Lost on the Map

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>The two of you wait to enter the hotel lobby, huddled together like a pair of frightened shadows in the dark

>Gullen nudges you with the butt of his chemical rifle

>”Do you sense anything? Surely we are not alone,” Gullen asks, his voice a cautious, disembodied hiss. “The air feels stale here — bitter, even. Something has been through here, has it not?”

>Your blue eyes glitter in the dark with glacial-blue luminescence

>In the absence of light, your world brightens with a light dusting of artificial moonlight only you and other crows can see

>To Gullen, it’s still feather-black — a darkness all encompassing, so absolute that you can feel him press against you out of fear

>Only the crooked shapes and outlines of the front entrance’s furniture and fixtures remain

>You left the main doors bolted shut

>After a moment of stillness and study, you reply in a whisper

“I see… the broken bones of some furniture. The floor is a mess with rubble. That piece of couch you stumbled over earlier is where you kicked it — but otherwise it is the same as when we entered…” you conclude. “And I believe the stale air is a good omen; it is a sign we covered our tracks better than we thought.”

>The raven grunts, unconvinced

>”I want to trust you, Elia, but I will believe what you say when we are safe underground,” Gullen says, unimpressed. “What else is there?”

>Okay, ouch

“I promise, brother. We are alone here,” you say in a shy voice. And then with a sigh, you add, “but I will look once more.”

>Your eyes flick around the grandiose lobby of this hotel again. One more time, you swear

>Gullen is just being paranoid

>Your eyesight narrows on something — the hotel lobby’s front desk

>There’s a sizable spattering of dried blood on the desk, and leading up to the desk

>It appears as if someone had been dragged there and then executed promptly

>But there are no bullet holes…?

>Curious, but you spotted the blood spatter on the way in

“There’s the blood from earlier against the front desk; but it is not fresh — maybe a week or two old. I promise, there is little else of interest here that we have not already seen,” you declare, stepping into the lobby, comfortable with your hasty analysis. “We are alone, brother.”

>Gullen hesitates, glued to his spot in the hallway

>He gives one last experimental snort of air, as if he alone could find something your acute senses are blind to

>That little action does not make you happy

>Why, it’s almost an insult to the Ancestors to doubt a crow!

>Heresies against the powers of the Ancestors come with punishments of all kinds

>Beneath your leather gloves you tighten the feeling of doubt and frustration into a tiny, compact point of heat, which you crush into your palms

>And you squeeze your fists — hard — as if to snuff out that heat

“You should not doubt a crow, you know. It is bad luck,” you say, voice lightly quivering with annoyance

>”Luck has nothing to do with it. I go by experiences others have had. Surely you follow.”

>Wonderful, Gullen knows of your reputation as ‘unreliable’

>You turn your beak downwards in the dark and wait until your heart stops throbbing, as if its someone were beating it for disobedience

>Satisfied that the room stinks of an acceptable level of decay and dust, he joins you at the exit, clumsy talons kicking shattered bits of tile in the dark

>”Whatever’s outside right now…” Gullen says, swinging his rifle into his grasp, his talon creeping over the trigger guard. “…I just hope it’s not hungry.”

>Perhaps a little annoyed that Gullen doesn’t trust you with his life just yet, you snap back as much as your rank will allow you

“Have a little faith in the Ancestors, Gullen. If something followed us here, I would feel it in my chest. Besides, there is not enough meat on me,” you say with a friendly chirp. “I am all bone and feather; a poor meal. I am not worried.”

>”Speak for yourself. I think harvesters will eat anything that can feel pain,” Gullen responds with a quickness that forgoes kindness. “And sometimes I think they just want to prolong the pain. Between you and myself, I would prefer to avoid that type of katha. Now, do you have our route set?”

>Your gloved-talons flex with frustration and anxiety again

>That same white-hot anger is there still

>Oh, you bet your beak you know the route

>It was the sole focus of your time spent upstairs, burning all that beautiful daylight

>You PORED over those maps; you read nearly every page of the demon’s journal! And like an alchemist locked in her laboratory, you slammed expository sentence into expository sentence; drew connections from those sentences as if weaving a spider’s web of words and thoughts that make sense to you

>And…

>Too bad you got distracted so many times

>You didn’t finish because, well…

>The demon wrote some love letters in her journal, letters never sent

>To a man named Shaun

>You’re a sucker for romance for many reasons, chief among them: you’ve never had a romance, a mate, nor ever been haywild about any of the male crows in ANY of the cities you’ve been to

>What Gullen doesn’t realize is that your interest in humans is… shall we say, above and beyond the call of duty?

