Board :	Chronicles of the Winds
Author :	SKEEYUP
Subject :	>>>--->
Date :	12/25
SKEEYUP was born third, and in his house third might as well have meant invisible. His parents poured their seasons into forging SkipCutscene, the eldest Do, into a blade of discipline. Hours of stances, practices, and bruises until the boy's body looked like it had been carved by the Gods. The second, Skipped, took the Shikari path with a grin and a hunger for the chase, returning from hunts with stories that filled the room like smoke. And SKEEYUP--small, quick-eyed, and focused--learned early that the training yard had no space for him unless he made his own. So he did. When the house settled into evening drills and story time, SKEEYUP slipped beyond the city's reach and into the brush where the air tasted honest. He learned which leaves could be chewed to quiet thirst, which mushrooms were liar's food, and how to read a broken twig the way a scribe reads ink. He wasn't strong like SkipCutscene or celebrated like Skipped, but the wilderness didn't care about titles. At first, he foraged like a starving stray; anything to prove he could return with something. Then, it became art. He came back with ginseng when others returned empty-handed, or with amber when miners swore the rock was dead. He started trading quietly--small bundles of gathered goods for rope, a better knife, a warmer cloak--never enough to be noticed, always enough to be free. And when someone asked how he did it, he would flash that quick wit of his and shrug like it was nothing. "I just listen," he'd say. "The ground speaks." Adventure often found him the way storms find mountains. Once, on a route near the wild roads, he watched townsfolk panic as wolves circled too close. The guards argued, loud and clumsy, and that noise only sharpened the animals' courage. SKEEYUP didn't shout. He slipped into the treeline, moved with the wind, and tossed bait far to the left, just enough to pull hungry eyes away. Then he guided the townies out through a narrow cut he'd mapped in his head years ago. Afterwards, a merchant tried to press coins into his palm to thank him. SKEEYUP laughed and refused most of it, taking only what he needed for the next day's food. "Keep your gold," he said. "You'll need it when you forget how to look up." In Trapper's Paradise, where the trees seem to stand together like they're guarding a secret, SKEEYUP first saw the Ranger mark carved into old wood and felt something in his chest settle into place. He didn't "find" the Rangers so much as ~recognize~ them: the way they watched without announcing, the way the forest seemed calmer around their steps, the way their camp looked ready to vanish at a breath. He thought of his brothers--one bound to precepts, one bound to the hunt--and realized he'd been bound to the wild all along. They didn't greet him with ceremony. A hooded figure simply asked, "Why are you here?" SKEEYUP grinned, because fear had never owned him for long. "Because I'm tired of being the extra chair at the table," he answered. "And because I know how to live out there when everyone else only knows how to visit." That honesty and confidence, however irrational, earned him a place near the fire; nothing promised, nothing given freely. Trials would come, patience would be tested, and the wilderness would demand its price as it always does. But for the first time, SKEEYUP didn't feel like the odd brother out. He felt like someone the forest had been waiting for.