FEATHERS, SHADOWS, AND BIRDS OF PREY—these were the atmospheric ingredients that Swishy and his entourage ascended into.
But there was a hush, a lull, a lush placidity that Swishy couldn’t quite identify. It was almost heavenly how quiet it was, even as Bristles flew around the Straw Guardian, inspecting its black patches, its gold, its head-to-stake feat of wheat and wonder.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Swishy knew, and so too did the trembling blue snitches, their outlines vibrating, disturbed like an anomaly of glitch static.
Bristles, wrathravens, and war. Peace didn’t belong to these skies.
Yet here the skies were like a meadow of shadow.
It was dark, so dark, altar-like Swishy thought to himself but refused to say.
But the curses he carried were thinking it. Wingy even buzzed with adoration. And Swishy’s heart? This was how he knew there was blackwheat in there, a clamorous chasm sustained by Swishy’s recent stressors. Everyone cursed loved what they saw here, and how the atmospheric shroud made them feel. The entities seemed not to care that there was precious gold hidden beyond the murkiness—because the darkness was delicious, the darkness was all they needed and wanted to know.
Do you feel that? Zone said, leaning toward Swishy’s head.
“That something is off?”
Big understatement, Zeuce chimed in.
Death, finished Zhird.
“Death?”
Death, the trio affirmed.
“Can wrathravens die? Or die that easily?”
If you asked ten minutes ago, the answer would be No. But the proof is in the evil pudding. The proof is this quiet air swamp.
“I hate it here…”
Yes, way to preach to the choir.
“Choir is too angelic for you guys.”
Hey now, we’ve paid our dues.
They emitted a brief flash of aura.
Swishy nodded and then focused on the ascension.
The straw guardian turned like a mechanized gyro, allowing Swishy and his entourage to see the views.
Bristles patiently flew along with them. The man-beast was smug, right at home. He wanted Swishy to see everything about this area of nest, as if he’d crafted these skies, as if he were the museum curator of wrathraven culture.
The znitches were fearful at how close Bristles was. They hid behind Swishy. Some burrowed inside of the straw guardian, choosing to nest with its armpits, its ribs, and the indent behind the clavicle. The flock found it wise to make themselves a home within the fortress. Against Bristles, there was little else they figured they could do.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Swishy comforted.
It’s not. It’s hell. It’s evil.
“Yeah, I know. But when I say it’s okay it’s up to you to at least try to…you know, work with me.”
They call that toxic positivity.
“I mean, it’s the best you can get, right?”
And that’s toxic bargaining.
“You know what, just die again.”
We will, that’s the problem.
Bristles chuckled to himself, loving how unsettled he’d made the birds.
Up, up, up, and away. The straw guardian carried them through the weighted air. Even when lives were done away with, a spiritual heaviness remained. Swishy saw it then, the unnatural movements of dark winds. Black energies from the floating feathers, from the former wrathravens, were pouring into Bristles.
The man-beast breathed in the fumes. His neck and arm veins bulged with the darkness. By this point, he was more shadow than blood, more Nevermore than human.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, my lord!” Bristles hovered above the Straw Guardian with open arms. But Swishy kept staring over the Nevermore’s shoulder at the portal exit at least far, far above.
The scarecrow didn’t know what to make of over-the-top greeting. There were several reactions that he cycled through in a strobe of confusion. The most prominent among those reflexes was that Bristles without knowing it had shown off his version of T-posing. His muscles were like chiseled bricks, and his aura was tremendous and flowing, pushing outward from his body.
Bristles was a fountain of darkness. The shadows cycled through him endlessly in a constant state of channeling. He didn’t so much as scratch his chin without a black ignition flaring over his fingertip.
“Thou seems quite enamored with my handy work. It pleases me so that my liege appreciates the efforts of mine crusade.”
“I see you’re keeping the skies safe.”
“Safe?” Bristles laughed. His Nevermore claw seemed to laugh too, its palm revealing a shadowy mouth. “Safe is one word for what hath happened here.”
Amid the dark clouds, the unsettled pockets of cursed energy, were the feathers of the damned and dusted wrathravens.
The scarecrow wasn’t sad that they were destroyed, only that Bristles had the potential to do this by himself.
“But the war is far from over, my liege. Beyond the portal is where the true fight beginneth.”
“Agreed.”