>Believe it or not, that comes as an advantage for a bird whose job, in part, is to understand humans — their language, writing, and communication, in particular

>You spent too long wondering what kind of mate Shaun was. Kind? Generous? Handsome?

>”Elia?” Gullen hisses, snapping you out of your day dream of Shaun. “Where are we going?”

>Blushing (thankfully) in the dark, you recite your ‘formula’; the fruits of your labor, and the reason you’re leaving in the dark

>You hope it’s impressive

>And worth it

“We head down ‘Wealthy Street’ and veer right on ‘Fulton Street’ once we find the clock tower. Then, the entrance to the ‘sewer’ is an ‘exposed covering’ in the center of the street, down quite a way,” you say, punctuating that sentence with a salute that Gullen can only barely see

>”I trust you still have the demon’s maps and journal with you — a prize to bring to Artemis. A chance for Elia Longfeather, scout of Ciril, to show her quality.”

>You beam with excitement

“I do, brother. I hope they please Artemis.”

>Gullen mumbles something he thinks you can’t hear

>Oh, but you can hear just fine with your extrasensory hearing

>’They better, or you’re gone.’

>Returning to the flock with the demon’s maps…

>Well…

>By the Gods, Artemis will have no choice but to change his heart towards you

>You WILL get these to the flock; your flock WILL use these maps to gain the advantage

>You WILL outflank the humans and catch them by surprise next time

>And you WILL regain your place in the flock!

>You draw in a courageous breath and drop your arm to your side, maps bundled in the crook of your arms

>Redemption is just a few miles’ journey away, you tell yourself

>Nothing could be more important

>“If your work leads us back to Ciril with most of my feathers intact, it’ll be proof that I need to go scouting with you more often,” Gullen offers his assessment of your relationship and place within the flock in… kinder words than you expected

“I’d like that,” you say, a weak smile

>You unbolt the doors

>You plant a gloved hand on the door and dig in hard, throwing your meager weight into the act

>You press into the panel, but it refuses to give despite your considerable effort

“Stand aside, little crow,” Gullen booms. “This is raven work.”

“Huh?”

>On instinct, you throw yourself to the side — and out of the path of Gullen, who goes charging into the door shoulder-first

>The double front doors to the Brown Palace split apart as Gullen flies through them, unable to arrest his momentum when he reaches the stairs leading up to the hotel

>He keeps going

>Going

>And he goes stumbling down the concrete steps

“Gullen!” you cry, storming out of The Brown Palace

>When you do, a rush of cool night air smacks you square in the beak, the night air pouring itself into the hotel.

>Air pressures equalize, and you feel an island, caught between the meeting of two fierce rivers

>You peer down the stairs

“B-brother? Are you alright?” you call, voice a worried squeak

>Gullen is in a heap at the bottom of the steps

>He groans

>You start down the stairs towards your comrade

>It feels like Purgatory is welcoming you with arms around your shoulders, like a hug — something you’ve only read about in your ‘studies’ of humanity

>You let the night of purgatory embrace you, just for a moment, its dark arms around you; pulling your lithe body close in a way that says, ‘I accept you for who you are out here’

>You coo just a little, just to yourself, and breathe out a knot of held anxiety, similar to the way humans puff on their rolled tobacco sticks

>You pace down the steps with crow’s grace, only to find Gullen already on his feet, dusting himself off with a palm

“So I see ravens still cannot fly,” you say, strutting over

>You bend down and retrieve some loose ammunition — brass bullets spilled onto the sidewalk from Gullen’s bag, and return them to your comrade

>Gullen turns his head down at you

>”No, but I managed to glide for a few seconds.”

>A few moments later, the two of you start down the right-hand side of Wealthy Street, staying close to the fronts of long-abandoned shops, storefronts, and businesses

>”The night is still,” Gullen says, marching lockstep with you, “This is a good sign, I believe?”

>You hum in response

“We are alone here, unless you count fear of not being alone.”

>Gullen flashes you an insulted look — like you insulted his mother — but says nothing to you

>As you walk, sound hits your attuned ears milliseconds before it does Gullen’s

>A gust of wind

>A choir of insects — mostly lonely summer crickets — begins in earnest

>But overhead is the actual show

>”CAW! CAW!”

>You point your beak skyward

>A flock of wild crow wing off from a nearby roof and pass overhead, inky black shapes against a darker sky

“Crows!” you squeal as you turn to Gullen, pointing into the night sky. “Look brother, the Ancestors are here!”

