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09-18-2013, 07:33 PM
Eleven birds of varying sizes and colors were perched in a lonely tree. There was something particular about these birds: perhaps it was the way they seemed to speak in those lilting voices of theirs in another language entirely, or the fact that birds of prey mingled freely with tiny songbirds; no, it was none of those. It was definitely in the way they were arranged around a single rock dove. The bird was visibly aged, white feathers sprinkled among grey, but there was an alert gleam in her eyes, and the rest of the birds surrounded her, listening intently to her quiet coos and trills.
You cannot recognize this language.
The pigeon carries on for a while, the moonlight glistening upon her iridescent breast. Her voice was quiet, but commanding; wizened, but not unkind. Occasionally, the birds nod and whistle in response, but for the most part they are silent, the pale light glistening in their shiny eyes.
The meeting concludes - that is obvious.
Upon the pigeon's signal, her posse disperses in every direction, soaring high and low, near and far.
They seek you.
They will come to you, follower of knowledge - they will claw at your hair and sing for you until your hooves have no other choice than to follow their beckoning. They will lead you up a narrow trail which leads to the Heavenly Field, now particularly spectacular beneath the shimmering stars and the pregnant moon. You will be led to the selfsame tree which leans over the very edge of earth and heaven, and there is the pigeon watching you intently.
There is a meeting under this divine dome - that much is obvious; but for what?
[A bird will lead you to this meeting!]
