To Frisk the Feathers of Oath

Feathers Do Not Fight the Wind for Flight

There is a place where extraordinary actions took hold. Thus, earning its locus amongst the rest. A daring cliff holding grand posture that to a mortal soul with eyes of greed, overlooking fear, the man would build their home to their god. However, this particular being wasn’t the first having capabilities to see their wisdom etched into stone. Feathers do not fight the wind for flight.

To most it was simply beautiful poetry. Meditating it’s pure meaning to find some deep soul seizing realization. Oddly enough that realization would not fall upon the steps of respect. For on this cliff once stood an abundance of lively trees. Their circular pattern represented a beautiful cycle of alignment. Loved by many for its majestic aura washing into the deep breaths of those who walked amongst it. Could it have been something truly lofting into the air? Or was it truly a forest so magical, its oxygen contained the exact endorphins that mortals devastatingly yearn for?

The Blessed Curse

With every blessing, will soon come the curse. As for the forest, the air grew sour. Tree after tree taking its long fall. Crashing down onto the grounds it once ruled over. The Wise tree, the tree that towers over all others, takes each blow within itself. This tree unlike the others, had phenomenal qualities of empathy. Metaphorically speaking, the Wise tree bled for its fallen companions. But, if looked at closely, scars would reveal themselves onto the bark of the Wise. As if an invisible demon was silently torturing the Wise. Those who inhabited the land, soon took it as a sign of sacrifice from their God, and a chance at the ever-wanted afterlife. In resemblance to the Roman giants and their sacrificial actions, the inhibitors took it as a blessing. Their designated plan to live where the Wise tree stands and create their own fulfilling structure with more glory and gold then anyone in the abandoned famine lands could imagine.

When looking around this land now, all that is seen if the still standing Wise tree. Although, still standing, an abysmal crack lays exposed through half its trunk. Failing to be torn down the Wise stands solitary amongst graves that had never been dug. Looking now would never bring that majestical feeling the forest once owned in abundance. The balance of peace, life, and tranquility lingers no more.

The Traveler

And now a lonesome traveler was making his voyage to the land learned from stories gifted by their wise. The tribes were connected in a way so they could never wage a war between them. To devastate one would devastate all. And due to the family previously fighting for controlled power, their bloodline went almost extinct.

Five brothers and five sisters battling it out turned into quite a bloodbath. The brutality peaked when they rose to power and then rose even higher to over power. It was story told time and time again. A story so grand it was an initiation into adulthood. How the wise of that time invoked blood magic behind the tribe leaders backs. This magic connected the brothers in a way that if one fell, the next would fall to its demise as well. Life sources attached and stemming like vines working to punish the envy of power. The elders all passed with grand sacrifice, only leaving behind a single text of the events that transpired. The last remaining evidence, unlike the twisted words of told fables. The resting place of the book is unknown for no one knows if it was sold, stolen, or even secretly hidden beneath them. This specific book could never be replicated for it pages are born from the engraved flesh of the elders. The final act they would make as an effort to stop the war. An abundance of ten flesh sliced pages.

A Myth a Legend a Warning Never Screamed.

And so, it was for the centuries to follow that the land was fulfilled with peace and had become stronger by becoming one. They left behind the memories of the separation along with their bloodlines. Death crept in the shadows of each, lurking and dragging them down. Each soul collecting in a sack worn over the shoulder of the soul catcher. Taken souls forever trapped and never to run. The vessels left behind became cold, brooding, and with piercing eyes, no longer belonging to themselves. No thoughts, or divine personality. Nothing to lose, and nothing to give. It is thought to be the crippling effect of ancient magic, and he the traveler was looking into its truth.

He had left for his journey the Wise tree, but miles out he had set up an encampment. Not for himself to return to, but for the ones that remained. They were not blood but adopted into it. And as they saw cities of loved one's fall, they began to move to separate themselves from a staining tragedy. So, they came about a hundred in all. Abandoning the now cold silent ones. The silent ones weren't aggressive against the unaffected, more like they didn’t notice them. They just no longer seen the relm in front of the them, but beyond, living in a never-ending day dream. So, from fear, the remaining ran from the loss and abandonment. It was lucky for them that the strange traveler was the grandson adopted by the preceding wise one. So, his knowledge in survival was crucial to their own survival. He set his people up and continued alone on foot to find a place he’d only seen in stories.

The wind blew roughly trying to disperse anything or anyone off the edge. If the stranger didn’t dig his accompanying staff into the ground he too would have been forced to crumble with humility. He looked upon the lifeless trees as his blood drew colder with no help from the skull biting winds.

