Outside, where mists are swirling in darkness abound, and the only thing lighting the bleak, cold night is a frosty silver light, shown down from the moon, and trickling through a gray bank of fog to the ground below. Angry wind has subsided from earlier on, leaving bits and pieces scattered on the sparse grassy hill. Still, though, it threatens to blow, kicking up at random intervals, creating twirling cyclones of icy mist. Gnarled old trees peek through the mists, groaning and creaking in protest to the wind, and yet, it continues. This way, the night rolls on, much as it had before, in grim and torturous silence, accompanied by sounds of nothingness.

Through the dense gray fog, the swirling mists, there is a slight disturbance in the dance of pain. At first, a simple silhouette appears in the banks, when the wind has been at rest for a while, but as the silhouette becomes more clear, and the fog sets in to a dense pool of gray, the angry wind picks back up again in protest to this disturbance. Whirling, twirling, creaking, and groaning, soft breeze rages to life again and shows its might. The figure is not moved.

Now lifted away, the fog reveals him, quite a distance from a lonely tavern, yes, but still visible. He, though it is not quite noticeably so, makes his way slowly down the sparsely covered grassy hill, pressing on through the night. With his mist cover now gone, his long brown hair whips about his head as the breeze so desires, going this way and that, though it is the only thing about him that he doesn’t seem to control.

His strides are slow, smooth, constant, and confident, as he walks with an air about him that seems almost noble, but he wears common clothes. Loose cotton pants adorn his slightly muscular legs, the material moving about much the way his hair does, and it presses against the slight curve of his body, only held on by a cotton sash around his waist, neatly tied and well cared for. On his shoulders is a long-sleeved, button-down, cotton shirt, buttoned only halfway up, and very similar to his pants, whipping about in the wind in random harmony with the rest of his loose things, like a makeshift concert played by the wind.

A half-open loose shirt provides a good view of his well-toned chest, and only accented by the blowing wind, which presses the soft fabric against every crevice on his body to reveal his nearly perfect physique. He is apparently in very good shape, the unknown reason to anyone not knowing his past being simply this: His life needed it, required it, demanded it. Through his lineage, he was a Weaver, one of the most powerful magical manipulators still alive… He had no kin left, for they had made powerful enemies and terrible battles ensued over the control of the Weavers.

The Weavers, as the were so named because of their affinity to the magical weave, and their ability to manipulate it, were born into a rigid system where they would first train body and mind before there were ready to start learning the strands of the weave. As a child, they would learn the martial arts before moving on to studies of the mind, when they were more developed intellectually. Each Weaver was required to choose a specific element to train under, and each had its ups and downs. This particular individual, however, did not select his element so much as it picked him… He was struck by it, and almost killed, though it bound itself to his very soul in the process. It was lightning, pure energy.