Ulikali was accurate to the depictions Quezhal had seen. Feathered yet human, he stood, or rather in this case, sat at around ten feet tall. The golden throne he sat upon had strange copper tubing trailing around, some portions connecting to his skin.

“I have chosen you,” said Ulikali in his chorus of voices. He seemed to be waiting for a response, yet Quezhal was too frightened to do little more than stare unblinkingly at the God, unable to meet his eyes.

“Speak.”

Quezhal finally opened his mouth to reply, yet closed it again, requiring more prodding from Ulikali. He did not want to anger his God, however, so he eventually decided to say a few words.

“What am I doing here, my divinity?” he asked uncertainly. It seemed the God was placated by this and continued on.

“I need someone to influence affairs in your plane of existence,” he said persuasively.

Quezhal, in a moment of extreme stupidity on his part, or at least he thought, decided to counter Ulikali’s statement. “What of your soldiers? The ones with the wings? They can live in my world, surely, my divinity.”

“Don’t be foolish. They cannot survive long there, just as you will not survive long here,” Ulikali retorted.

At this, Quezhal froze. ‘You will not survive long here’. Is it happening already? he thought as he panicked, making sure he didn’t feel different.

“Do not worry. You will not perish for some time yet. For now, I must instruct you. You do not appear to have much in the way of intelligence,” Ulikali observed, and he was right, Quezhal didn’t even know how to read. “Yet you will need it to back up your strength. Your knowledge of logic is solid, perhaps natural, however, you will need this,” he said, as a book materialized in front of Quezhal. He could feel the God sifting through his mind, it was quite unnerving.

The book was small, small enough to fit in a pocket with no trouble, and was completely blank, yet upon opening, Ulikali’s words appeared on the pages as he spoke. A strange feeling overcame Quezhal as he held it, as if it was fusing to him somehow.

“I need someone to do tasks for me. Conceal modicums of information, acquire items of value, rally armies to fight in the name of the mighty Ulikali. You can do those things,” Ulikali said.

Quezhal squirmed beneath his gaze, then finally looked up at Ulikali, and asked a simple question: “Why me?” He left the ‘my divinity’ part off of the sentence, yet Ulikali did not seem to care too much, despite the stories Quezhal had heard.

“Because you are not a fighter. You will not be reckless, and you will not get yourself needlessly killed. You will not start arguments, nor engage in one.”

“Then how will I raise armies, my divinity?” he questioned.

Ulikali chuckled, which sounded ethereal in the God’s multitude of voices. “I can help with that portion. Do you accept?”

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“Yes.”

And with that, Ulikali gave a simple gesture of dismissal, leaving a set of instructions upon the book, which surprisingly, Quezhal could read. He shuffled back down the hall, this time looking out the windows as he passed, feeling the glare of the God’s eyes on his back.

Outside there were what Quezhal suddenly understood, though he wasn’t sure how, to be factories. Copper pipes and clean grey bricks, but no smoke or smog, which some force vaguely connected to the book told him was common, but instead steam. These factories covered the land, and workers with small, ornamental wings – those whose were not big enough to fly supposedly – walked the streets, carrying tools.

As he passed one of the last few windows on his way to the end of the hall, he saw machines lined up in rows, neat copper and steel vehicles. Additionally, there were some of those wooden eagles being made of steel, which he now recognized to be planes.

It was all in all a fascinating sight, to have all of this knowledge and wonder tossed upon him. Yet, he had begun to feel a slight twinge somewhere in his chest and raced down to the end of the corridor.

When he reached the area, he had started in, light blinded him again. Then, he stood in the doorway of his shop, the town before him in ruins, silent in death.

---

The book held three lines, three instructions for him to complete, and Ulikali’s signature. This is what they read:

- Leave for the next nearest town

- Find room and board

- Await further instruction

Authenticated by Ulikali

Quezhal gathered what he could from his shop, then went over to unlock the cellar doors. When he got there, however, it appeared Ulikali’s soldiers had arrived before him, as there were no survivors. None except a small boy who huddled in a corner, caressing a small cat. It was Chako, the mute boy, who was around eight years old. His mother, Iti, whom Quezhal had known well, was dead in the corner, holes in her chest still smoking from the bullets.

Chako sat there poignantly, clutching the cat. Quezhal hobbled over and helped the boy to his feet. From there he led him to the road.

“Go on, leave. There is nothing for you here,” Quezhal assured the boy.

However, Chako would not leave him. Quezhal watched him follow and could not bring himself to run off and lose him.

Quezhal went about preparing for his departure, occasionally hearing the cat mew. He had gathered everything he could and searched some other houses for food or other supplies.

After everything, Istuka finally fell, he thought. The town would be discovered again later, by traders or the like. It would slowly be etched off of maps, the town would overgrow with dense jungle vines, and just like that, all that was there would be no longer.

The high priest of the town was dead, all the slaves killed or fled. Ulikali did not reign over this land anymore, and thus it was unblessed and unprotected from the jungle. Even now the roads out may be blocked by the fast-growing creepers.

In times like this, Quezhal remembered he had once worshipped a different god, one that resembled those of the southmen. The Baron of Drutith. His people had been influenced by the barbarians too much, in his opinion. It had been part of his reason for leaving, and he had felt refreshed by the immersion in his birth culture.

As he finished up his packing, he noticed Chako was still there. He doubted Ulikali would like this. However, he was a God for a reason. He must have some sort of sympathy.

The pair walked over to the town gates, set into the palisade walls, and Quezhal looked back one last time. Chako pointedly did not, instead staring ahead, expressionless, either due to previous conditions or his recent trauma, Quezhal could not say.

And with that, they left Istuka to its fate.