>Gullen snaps his attention skyward at the mention of crows

>His eyes, yellow like everflame light, squint in the moonless, clouded dark

>”I cannot see them!” he says in a rushed whisper, “Perhaps they are somewhere beyond our sight? In the clouds?”

“Look a little harder, brother,” you say, beak following the mass of dark, winged shapes burning through the evening sky. “Ancestors guide us. They may even land nearby. We should follow.”

>You start forward, as if chasing after the flock

>The crows fly in low overhead, shrieking down to the end of Wealthy Street, then banking hard to the right

>They draw a dozing circle just above the rooftops, cawing and clicking in a cacophony of noise

>A flock — or, more accurately, a murder — of wild crows

>The populate the skies of Purgatory around the city

>Or wherever fresh meat can be obtained

>No other animal except wild ravens are more sacred to your kin

>They’re always a good omen

>From the murder a noisy, feral cacophony rings out

>Excited caws and coos; squawks of intrigue and joy

>This flock is a family

>Or, something akin to a family

>You don’t understand their primitive language, but you can gleam the tone of their conversation in a way a demon could not

>It makes you vaguely sad

>You can see Gullen break into a smile, however

>His take must be more positive than yours

>”I may not see them, but I can hear their voices!” Gullen squawks, and he’s more excited than you’ve seen him all night. “They sound worked up over something.”

“It is us who they welcome, brother. They expect our arrival. And that too is a good omen,” you say with a cheerful chirp. “Our fortunes have been good tonight, haven’t they?”

>He jokes, “I trust your eyes more than I trust mine right now — if the ancestors are on Wealthy Street, they have inscribed our fortunes in gold.”

>His words fill you with a type of warmth like a roaring fire’s heat after a long day of training in Seminary

>Back when you could still go to Seminary

>You… never formally graduated. Never got the chance to hone your skills, or develop anything beyond what a thirteen-year-old can already do

>You grind to a halt as something across the street catches in the periphery of your attention

>A light

>A burst of warm color in the dark recesses of an old apartment complex glows with orange light, as if someone had left their light on and went to bed

>Then another light sparks up in another window

>A few shades here or there turn by an unseen hand

>Warm ghost-light spills onto the street, faintly illuminating your form

>No shadow appears behind you, however

>You freeze, caught in the spotlight of what could be demons

>But when you see no rifle barrels blossom in the lit rooms, some sense returns to you

>Those aren’t everflame lights glowing across the street

>You wave your feathered arm, expecting a black shadow to mirror your every movement

>Nothing

>A smile blossoms on your face

>The venn ishah of the city — at least these — are harmless

>‘Venn ishah’: Ghost lights or ‘people of the city’

“Brother, do you see venn isah? How fortunate we are to-”

>You turn your head to look for Gullen, he’s no longer right next to you

>You spin around in a panic

“Brother? Gullen, where are you?”

>”Elia!” Gullen hisses from a slight distance

>Your sensitive ears locate him in a nearby alleyway just a few paces behind you

>”What are you doing?! Take cover!”

“Take cover? From what?” you chirp

“The lights, you feathering idiot! Take cover! They are a ploy by the demons!”

>This is your third time in the city

>The first time you were here, you signaled to the lights in the houses…

“CAW! CAW!”

>…and something appeared in one of the many warmly lit windows

>A pair of shadow-bound arms drape out of a seventh story window from the complex across the street

>A shape then appears, attached to the arms

>Could be human, could be raven, could be crow

>It has no features, no face; hardly any depth to it when you squint

>But it has two eyes that glow like white pinholes of fire, wheeling in shallow eye sockets

>Your body goes stiff with panic, as if awaiting a volley of gunfire that Gullen promised

>It’s a little surreal to interact with venn ishah, or to even see them. It’s as if an alien from another reality is staring back at you, studying you

>This is probably what it’s like to interact with a human

>More vague shadows appear in the windows along Wealthy Street

>Phantom hands turn shades, spilling faint, phantasmal everflame light into the street, laying heavy bars of gold on the dark street

“T-This seems excessive-” you say, breaking into a sudden sweat

>Maybe Gullen was right, in a way — these lights aren’t from humans

>But maybe they’re still dangerous?

>You take a cautious step backwards, inching towards your comrade

>A misplaced gust of icy wind brushes past you, knocking a few feathers loose from your collar

>That wind belongs to winter, not early autumn. You wonder where it came from?

