They said he sings the Song of the Wind. Pale was a young stallion, barely grown out of his mother's lap. Hunters from the tribe had found him. His tribe had been exterminated. A sand storm had weakened it, and the the Red Scourge had followed the storm. The snake-like creatures had devoured his tribe. His mother had escaped, but, weakened by the Scourge's venom, had not survived the journey. The hunters took him from the arms of his dead mother, only a whelp at the brink of death. Pale recovered, but he remained an outsider. Despite being healthy, he always looked weak and ill. His fur was pale and scrubby, his ribs showed under the fur of his skinny body and his legs were scrawny and spindly. He often sat alone and aside, crying away quietly. They said, he sings the Song of the Wind.
Pale was the name of a whelp. It was the time when he grew out of whelphood and receive his name. A name that described him. But his parents were more. The tribe's chieftain gathered the adolescents. It was their duty to keep watch. They were to go to different locations and scout. They were to warn the tribe about dangers. About storms, predators and the Red Scourge, should it approach. “Pale. You will go to the Southern Gorge. Once you have proven yourself, you will return. And the tribe will give you your name.” Pale nodded silently and collected his few possessions. He knew, the Southern Gorge was no place for a scout. The place was secure, there was no danger. There was nothing he could earn his name with. He cried when he left. They said, he sings the Song of the Wind.
Pale laid on the mountain ridge at the edge of the chasm of the Southern Gorge. From here, he could survey everything. He listened to the wind howling as it swept around the rocks. He thought, the wind sings its song. The days passed by until he saw movement. Something moved along the Gorge. He startled. Red, snake-like creatures. The Red Scourge, here? As quickly as his spindly legs could carry him, he ran back to the village to warn them. The village prepared for the attack. But it never came. The waited in vain and when Pale returned to the Gorge, there was no evidence of the Red Scourge. It recurred, again he saw the Red Scourge and again he warned his village. But again nothing happened. The sent him away, back to the Gorge. And should return and again tell of attacks that never happened, the tribe would expel him. He cried when he left the village. They said, he sings the Song of the Wind.
And again they came, creeping through the Gorge. But someting happened. The wind swept through the gorge and howled. He thought, the wind sings its song. And the snake-like creatures writhed, twitched and fled from the Gorge. The song, Pale thought, they fear it. They fear the Song of the Wind. Three times the wind had saved the village from the Red Scourge with its song. But not always would the wind sing when the Scourge came. Not always would luck be on their side, that Pale knew, and he pondered. From a long stem of skygrass, which grew at the base of the Gorge, he carved a flute, almost twenty hands long. When he blew into it, his song sounded, the Song of the Wind. When again the Scourge approached, Pale played the Song of the Wind, he sang like the wind in the Gorge. And the Scourge heard him. Stricken with fear, the snake-like creatures writhed and fled back to the desert. And Pale kept watch, the flute always in his paw, ready to play when the Scourge would come. He sang the Song of the Wind.
The years passed by and the time of trials ended, for the seventh time. And for the seventh time, the adolescents returned to tell. To tell about scouting and hunting. Pale was forgotten. They said, he left. But one returned who was different. He was grown up and wore the symbols of the tribe, but no one knew him. He head-tails were long and shone blue and red. They shone and showed his willingness to find a mate. And the women marvelled at him, and not only them. The stranger was spruce, his body athletic, his legs strong from running. His fur was deep sand with beautiful stripes and his lobes were full. He carried a long staff carved from skygrass, decorated with patterns, ribbons and feathers. Holes in it showed, it was a flute. “Who are you, that you come to us?” the chieftain asked. “It was you who sent me to the Southern Gorge. I have lived there for seven sun-changes. I protect the tribe from the Red Scourge, which returned again and again. I learnt that they fear the Song of the Wind. Thus I sang.” the stranger answered with a gentle voice. “You are Pale... you were... then they did come? Will they return?” “They gave up. For half a sun-change, I haven't seen one. They fear the song too much.” “You were Pale... but you no longer are. You earned your name.” The chieftain raised his voice: “Who is he, who protected the tribe for seven sun-changes? Who will speak?” But no one spoke. No one knew him. “Who are you?” the chieftain asked him, “How does the tribe know you?” The young stallion let his gaze wonder over the members of the tribe. Some were impressed, some were taken with him, some amazed. They knew him. He took his time before he answered: “They say, I sing the Song of the Wind.”
Well, what can I say? I didn't actually mean to delve that deep into the Sesqintaur, considering they were only a species that may appear in my game Revenant Wraith. But when inspiration comes, it comes. To understand the text, you need to understand the concept of "names" used by the Sesqintaur. When born, they receive simple names that are usually imminent or wished traits. When adolescent, Sesqintaurs receive their actual names which are in fact elaborate descriptions for the individual and often a poetic paraphrase. Sesqintaur will refer to themselves and others by these descriptions, and they will also use them as such. Someone who enjoys being outside during the rain may be called "Dances in the Rain". If asked who he is, the individual will not reply "I am ...", instead he will reply "I dance in the rain".