Quezhal knew unnatural things came from the south. Men from places that froze, with corpse-like pale skin, unlike the dark brown of his. But this, this was worse. They wore metal, like hundreds of blades melted together, draped over themselves; with their faces covered; you couldn’t even tell they were human.  

They had come to besiege his town, Istuka, and he had been exempted from the fighting, his bad leg would just hinder them. He all the women and children he could find, tales of the southmen’s brutality had not escaped his ears. Quezhal had hid them in a cellar at his shop, then shoveled dirt over the entrance and flattened it. If he was killed by the invaders, well, they would have to find a way to break out. 

His shop was devoid of everything valuable, which was hidden in a pit a few fields away. If the invaders came to his leather workshop, they would find nothing, and as long as he remained docile, they would not harm him – not like that was a problem for him. 

Quezhal watched as the men advanced on the town walls. The garrison would soon fail, and he would have to turn over anything the invaders demanded. It had happened before. The Kingdom of Kuzahelo was small and thin, and was constantly under attack to seize its resources, specifically the metals. Once they had taken their quarry, they had no use for the land, and gave it back, waiting for the metals to appear again at the next Tistekal, the season when the air cooled and things began to bloom, and resources replenished. 

It’s a rather pathetic existence for a Kingdom, Quezhal thought. Someday I’ll set up somewhere stable. His goal for the immediate future was simply to leave. He hated Istuka to put it bluntly, hated the way the citizens were treated, whether by the invaders or the government, with their heavy tariffs on spices and sugars, as well as the constant taxing to repair damages to many other similar towns. 

Alas, he did not have enough money to make it far, leather working was not a very profitable profession in this part of the land, where the sun and heat could damage it often, which provoked people into finding alternatives. It wasn’t like he chose to come here in the first place, trapped in a war-stricken slum. 

Shouting rang in the distance, approaching slowly. He pretended to begin working on a piece of leather, bracing himself for the arrival of the invaders. His hands trembled, and his left leg began to feel weak. 

Someone banged on the door, causing Quezhal to jump. “Eg dukin bor!” a coarse voice shouted. No matter what language, that was one thing Quezhal always understood: “Open the door”. Usually, there were curse words that came with it, and he presumed as much from the emphasis on the ‘dukin’. 

He hobbled over to the entrance to his shop, and, whispering the password to the lock, cracked the door open hesitantly. The moment it was unlocked, however, the men came barging in, knocking him to the ground. A passing man kicked at him, and Quezhal wrenched back in pain, grasping his abdomen. The invaders tromped about, tossing things off shelves, tearing through cabinets, overall disorganizing his shop. When they found nothing, they kicked him again, and left. 

Quezhal, still shaking, managed to pick himself up off the ground. Normally one as young as he was, around twenty-two years old, would have no problem getting up.  

He stumbled over to his workstation, his lip bleeding, and rummaged through his belongings, taking inventory. He wouldn’t rearrange it, in case anyone else came back and just messed it up again. In spite, it appears, they had broken his crutch. 

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Another invasion had happened, and once again, Quezhal had done nothing to stop it. The screams of the helpless filled his ears and he sat down in shame. At least he had helped some of his fellow denizens, hiding them. 

“I wish they were dead, mighty Ulikali. If you would fix my leg I could fight back.” 

A loud crackling sound flashed outside. Quezhal sighed, not wanting to know what the invaders did now. He just walked over – supporting himself with the broken crutch – to his bedroom, which was adjacent to the shop, and settled into the messy bed. 

Screams still sounded outside, but they were different, lower and more guttural. Those are men screaming! he thought. But what could have caused them to... 

Quezhal’s thoughts were interrupted by an ear-shattering explosion. He yelped, throwing himself to the ground, before realizing everything was fine. Dazedly, he sat up and wandered over to the front door. When he opened the door, a horrific sight met his eyes. 

From the heavens, eagles of wood and canvas descended, throwing exploding cannonballs at the invaders, and winged figures in the air descended upon the scene. As they reached the ground, they stowed their jet-black feathery wings and brandished a strange sort of hand-cannon with a white-silver blade protruding from the end. They slaughtered the invaders, and helped shivering beaten survivors off the ground, using Gutichi magic to heal their wounds. 

Ulikali had answered his prayer it seemed, though his leg wasn’t healed. He watched as the sky men danced through the streets, mesmerizingly beautiful yet killing at the same time. They had their faces uncovered, and only wore metal sparingly. One soldier would attack one from behind only for the sky man to spin and cut him apart, then would spin once more to shoot – at an alarmingly rapid pace – at another. 

It was in fact gruesome when he saw the aftermath, blood pooling in gutters beneath the street, the miasma rising up and coating the back of his throat. And now, with the wooden eagles smoke and fire came too. 

Quezhal finally noticed a very important detail: the sky men weren’t helping the Istukal, they were fighting the invaders. In fact, by sheer luck or otherwise, he was the only one the sky men left untouched. 

He watched as death consumed the city, and the cries began to dampen. Eventually, it was silent. Incredibly silent. Quezhal sat at the entrance to his shop in shock. The smoke began to clear, and everything was gone.  

Could it have been a vision? he thought. Is the danger really gone? The sights he had seen were impossible, even with highly trained mages and shamans it was incredibly hard to achieve flight. 

A beam of light engulfed him where he sat in his doorway. The light blocked out all else. Eventually it faded, and Quezhal was standing in a different place than before. 

White and black architecture, smooth gleaming stone reflecting beautiful, refreshing sunlight. Arches and pillars rose, and murals were carved intricately into the stone, coated with gold plate. In the distance, a figure sat sternly upon a throne, his gaze seeming to sear Quezhal’s eyes, forcing him to look away.  

As Quezhal walked down the hall to the throne, he was tense. The majesty of the hall was too grand, grander than anything he had ever seen. Murals depicted strange scenes, which were frightening in nature. And in the ceiling, lights hung that had no fire, yet did not have the slightly concealing glow of magical sources that hazed the air. 

Eventually, the figure spoke in voice that seemed to be a mix of voices, high and low, yet all male. 

“Welcome to the 3rd Plane, Quezhal. We have matters to discuss.” 

The voice that spoke was none other than Ulikali, the Patron-God of Kuzahelo.