Zeffa was eleven when she first heard the stories.
A pair of adventurers had wandered into her father's shop, their eyes gliding over the trinkets and worn books and odd spiny things that he had collected over the years. She sat behind the counter, tracing words on parchment with her finger, when one of them spoke.
"My good man," he said, "Might you have anything with the symbol of an eye? Not the Sheikah! A large glaring eye. No teardrop."
Her father hummed and stroked his thick, blond beard, the only hair he had left. "That doesn't narrow things down much," he replied. "Plenty of eyes on books or reliefs."
"Then would you have anything about a wind tribe?" the adventurer tried. "Or a Lord of Winds?"
Her father shook his head. "Afraid not. We have plenty other treasures, I assure you." He nodded and gestured to the shop as a whole in all of its ordered chaos. Clothes hung along one wall with an old rusted shield, tomes on a shelf sat next to a translucent glass sword, and somewhere within the bargain bin of shiny rocks was something that pinched probing fingers.
The man nodded, frowning, then returned to his friend. After some time, and near-silent flailing, they approached the counter with a green swirly doodad. It was a shiny rock larger than her father's hand, carved flawlessly. Also dusty. They paid the first amount given to them – amateurs – and left a fair bit poorer, but smiling ear to ear.
As the bell rang out their exit, and the door began to close, she caught the second man speaking in pure excitement: "It's exactly like the wind–!"
And the door closed.
Zeffa blinked then went back to sounding out a word. She was curious, and by her father's rough clearing of his throat, she knew she would get her answers. He knew she would otherwise attempt to find the answer herself.
After the shop closed up for the day, they headed for a nearby bar that travelers and shopkeepers alike frequented. It wasn't spotless, but it was warm and welcoming, like a bowl of boar stew after a long day. Aunt Mama waved over her father from the counter, their seats the same as always, and Zeffa ran into back, smacking herself into Gail's back. The younger girl was in a plain dress, all drabby and brown so she wouldn't stain her good ones by helping out in the kitchen. They were ushered into a corner by an all too patient chef, and told on no uncertain terms to stay. Right. There.
Not that Zeffa had a reason to do anything but.
Over a small plate of cheese, Gail told her everything.
The two adventurers had come, alright. And just like every other tourist or bright-eyed traveler, they had talked a lot, even when nobody asked them to.
"Not too bright," Gail said, nibbling on a slice. "All they could talk about was "wind this" and "wind that" and "oh I guess we're super smart about all this wind stuff"."
Zeffa tilted her head some. "Did they?"
"No!" Gail giggled. "But it's all they would talk about! Said something about a Lord of Winds and elements."
Zeffa's eyes widened. A spark of something flitted from one finger to another. "What else?"
Gail's smile gained a mischievous edge, and she talked. About the quest the two were supposedly on, tracking down old legends and ones nobody cared to remember anymore. About how they had claimed to have been everywhere, from sites of leviathan bones to the great white scar to the west. About how their latest purpose had been focused on an ancient tribe of folk who had lived in the sky. About how they had finally found enough evidence to confidently say that maybe they existed in the first place. About how they had shown off their acquisitions old and new, regaling how they had come across each one, their words slurring with every drink of ale. The large swirly doodad, sketches of ruins, quotes from books about birds, people, and bird-like people flying through the air – no, not the Rito, yes, they were sure – and their proudest find: a tarnished ring.
"A ring?" Zeffa asked. "What did it look like?"
Gail shrugged. "Dunno. They said an old fortune teller had it, and wouldn't give it to them."
"Well where's the fortune teller?"
She shrugged again. "Dunno. But I can find out." A grin spread across the girl's face, and she scrambled for the leftover buttered biscuits lying on top of a barrel. She grabbed a plate and a couple of the biscuits, then ran back into the bar, and up the stairs, feet audibly pounding the whole way.
Zeffa sat back and waited. Gail was short for her age, often mistaken for being much younger than she really was. A cute little pout and scuffing her shoes, and every suspicion an adult had would fly out the window.
