He runs like the wind on a cold autumn’s eve, no weapon to slow him, no trick up his sleeve. His words carry warning to those in need—a ripple of mercy at break-neck speed. No kit on his back and no care in the world, just blur in the mist and a whispering swirl. He rides on the wind with a thunderous crack—already gone on his next mission fast, like moonlight flashing across the night sky. He rides on the tides, up the rivers and streams, soft-footed where shadow and deep current gleam. One splash and he’s gone—no trace or track; all that remains is an echoing quack. He moves with the current, a strike born of rain, edge of the river made living again. Call out his name and the waters awake—even tempests bend to the path he will take.

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