Swishy had heard of the calm before the storm. But decided that this was the other thing: the eye of the storm, a peaceable zone cleared by the Bristles.
The boy accepted the serenity, the post-mortem theater of quiet, and fed energy into the stake.
Slowly, slowly, the Straw Guardian elevated.
“Where is Trey? Hath he abandoned ye once again?”
“He’s resting.”
“Tuh. Weak.”
“I think he did good.”
“Dearest, straw god, enhance thy standards. We are simply greater.” His aura flexed. Black whirlwinds whooshed within his wings. Him, an autonomous cataclysm, provided a sample of said standard. While the man inhabited a human body there was nothing about him that suggested he wasn’t fully a wrathraven. His pulsating energy traveled on the same wavelength as the beasts he’d spent their entire domain visit battling.
“I see…” was all Swishy said.
The birds were silent. The main three clung to Swishy’s back while the rest of the flock hid in the Straw Guardian, burrowing against the dominion of Bristles’ energy.
“Weak men and weak birds aside,” Bristles cut a glare at the Z-trio, “I’m so happy to see you, Lord Swishy! Do you appreciate mine contribution to this so-called nest?”
The boy remembered that there used to be so many more wrathravens—you couldn’t turn in a direction without seeing one. That wasn’t the case now. By Swishy’s estimation, Bristles had taken out a third of the beasts. Perhaps more.
And then he finally saw one: a wrathraven—not a human shifter either—but a true one. Injured—by Bristles hand no doubt. A claw-shaped hole of smokiness was tore through three of its wings. The beast drifted from dark cloud to dark cloud, from cast-off feather to feather, scavenging for shadows to absorb and heal its wings from.
Other wrathravens then emerged. They appeared as clouds, camouflaged through their gaseous bodies, only to solidify once they’d spotted the rising guardian—and their enemy Bristles who now traveled with it
While eyeing the straw giant, the beasts heathier beasts lent shadows to the injured ones, healing them. As the blackness was transferred from one wrathraven to another, the latent curses shrieked in agony. The spirit of woe was then drowned out by the absorption of the recipient’s body, its outcries reducing to whispers, whimpers, then teeny, near-imperceptible gaps.
Teamwork makes the dream work, Trey had once taught Swishy—though the scarecrow considered this more of a nightmare.
Bristles held his arms out, smiling and smiling, waiting for an acknowledgment. His need for approval came from one source only and Swishy didn’t want to risk offending him.
The scarecrow waved.
Bristles waved back, almost shyly, a demure psychopath.
Swishy could almost feel the open-mouthed stares of Zone, Zeuce, and Zhird.
“I just got it like that. Don’t hate me for being popular.”
That’s exactly why we hated you.
I can’t tell if this attention is preferable to him attacking on sight.
I just want you to know that your fan club is too crazy.
“People are crazy. It’s all you guys have ever been.”
Touché, all three birds said.
Meanwhile, Bristles continued his meal, drawing in all the darkness he’d torn from the enemies before their arrival.
The birds cowered, glaring at their soul-eating slaver.
“Yes, yes, yes…” Bristles said in a trance. The blackness ebbed. Nevermore went into meditation, stabilizing the shadows that screamed through it. While the Straw Guardian had rescued all of the released souls from the surface level, Bristles had free dominion over his kills.
It was what it was. Swishy had to let animals be animals.
The larger animal was supposed to win, and thankfully Swishy—to the psychopath’s eyes—was a god.
When it came to Bristles, he found that the best strategy was to lean into godliness. He didn’t have anything nice to say but he had a role to play.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Swishy stretched his arms outward and pulsed the energy through his body line, becoming a scarecrow, a cross. And the soulfulness pushed through all four cardinal directions in equal amounts. There was no Swish scripture that made him express himself equally. He wasn’t even sure he had strong feelings about that idea in the first place. But it was a cool trick, something that was visually pleasing to those who could see the soulscape—and a fashionable way to feed magic into the stake.
In Swishy’s world, the one of his mind, and the one he hoped to manifest, there was always room for joy.
The blackness burst from Bristles’ body as he manically laughed—he clearly liked Swishy’s solidarity.
The guardian kept rising—it’d now drawn the eyes of ten, twelve, fourteen previously harmed wrathravens.
