A wind blows over the steppes and through the valleys of the Wandering Realm. Wild thyme and the smoke from a hundred campfires is carried on it. Listen for the old songs sung with too much wine and a quiet sadness beneath.
You have returned to your clan’s tabor after riding the trade caravan to Vellarsheim. Kariv is the name of your people, and you are nomads of the Rothenian plain. The hoof and the wheel are your destiny. None know the land as you do, for you’ve seen it all in your wandering, from the sod huts of the winterfolk in sternest Domovogrod to the limits of Kaa’nesh and its brutish inhabitants. Your pony, sash, and blade have accompanied you at each step, as has your love for laughter, for drink, and for games of chance.
But revelry can’t lighten your strange burden or lessen the pull in your heart to take a step when you’ve stood still too long. Some call your people cursed, and perhaps they are, for they have no homes but the saddle and the caravan. If you tarry too long in one place, you grow barren and joyless. The colorful silks you wear turn gray and dull, your thoughts turn cloudy, and wolves lurk beyond the low light of your campfire. Don’t fall to this curse, nomad; walk, run, or ride from it as fast as you can.
Kariv humans of the Rothenian Plain are spirited and fierce.