>When you turn your head back towards the apartment complex across the street, something is different

>The building glows, flush with life, nearly every window filled with struggling orange light

>Faces appear in cracked windows, behind blinds

>Inkblots of darkness with white eyes like harvesters stare down at you

>They’re all watching you

>Purgatory is watching you

>With a weak wrist, you give a slow wave

>Gullen appears at your side, his rifle still in his hand, talon on the trigger-guard

>”Trick of the demons or not, we should start moving before something more dangerous than some venn isah finds us.”

>He keeps his chin pointed into the moonless sky, hiding an embarrassed blush

>You leave the lights behind and start off down Wealthy Street, an odd-sized pair

>When you look back, the lights are gone

>Gullen — a much hardier and taller Corvid than yourself — struts alongside you with strange deliberation

>He’s almost on top of you-

>Your wrapped talon slips off his larger talon, suddenly in front of your path with a misplaced step

>Suddenly, you and gravity are at odds

>Stumbling, you catch yourself on the sidewalk with a pained chirp as the feel of centuries old glass and grit digs into your gloves

“Brother, your stride is so close to my own,” you complain

>Gullen snaps his attention down to you, gold eyes just barely tinged with a flash of shame

>”Apologies…” he says as he easily lifts you back onto your feet with one hand

>“My instructors told me to stay close to my scouts when night falls,” he says, as he points his beak straight ahead, eyes evasive. “In Seminary they taught us to fear the night of Purgatory like the bayonet of a demon.”

“That may be, but I cannot walk like this,” you stammer. “We should spread out a little to stay safe, anyway.”

>”Easily spoken by one who can see in the dark,” he says without prompt, almost as if he’s struggling for words. “I am not as rich in gifts as you are.”

>Then you see it on his face, even clearer in the night

>The nervous blush high in his feathers

>Oh… ancestors

>He’s shy about being scared, isn’t he?

>See, between crows and ravens, there’s a fundamental difference with your assessments of Purgatory: the city, the mountains to the west, the aspen forests, the prairie… the demons…

>Ravens learn to fight and kill the things that you find resonate with deep beauty

>They taught him to be the strength of your kin; the shoulders on which your whole collective cause rests

>You?

>You didn’t need an old master in Seminary to teach you to be curious about the people and places beyond your walls

>That came to you naturally, even before your family and you were banished

“Blind fear is a waste of the heart on a night such as this,” you hum with a smile, hoping to put your comrade’s fear at ease

>He’s getting really close to you

>The closer he gets, the more you feel his anxieties crowding your senses, like a foul odor in a clean nest

>You’re… sensitive to this sort of thing — it’s part of your job, after all, to feel what your comrades feel and act accordingly

>He makes up your pace in half a second, matching you again in stride in anger

>”I am not afraid,” he snaps, voice hitching with sudden aggression. “I-I am only doing as was instructed in Seminary; what I have always done with the scouts I’ve served with. You lead, I stay alive. It’s little more.”

>Your pathetic, servile spine collapses in an instant, and your servile instincts kick in

“Forgive me brother, I did not mean to- to suggest that you had let fear take you, I was merely observing your behavio-”

>Gullen cuts in, still fuming

>”I am not afraid! Never have I been afraid! And you don’t always have to explain yourself over everything, you know? Some of your kin find it annoying!” he snaps

“I’m not trying to explain- explain myself,” you stammer back in quick response. “I- I was talking about my o-own fear, brother,” you try a lie to soothe the situation; like a bucket of water over the embers of a fire yet born. “I spoke of my fear and my fear alone-”

>Apparently, you used black powder

>”Fear,” Gullen chuckles a little, the words rattling out of his tight throat. “You have every right to fear, with your standing in the flock. Only Artemis will decide if your maps are worth keeping you around.”

>His cruel voice skips off the forgotten buildings, travels through the overgrown trees of the skeletal city

>’worth keeping you around’

>’worth keeping you around’

>’worth keeping you around’

>He stops walking mid-stride and puts a sudden hand to his beak, too slow to contain the cruelty of his words

>Gullen’s yellow eyes flicker down to you

>The look of…

>…gut-wrenching pity…

>…in his eyes, as gold as coins…

>You know what?

>It’s worse than the hollow words of an apology

>Pity is, in fact, worse than outright rejection all together

>Rejection is known all at once; a sudden truth revealed with blunt force trauma at the tail-end of a syllable

>Pity is a slow rejection built upon lies, which all eventually compound on you until the well of pity is dried and the village thirsts for justice

>Also, he called the situation with the flock too well

>You really think your maps are going to be enough to impress Artemis?

