinn…however not from a Shaaran bloodline.

Her father had little to do with her. He considered her neither an asset or a problem. She seemed fine, so he didn’t worry about her. In the back of his mind, he wondered if his wife had slept with a Calshite and bore his child instead of his own. Certainly people in their own child thought as much. How else could a child look so dissimilar from both of her parents? He was a good man, but how could a descendent of the air come from his seed?

Her mother adored her from the day she was born, but was unable to devote any special attention to her other than to care for her when she was so sickly. The other children required her attention often, and her strange, white haired child was often left to her own devices. And that was okay with her.

She sat alone under a tree watching the wind whisper in the leaves. The sun was high in the sky.

“Walk.” She looked for anywhere that the voice had come from. “Walk in my name.”

She stood and looked for the voice and at the path, in the crossroads stood a tall whitehaired man. He wore a cloak that billowed in the wind, and on his back was an immense sword. She stood and walked toward him. He stood very still and moved with the wind at the same time. She held her breath, feeling that breathing would only have it stolen from her lips.

He looked deep into her. “Wander. Learn. Walk the Wind, my child.”

Then, in a burst of wind, he was gone. All that remained was an old, immense sword on the ground. She reached down and hefted it, finding it straining to her weak muscles. No, she would not be weak any longer. She hefted it to her shoulder and went to the best swordsman in their tribe. He glanced at her as she planted the sword in the ground.

“Teach me to use it,’ she said, her eyes steady on him.

He laughed out loud, his other students not daring to do the same. “You are how old, thirteen winters now, and you can barely lift it, why do you want to learn, and where did you get that?”

“He left it for me. I will walk the wind.”

The swordsman walked up and stared at the hilt. “Shaundakul has called you?”

She nodded. “He told me to walk the wind.”

From that day forward, the swordsman never questioned the strange child he taught. For two years, he built her strength and taught her to fight through her weaknesses. She worked through sickness, she worked through injury, and only her strength would keep her up at times. Once she had learned all she could from the swordsman, she thanked him and told her parents it was time for her to leave.

She headed away from Calimshan and found her way to the Dalelands. The trip was long, arduous, but she found it exhilarating to be on the road. Once in the Dalelands she found her way to an old ranger she had read of in her travels. The wind led her slowly to his door. As soon as he opened the ragged door to his cottage, he smiled. Two more years would pass as she trained with him, under which she learned the ways of Shaundakul. The years passed swiftly, and so did her mentor. The night before she would leave, he passed into the god’s arms during the night, the only indication, a gale wind that blew for a few moments then was gone. She buried him leaving his greatsword as a marker for his grave.

She found her way to Silverymoon. There she learned archery from the elves, and found herself greatly entranced by them. She also encountered one or two of her own kind, and began to understand who and what she was and how she should indeed be proud of it. She met a Windwalker of Shaundakul, an air genasi named Whisper. He told her to find him when she was ready to train. She promised him she would

The sun rose over Silverymoon. She strapped her longbow, her greatsword, and her backpack on. A gift, two precious potions of curing, from her friend Whisper were secreted inside and he bid her good journey.

As she left, he called out. “What do you call yourself now, child of the winds?”

She turned back and smiled. “Myst. I will find you again soon.”

“Good journey and keep the wind at your feet.”