"...he heard the song of arrows in flight, and the night sky grew as bright as day as they rained from above, a thousand shooting stars falling upon the plains. The Huntress burned bright like the sun, her bow firing again and again, faster than the eye could see. Every arrow found its mark: straight through the heart of the twintail warriors. Those who did not die fled, running back into the guts of the earth, never daring to set foot in her sacred lands again."

The soft rhythm of a drum accompanied his words, both of which rolled low and soothing in the warm night air. He spoke to his fellow travelers, drifting or already dreaming, around the dwindling campfire; he spoke to the guards at the edge of the light, their eyes watching the darkness for hunters; he spoke to the pack animals curled up safe and asleep; he spoke to himself. He lay on his back, his instrument on his chest, staring into the vault of the sky, and spoke to the heavens themselves. 

"Where those shafts lay, the faithful built monuments to her swift justice, just like the one we're camped by. It's said they placed those sacred arrows inside each statue of the Huntress, blessing the stone and the land. It's also said that anyone who tries to steal the relics - thief or heretic or just stupid - will soon find themselves in the sights of her bow. It's a good reminder that we should be godfearing, even out here in the wilderness."

Roan breathed in deep, filling his nose with the scent of woodsmoke and wildflowers. The crackle of shouldering logs, the beat of his drum, the murmur of his voice, the hoot and call of night birds, the dull roar of the wind across the tall grass sea: this was the world complete. There was no tomorrow and there was barely a present; only the past mattered here, in this bubble of time by the fire, these songs of antiquity. 

"This is the story of how the Huntress saved her people, and how we came to call them these lands the Arrowfalls."

With that he slid his drums carefully off of his chest, resting them at the side of his bedroll. There was no applause - it was too late for all that - but he heard the satisfied sighs and shuffles of his audience. Smiling at a job well done, he reached up to his mouth and delicately plucked a strip of well-chewed leather from his mouth, then tied it next to the others on his heavy necklace. The wet, coarse texture felt unpleasant on his skin as it dried, but in a few hours he knew he wouldn't even notice.

Sniffing, he picked the drums back up, his eyes never looking down from the constellations and the oldest sagas. He should sleep, but he was entranced by the moon and her daughters. And who could resist just one more story?

"This one some of you may know if you grew up out here on the plains, and maybe even if you didn't. It's called How The Wind Found Its Love. Once upon a time..."