We speak of the “breath of life”. “In the beginning was the Word.” Air is around us, within us, almost unnoticeable except for when we lack it. Air is a carrier for our plans, air goes where it will. Sometimes it hangs around to help us.
Airy thought, detached from the body. How can it affect the world? How can it be made manifest? We live in a world transformed by it now; how much of the casual magic of daily life flits through the air around you? Gears grind and djinn are born from an egg of our own crafting; the void is cracked as well.
Swords must be honed and so must your mind. Keep it sharp, keep it flexible, keep it strong, because someday you might have to jam it right back into the workings that spawned it. For justice, one hopes. Swords are made for battle, and they must be strong to carry you through your troubles without breaking.
Our butch Spirit of Air wears a gear around each wrist, and tattooed on her belly: marks of her service, the iron-forged chains that can hold her down. She has been invoked; how will you use her? The servant of the mind awaits.
The plans of air guide the hand that changes the material world. Cleave it.