Pleasant Pigeon

Unbeknownst to you, In the land you're seeking, Things have taken a turn.

Houses are ablaze. The air is thick with ash and dismay. People are fleeing.

The robed figures hold torches, The dusk is orange and viscous, Moments deforming like wax, Blurring and dripping together, Impossible for their witnesses to parse.

Homes, temples, shops, inns, All carefully, quickly set alight.

At the peak of the mountain village, An ancient ruin lies. A squat, crumbling brick building, Topped with a metal Effigy, towering above the scene below.

What was once an ancient curiosity, Of light interest to the wandering children of the village, Becomes the burden of its destruction.

Folks from the town arm themselves, Some with worn weapons, Baptized in the blood of your townsfolk, Some with improvised projectiles, Bricks, rocks, chunks of metal.

Each defender, brought to their end. Swiftly, unremarkably. Flashes of sparks, Dark magicks, Ceremonial blades, Nobody lasts more than a couple minutes.

—-----------------

As you step into the tent, you’re bathed with vibrant red light. The air carries a strong, unnatural scent.

A tinted glass lantern is hung in the center of the tent, Above four large tubs of liquid on the floor. Various bottles, cups, and vessels are strewn about.

Before these lay a large antique tome, It’s worn, pale pages left open to a passage somewhere in the middle. The original text is surrounded by various notes, scribbled in countless different scripts. Evidently, this book is far older than you can comprehend, Having passed through dozens of generations, Eventually ending up here, in your presence.

You carefully begin reading, absorbing as much sacred knowledge as you can, Navigating carefully through centuries of addendums, Picking up where the Photographer left off.

—-------------------------

Huddled masses begin their uncertain journey. Wounded are carried on the shoulders of the young. Their clothes are eclectic. Evening gowns, robes, Some are barefoot.

With unease, torches are lit. The terrain is rough, Thorns tear at flesh. The quiet air is saturated with emotion. Pain for the ones they’ve lost, Shameful joy of surviving, Intense, unforgiving guilt, Gratitude for the universe. Hatred for inevitable fate.

—--------------------------

Upon the sheet of metal, An image appears. It fades in, slowly at first, Shards of black sunlight, Stabbing through pale mountains. Bright white trees, Impossibly small.

A sense of panic sets in. Have you left it in for too long? Or not long enough?

As individual blades of grass emerge, You solemnly remove the plate, And place it in the next bucket of chemicals.

—---------------------------

Children have begun to cry. Adults converse among themselves. Steadily, and predictably, Questions rise to the surface of discussion.

Where will they go now? Where can they call home? Who can they trust? Who should they fear?

—----------------------------

Silver washes away. The landscape inverts. All becomes right.

You set the photo out to dry. The task is finished, Yet you can’t tear your eyes away.

It’s a curious sort of beauty. A sight that you wouldn’t have thought twice of, Made unique in metals and chemistry, It brings you to tears.

—----------------------------- The desperate caravan slows. Legs aching, Their eyes drifting shut, Traumas refusing to be pushed from their minds.

Elders give an order. The journey will be paused for the night.

Weary young scouts are sent out, Searching for a suitable campsite.

—----------------------------

Your reverence is broken. The faint sound of footsteps, Softly squishing into the grass outside.

For the first time in your journey, You reach for your weapon.

The weight of the hatchet grounds you. This moment is real. Your surroundings become vibrant. Bright, flickering reds against deep, inky blacks.

The footsteps become louder. Whoever it is, whatever it is, It’s approaching the tent.

Adrenaline courses through you. Your breathing is fast and heavy.

You are not going to die in here. You are going to live. You are going to fulfill your task.

Silent steps take you to the tent’s door. Energy builds in your core. Muscles are at the peak of tension. Lungs fill with air.

With one swift motion, You throw the flap open. Axe raised, your expression crazed,

The culprit is bathed in the scarlet light. It’s a person, roughly your age. Their cloak bears the emblem of the Western People, Yet their face shows none of the expected hostility.

Instead, their eyes are wide with fear. They’ve dropped their lantern in the grass, its light extinguished. Their entire being is trembling.

You soften, suddenly and fully. The hatchet is set down, And countless apologies leave your mouth.

Tears stream down their face. Breathlessly, and wearily, they surrender to you.

You invite them into the tent. It’s obvious they’re in need of respite, And this is not your comfort to deny.

