Windwalker

Once there was an altar.

A minor thing, built of stones and brittle bamboo.

Small offerings were left there - fruits, seeds. Once a sheaf of wheat. It was all according to her power - a minor god could give only minor gifts, and so accepted only minor sacrifices. She didn’t mind.

Her altar was surrounded by a copse of ancient bamboo, dark with age. Few dragons made the journey to her secluded retreat. So when the first tendrils of plague began to creep up the cliffs, no one seemed to notice. When the leaves grew black and orange with disease, no one spoke. And when the grasses became brittle, blowing away in the howling wind, no one cried out.

Except her.

She fled her altar, severing her link to the land. The further she ran, the weaker she grew, her form growing weak and ethereal. The Windsinger would help, she thought. He would push back the Plague, return her home to her.

Instead she found only the howling of the Twisting Crescendo and, weakened by her loss, was swept into its fury. The storm blew her away from her home, tossing her high into the air above Sornieth, its mindless power far too strong for her to fight. When she finally broke free of the maelstrom, instead of the lush green of her homeland, she saw only shadow.

The darkness of this region belied anything like her home. In time she found a small copse of flowers, blooming greens and purples. Here she settled, hoping in time she might find her way back home once again.