Shen stepped lightly and carefully down the mountain slope, not because of the sheer stone or unsure footing, but because he couldn't bear to draw his eyes away from the incredible expanse of land within his view. He had been a short ways into the mountains on one edge of his plains in the Rheari, but never had he been this high. Somehow, he could feel that the winds here were made more of spirit and less of air with every breath.

Leiko was a strange man amidst the Eyriens, but there was something familiar about him. He had no wings, and had yet to speak, and had at first appeared to almost be something of a slave. At the same time, however, there was a peace about him, perhaps brought by whatever duties he fulfilled atop this greatest of mountains, and in that silent reverence there was a tranquility that reminded Shen of home. He had felt such comfort since being among the Eyriens; they seemed less like the humans and more like Shen in ways, and this both comforted him and concerned him. He knew, in time, they'd have to leave, and that his path likely lie onward, ahead with the humans.

He kept his dark eyes filled with the blue, and his mind wandered over the land so hungrily that he often had to call it back to keep up with even the gentle pace Leiko was leading.

The Eyriens always called Shenrakari by his full name, and after a short time they had begun calling him the Wind-Seeker. Shen was deeply honored by this, even though for most of his stay he hadn't known what it meant. Some of his companions had been suprised that his claim of Griffin's being "favored by the wind spirits" hadn't led to trouble. When Griffin returned from the Eyriens' holy perch, the Meeting of the Winds, healed from his demonic draining, they had seemed grateful that he hadn't been destroyed. The Eyriens appeared to have this odd inclination that Shen was somehow knowing of these things.

Shen thought nothing of this. He was no seer, he was barely more than a lost child who had just repeated what he'd been shown, and he trusted the Eyriens, and the winds they served, to bring what ought come. It was that simple. Despite the honor, he had been a bit concerned about all the fuss, and had honestly feared he wasn't worthy of his title and vaguely defined but seemingly important role. Arrissa, the Wind-Seer and Elder of this Eyrie, had nonetheless arrested this doubt with a start:

"Shenrakari, you are more."

With words from his own dreams, perhaps evening unknowingly, she had hurled his own faith back upon him. He could not ignore this. Like it or not, he was "more". Whatever that meant.

Trials of faith notwithstanding, Shen found himself clinging to another thing she had told him: "Your humility does you credit." Thank the winds, he thought, that there was no need to try to represent himself in some lofty role. Facades, especially those of false confidence, did not suit him. He had recalled Fletcher's words about taking charge of situations, and about putting yourself above people if only to establish a pattern of obedience and respect. He had rememebered how unnatural that construct had felt. Taking on a false posture of superiority was a trait he'd been taught by the beasts of the Rheari, but the lesson was that it was always, in truth, just a yielding unto fear.

He wished he could allay whatever fear it was that forced the humans to live by such ways, but in a world of worlds he barely understood, he was still that lost child, and still struggling with his own.

They arrived at a shallow cave, not far below Arrissa's place of unending parhen atop the mountain. The view was still breathtaking, and it was to be here, he'd been made to understand, that he would seek vikanshen. He paced the small cave a bit, breathing in its aire. He communicated with the silent Leiko just enough to understand that he has to begin, and that Leiko would remain with him, an alert him from his meditations if there was any need. Despite his own image of himself being the servant, Shen received the clear impression that Leiko had no intention of disturbing him.

Not knowing what else to do, Shen shed his questions and his clothes, and sank his lithe form into a deep parhen.

The rushing winds brought his vision almost sooner than for which he was prepared.

*                *                *

He is the son of a strong pair: born of the love of the Warlord of the Eyrie and a Wind-Seer. He grows amidst a loving family, playing on the winds and singing melodies and tales of their ways. Sisters, parents and tribe live strongly atop their mountain, where the winds created their race to serve in their noble calling.

There are other Eyries perched atop ranges just visible upon the horizon. By night their distant beacons mark the dark desert skies like two steadfast stars, and it is sung that the signals and light of one passes relayed to the next, around and about a great circle of ten Eyries, in union over three thousand strong.

And strong they must be. Their charter from the winds is not for the frail: to protect the countless worlds in the lands and skies from demonkind, who spaw deep in the Underworld. The dark gateway to this place, called the Pit by the Eyriens, lies the encircled by the linked Eyries, placing a watchful keep between the source of the demons and the worlds they seek to ravage.

There are tales and songs of wars long ago, dark days when demons rose from the Pit in hording armies to rage across whole worlds. But in all dark days there is born a hero in every heart, and never have the demons swelled past the great circle of the Eyriens' shield. Never were their lives and blood cast down in vain, and with every loss came also a verification that their purpose, however wrought with pain and sacrifice it might be, remains as always, high and held.

Until, still in the days of his childhood, a new war comes. From a huge city outside the circle comes by night an army of men, wingless men, who live and fight beside demonkind in a diseased alliance doubtless forged in some deep darkness. The men of the sickened city can themselves become demons, and the forces charge into the Eyrie...