>You DREW on half of them!

>’To come back empty-handed would be a mistake.’

>If you ARE worthy of shelter, food, and a place to belong, you’d have some kind of artifact to complement the maps — unnatural and divine objects humans call ‘relics’

>You’d have something, ANYTHING, that shows Artemis you are a trustworthy, capable bird; not a pity case; not a fraud of a crow who screwed up one too many times in one too many places only to end up here

>That would be if you WERE worthy

>But you?

>You’re evidently not even worth an execution-style kiss of lead to the base of the skull, medicine to alleviate the world of your presence

>Nope, that’s not the style for ‘freaks’ like you

>They just exile people like you

>You remain rooted in place, as if pierced through your chest and staked into the ground beneath

>Everything feels numb, like your veins are flush with ice water

>Is it the shame of knowing Gullen is right that paralyzes you?

>Or is it the anxiety of facing Gullen, the accuser, that holds you to your place?

>Maybe it’s both

>You’re so busy feeling hurt, mind hurtling like a comet away from Purgatory that when Gullen puts his talons on your shoulder, you let out a startled squawk, perhaps a little too loud 

>He shushes you and assures you he means well

>A nervous tension hums between the two of you, punctuated by a choir of the last of the summer crickets — the ones who didn’t mate for the season, now desperately seeking the weight of someone else before they give up the husk

>”Forgive me, Elia. I was wrong to speak out like that,” Gullen begins, as if unsure of his words

>His lips purse into an unhappy smile, and he points his shameful gaze down

>“We ravens… we are a very proud race — it is our way. There is much weight upon us to be the branches on which others build their nests. As your job is to guide me to glory, mine is to keep us safe. I- I cannot be weak,” he says with a gentle squeeze of your shoulder. “Neither of us can — not out here. Do you understand?”

>Ordinarily, your clothing is a buffer to the sensitivity of your… let’s call it your ‘gift’ for now

>But whatever Gullen is dealing with inside must be eating him up

>Your emotions shift with the bareness of his talon on your jacket, like he was injecting you with venom

>A resounding pulse of something — something from Gullen — moves you away from anxiety and pain and hurt

>Your seas of inner turmoil soften; the winds shift towards something you truly did not expect from a raven like Gullen:

>Remorse

>It pours out of him, flowing from his touch, now plugged into your sensitive circuitry

>There’s even something approaching embarrassment’s warmth blossoming in him, too, which balloons inside you too, up to your cheeks, coloring them red

>Perhaps sensing something as well, Gullen drops his talon to his side and attempts a weak smile to hide the rise of color in his cheeks

>”I think your maps will be plenty valuable to us, at least for this part of Purgatory, anyway,” he offers. “My fear is that the demons will notice they’re missing within days and rearrange their positions within the city. Now, come,” he says, pointing with his shoulder, “Our entrance draws near I hope?”

“I need to check the map,” you say, a touch feverish from the embarrassment of Gullen, “but I appreciate your apology, brother. I accept it.”

>You turn your beak down, eyes drawn to the demon’s black-and-red-ink parchment map

>The map is an easy-read in the shadows for your kin

>To Gullen, such a feat is impossible

>As your eyes trace the lines you drew from the hotel down Wealthy Street, trying to identify where the two of you are now, you stumble over some familiar demon scribble left by the original owner of the map

>Ah, this feathering sentence

>It’s a motley assortment of connected lines and illegible squiggles that you almost blew your bird brains out over

>’Broken clock tower, go right to Fulton. Ignore the thirteenth chime. Not safe.’

>Is what you THINK that demon was trying to say

>Now…

>You know what a clock tower looks like, but where in Purgatory is the one you’re supposed to find?

>It’s your only anchor to where you are and where you need to go

>Feathers… better say something to Gullen

“Yes, yes, we have but a little further to go, I promise you. Our entrance draws near…”

>…all of which is only half-true, again

>The demon was quite the cartographer — maybe she was Vulcada?

>Too bad you didn’t see her vulca around her body

>Or her scarf-thingy

>Every Vulcada you’ve seen had an orange bolt of cloth around their necks, or strapped to their gear in some way

>You’d like to feel one on your feathers…

“Well, whoever the demon was to her church, she was gracious enough to mark some entrances,” you mutter

>There’s even one on Fulton Street

>It’s just… that word from earlier, in the hotel, is back

>It’s written next to the closest entrance to where you are — carved into the thick parchment with a red pen

>That bitter, sticky word is not alone, either. Misery loves company

>’Anomaly’ 

>There’s another word attached to ‘anomaly’ — one you know the meaning of, but can’t understand its context when combined with ‘anomaly’

>’Fisher anomaly!’

