Silt, the Inked Scribe of the Hall of Heroes, nuzzled his box of hay, fluffing it up with his long ink-stained beak. He settled down at his little desk and dragged parchment into position with clawed wings. He dipped the tip of his beak with a small quill-like attachment clipped to the end into a pot of ink and started on the first special Dollidoo. He wrote the words and ink bled into darkness. 
 
The World was small, dark, and full of substance. Inside this was a small Dollidoo, a significantly larger flightless cousin of the pigeon; his identity formed at this time in his incubation. He was Siegfried; he knew this to be true as Dollidoos have no time for such silly things as not knowing who they are when they live a set ten years before the magic that sustains them dies out. With this knowledge, something clicked inside of him, and with it came motion, a striking of beak, a cracking of darkness bleeding into the World the ever so faint light. Then, with another strike, the World grew so great into a nest, a clearing in a wood, high above little Siegfried’s eyes saw the Eagle in flight. He knew that one day he, too, would fly so high. 
 
The World was large, a whole forest where little Siegfried waddled with his mother. She showed him the safe berries and what to avoid, but he had only eyes for one thing: height. He wandered away from his mother as he spied so high a sparrow perched on a branch. He came to stand before the smaller bird so high up on the branch and cooed. ‘Oh sparrow so high, I dream to fly like you.’ 
 
The Sparrow tweeted back in their musical song. ‘You shall never fly so high. You are too heavy, and your wings are too short to dream of flight.’ 
 
‘I shall fly so high, just wait and see.’ With that, little Siegfried, with clawed wings and a sharp beak, worked his way up the side of the tree. He made it to the highest branch far above the Sparrow with flailing wings half-fluttered and half-glided down to the ground below. His chest puffed up with pride. ‘See, I have flown so high.’ 
 
‘That is no flight. That is but to fall slowly.’ The Sparrow huffed and flew off. 
 
The World was great: a forest, a beach, and the prominent Mount Zatolos monument to Zatolen, Chief of the Gods. The island was part of the great mount, which rose on massive terraced steps like a spiral staircase for giants. The base was bigger than a Dollidoo could imagine. On the third step up, led to by a path of sleek black stone, was a tower of the same material long abandoned. It had sunk into the ground. Here, at a half year old, Siegfried came upon the Falcon, who sat on the cliffside where it could watch the forest below. Now too big for the Falcon to be an overt danger, Siegfried came upon it. ‘Hello, great Falcon. I am Siegfried and dream of flying as high as the great Eagle.’ Who cooed almost musically with touches of sparrow song.  
 
The Falcon turned its head, so one powerful eye took in the bird as big as it. ‘Dollidoos do not fly. They don’t need to.’ 
 
‘I don’t need to either, but I wish to; I hope to.’  
 
‘Oh, Hatchling, such a dream will only bring you pain. You can never fly. Your people are not capable.’  
 
‘I will fly so high.’ Siegfried huffed and looked about. He looked up to the tower and, squeezing into a window, came up the many stairs to a balcony where he was far above the Falcon. He could see the path that led up high with old, worn stairs carved into each cliff of the steps. The peak pierced far above the clouds. He looked down to the forest below, which was hazy with fog, and, taking a deep breath, leaped off the balcony. His wings flailed their hardest, and he fell slowly towards the forest below. He passed by the Falcon, who watched mournfully and, as he descended, clipped his wing against a branch and fell far, far down. The ground rushed to embrace him, and the World became darkness and pain. 
 
The World was pain and hurt and failings. The bird lay broken lost from his mother, father, and siblings. He felt like he might die here. Pale hands reached down into muddy earth, and the Sigfried ascended into the air. Scarlet eyes looked him over, and careful hands held him so he would not hurt himself more, one dusted earth from his body. “My, my, who would throw out such a perfectly good Dollidoo.” the Dark God pondered. Zatolen gathered sticks and made the little bird a simple splint for his wing. He wasn’t sure it would heal right with how bad the break was, but it might help with further harm. “Little one, I value those who seek their dreams wherever they might find them. Do not let today’s failure mar your dream. One day, Dollidoos may fly. Mayhap not quite the way of other birds.” He returned the little hatchling to his mother’s care and let him live his life. 
 
The World had shrunk not by receding but by Siegfried’s growth. He never left the forest after his fall many years ago. He had found himself a mate and had made with her a family with little doodles all their own. He had seen the Dark God occasionally, and he asked if he had pursued his dream anymore. Each time, he had told the god that he might try tomorrow when he had time. He was busy with the hatchlings and his wife, with gathering food, and life. 
“Be weary,” Zatolen said. “Time is like space in a sinking ship. If you don’t fill it yourself, it will fill itself.”  
As the years went by, Siegfried’s fear fermented until the day before the end, surrounded by his family, came the Dark God. “Siegfried, you who dreamed of flight, to fly higher than the Eagle, the Falcon, and the Sparrow. Your wing was broken, as was your spirit. There are no more tomorrows. The end is neigh, and Kaxis approaches. I task you to climb my mountain. To reach its peak within your last twenty-four hours of life and fly. Fly so far above the reaches of mere eagles. I ask you to fly above the Gods of Dawn, Dusk, and all their riders. To fly above the Clouds. To give your dream one last chance.” 
 
