The birds chirp in the shadows like canaries in coal mines.
You can only sense fog. You stretch out your hand and drag yourself across the ground. It is coarse, perhaps dirt? You can't remember where you are, what you are, why you are… who are you exactly?
The Feathered Forebearer.
Ah, but that's not quite correct is it. But that question can wait, because you can hear something. You force yourself upright slightly. Pearing through the bushes you see… something, small moving blotches of colour amidst the fog. Their words are close but distant. What could they possibly be?
I don't know.
The haze in your mind clouds you, it should clear up soon. The blobs do not notice you. They bicker about… fish perhaps. The words sound similar, almost recognisable but off by a noticeable amount, Like adjusting every third letter to one three spots further down the alphabet. You count, or rather I tell you, that there are twenty one of them in total. Now, let's try again, who are you?
Doctor Azazel Vilson.
Still not quite there. But the mental haze is clearing. You slump down to the floor, wrapping around yourself as your body goes numb. The voices split.
First: We are weak, we must gather sustenance.
Eleventh: Are you calling us helpless, worm?
Tenth: The bickering is not needed forebearer, the Domestic speaks truth.
Twelth: ████████████████████
Eleventh: Despite being your purpose, you are nothing more than an annoyance, Screeching.
Fifth: We should be courteous, perhaps share a meal with these animals.
Second: Squawk!
Eleventh: Silence, Secratary and Howling, I did not ask for your input.
Third: We only have so long.
Eleventh: If we are not complete, then you all still bow at my knee.
Ninth: My queen, please recon—
The snap of a twig causes the haze to return. The voices merge into one. You rise once more. The fog has cleared ever so slightly.
What happened?
You will see, eventually. The blobs have gathered around a bright light, one that your gaze cannot move from. Soon the largest of the blobs stamp it out, it is only then that you ntoice the cold. It is black above you, even darker than before. And you hear it.
It's not like the voices.
Correct. It is small, high pitched and fast. The voice of one of your subjects. You echo a thought about the miracle of life as you listen. Another, followed by a similar yet distinct variant. They are close, they are lost. Your run out of the bushes towards the sound. Screams drown it all out as spears lodge themselves into your sides. You roar as your wings unfold to their full length and crush all in their path.
The blobs try to run, but you have been awakened. You swing, altering the landscape entirely with sheer priomordial force. The result of the arcane act that constructed your almagmated form all those thousands of years ago.
The screaming slows to a stop as you let out one last roar, clearing the skies across the entire continent. What was once a dark forest is now a crater. The tribe is gone, their blood coating you entirely. You are alone once more. And so, I'll ask you one last time.
Who are you?
I don't know.
Ugh, you still don't get it. Perhaps one last thousand year slumber will properly awaken you.
Wait! What are you…
You close you eyes and drift back into the void.
The echoes chirp in the shadows like canaries in coal mines.