The wrathravens were now rising with the guardian, circling the head, surrounding Swishy, Bristles, and crew. Bristles was the object of their ire but they didn’t quite carry his same arrogance. While Bristles mostly ignored the blue birds and the hidden curses in the straw, the wrathravens eyed them with jealousy. ENVY and INJURY and UNFAIRNESS solidified in their nebulous torsos. Everything that once belonged to the beasts now clung to Swishy. Their red eyes were gleaming blades in the dark clouds. Most of their bodies were obscured by the demonic intent and refused to be sheathed.
Swishy felt Zone, Zeuce, and Zhird shuffle uncomfortably on his shoulders and head. It was easy for the scarecrow to pick their reactions out as special, as something that wasn’t fear.
“What’s wrong?” The boy whispered, now relaxing his show-boating T-pose.
The way they’re looking at us.
The way they’re looking at you.
The way that we used to be them.
Even the surrounding flock dragged through their flight. Through the soulscape, Swishy watched the nesting, burrowing birds, all hanging their heads from the shame. For the first time, they recognized that they’d wronged Swishy. The enemy of my enemy is my friend gig was something that made them join hands in comfort. They worked together out of convenience. But the birds were now more sensitive than they’d ever let on being.
“I mean, yeah you were pretty bad. That’s why you’re dead now.” Swishy didn’t intend it as a meanness, just a matter of fact.
You’re saying we paid for our wrongs.
“I don’t decide what’s fair or what the bad guys get. But this happened to you. And now you’re back. Since you’re back. Just don’t be them. Sorry that you’re scared but I’m not sorry for your shame.”
That’s fair, yeah.
“Let’s get through this. And when we get out of this maybe you’ll be honorable birds. You live in my friend so you better act right.”
The bird trio had nothing to say about that. But the shuffling stopped. They lowered their bodies, prepared to strike in the fight for their lives.
Red eyes gleamed in the shapes of serrated blades, cutting their jagged edges through the clouds. The wrathravens, whose eyes were all on Bristles, now glared at Swishy and his company of birds, his giant scarecrow full of freed curses, and uncaged spirits.
There was much for Swishy to overcome if he were to make it to the portal exit.
Swishy focused on the [Stake]. He sent all his energy through to the anchoring, pushing them upward, turning the Straw Guardian into a slow-moving observatory—one that drew the unwanted attention of Bristles and the wrathravens. The boy pretended that none of these complicating factors were there. Making a miracle required concentration.
Up, he told himself in his head. Nothing but up.
His magic and creativity had brought him this far, and sometimes he doubted how much more he had in him. Luck running dry was a notion he contended with in his head, one that he felt in his heart as a sour, depressive pang.
But he was brought to life for a reason. His was a mythic presence. Through him, anything was possible. Where, then, did the doubt come from?
The blackwheat-sprouting memories cycled through him like a slideshow.
Swishy inspected the nightmarish instances in rapid succession, scanning for the seeds of DOUBT. The word blared in him so strongly, just as present as STURDY, CARE, and EMPATHY. It was the worst thing he knew himself to be, for Swishy, as he was constantly reminded, was an imperfect god. The boy chalked it up to the fact that he had something he wanted.
Nothing was more uncertain than desire.
Even small wants tugged at his doubtful heartstrings. Any goal he had in mind—freedom, flight, a curse-free day—made him wary of the opposition. Because he was him, a straw boy of infinite possibilities, the world closed upon him like a…
B-I-R-D-C-A…
When he glanced around the airspace, the wrathravens stared right back—laughing. Their red, arrow-like eyes, widened into mirthful circles. Harm was their food, their greatest pleasure.
And they immediately sniffed out the doubt that bothered Swishy. And those feelings were getting stretched into bars. His soul cried at how it felt gripped, twisted, and warped.
Meanwhile, the wrathravens through their gaze alone morphed Swishy’s DOUBT into a cage—but now that the scarecrow was aware of the attack, he staved it away by touching his palm to the Straw Guardian. The doubtful parts of his consciousness were sent into the giant for magical cleansing. That amount of pessimism was easily filtered through the guardian, the birdcage letters flaking away.
Swishy lifted his palm from the guardian. “Thank you,” he said. Now that his emotions had been laundered, he straightened again with a tingly, refreshed feeling.
You’re learning…the wrathravens said all around. We hate it.
Their red eyes flared, reinforcing the spell.