>Gah, to the harvesters with that stupid word! ‘Fisher anomaly’ means fox droppings to you, so you’ll just skip it

>Why can’t demons just use sensible language, like your kin, who speak in chirps and squawks and echoes

“We are close to an entrance, I believe,” you say at last

>”Then I offer you the lead of this flock,” Gullen says, punctuating his attempt at ‘humor’ with an exaggerated bow

>A dumb part of you smiles

>So does Gullen

>The two of you stalk quietly down Wealthy Street, speaking very little except to point out objects of interest, which you occasionally split up and investigate

>Sometimes you break from Gullen to scout ahead, though he tries to keep a watchful eye on you as you crawl through broken windows to check for valuables

>That’s when language distills down to its most primitive form

>Clicks

>Whistles

>Even a stray caw or squawk when the crows from earlier circle overhead

>There’s nothing spoken, in case a demon is lurking

>Just the sounds of wild birds in the city at night

>You don’t find the broken clock tower for another twenty minutes, but you eventually do see it at the end of the block

>It towers on the street corner besides you

>You can see Gullen trying to make up ground as you wave him over

>The clock tower is wrought iron and metal beast. It juts several stories into the frosty night, terminating at a jagged pyramidal point, faced on all sides by a broken clock, whose hands are forever fixed to sometime past midnight

>There’s a faint tick-tock clicking from within the tower as you stand next to it, waiting for Gullen to catch up to turn the corner

>Like the back and forth of a pendulum

“Ignore the thirteenth chime. Not safe,” you say to yourself, turning your blue eyes up the length of the clock tower. “That is what the demon said in her journal. What danger could a feathering clock tower presents I haven’t a clue. It certainly feels safe to me.”

>By the time Gullen catches up, the wind had come in cold and angry, blown deep from the bottom of the dark lungs of the city’s downtown district

>A cold, unseen hand touches your spine, tracing the small of your back

>You cut loose with a loud gasp, punctuated by a squawk, spinning to face whoever’s behind you

>Couldn’t be Gullen; he lumbers like a harvester

>There’s nobody there

>Your breath hitches in your chest

“What the fuc-”

>”Elia?” Gullen says as he appears behind you some distance away — distance which he closes with ease

>The brawny raven stands up next to you, looking around for whatever has you paused

>He raises an eyebrow as he looks down at you, his golden eyes almost glowing in the dark

>”Are you alright? Why have you stopped?”

>You open your beak to stammer out what just happened

>But nothing comes out

>And you swear, you hear drums

>BAM

>BAM

“I was waiting for you,” you say with an exhaled breath

>BAM

>BAM

>Right when the two of you turn the corner from Wealthy Street onto Fulton, in the shadow of the grand clock tower, Gullen stops you with a sudden, outstretched arm

>”Look!” he exclaims as he aims his talon down Fulton street. “Roundspark!”

>Just a few blocks down — you can’t miss it — is something that makes your heart skip

>Salvation?

>…

>Could be

>Stuck at the top of a metal pole — more like a rusted iron spike at this point — and encased in a shell of frosted glass, is what your kin call an ‘artifact’

>An artifact is an object — could be almost anything — that has reality-defying properties

>This artifact, known as a ‘roundspark’, is quite valuable for helping to provide power in wealthier parts of cities

>At the top of the light pole is a rounded glass bulb packed charged filament

>It radiates a pulsing pink light that invites you to look closer

>The light from the roundspark winks and wanes, drowning the surrounding street and buildings with artificial fire, and then receding like a shoreline into darkness

>Shadows of crows dance around the artifact like primitives around a cave fire as the black birds wing down from rooftops onto the street

>You can’t believe it’s still here

“That’s a roundspark, alright,” you whisper back in disbelief, eyes widening. “I would have bet my last haycoin that these would all be gone by now.”

>”See? The good fortune of the Ancestors has led us here,” Gullen says as he points to the crows that wing down from the darkness and into the light above the roundspark

>They seem enchanted by it; drawn to it

>The roundspark hums with potent energy. Even from your position on the street corner, you can feel your feathers vibrate from static charge

>You stare at the light

>Entranced

>Unable to tear your eyes away

>To the right of the metal pole, in the middle of the street, you can make out an open manhole

>You also see the cover to the manhole: a gigantic puck made of iron, resting against a nearby automobile wreck

>An entrance to the sewer?

