Stribog

You feel me before you see me, in the hush of leaves and the groan of the pines. I am Stribog, the breath of the world since before names had meaning. My winds carry fate, spores, and songs across the lands, each gust in balance with the last. My hall is the sky, my throne the meeting of the winds. My children—Sever, Yug, Zapad, Vostok—are wild and free, but I temper them with patience older than time. I do not intervene, I maintain. The air is never empty. It is mine.