Not five minutes later, Gail pounded down the stairs again and sidled into the kitchen. Following after her like a shadow was Bree, the last of their trickster trio. Straight from the street, and smelling just as fresh, she made an effort to step quietly as she entered. All of that went out the window, however, as hazel eyes lit up and the other girl made a beeline for the platter of cheese, the faded pink ribbons in her hair waving behind her. Gail giggled and smiled, showing far more teeth than a wolfols, and sat down with her legs crossed.
"The one by the creepy old house," she said proudly. Zeffa smiled back, and between nibbling on biscuits and slightly hardened cheese, the two filled in their third and decided on how best to ambush an old lady and see an old ring.
Ideas were thrown about, but despite brainstorming for the better part of an hour, nothing seemed good enough. Fortune tellers were a tricky sort, trickier than them, and needed to be approached like a mouse would a cat.
Bree, settled on top of a barrel and kicking her feet, gave her two green rupees yet again. "We could always walk inside."
Gail and Zeffa looked up at her. Neither were impressed.
"She's an old crone. Worst she'd do is pinch our cheeks and tell us to go home."
At that, the two had to agree.
So it was, when the sun was up the next morning, the three met outside the tavern and traipsed off together. The creepy old house was known to every child in Castle Town as being a haunted place full of dead thieves and kids, where souls were trapped and mushed together for a cave witch's stew.
Thankfully, the fortune teller was on the other side of the road, the door hidden away in a side alley.
"You go first," Gail insisted to Zeffa. Behind them both, Bree kept looking over her shoulder down the dingy alley.
Rolling her eyes, Zeffa lifted her hand.
And the door opened.
She hadn't even touched it.
The three looked at each other, then, as though pulled by an invisible grip, Zeffa stiffly entered. Gail and Bree followed after. Candles flickered on shelves and tables within, the only light allowed in this place of heavy curtains and heavier smoke. The worn carpet seemed ancient with its sporadic holes revealing the aged wooden floor beneath. To either side hung curtains of blood and shelves of old and wicked-looking devices. A gnarled hand reaching towards the ceiling, a murky bottle hiding the shadow of something long and thin, and large, dusty books with intricate, curving letters on the front.
Behind the girls, the door creaked shut with a rattle of finality. They leaped into the air, choking back screams. The light from outside vanished, leaving the hall even tighter and drearier than before. Sharing a look, they pressed on, keeping their distance from the witchery to either side, following the molding carpet further and further in.
A pink light appeared, round and growing with each step. The curtains fell away, opening up into a room filled with candles. Not yellow, as they often saw, but blue, red, green, and violet. So much violet.
"So," came a creaking voice like splintering wood. "What brings you little ones here?"
Zeffa gasped. She hadn't seen the woman until she spoke. Hunched over the glowing orb, the old crone stared at her with eyes like milk. Her hands wove around her crystal ball, clenching and unclenching, fingers clawing at something unseen.
"We…we came here to ask…" Zeffa grunted as Bree elbowed her in the back. Respect thy elders, as Aunt Mama always said. And if there were any elders of elders, this was her. "I mean… We wish to know about the tarnished ring, wise one."
The old crone nodded. "I foresaw your presence," she croaked. "You seek knowledge, to know what the foolish ones pried for."
Zeffa could only nod in the face of such power.
The crone hummed, sounding akin to a growl than anything. "Do you wish for the item, then?"
Zeffa shook her head vehemently. "No! No, wise one. We wish only for knowledge. As you said."
The crone nodded in acceptance, or perhaps merely humoring her. "Smart," she said. "Smarter than most. And your friends?"
"The same." Zeffa shook her head quickly. "Only knowledge."
"Come then," the crone beckoned. "Come gather 'round, and peer into my crystal ball. Breathe deep of the scents of the ages and seasons past, and let the winds of time take you back."
The smoke grew heavier. The darkness grew deeper. Together, the girls peered into the crystal ball as the pink glow shifted colors.
"Let me tell you," said the crone, "of the mages who were once persecuted for their craft. Of a mage above mages whose very presence heightened their own power. Of a sorcerer who brought them hope and was struck down.