It could all still be a coincidence he thought trying to remain calm. He proceeded at a snail's pace the sky growing darker with each minute. The Skies mood brooding to become a lightning god. The crash of thunder bolted and sparked memories of the past tribal battles. The seams of reality were woven by blood, and blood will always stain the memory. It was agony trying to piece together all the fractured pieces, to create the closure all desired.

Memories Can Trap the Freed

All of us were now trapped by our so-called freedom. None the less all we could do now is endure what was created. Centuries of promise, but promises are meant to break. If our people didn’t; another now had. He wanted to feel calamity, he desired the desire to burn these people's homes down; melt the wrath of their god and have his wrath devour all. But he had become morally and physically exhausted. All the survivors had started to weaken and wither away.

Back when the blood sacrifice occurred, the people became more they slowly all became normal. With the blood sacrifice came doubled youth, bountiful health had beyond, and communion with the spirit realm was open to all.

But now, hair turned gray, teeth peeled from their beds, shattering bones enduring the escape from their looming fate. The spirits no longer spoke to them. Only the last wise could, but they were all gone now. The new one never manifested the divine power. A lot like butterflies the wise falls into a deep ritual sleep for a month. But with his grandmothers’ days counting down it was said the end times was among them.

The last wise with, no ascension to new power it, was an omen. Skepticism lingered among the people and as the years passed the tradition weakened now. We floated between knowledge and trying to acknowledge it. But with the change of health skepticism was in paralysis for fear made their essence glow and attract the foulest energies to emerge. He pledged he wouldn’t let his people die. He couldn’t let them. Not like this. For no reason out of nowhere. To die without risking it all was a shame to his people. So, he would not let them crumble and treat themselves so inhumanly. The self, inflicts astonishing pain with mirror like resemblance to the roots of the tree called the subconscious. You cannot hide from tragedy when it rides you like a mule.

Darkness was falling among them and he graced it; for he could be hidden to keep this sacred moment safe from intrusion of ignorance and obsession upon it. His breath became staggered as he grew closer to The Wise. Everything had become still. The storm held its composure. The wind wished to whisper so soft not even a dandelion would lose a seed.

Nothing dared interrupt the barks presence as it needed to be respected. The stranger, inching close, reached out his splintered hand and touched The Wise. After seconds of stillness the world erupted in war as sound shattered the glimpse of peace.

Pain shot through him and his eyes rolled back. He began gasping and chocking on the blood running from his eyes into his mouth. His hand had become glued to the tree, becoming isolated from what surrounds him. The wrathful wind began to carry voices and aged stories. Hundreds of souls filled with such distress.

Worolis

The stranger crumbled and fell at the base of the tree. The wind shifted from the physical realm into the spiritual as the stranger's body was consumed by roots, small pieces of him left exposed. He would come to understand what had presided beyond their acknowledgement. He would see visions of war and fire, see the fear and greed in their eyes as they fought for power. The sadness as the wises lost their children to these power-hungry massacres. He saw their pledge, an equally agreed sacrifice for if one had doubt it would not be accepted. This deal made with the Guardian of silent nights Worolis. He was a pet of the greater gods and was left free to roam Earth as reward for being a loyal companion. Soon it found loyalty with a young forest empire spitting fire with tribes.

In agreeance they would wonder with Worolis in the afterlife so it didn’t get lonely. In return Worolis would offer its spirit in drops. Their combined blood gave it such stealth, such threads of blood like gold to never be broken. Just melted and reformed. Their blood and spirits would connect. Therefore, if one draws blood, in return blood in drawn from the inflictor themself. The bond brought harmony to them with magic from the cosmos above. With trees planted at the grave of every wise one once their bodies were found. The graves were aligned with the stars and seasons. Here the spirits could come rest among their people and commune wisdom. All was honored by pure selflessness and broken by selfishness. He would wake up to wonder why they would ever leave this place and move so far as to forget.

I felt kicking and I coughed angrily stirring and stumbling trying to swing the burning memoires of war inside my mind. Stumbling once more, I fell upon a grunting annoyance. I took my rage out endlessly until the barring hangs around my throat grew limp. I stood and tried to wipe the dried blood that coated my eyes. The ringing of foreign screams too discombobulated to reiterate even for me. Then, to my awkward delight, water was splashed onto my face allowing me to regain my friendly sense once more. Even after regaining my sense, I still felt groggy and sorely irritable. Like a sour memory that’s hard to chew let alone swallow. Just a single moment trapped in a mindset that is ruthless to say the least.

When You Take Something, something is then Taken from You

Looking around this relm, there are well groomed and brightly dressed people. They probably feared me, just like I feared everything at this point. All those myths and legends were just abandoned highlights of our true reality. They carried with them axes and saws. Shovels to dig up the leftover stumps. A feeling suddenly washes over me where I don’t feel like myself at all. A growing anger of new found knowledge. The plan to maim us like they did. Erase everything the blood oath had birthed. Rage...Rage...Endless rage.

