Word from the Bird

The Phases of Oboru - II

Disclaimer: The following story contains descriptions that may feel emotionally intense to some. Please read at your own discretion. 

The following occurs thousands of years ago, shortly after the destruction of Xolm...

The little girl does not hear the sudden silence in the chicken coop as she carefully reaches into one of the scratchy, straw-filled nest boxes. She carefully picks up the shimmering purple egg that had caught her eye in her small, dirt-stained hands and holds it up against the dim rays of morning light from the doorway.

It is mesmerizing, the way it glitters like amethyst yet is as light as the feathers it was nestled within. It is pristine and faceted, almost like a jewel. She wrinkles her nose and smiles. She's never seen an egg quite like this one.

Maybe the chickens will lay eggs like this one from now on? Or, perhaps, the gods themselves have gifted this gem to her for her unwavering belief during the weeks-long crisis that shook the region to its very core.

The phenomenon that cast the sky into a burning shade of purple for weeks on end finally ceased and made way to weak sunlight this morning. No one knows how the sky became so bruised, but the elders believe it was the result of a battle between the gods themselves.

The girl had heard her parents talking about a traveling priestess fleeing the north who believed its epicenter was the mythical, high elven city of Xolm itself. But what could anger the gods to smite them so? Misuse of their magic, or a lack of worship? No one knows, or at least no one here on the rural outskirts of the more populous municipalities is privy to the information.

Regardless, she and the other villagers of Marrenstead had gathered to pray as the avian-like shrieks and cries echoing from beyond the mountains and rivers themselves raged on like breaking thunder, until – finally – their prayers were answered.

The boiling heat flashes that melted their candles and evaporated their streams ended with one last, rattling scream that deafened their ears. It had felt as if it would shake their already dilapidated village to the ground.

Not only did their homes suffer, but so too their way of life. The chickens have laid fewer eggs and the crops have since wilted with the absence of sunlight for weeks on end, only now beginning to filter through the sheen of purple cast across the sky. The cold months will be excruciating for the region and their lack of resources will be yet another threat to contend with. It is a hard fact to swallow.

But the girl's family – a household of laborers for the Marren estate – could trade this gem-like egg for some of the supplies they will so desperately need in the coming months. What the house doesn't know won't hurt them in the least...

As she turns to leave the chicken coop, she freezes at a strange sight: The hens – at least ten in total – are gathered next to one another in a perfect line behind her.

They are completely still as they stare up at her, eyes beady with beaks slightly parted. Their necks are stretched toward her, much like the way chickens tend to do when awaiting the butcher's cleaver against a block of wood. If she didn't know any better, she would almost think they were bowing.

The hair on the back of the girl's own neck begins to rise as she warily looks from one hen to the next. There is no scratching, pecking or the ruffling of feathers. Only their unwavering, trance-like gaze that seems to follow the purple egg as she folds it within the threadbare cloth of her apron.

Keeping a firm hold of it within its pouch, she begins to quietly step backward from the nest and toward the coop's doorway, hearing every creak in the wood beneath her. The hens follow her movements with a pressing silence, unblinking and unflinching, their necks contorting in an almost impossible way so they do not lose sight of her as she retreats from their line.

This place, that has always been a haven of mundane comfort and normalcy, now feels stifling and ominous, as if she has walked into a den of wolves. The hens' stares become sinister, almost, as if there is an unearthly force here influencing them beyond her understanding. The blackness of their eyes reminds her of peering into the depths of a bottomless well.

Unnerved by the strange behavior of the birds and her instinct to flee, she makes the decision to turn and bolt through the doorway of the ramshackle coop. She slams its door shut behind her and fumbles with the lock. Even as the mechanism clicks her mind reels at the strange unknowns on the other side of the thin wood.

She stumbles down the stairs, hikes up her pauper's dress and runs as fast her legs can go, expecting there to be the thudding footfalls of demons close at her heel. She doesn't dare look back out of fear that there will be something staring back at her from the door or between the wires of the coop's fencing to spirit her soul away. Not looking makes it seem further away and keeps her imagination at bay.

But, little does the girl know, she unwittingly holds the destruction of the north within the folds of her clothes...and it has since begun to turn from purple to a brilliant shade of amber.