It is only in this time of year when Ashftzion, the great zephyr, passes the northern reaches and drags southward the snows of Saphreal. Man and elf-kind rejoice, branding it a season of conviviality and altruism, and beasts retire from their feral lives to take long slumber throughout the wintry occupation.
But the lord of winds cares not for mortal happenings; he cares for but one thing and not a thing more: Eoelyndra, the sprite of The Singing Hills, the grace of the pale, the muse of the glaciers and the frost. Since his birth from the anus of the heavens, he has found the lady of the crystals the singular thing that mesmerizes him.
Ashftzion would fly around the world, bringing cloud and climate to all the places, drudging without complaint despite the task that even gods would tire from. The very few that have met him might wonder over his mysterious lack of protest, but they will never notice that whenever the great gust trudges towards Saphreal, his stiff lips curve and his sedulousness bolsters.
For as he takes the snows, he witnesses Eoelyndra’s dance again; her gait, her bows, her mystical pirouettes—nothing could enchant him more, and Ashftzion, feared by ship-riders and worshipped by many cults, melts to her poise.
But on the early dawn of December’s twenty-fifth, the great wind leaves to resume his eternal duty. His farewell is never heard, for he has never mustered the courage to part a word. He brushes on, leaving the last snowflake and strangely, a drop of rain…
…A tear, wrung from his shy heart, an ephemeral memento of his sorrow.
But his gloom lasts not, for he knows that his next visit is but a mere year away and Ashftzion, harbinger of seasons, buries himself back into his work, smiling again when Saphreal lies yonder.