A ghostly, howling sound whips around the area, combing the trees with its rough fingers, ripping off leaves and tearing dirt straight off the ground. The swamps spill over onto land, uncontainable. The skies are dark; murky, towering nimbus clouds hang low, dumping their stores of water in an attempt to drown the earth below. Kimeti everywhere - old and young alike - find shelter, resting out a storm more horrible than any other. But there is one young Kimeti - a filly - who stands tall and proud against the prevailing winds. She is soaked to the bone, but none of this matters. The winds buffet her around like a doll, and she enjoys every minute of it.The storm calms a couple days later; it is perhaps not the greatest storm to ravage the land, but certainly the strongest in a few years' time. The young filly has experienced the excitement of her life; nothing can compete with the feeling of the wind rushing past her fur at speeds faster than a Kimeti can run.
She starts to seek out this strange force, which makes a sound and pushes up against her, which can lift objects and throw them carelessly aside, which can uproot trees - and yet remain invisible. She learns how to find the wind by its feel on her body, by the ripples it creates on the water.There is a place found in the swamps, called the Whistling Woods, in which the wind constantly circles 'round and 'round. It snakes its way through the low-growing trees, trapped in a maze it cannot free itself from. The young Kimeti spends time here; the wind is her closest companion. She grows; she can navigate these Woods with no problem. By nature of geography, the winds should die, yet they keep going indefinitely.
After a time, she begins to feel - not bored, perhaps, but she begins seeking something more. The winds here suffice for the time, but they are tame. Their speeds will pick up only when there is a powerful storm, and even then - much to the Kimeti's chagrin, the first time it happened - the maze of trees traps the winds so that their speeds never reach the high speeds she had first experienced. The Woods are a good shelter, but that is not what the Kimeti wants.
She makes her way to the edges of the marsh, venturing outwards, beyond where most Kimeti are happy to go. The naming dream skips between images (as dreams often do) and she sees herself on ground much sturdier, in climates much colder, under a sun more burning than the swamps of her home.
The last image: she stands on hard, rocky ground. Below, she can see the lay of the land, the green of treetops, although she only understands what she sees slightly. The wind here, on this mountaintop, is fierce. She has found what she was looking for - something to rival the winds from the storm of her childhood. Yet she cannot live here; she continues onwards. Perhaps in her life she will never leave the swamps at all, never seek out the winds with the zealousness of the dream, but the name will remain - Windseeker.
