Memory Fragments: Corruption

Ashen Feathers

At first, there were only birds of a feather. Combined cultures, forming a rainbow peacock for a united emblem
Each colored feather represented one tribe, one nation, one heart shared by many
The many eyes that formed watched one another from any and every problem
No matter the talons, the wings or the beaks, it was a goal shared by plenty

Each race stood equal to the others. Down on the ground, it matters not the ability to fly
Long ago, before this story, each lived by their own and advanced at different paces
Each developed into a unique culture inside a seemingly frozen time above in the sky
They descended to form an alliance; a new way to live for those who. the wind, graces

Having a background high above and, in following the steps of old, the new faces met again
A reunion with each of the races' leader; a discussion thought to be long agreed upon
A war for the skies was proposed and, to no one's surprise, the lands were divided in twain
To the north, the frigid ravens and harpies; to the south, the hot-headed hawks and eagles were drawn

What was a temporary truce blossomed into a contemporary, black and white lifestyle
The black ravens and the white harpies worked together to keep the fires of passion high
Meanwhile, the hawks and eagles contributed to each by developing one another's style
Steampunk and renaissance, cyberpunk and industrial; each vision ready to fly

Ravens, masters of steampunk craft. Harpies, renaissance's greatest architects and musicians
Hawks, gurus of industrial labor. Eagles, cyberpunk technology's founders
Each had their thing. Each was accustomed to their blessed positions
Sadly, a clash of cultures ensued soon after. All thanks to misguided bounders

It took but a handful of deserters to sway the tides of war into a tumbling fire
The torch that once burned bright was now passed around like a game of hot potato
Border problems, diplomatic disagreements; all just to ignite a mad peacock's ire
Not everyone wanted to be on the ground. Not everyone wanted to color the emblem's crow

A once revered, majestic and diverse peacock was being turned into an ashen crow
Burned into each's new emblems, a leader immortalized into the nations' rivalries
Skirmishes in the snow, intel you wish to know; a contemporary warzone progressed slow
Guerrillas amidst the desert heat, tech autonomous; a revolutionary trench kept written in dying diaries

The entirety of the avian zones was drenched in poultry's blood
Everyone wanted each other's secrets, techs, and lives for their own benefit
Underhanded tricks and negotiations; enough to make the rivers flood
Flood with deception, debauchery, slavery, stagnation, and one to many throats slit

The ashen crow burned menacingly above the heads of everyone not involved
Civilians trying to make ends meet. Selling and buying what anyone could steal from and for
Soon after, the two isolated conflicts evolved
One battlefield to prove which feather was superior to those who stayed on the cutting floor

We first turn our attention to the black ravens; marauders of the steamy night
The old-fashioned brotherhood of scientist was founded by "birdbrains"
With their steam engines, they seemed like shadows of twilight
Blackmail, kidnapping and horror; all to have the moon in chains

All they ever wanted was to prosper beyond their stigma
But, like a coin, they had two sides of the same race
Minds sharper than their claws by day. At night, eyes clouded by enigma
To the harpies they didn't want to lose; total darkness was to reign the airspace

Alber, the leader of the ravens, was to unite the skies with his mind
For the godly hands that fed them in time's yore needed compensation
Scientist he might be, but a believer he was first. No faith was to be left behind
Forvikkja, their nation. A raven's curiosity is deadlier than a crow's hunger for ration

Under the cloak of curiosity, many an experiment were conducted
To turn fellow black feathers into darker, sharper, deadlier monsters
Mechanical wings that, with steam, soared the air currents unobstructed
But all those vapors corrupted their mind; Odin's ravens, salvagers of knowledge, it fosters

Then, their former allies, the white harpies; deliverers of art's reincarnation
Imagine a land where it never stops raining. White, shinning creatures of thunderstorms
The academy of royal arts was founded by them. A magnificent vault for time's personification
A style so poised, so dignified; it seemed poetic to drown it all under the new norms

A tundra climate followed by never-ending rains, a nightmare, for sure
Vetra von Sorine assumed the title of "Bronte" when she became the new leader
She was in charge of bringing Hagajartall, the heart's hail, out of the obscure
A maelstrom of chilly talons swoops in to take the mantle of the avians' ringleader

Following Vetra's adjustments to their laws and lifestyles, Hagajartall became one thing
A land of perfectionism under the pretense of art's holy guidance and tutelage
Second to none on crafts and talents beyond, the harpies broke their heart's string
With a broken instrument, the mind and soul freeze in a corrupted state of putrilage

Nevertheless, Vetra instills hope, guidance and morale in her fellow white feathers
To win against all other avian races, they have to demonstrate contemporary's superiority
The sky never changes, so they'll reach it like always. A necrotic brain, from a chilly heart, it tethers
The unquenchable embers of the crow will melt a nation stuck in time; a complex of inferiority

We flip our gazes towards the workers of sunlight, the rough and tough hawks
Solskmegin, their territory, is a land filled with natural, yet industrial scenery
Time moves ever forward in there. Revolutions happen faster than time's clocks
As long as the fuel stays up, Electra Solveig, the tomboy chieftain, will not stop the machinery

Building their way up to the skies, the hawks work day in, but sleep the night out
Blind they are, you see. When moonlight hits, the machines kick-in "autonomous" mode
The perfect timeframe for others to creep in and do their bidding during this natural blackout
Slaves, the hawks, put to work at night. Gathered from other regions, they crumble beneath the workload

To prove fluid workflow, strategic planning, and efficient use of resources, Electra talks
"There'll be no feather strong enough to sustain the skies than that of a hardened hawk"
She says that to her fellow hawks. A message to inspire bravery and raise the stocks
"We'll rise. We'll fly again and, from above, we'll watch them forever walk"

There's only one problem for this avian race. The costs start to rise with war
Electra knows this, so she enlists the help of other slaves. Human and eagle slaves
Not only to work, but to sabotage the other races; a fair workforce that she calls for
Through the crow's corrupting fires, she, her people, braves

Finally, their long standing, prideful comrades in development, the cybernetic eagles
Skojadarr is a region close by the oceans. Oceans of waters sullied by the eagles' actions
Living in a world beyond imagination, their cybernetic technologies allow for act illegals
The sky is filled with pollution. The other races stain it with their interactions

Nothing is purer than an eagle's honor and sense of justice. Even if it means tilting the balance
With a market flooded with sea products and technology's advances, the eagles have it smooth
They sell, buy, and trade. But their pride and honor limit them with their costumer's unbalance
Nothing but fellow eagles. This race wants more than to feed itself the feeling of envy's soothe

Jordan Shahbaz is the philanderer appointed leader of the emerging eagle economy
His goal is to reach the skies by buying, trading, and selling the "stepping stones" to others
In exchange for his services, he wants nothing more than to indulge in his heteronomy
To rule the other avians. To sell the solution to the problems and a false sense of druthers

Completely surrounded by the crow's embers, Jordan's cybernetics fuse together
A mesh of ambition of power, debauchery by trafficking species, and a lust for technology
He was the one that opened the gate for politics to infect, and perfect the mechanical feather
He was the one that started the corruption of the avians' ethnology

One by one, they all hoped to achieve what they once already had; the skies
Stepping on one another, they clawed their eyes out and blinded all manner of reason
Only one small group of survived; a hundred or so followers of the ashen crow shall arise
Under the embers of a fallen emblem, their ashen feathers call for treason