The city, for once, is quiet. Though the streets course with its inhabitants, both human and inhuman, it doesn't pulse with its usual buzz of a thousand indifferent conversations, in what an outsider would call respect, but what any inhabitant would know as dread. The whisper of the winds snakes through the populace, spreading whatever intangible message it carries. Overhead, the clouds are gathering, slowly and softly. A storm is coming, and in the ensuing cataclysm there will be no knowing what will happen. The world rests on the anvil of the gods, and soon the hammer of Fate will strike. But before the world can be reshaped, we must first give it any shape.
Who are you? An academic at the College of Mages, sitting on the precipice of the city? A sellsword, wandering the streets for work? A nomad, caught up in happenstance and fortune as you so often are? One of the Meteorologists for which the city is famous, who is silent not to dread the storm, but study it? Something else, more obscure or pedestrian?
What are you? Human, constant and hardy? Elemental, tied strongly to the world? Fragmented, shifting and writhing, whose past is unknown to all but the dead? Or something else, more unique, born from the storm only once?
And of course, the one constant, the one shred of identity that you will always cling to: What is your name?
Or perhaps, before answering these questions, you have questions of your own?