Fear and Loathing in the Northlight: Observations of the Bound

Amidst the grip of those who were chosen to oppress, no one dare to squirm out between the cold grip of the One. Under the guise of discourse, a silken gag has been thrust down the throats of the willing and the free. Like an infant Starling waiting for the pabulum of life, dependent upon the vomit to serve the One, they line up to receive their daily offering.

As the sun rises in the east so too do the givers of light. Casting the heat of its beam into the crevices between the obscurity of the silence. Yearning, in disgust, for the vomit delivered as sustenance and deemed the bane of their own existence, the Starlings are to be kept in the Northlight, the constant shadow from the rise of light to the looming darkness.

The collective Starlings chirping had created a spark. Light originating from the shadows, never possible before, is the new communication of those who seek flight, freedom from the unending shadow, soaring into the light. Northlight is pleasant and soft, a numbing passive source lacking the brilliance of a specular highlight, a dull general illumination of objects and subjects of the Throne. The sparking chirps have the ability to touch the feathers of others and ignite, into a blaze, making the wings flap vigorously to gain an unexpected but welcomed loft.

A challenge of light is the manner is which it is directed, bending and focusing its energy, to fall within the shadows. The sparks have not fallen on the flammable infant feathers, light and fluffy, nor resting upon a cinder forming mass. They have rested among the moss, damp and extinguishing, ever so common in the calming Northlight.

The One has vowed to abstain from delivering its loving vomit and replace with a crushing blow to the wings of the Starling. Forever to be reminded of the freedom by flight, the broken and mangled wings, merely remnants of the instruments once capable of beauty now lay silent and still at the sides of the Starlings.

Resting upon a perch, for all to see, locked in a cage made of twisted bars in elegant swirls of extravagence leading to the golden finial atop the Starlings, a false grim memory of the spark of light.