They accept, and take a seat with you. A bond is made in the following moments. They tell you of inexplicable horrors, You tell them of hopeful peace.

—-------------------

They leave after a time, And when they return, a dozen people follow. Old and young, Wounded, sick, and healthy, The last vestiges of the Western People.

You invite them to camp with you in the clearing. To join you in the tent, To share your provisions.

Your people’s sacred enemies become your new acquaintances.

—---------------------

In the morning, your quest’s true objective hits you. The realization pushes the air from your lungs. Your mind is flooded with doubts, and they’re immediately dispersed. You run from the tent, and find the Western elders.

The proposal takes some time, Ancient grudges begin melting.

Eventually, with the help of the younger folk, They graciously agree.

The Western People will return to your village with you. And, although some of your people may not approve, You will find peace. Not through bloodshed or domination, Nor through negotiations and boundaries, But through unification.

—--------------------

You pack your things. The photo, the card, the bauble. The ancient tome.

You study your map, And you look out at the horizon.

The sky is clear, and the air is brisk. And your purpose is clearer than it’s ever been.

70 clicks remain.

end.

<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>

Previous Part

In a small valley, not far from you, A terrible crime is committed. As swiftly as a hawk swooping to its prey, Robed figures descend upon a lone woman. A Photographer.

She doesn't notice their approach. She is hunched behind her camera,

A large wooden box, Black leather bellows, Copper knobs, bright glass lens.

Her focus is completely on her shot. She is shrouded, yet vulnerable.

Her view is filled with an inverted landscape. She squints her eyes, Extends the bellows, Adjusts a knob, Pans to the left, And, with a satisfied grunt, Inserts the plate.

She sheds her black shroud, Momentarily blinded by gray and blue light. As she squeezes the camera's trigger, A blade hits its target.

Before her eyes can focus, she's fallen to the ground. Their cloaks alien to the day's light, The photographer's assailants surround her. Standing in a circle, The puddle of blood slowly reaching their feet. The air is filled with unfamiliar chants.

She lashes out, Weakening arms grabbing and tearing at the hems of their robes. They pay her struggles no mind.

A hand, draped in midnight, Holds a brass chalice beneath the dripping athame, It's a display of ghoulish decadence.

She lies still as they leave.

-----------------------

Having regained your strength, You don your cloak, Collect your belongings, And head back for the wilderness.

Words of vague, potent prophecy swirl in your head. They carry confusion, and bitter, unknowing determination.

The Oracle stands in their doorway as you leave. You attempt to return the card to them, but they shake their head. “Your fate belongs to you now, Traveler.”

You place it in your pouch, with the imperfect bauble.

The fortune teller accepts your gratitude, and waves you off as you’re enveloped in the crisp morning air.

30 clicks remain. —--------------

As the sun passes its zenith, You find yourself approaching a secluded valley. A small clearing, where the boulders and brush have parted, The ground is coated in a rare, lush grass. It brushes against your ankles, And you would think to take a break and indulge in it, Had the scene before you not been so horrifying.

She’s still breathing. She clearly isn’t long for this world. Her face is shaded by her camera’s tripod. Her body lies near a small, oddly shaped tent. Her eyes are fixed on yours.

As naturally as you would blink or fill your lungs, You approach the dying Photographer.

She looks into you with a specific intensity, reserved only for the last people we see in our lives.

“Stranger. I need a final favor. Will you grant it?” You nod, unthinkingly.

“My final photo still lies in my camera. If it remains unseen, my spirit will not rest.”

Her breathing is much more labored, Each word comes with specks of blood. Her desperation is the most compelling force you have ever encountered.

You nod again. This is what you must do.

She guides you through removing the plate holder, Each phrase she utters is quieter than the last.

You need to kneel down to hear her now. You feel lukewarm blood soak into the fabric of your trousers.

The woman raises a shaky hand and points at her tent. “The book will teach you from here, stranger.” “I give you my thanks.”

With those final words, her eyes drift shut, and she passes on.

You stay here for a while. The air is full of silent reverence for this stranger.

You’re overcome with a slow, profound sadness. This Photographer didn’t know you. You were not familiar with her.

You never had a conversation, or shared a laugh. She had hopes and fears, which will never be known to you. You have your quest and your experiences, which you will never regale to her.

Your very being is imbued with an odd, wistful sorrow. There’s a sting to it, and it feels deeply, cuttingly important.

The sun starts falling behind the mountains. Crickets chirp their songs. You remove the shroud from the camera, and gently place it over the stranger’s body.