Siegfried cowered before the Dark God and bowed his head. His hatchlings had dreamed too of flight, but he had made sure they would never feel his pain. He could try one more time. His wing ached, but if he could, it might give his children the chance that their dreams might also have a chance. Siegfried cooed his affirmations to the Dark God and, with a tearful goodbye, set out up the mountain. He climbed the many stairs carved into cliffsides, journeyed up the first four tiers in the first hours, and, taking a short rest, spied far below at the edge of the island a dark figure bound in white. Kaxis, the Reaper of Souls, was visible only to gods, those powerful in magic, and those about to die of natural causes. He was far away, but as his time dwindled, he would grow nearer. 
He heard the war horn bellow and saw the God of Night, Ishtur Mil, leading his night riders across the sky, too far up for the sound of hooves to reach the Doodle. They dragged their banners of the Night across the sky as the light started to flitter over the fleeting banners. Then the dawn rose, Halm Ior, God of the Day, broke over the tall Icey mountains that bordered this small square of the greater plane, spreading light from the ever-present star Siger. His riders of the day brought for the day sky on their banners and, with light skirmishing, started to drive Night back—the line of the rising light caught on Kaxis, who walked with it. When the line of the day reached the peak of Mount Zatolos, Siegfried would die. 
He hurried up ever faster, the line and Reaper closing in. His heart beat in his chest as he came higher and higher. He paused to rest once more, glancing down to see Kaxis standing at the base of the second tier. He glanced about the surroundings so high that the air had started to thin. 
The World was so great he could see the grey splotch in the center of Ithia, sprawling continents splotched the little square that was their World, and so many smaller masses littered the great oceans. “Death isn’t so tragic.” Came the calm, sweet voice like the bells of some fairy queen. “There will be peace, second chances, and your wing will stop hurting.” 
Siegfried looked up at the goddess, pale only corpses, arsenic, or white lead could achieve. He cooed at her that he was not yet dead and still had a chance. 
She smiled sweetly. “Of course, I shall walk with you, and when my brother gives you rest, I shall guide you home.” 
Siegfried gave a solemn nod and continued up the mountain. He climbed higher passing level with the Riders of Day and Night, who battled not too far off in their little playful skirmishes. He passed the clouds and saw Eur Chara, the Goddess of the Sky, a humanoid mass of clouds who drifted over to the weary bird, scooped out of the earth a hole, and filled it with clean rainwater for succor. “Zatolen has set such a task for you: drink little one for you near your end one way or the other.” She said with a mournful static. He drank gratefully and deeply, but he could not linger and continued after hugging the cloudy Goddess. 
He grew tired but kept moving, and after many hours, he approached the peak, followed by Marlis. He glanced back to see Kaxis, but a few yards away, a mummified corpse of a God bound in chains. A distortion of the air resembled something long ending in a curve. It gave Siegfried such a start that he could have dropped dead. Instead, he raced up towards the peak wings, flailing in terror as Death approached. He scrambled up rocks as the stairs became too worn to be of use and the cliffs too shallow to need their aid anyway. He neared the peak, and Kaxis was steps away. As Siegfried reached the peak, the gnarled hand reached out for him and paused, allowing the little bird to leap off the peak. Wings flailed with all the strength and energy Siegfried could muster, driven by adrenaline, terror, and the sprouting seed of hope that had reawaken this day.  
For a moment, Siegfried soared above the Sparrow, The Falcon, and as he descended, he saw far below the Eagle. Siegfried saw the whole of the World for painted with Eur Chara’s clouds, and then, having never cleanly healed, his wing gave out, and he plummeted down towards the World below. He fell through Chara’s outstretched hands, passing through her like her cloudy domain; he bounced off a prancing dawn-lit horse, hit a rider of Night, and continued down towards the earth below, he passed the Eagle hit the roof of the tower and crashed into a small clearing where an old nest lay. Kaxis stood over him, and he could see the scythe now. Kaxis drew it back as if to cleave through tall grass. “I give you peace child. I give you mercy.” The Reaper whispered and swung, but before it had fallen more than a mere inch, it cut a pale hand, the blade digging into flesh.  
 
“No, not him, dear uncle. I claim him as my own.” Zatolen spoke and leaned down to the broken Dollidoo. “You who have flown higher than the Gods. I grant you this. To be blood of my blood.” He offered the hand which dripped black blood. “Drink and be like me.” 
The broken bird opened his beak with a weak coo and let the black droplets fall. The Numbness fled; there was brief agony, and then bone cracked, flesh mended, and he felt his body fix itself. His feathers darkened, becoming black and scarlet rather than green and brown. “Your people have been neglected for far too long. I give them hope, I give them dreams, I give them a God who will not forsake them. I give them you.” He said, picking up the bird with caring hands. “You are my son. You may take your family to my home where they will not die, where they will not wither.”  Siegfried the Scarlet ascended to demi-godhood. 
 
The World was Dark, but with the breaking of the dawn, there came light. Sampson looked about the little nest; he saw his sister Para. He looked up to the heavens above in wonder as the day rose and saw for a moment a Dollidoo flying high above, and he knew that one day, he, too, would fly so high.