In the great deserts, he met Siroth.

Siroth was broad-winged and powerful, his scales the colour of burnished bronze and desert sand. When he flew, grains of dust trailed behind him like drifting smoke.

His wings were scarred from centuries of carving storms across the harsh desert skies.

One afternoon, a massive dust storm rose high above the dunes.

A small travelling tribe struggled through the blowing sand below.

The Weatherdragon climbed high into the sky and drew cooler mountain air down into the storm.

Siroth carved a narrow corridor through the swirling sand.

The tribe reached shelter in a rocky canyon just as the storm closed behind them.

When the winds finally settled, the desert grew quiet again.

Siroth landed beside him on a high ridge of red stone.

"You wander like the wind," he said.

The Weatherdragon watched the tribe lighting small fires far below.

"Yes," he replied. "I suppose I do."

The evening wind moved across the desert cliffs.

Siroth lifted his head slightly. The breeze carried a whisper. A word shaped by the wind itself.

Siroth gave a low rumbling laugh.

"So it is true."

"What is true?" the Weatherdragon asked.

Siroth looked at him with deep respect.

"The wind calls you First Wind."

The Weatherdragon shook his head slowly.

"I do not remember that name."

Siroth spread his great bronze wings.

"You will," he said. "Eventually the wind tells its stories."