You bury her as your surroundings dissolve into the dark.

<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>

Previous Part

In a land of smooth, round boulders, Sits a small, squat hut. It’s a thing of requirement, not elegance. Lichen and wild grasses have sprouted from the spaces between its planks. If not for the glow of a fire inside, you’d assume it was abandoned.

The sky is dark, The ground is a thick, rolling mist. You don’t move your legs, yet you inch closer and closer to the door.

You’re powerless, as your fist knocks.

—-------------------

You wake to brisk, paralyzing cold.

Your tent has collapsed. The rain is coming in sheets. You’ve been thrust from a relatively comfortable existence, To a frigid, uncaring reality. The sky is still dark.

Your bedding is soaked, Some of your belongings seem to have washed into the creek. If you believed in a god, you’d feel betrayed.

You pack what you can find, and you seek shelter. You can barely see, and the ground is uneven. The rain seems to seep into every inch of the world, Trees offer no solace, caves and alcoves have flooded,

A dim, familiar light shines in the distance, It seems to blink in and out of existence, Obscured by rocks and obstacles. Yet, you head towards it.

The rain is thicker now, Everything is blurred. The light grows brighter.

Your universe grows dim, You fall unconscious.

—------------------------ The world fades in again, some time later. Your clothes are damp. The sun is up, and everything is unbearably, overwhelmingly bright.

You take stock of the moment. You appear to be laying on the ground, in front of a small house. The hut from last night.

Your mind is filled with a sharp pain. It holds two versions of last night; Which one actually happened?

You bring a palm to your forehead, It returns, coated in red warmth. As you fade once more, The door quietly opens.

—---------

The day is a vicious cycle, You awake, gaze at your surroundings, And sleep again.

Scenes flash before you, Your coat, hung to dry over a hearth, A fresh mug of tea, A soft chair, A figure, checking on you, A dusty altar.

—------------

When you finally regain consciousness, It appears to be another morning.

You find yourself in a warm, pleasant room. You’re covered in a thick patchwork quilt. A cold mug of tea sits on the table near you. Your head wound appears to be freshly bandaged.

A voice finds you from across the hut. “Kid, you’re awake!”

You follow the sound, and find a person standing in a doorway. They’re dressed in a mishmash, repaired robe, The same handiwork as the quilt you’re under. Their thick, curly black hair is stuffed into a wool cap. Their face has a worried kindness about it.

“Thank the gods, I don’t have to dig that grave after all.”

You ask what you’re doing here.

“Well, I was hoping you’d have the answer to that. Not every day I find a bloodied Traveler lying at my doorstep.”

You tell them about the night you had;

“Well, camping in a ravine will do that to you.” They look thoughtful for a moment. “As for the dream, these things are known to happen.”

Your brow furrows in confusion,

“Hermits’ huts tend to have a certain draw for Travelers. A bit like a boulder rolling down a hill, Or a twig winding up in a sparrow’s nest.”

They shrug. “It’s an inevitable sort of thing. Most folks ignore a dream like that, But sometimes you don’t have much of a choice.”

They feel the side of your forgotten mug of tea, and offer to refresh it. You sheepishly nod, and they take it back into their kitchen.

Reality seems fluid now. Your gaze wanders around the room, As if it’s caught in an unseen wind.

It’s caught on a dusty, arch-shaped shelf in the corner of the room. A large crystal hangs in the center, Over a tattered, stained cloth.

Something draws you to this altar. You shed the quilt and hobble across the room. You think to question your actions, But you’re transfixed.

A neat stack of square cards sits under the hanging crystal. It’s surrounded by smooth pebbles, Rusted nails, Worn seaglass, Bits of charred sage.

You feel drawn to them. You consider picking them up. You imagine their weight in your hands. You’d feel their rough texture, Maybe you’d shuffle through them. Maybe you’d set them back down.

Your concentration is broken, The deck’s owner stands in the doorway, That same smile, now veering into a grimace.

“Hm.”

You begin to stammer an apology, but they interrupt it.

“Do you know what an Oracle is?”

Confused, for what seems to be the tenth time in the hour, You shake your head.

“Doesn’t surprise me. Even amongst magicians, fortune telling is rare these days. Some folks don’t even consider it a Magick now.”

They’re staring into the middle distance, As if everything but their voice has been trapped, In a deep, unending trance.

“Take the top card.”

<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>

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