There is chaos. The battle is strange and bereft of glory, leaving only fear in its place. The minutes pass, and he hides deep in the cavernous shadows made by scattered firelight, and one by one he hears the sounds of his tribesmen falling.

It is not long before the demon comes for him. The creature steps toward him as if there is no darkness to its eyes. With a powerful arm it crushes his small frame against the floor and holds him there, and then, bone by bone, skin taken in strips and ribbons, it tears from him his wings, slowly devouring them. Paralyzed in agony, he struggles to breathe amidst his own blood pooling on the rough stone. The pain does not stop, and he knows when the creature is finished only by the feeling of a clawed hand reaching into his mouth as he gasps for air...

He comes to, still in dark of night. There is the smell of filthy beasts. He is being dragged. His mouth is full of blood. He struggles to clear his eyes. There are other children like him. No parents. No warriors or seers. Only children with no wings...

In the twisted city he awakens to a new life: one of slavery. He grows strong with age, in the likeness of the fighting race from which he'd come, and more than once breaks free of his bondage and runs, but never far, never fast enough to escape the brutal penance inflicted by the beasts that are sent after him.

Years pass in this hell. Even the taste of freedom is provided by the windless fate that rules this place, so as to make complete his suffering.

But then comes the last war. From some greater place, the Meeting of All Winds at the Center of the World, comes a new race of men. Into the city storms a massive army, and in the fury, he runs from his captors for the last time.

Days out, far beyond even the farthest reaches of the city's viral etches into the land, he finds the familiar desert and makes for its distant mountains. Into the range he climbs, and at long last he comes to the place of his birth.

There is nothing.

He wanders the empty caves, memory flooding back to him with the scent of his own blood upon his young face, and he calls to mind the only remnant of his people's lore that might remain unspoiled: the secret that the deepest of his old Eyrie's caverns do not end.

In the darkest depths of some of the caves are spaces cramped and wet, places that rot the tender wings of the Eyrie, and can leave them lost and suffering in the black cold. But beyond those spaces, far through the narrowest of catacombs and crevaces, the caves open again, it is known, to other worlds.

Knowing only of his desire to find what remains of his people and warn them, he fills himself with water and crawls deep into the caves. He shivers and scrapes his way along for days in the frigid void, knowing his direction only enough to not go from where he came. Dry and starving, he at last sees the light of sky eeking its way down from a distant cave opening ahead. He crawls to it, finding himself at the feet of another Eyrien, a shocked young Warlord who brings him to a new home.

Over time, he gains back his strength, but has not his tongue with which to tell this new Eyrie of what he has seen, and warn them to make strong their warriors. He knows of the Wind-Seer's prophecy: that the coming of the Wind-Seeker will mark the birth of the great Wind-Speaker. When the long-awaited Wind-Speaker comes, he can then lead these strong Eyriens back to his world, to the city of men and demons to bring and end to their alliance and power.

His secrets trapped in his tongueless silence, he waits out the years. He has been through much time and suffering, and amidst the healing winds again, he knows that faith and patience will let them carry to him one who can hear his tale.

And now, before him, that one stands. He peers at the strange creature, watching its odd form stand listening as Arrissa speaks of the prophecy and sends the newcomer to seek a vision. She calls the new one the Wind-Seeker. This being is not an Eyrien, but not a man either, and upon its large frame he sees, in his minds eye, huge wings covered in the black fur that runs down its back and tail. He somehow knows that this is the seeker that will hear him, this gentle beast, this... Shenrakari.

*                *                *

As if staring into a mirror, Shen's images of himself suddenly became his own. He slowly opened his eyes as his awareness of the world about him returned. He was cold and wet, and the cave floor spoke of a rain that had come and gone some time ago. The sky was now merely spotted with high grey clouds gently sailing the afternoon winds. He struggled to make sense of time; hours upon hours of visions, and another whole life as long as his own of memory, slowly sank into his mind. He felt the fresh imprints of horrible pain and tribulation as they began to gradually fade to burns, and then to scars.

His physicality returned to him in a fierce rush of sensation. Hunger screamed in him, and his body, frozen in its place like granite for some undiscernable time, was near blue with numbness. Tiny dried traces of blood marked the outside corners of his eyes.

It took nearly an hour for him to move. Muscle by muscle and joint by joint he slowly reawakened his toes, his legs, his tail, his hands and arms. Finally, after tensing and straining his frame once more, only minimally straining free of his kneeling pose, he turned slowly around to see himself, the self he'd been for the past two days, who discetely sat huddled along the stone wall.

Leiko silently looked at him with a stare that was neither absent nor knowing. Shenrakari's mind flooded with nostalgia and memories of a whole life gone by - the joy of flight, the beauty of song, the loss of all of it and of home and self, slavery, freedom, and now, incredible unspeakable hope.

The great beast pulled himself across the floor to Leiko's side, put his arms around the Eyrien's broken frame, and quietly cried.