ORIGIN

Fueled by her positive bacteria providing some extra mitochondrial energy and power plants in her body, she felt a little renewed. Diánysma stared at the pots for a moment and realized. She could roll them! Perfect! How much easier could it get? Tipping them gently onto their sides, Diánysma used her rosy beak to move the pots.

She continued the motion of rolling the clay vases carefully, avoiding all bumps and cracks and rocks. Diánysma was quickly closing the distance, and she was thrilled to have a container for her scriptures and writings.

She picked up the pace, almost cheerfully pushing each pot one at a time towards her home. Finally, when the nest was right before her, she stepped into the overhanging entryway—what was once a true door, but now covered in lichens—and pulled her prizes with her. Setting them up all nice and pretty in the corner, she nosed sand around it and placed stones to keep them in place. It was all coming together.

Scampering around in the ruined building, she found a worn down piece of charcoal no larger than her own foot, but it would do well. The dark pigment was already rubbing off on the pastel pink skin of the white raven. The raven frowned at it for only a moment before she moved towards the wall and began to engrave words into it, the language of her and her god's name. Ένας κύκλος, οκτώ... Cycle 1, 8. Eight days since she'd emerged, but without any way to find out what the time was, she measured time in wake-ups and subcycles. The dark blue walls were soon stained with dark charcoal, haphazard words almost unintelligible.

If translated properly, the hastily drawn scribbles on the wall would read, 'Efíaltis, a disease that I have pondered for some time. I created it for the sole purpose of spreading the plague of shadow that Panoúkla has begun. Already, I have placed its curse upon a clubfooted beast that called itself Penelope. She is blinded by the very darkness that she rested in for so long.' She set down the piece of charcoal that she had whittled down to a mere splinter and gazed off to the side.

Gazing upon her handiwork, she smiled brightly, sending unadulterated happiness through her link with her god. 'I've begun to take notes, my god.' With that, the raven huffed with an air of finality and sat down, flapping her wings to create a makeshift nest of sand, hiding amongst her newly collected pair of clay pots to take a little nap. She was, after all, just a young god.