My concern for him allowed me to ignore any concerns over my own trip. I was not going to have to use subterfuge to make my journey. I just had to fully become The Wind of Arbor.I had thought the first step in my quest to find the southern clans would have taken me to the Zadrain steppes, perhaps to my Temple of the Winds. Instead, it took me to SharHom. I saw my first Shar. Rough, craggy skin and deep, deep red eyes with thick-clawed hands as big as roasting pans and claws like clubs, thick, knotted and roughly pointed. Short, thick legs below a surprisingly tapered waist and a back like a ridge of rocking rising out of the plains.There was little I could find in the fabric of what I was to connect me to the Shar. So much of them was connected only to the inner Arbor, the deep rock and cavernous depths. Just the bits like the upthrust peaks of the Spine of the World that felt the wind sing though their stony passes. Just that tiny little bit of the Shar knew me and I them. But that. Indeed, we might be the typical 50 something couple, which we are, except for our sexual tastes. But let me begin at the beginning.Cindy and I met at a college frat party in Florida in 1969. She was 20-year old sorority girl and I was just 21. She was standing amid a group of jocks, and was nearly dwarfed by their size. Two were football linemen and two were black basketball stars. They all seemed to be having a good time.The first thing I noticed about Cindy was her shoes. Black stiletto pumps with four-inch heels. Even with this added elevation, Cindy was petite. Without them she couldn't have been five feet tall, including the silvery blonde ponytail she tossed about. The next thing I noticed was the way she smiled at the boys. She was flirtatious in a sweet, unprovocative way. She exuded confidence, without any of the awkwardness that many young people felt then. I noticed her dress: short and clingy, with a low-cut front exposing pert, firm breasts a bit larger than one would.
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