 Summer's song slowly ends, her green meadows sighing-- All turn now to tall stalks of gold Fall's little heart beats, her eyes bright, she's flying-- The wind bites while fiercely she scolds Each leaf as it falls, each blade of grass drying In the knowledge of oncoming cold.
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 The evening was unseasonably cool. Above the stars shone brightly, as though the earlier storms had been illusions. The lingering damp was no illusion, however.
Loo fluffed his feathers over his daughters gently. Ruta, his mate, would be taking over unusually late tonight--her duties as a healer often kept her, what with the tail end of this season's Wars. Loo didn't mind. After a wild youth in the Wars himself, he was content to spend this evening waiting for her, nestled into the loose ring of sticks that served as their nursery. It was unseasonably cool, he thought again, and unusually bright. Loo tilted his head back and marveled at the full moon idly, his mind wandering back in time. That night, when he and Ruta met--the night the Owl came. So long ago... "Da?" Loo blinked and glanced down. Two pairs of eyes, wide-awake and glittering, peered back at him. "Meela, Meera--you young hens should be asleep! The sun is long set, and your mother will not be happy to find you still awa-" "Da, would you tell us a story?" "A story!! The story of the Owl!!" Loo sighed and wondered, not for the first time, if his children were somehow mind-readers. "You two know that story well enough that you can tell it back to me..." His protest petered out as he realized two things. One, his stubborn girls weren't sleeping anytime soon. Two, he would tell them this story more times than there were stars in the sky, if it made them happy. He sighed again. "Very well...but then you must sleep!" The twins peeped softly in triumph, leaned into their father's breast feathers, and listened. "On a bright evening like this one--but colder--many cycles ago, I lost a bet to your Uncle Urruru--you remember, the nightjar..."  The young wren sighed with relief as she realized she'd reached the final step of the soothbrew recipe. This particular soothbrew was exceptionally dangerous to get wrong, as generations of overzealous soothbrewers before her had discovered. Those who had survived their mistakes with only singed feathers were lucky.
The less lucky ones... Kettle's feathers prickled, and she shook her head. She needed to focus, unless she wanted to be one of them. She turned to reach for her nearly finished potion–-and froze. It was gone. Seventeen types of painstakingly-gathered materials, two months of pay for the reinforced Soothbonded glass bottle, and it was gone, consumed. In its place, cleaning its tiny mandibles, was now the most explosive ladybug in all the forest.  It was not the first time the vintner’s son-in-law had ended up there, and local passersby suspected it would not be the last.
 When the snow falls and the sunlight fades, then shall we all become scavengers.
 They had been best friends for as long as they could remember. They had been business partners for about 20 minutes–just long enough to buy the outfits.
 No one is sure when those two old hens decided to hate each other. The prevailing rumor is that a particularly enticing grub was encountered simultaneously from opposite directions.
 Deedle was only a couple of weeks old, but his mother could tell he was destined for greatness. He was a very special boy.
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About the BalladsThe Ballads of Remex are a collection of tales, legends, and fables about the Birds hailing from Remex. Though their species and stories vary widely, all are stories of Birds making their way in a world full of magic, predators, and intrigue. Archives
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