He began to fumble going in and out of a red fog. The whirling sounds in his ears finally lose the energy to hang on and he unconsciously fell upon the fresh pile of bodies. Bodies now piled next to the worn dented tools. The message making its desired statement. When you take something, something is then taken from you.

The following morning the stranger awoke to a feeling of powerlessness as he crumbled to his knees among the fallen. He understood they did not understand but he did not care. It seemed possessive of this land. The cost of that knowledge left a fresh scar across his chest. As if it was almost burned into his flesh. If he gently touched it, he found foggy images of what had perspired centuries ago. He shook his head and held it in his hands. He cried out a raspy scream for dehydration had claimed the majority of his voice. He shuffled among the bodies first looking for survivors finding none. He found water and some bread with an intact piece of garlic. He rubbed it anxiously against the crust. The added flavor was much welcomed.

After the well needed refuel, he goes and grabs a shovel. Walking down from the cliff at the edge where the it tipped off above, he began to dig a mass grave. Soon it began to look like the mouth of an empty river. It was well past mid-day and the air began to cool giving comfort as if rewarding him for his honorable act. He climbed the cliff at the brush of dark and built a fire for now it was overly chilling as if every good dead would be forgotten. He fed the fire with the abundance of dead wood all around. His night not finished he began to drag the bodies to the ledge lift them up and throw them feeding the starved grave. Eventually after the last body, he passed out beside the fire too tired to find water, and too tired for even fire could not keep the darkness from swallowing the stranger whole.

Awakening once more, strange things seemed to have occurred. The grave was gone, but he had never even finished it. The dirt seemed to have relocated itself, and any markings that the ground was brutalized was nonexistent. Anger flooded once more through his veins as he marched towards the tree putting all his weight into gripping the bark with his hands.

The blood once again began to drip from his eyes as he crumbled like eroded dirt from the base of the blood-soaked tree. This time he saw different visions. He saw through eyes of happiness. The people were happy up here looking among the world greeting the sun and moon. He saw as the generations passed their fear in the guardian also rose. The feathers if plucked from the creature in its blood could rewrite the future. And so, in this they struck out to slay their kindly pet to obtain its power. For they could reverse this and fight to rule all and not be equals but superior to one. But when failed to pluck a feather, they had to change tactics. They needed to trap Worolis forever.

Thus, killing the last wise and his grandmother they attempted to trap Worolis using her blood magic. He never knew that she was murdered. He was young and he was told things that now screamed through existence vibrating with the darkest energy that burns like white fires. He had been living amongst murderers and liars. He wanted out and he wanted no more. He didn’t even want to return. He screamed for audience with the night dweller. He saw it in glimpses; grand antlers covered in hanging moss. Four sharps edged talons, almost mammal like, but its wings and eyes held it true identity. Blood had trapped it in solitary and now needs to be set free. The guardian Worolis, with his mass feathery head, swiped out his tongue in affection as if it was a tamed beast. Sadness broke the affectionate moment as it asked for a great sacrifice, never needing to open his beak. I could hear him in my mind. A low misty voice that echoed of age-old tongues.

The traveler ran at Worolis as if to fight, but in all trueness, self-sacrifice letting the sharp talons penetrate his flesh. In agony and pain, Worolis lifted his massive head forcing the talons to dive deeper. He launched into the air with such force as the traveler felt his last breath give way to peace. The great Guardian Worolis was a mighty powerful owl. His feathers so purely white, with the golden ring circling his wise face. He seemed to be a simple barn owl, but how magical he became with his strength, and mystical antlers, truly making him the guardian he had become. Worolis soared towards the sky only to tear into the heavens themselves. To bleed as the great tree split and they each shook. The cliff separated and fell upon where a grave was definitely dug regardless of the looks. There it crumbed earth and all creating a dent. The earth took the seeds and nurtured it for all seeds now were orphans, but we all belong to the earth.

Aftermath

What transpired after is only talked of in a circle around a fire burning hay figurines of the antlered owl. He who roamed the heavens now again after wiping out all life within two hundred miles of the cliff that once was. It's said that their lost leader now wondered in their dreams, forcing memories of all that had happened. What had happened to the new comers for they had come back in mass amount when so many vanished and no bodies ever were found. They believed it to be the devil's tree, but when they came to close it seemed the earth broke beneath them and the ground below swallowed them whole. But nightmares plagued the people and they lost their sleep. The only cure was to set fire to hay figurines replicating the great Worolis. In return the people would gain their restful night's sleep. As for the traveler, he roamed the spirit realm with his great grandmother and from here they would raise and inspire new wises. He had saved his people, but now, the people would have to save themselves.