There it was again, DOUBT, circling along the perimeter of Swishy’s heart in a set current, this time triggered by the possibility of disappointing Bristles. What if Swishy proved too weak? He saw himself and his new entourage getting abandoned. He started to see himself as a wicker basket, a straw backpack, a woven birdcage.
B-I-R in birdcage reformed again. That was the mini-game here. Stress would build the cage for the wrathravens.
But his hand-contact with the guardian took those feelings away again. Somewhere in the giant, that darkness was deposited. Swishy could feel the soul health of the straw guardian deteriorate, slightly, but surely.
“If looks could kill, huh?”
Indeed, Zone-Zeuce-Zhird said, nodded along to, and sighed over. We have to stick close to you and the guardian. If not, the turn-into-a-cage stare will get us too.
“Okay, stay careful.”
Bristles flew up to them and arched his eyebrows. “Thou art working with them, my liege? Surely one as mighty as yourself is above these small creatures.”
“The world has all kinds of beings, mostly the small.”
“Too many, quite honestly. What worth do they have other than small deeds and food? What will they do when faced with the spell that the wrathravens only now tried to inflict upon you?”
The scarecrow stiffened at the comment. He was unsurprised that Bristles noticed the attack but the boy wasn’t comfortable about having his spirit watched.
Stop it! He scolded himself. Then prepared a composed answer to Bristles. “I’m only going up and they won’t stop me”
“That’s what I like to hear. When in war, you must believe you’ll win.”
The boy heaved a sigh and the Straw Guardian did as well.
Even the progression of the [Stake] seemed to slow to a crawl. Swishy didn’t feel any resistance that stopped the anchor’s growth. He wondered if this was a subconscious choice on his part to slow down—because his conscious mind said Go-go-go. Once immersed in the heights of the true wrathravens, both Swishy and the Straw Guardian gazed around warily. The shadows were unpredictable.
But there was one predictable element: the wrathravens were full of wrath. Fueled by their frustrations against the violent Bristles and the cage-opening boys, they plotted against them. Their grip on the nest was loosening.
Even the znitches received instant glares, their freedom irritating the beasts.
Once we’re done with HIM, you guys next.
What the hell did we do? The znitches complained.
Exist, fools.
Well, fuck you too.
The glares sharpened into slits and the birds swiftly hid throughout the guardian—and some behind Swishy.
“So brave,” Swishy eyerolled.
I’d say not brave at all. And that’s okay. Bravery is for those who want to die.
Only Znitchy, the runt, remained high in the sky, chirping it seemed—chirping with rage.
“Get back here!” Swishy yelled—but Znitchy had its own mind, its indomitable death-wishing as it screamed way too close to the wrathravens.
The scarecrow shrugged—he refused to babysit. He’d save the smart, if no one else.
Bristles sprang into action then, shooting like a missile at one of the wrathravens. Within a second, he’d gone from hovering over the guardian’s head to jamming his claw into a wrathraven’s stomach. While the abdomen was gaseous, the Nevermore siphoned its shadows away. The victim groaned and crumbled, its limbs and wings becoming dust, its feathers dropping off like dead leaves.
When he noticed Swishy, he smiled, then proceeded to twist his hand in the decayed darkness.
“Welcome to the festival. Let’s claim this realm, then claim the High Chasm!”
“I can get with that.”
Are you sure? Zone-Zeuce-Zhird whispered into Swishy’s gourd. They perched upon his head and both of his shoulders. Their energy crackled with static, another part of their construction that they’d gathered from Trey.
“I’m sure. I’m kind of already doing it when you think about it.”
The birds gazed around briefly and noted the patches of gold that ebbed from the surface. They were high up but could still detect the origins of wishwillow energy.
Okay, okay, we see your work. Go on, convene with the slaver. We’ll let you do your thing.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I see you have advisors,” Bristles said. “Should I correct them in their audacity to speak directly to a god such as yourself?”
“No, I have them in check.”
Now do you?
Swishy prickled them with a soul-covered straw needle. “Yes, you’re in check.”
We’ll remember this…The birds whined as they buried their necks into where they’d been poked.
“That’s right!” Bristles cackled. “Corporeal punishment is the only true discipline.”
The scarecrow made a fist at Zone-Zeuce-Zhird, who pretended to be scared. They flew off his body a moment, then cautiously returned.
And so the battle continued. A second wrathraven had come from behind Bristles and snatched him away.