"Let me tell you of the Order of the Winds."
The girls breathed in, the air filling with smothering black smoke. The crone's voice came from everywhere at once, the smoke coiling around them.
It was an era of suspicion. A time of tumulus change. A time of suppression towards those who practiced all magicks.
Swirls of colors and shapes swam playfully through the air. Curling, splashing, bursting hues that were stark against the darkness.
In the next instant, they were all drowned out by a mass of purple so dark it was almost black and a flood of bright yellow.
Under the goddesses' eyes, two forces did clash. One steeped in miasma. One shining as judge, juror, and executioner.
The battle was long and arduous. In the end though, only one emerged triumphant.
The smoke seethed, and a jet of black sprayed the colors apart. A smattering of gold beneath venom purple was swallowed instantly.
The Beast rose. And the hero fell. Fearing for the kingdom, the wisemen gathered any and all who would fight, and went to war with the Beast.
Seven lights gathered around the growing swirls of purple-black. A veritable rainbow awash in a tide of emptiness.
During the fighting, any who could wield magic but refused to fight was seen as a traitor. Many had little use for magic or used it sparingly in their trade.
Little swirls of green came and went, most floating far and away from the circle.
Many went into hiding. Those who did not pretended not to have magic at all or died during the war. The ones who would not, or could not fight were called cowards, while those who fell were called heroes.
Colors swam into the sea of darkness again, only to be crushed and swallowed by the unending darkness. Steadily, the seven lights grew brighter.
In the end, the Beast was sealed away. Magic casters not in favor of the crown faced leery friends and neighbors. Some hid. Some returned, denouncing their own abilities for the opportunity to come home.
The dark purple smoke curled in on itself, tighter and tighter, surrounded by the seven lights. When it vanished, the lights fanned out, fading away as well. The swirls of green returned, but only a smattering of them, spread out and isolated.
The rest planted themselves off the trodden paths. They peddled services and wares to keep themselves afloat. Mostly harmless by the public eye, they went unbothered.
The mages would gather, handing down this tale as eras rose and fell. They believed one day that a savior would arise, allowing for those who lived in the shadows to work their magicks in the open once again.
The swirls of green grew, whirling together like a cyclone. From above, a wave of welcoming lilac fell upon them. Instead of overtaking the clusters of green smoke, it curled around them. Protecting them.
And appear he did.
Like a phoenix from the ashes, a living legend returned to Hyrule. No tomes remembered his name, but the wind…
The wind remembered everything. And it told them thus:
A mage of all mages, like none before him, had awoken. Thrice sealed, and thrice released, his presence rained a Force upon the land that would enable even the meekest to receive power. Infusing their Focus with the Force would enable them to increase their power exponentially.
The mages could emerge from the shadows once more as magic spread throughout the kingdom.
But then…
The mass of purple-black returned. With it, a yellow flood. Between them both was the dwarfed cyclone of lilac.
The Beast came. It had been a trap. The ancient mage, Lord of Winds, had the blame of the kingdom's misfortune laid at his feet.
And he was slain for it…
Zeffa blinked. The clashing smoke receded, the thick scent still lingering as the old crone – the fortune teller, the mage – stared into her crystal ball.
"And now," she rasped, "few carry on the old tales. Even fewer know the symbol of the Order." With a shaking hand, the woman reached into her overlapping robes. A moment later, she held up a rusted ring. "This. The artifact those young fools wanted so badly without knowing what they were asking for." A pale eye roved the room, before landing on Zeffa. "Do you know, young one?"
Zeffa took a step forward, squinting. Curling green looped and curved between a set of wings. At least, she thought it was green. It might have been blue for all she knew.
"Responsibility," Gail chimed in, her head over one of the girl's shoulders.
The old crone nodded. "Yes," she said. "That is a part of it, but not everything."
"Could you teach us?" Bree was looking from over Zeffa's over shoulder, pushing her towards the table.
The fortune teller croaked in laughter. She smiled crookedly. "A spry one, I see. Well then. Settle in, young ones. There is much to learn."