The wind is like a shark; if it ever stops it becomes, well, dead air. Both are boneless, and deadly, and misunderstood. And neither has changed for a long time.
Mariah was summoned and bound to her name, given a quarry she never found. Her summoner’s been dead a thousand years, but she hasn’t stopped. The wind doesn’t know when to quit.
What people don’t understand is that those “Gusty Winds May Exist” signs in the New Mexico desert aren’t warnings or even quantum-mechanics jokes: they’re permission. Here, they say to Mariah, old and aching. Here, just rest, just be.