There Bristles was, gripped within immense talons, yet his expression didn’t change. He looked almost bored as the [Nevermore] reacted accordingly. The black claw stretched like everytree rubber and looped around Bristles’ back, grabbing one of the wrathraven’s wings—then ripping it out. The man-beast then turned around and took another wing. Then he plucked the claw off as well.
Bristles tore through the beast apart, one appendage at a time, as if it were paper. But the ripping was without sound or impact. There was no squelching anatomy. Only firm forms dissolved into vapors. Even the dismembered body part would dissolve into a smokiness, although the vague form of the wings remained.
The wrathravens are quite galled by the betrayal of one of their own. They had little to say on this because they weren’t surprised, just upset.
Violence was in their forte, their purpose. No matter what the wrathravens and Bristles would discuss, the result would’ve been this war anyway.
So Swishy thought, the hopeful part of him anyway.
Join us, the wrathravens said. Brother Nevermore, please, stop this folly. When you help the weak you go against nature.
“I am nature. I am the strongest, and you are my food.”
Several of the wrathravens screamed No, the strongest is I before charging in for an attack.
And not just on Bristles—but against Swishy too.
Within his chest he could hear a distinct cracking, the slightest sprouting of blackwheat. But Swishy kept stable. He knew that anything he encountered would be unexpected and unpleasant. He just had to endure because he was the miracle, he was the answer—Swishy needed to make sure that he always, always believed this.
Swishy counted five wrathravens striking toward him—one at his front and four at his back.
The boy focused on keeping calm. He held to the idea that things would be okay, that so-called toxic positivity the snitches accused him of, and the [Trust] activated. While the little scarecrow massaged his waning optimism into the stake, the mega scarecrow balled its vines into fists.
The beasts were upon him, five [Black Blasts] fully charged in their mouths.
Unexpectedly, the birds gathered around him, their body language more protective than he expected. A subtle static cracked along the edges of their wings. The obvious Trey contribution settled Swishy more, allowing for smooth emotional gains to pour into the [Stake].
The wrathraven blast were released—and the [Stake] zoomed upward by several meters, allowing Swishy and the birds to dodge. But the guardian’s shoulders took the hit, its straw set aflame by black corruption. The fires remained, too, spreading at a crawl, methodically consuming its magic-straw meal.
But the guardian wouldn’t take a hit without delivering its payback. The [Haymaker] barrage was immediate. The giant had wound backward at the waist, and then took looping swings at the wrathravens, smashing them all with one swing.
Swishy saw the logic. [Slap] and [Punch] for smaller enemies like the transformed humans, and [Haymaker] for the massive, easier to hit ones. Pleased at their system, he continued to serve as the energy battery while the giant was the heavy-handed defender.
I see…the wrathravens said, then retreated. There was no injured pride or discernible attitude about their comment. It was neutral and calculating. They backed away, using the distance the skies had afforded them.
Swishy grew worried. His limitations were clear. While he and Straw Guardian were fairly stationary upon the stake, the wrathravens could fly beyond their immediate strike range.
And fly they did—toward three troublesome targets.
One: down below, aiming for the [Stake], sending [Wing Blade] attacks to shave it away, hoping to cut it down for a disastrous tumble to the cage-littered surface.
Two: to the heart, to Trey, where they wielded [Black Blasts] in their mouths, knowing that while the straw was fortified, the attempt on Trey would distract Swishy.
Three: the portal door, where the others had been gathering energy, serving as goalkeepers of evisceration.
The wrathravens were done with up-close combat. The one that pursued Bristles had also eased off of him. Swishy shuddered from the red auras that ebbed around their bodies.
Caution wins the day, they said from far off, ramping up their villainous laughter.
Utilizing the luxury of distance, they collected energy. Whirlpools of darkness gathered in the skies, swirling, raging, condensing. The balls became small, compact, and extra-violent. Swishy knew a bomb when he saw it. He’d made one himself against the E-squad.
There were words he knew well that traveled within: hollow, agony, frost, abyss.
[CHASM], the wrathravens said.
From somewhere far off, definitely within away from the protection of Swishy, little Znitchy was chirping its heart out. Through the soulscape, Swishy knew the angry bird was telling the wrathravens to die.
The boy laughed.
And then Swishy’s soul took in the most worrisome, shuddering breath of his storied life.