>”Ancestors be praised!” Gullen exclaims

>Then, he not-so-lightly taps his skull against yours

>A common greeting among Corvid — not so much a headbutt, more so to say, ‘We are of one mind’

>Your mind aches

“Brother, you have rocks in your skull!” you wince

>One touch of THAT is enough

>Especially at the front of the skull, feather-on-feather

>Against your own will and skepticism, his excitement — pure as spring rain — floods your circuits again

>A roundspark is a powerful artifact — it can power much of a city’s interior, as its electrical charge seems to never diminish

>”Do you know what this means, sister!? This is salvation! Y-You can bring the roundspark and the maps back to Artemis! By the Ancestors, that will be enough to earn your place ba-” he catches himself and stops himself short

>He blinks twice at you in confusion

>Reality dawns triumphant on the raven after another quick second

>Instead of facing reality, he turns away and coughs nervously

>“A-Anyway, we must bring back that artifact. It is our duty to Artemis and to the flock, is it not?”

>He’s right… you didn’t really think the maps are going to be enough, right?

>A roundspark would be a good way to show competency and usefulness. Any crow worth her weight would attempt to bring back something so valuable

“I- I suppose we can try for the roundspark,” you say in a limp voice as you tip your head down to scan the map. “But let me check our route first before we do anything crazy.”

>”I’ll go get it!” Gullen says as he starts off down the center of Fulton Street, golden eyes fixed on the roundspark

>DING

>You tear your eyes off the roundspark and turn back towards the ‘broken’ clock tower, which rings into the night

>DING

>Right about then a crooked, stiff wind blusters by, sending some feathers whisping off your body

>You stare at the feathers as they hurtle past Gullen, who pays them almost no mind

>Gullen is transfixed by the roundspark and the possibilities it presents

>Wh- where did this wind come from?

>The skin beneath your feathers stands on edge

>DING

>Gullen carries his excitement away from you like a torch in a snowstorm; weaker and smaller with every step

>Ancestors, even with your jacket and padded trousers, that wind is so…

>…cold…

>Nervous, you call out after Gullen

“Brother, wait a moment. I want to check the route!” you call against the dark wind

>Gullen waves a dismissive talon

>”It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine,” he yells over his shoulder. “I will save you the trouble scurrying up this iron spike by retrieving the artifact myself!”

>You watch as he squeezes both of his talons around the light pole, as if choking a human

>”Now you will see the prowess of the raven!” he calls, a satisfied grin plastered across his face

>DING

>Damnit

>He’s not listening!

>You retreat to the shelter of a nearby alleyway, one where the concrete gives way to a cloud of overgrown puff weeds

>You scan the map and find the corner of Wealthy and Fulton, exactly where you two should be

>Oh

>That word again

>’Fisher anomaly!’

>It’s right around the corner

>Same with the entrance underground you said you will not use

>DING

>You turn your head away up and away from the maps, scanning for Gullen

>He’s wrapped his swollen arms around the metal post, the shadow of his effort huge against the asphalt street behind him

>The entire scene plays out like shadow puppets as you watch, strangely entranced

>Gullen leaps up, secures a position with his brawny forearms

>DING

>He attempts a mad shimmy up the light pole for what must be his tenth time.

>…only to slide back down at the half-point in an exhausted, frustrated heap

>You look down at the map and read the words again

>’Fisher anomaly!’

>DING

>Wait…

>Your eyes narrow to slits over the word ‘anomaly’

>It’s a longshot… but that word just seems so close to a word you know

>DING

>You can only think of one comparison in your own tongue; a theory at best

>It’s a word the crows used in Ohm to describe areas or buildings that were unsafe:

>‘Anaree’

>’Anaree’ refers to some area of Purgatory inhabited by something foul, be it a spirit, a demon camp, harvester cluster, or anomalous hazar-

>DING

>Wait

>’Anaree’

>’Anomolous’

>’Anomaly’

>’Fisher anomaly!’

>DING

>Oh feathers

>DING

>You start towards Gullen, breaking into a sprint

>Gullen sees your approach and waves you over with a jovial arm in the air

>”Come here, you try this! You’re much more nimble than I am. The feathering thing is too slippery!” he shouts with laughter, his chest heaving with excitement

>’Fisher anomaly!’

>How could you be so stupid?

>DING

“GULLEN!” you roar. “Get away from the roundspark! Go! FLEE!”

