Legend flows through my people as the gentle wind of the south drifts through our village tents. We know deeply of our legends, of our stories and our songs. They connect us to the past in such a way that we don’t bother trying to write any of it down. My people are not creatures of parchment and thread and swirling print. My people are of the wind, trill spoken words, and fragile memory. If you cannot recall of us, in speech or in song, then the day has come where we no longer exist.
We are the people who left, the ones sought to be forever forgotten. We crossed into the Rabid Lands and we found its center and we cast out our woven tents. We vowed to never leave. Deep in the most dangerous of holy lands, no one ever thought to try and seek us out.
Our inner pride will always stem from this greatest feat.
Raya, once leader to us all, was the one who focused her powers to guide her people to the safest of spots left in this world four hundred years ago. Her protector, her dear brother Vayan, was the largest and grandest of warriors to ever live and cut his people’s way into the thousands of beasts that called the Rabids home. What the supernatural siblings did to ensure their people’s safety has never been forgotten, though the reason for relocating has long since faded away from our recollections.
Despite not knowing why, we celebrate how our great brother and sister crossed the span of dangerous land without a single death. It is said that no force dared to follow them in. Thus breaking us off from everything else, like a leech wrenched off of skin. Eventually my people became a whole different sort, shaped by isolation and the teachings of our leaders. We became adopted children of the holy lands, buffered from anything else by reddened sands and steep dark rock. From within this space, we were safe. We thrived.
Then the poisoning began. It all started with one, a woman, who chose to topple us all. We were slowly brought from our safe existence into one made from fear. We were to pay for the pains brought onto her. We were the ones to die should she grow angry with remembering. It is fitting, in a way. Our village, our developing culture, was born from one woman's memory. In our dying days, so too was it due to a woman, and of remembering.
I am the first to break the vow made by Raya and her brother Vayan. My name is Saneya.