Long before the first mark was painted, there were only the winds, four of them, each carrying a different truth across the plains. Where they settled, they shaped the rams who lived there.
Earth Tribe — eldest and most numerous, marked in teracotta, sage, and clay. Keepers of memory, wrapped in woven scarves and carved bone.
Sky Tribe — fewer in number, painted in indigo, gold, and cloud-white. They read omens in the shifting light, horns strung with charms.
Spirit Tribe — rare, and rarer still to meet one awake. Neon pink, electric purple, acid green — they walk between what is real and what is felt.
Void Tribe — the smallest bloodline, black and chrome, born where the winds never reached. To see one is to see the space between worlds.
And then there is the one who belongs to no tribe at all, the Cosmic Ram, said to have fallen rather than been born, wrapped in a swirl of galaxies with runes glowing beneath transparent skin.
1000 rams. Four tribes. One exception to every rule.