>You cut a warning caw as you throw your arms and legs into the sprint

>DING

>Gullen doesn’t get time to reply or caw back

>Because one second the raven is sitting next to the pole, exhausted, leaning against it for support…

>…he’s got a dumb, playful grin on his face, and his chest heaves like he’s been sprinting

>Then, he’s on his belly, chirping with shock

>Something unseen drags him towards the street, closer to the uncovered manhole

>Your eyes center on the sewer entrance as you run

>You gasp, sucking down frosty night air when you see what has Gullen

>You FEATHERING IDIOT

>Four writhing, pale arms sprout from the sewer’s entrance

>Four iron-gripped hands attempt to drag Gullen towards the sewer by his feet, a washboard of broken glass and asphalt chunks against this chest

>Gullen’s quick-snap muscles kick into action

>He reaches out and grabs onto the light post for dear life…

>…As those greasy, pale hands pull his pants and legs taut, ripping them.

>You know he can’t hold for long

>The pale arms drag him with such immense force that when they yank him off the pole, a small plume of black feathers follows, like a trail of gun smoke

>A horrified scream rips from his lungs as Gullen desperately hooks his talons into the cracks in the sidewalk

>”Elia!” is all he can get out. “Shoot this thing!”

>His voice shakes with terror as he struggles to maintain his grip on the sidewalk’s edge

>His grip finally gives way right as you swing your chemical rifle into your hands

>Luckily, Gullen catches onto a derelict automobile by the talons

>Metal peels beneath his grip as the pale arms pull taut with strain

>He squawks a deep, gut-wrenching squawk of terror

>”SHOOT IT!” he begs

>You drop to one knee pressing the butt of your weapon against your shoulder, mind hurtling at a million miles per hour back towards weapons training

>Your gloved hands shake as you rip back on the bolt action to ensure it’s loaded

>Oh Ancestors, this is…

>…this is all real…

>Gullen could die

>To make matters worse, a cold, empty chamber stares back up at you, taunting you

>Feathers, you never reloaded at the hotel

>Unless…

>Your hands go into your jacket pockets and vacant ammo pouches

“Harvesters, I just need one bullet!” you squeal as you frantically pat yourself for ammo

>After a frantic search, your gloved talons clasp around a single round of ammunition in your hip pocket

>Gullen’s strained scream is louder than gunshot

>You don’t care what’s in this bullet — you need to put it down range now

>You slide the bolt back, slip in the brass shell, and crank the action forward, chambering the round instantly

>You then drop onto one knee — firing position — and squint down the iron sights

>Everything is a deep blue, barely lit by your eyes with milky light

>You can see Gullen

>His face contorts with fear, eyes split wide like eggs with their yolk cracked

>And he’s looking right at you

>He has one claw left on the destroyed automobile, his body pulled tight like rope

>You aim for one of the pale arms

>Can’t aim for the hands around Gullen’s leg — you’ve never been a great shot

>You try to steady your chest as it heaves, flush with adrenaline and panic

>Your heart kicks itself in your chest

>BAM

>BAM

>You try, in vain, to become still

>And hope the Ancestors guide your aim

>You squeeze the trigger

>The gun jumps in your grasp, and you have a hard time controlling the recoil

>A viscous blue spray blossoms from the tip of your rifle, like a puff of wet cloud

>The report ricochets off the decaying buildings that tower over you

>Oh feathers

>That was a visca round

>A ‘wet’ alchemical bullet

>The cartridge contains a slippery, flammable, blue fluid called visca

>Which makes it… not the most accurate or speediest bullet in the world

>The visca bullet travels down range, dragging behind it a comet’s tail of highly flammable and slippery blue fluid

>And your eyes, so alight with hope and excitement, follow the blue trail as it…

>…hums clean over your target

>In fact, your miss is so grievous that the bullet splits upon a loose chunk of asphalt

>There’s a watery blue explosion that deposits a hefty coat of visca on the pale arms, but does little to prevent Gullen’s demise

>Well… eggshells

>Your heart sinks in your chest

>Missed

>”I CAN’T HOLD!” Gullen screams

>At that, his grip at last gives, and he crashes face-first onto the asphalt

>The arms reel back like fishing lines hauling in a catch

>Gullen doesn’t have time to scramble and gain a hold

>You can only watch from a distance, helpless, as Gullen disappears down the sewer entrance with a terrified, throaty squawk

>And you can only listen, a leaden statue…

>…as Gullen screams your name, a desperate and scared echo in the bowels of the city

>”Elia!”