Zatolen, Chief of the Ithian Gods, walked upon a dirt path carved by the steps of many before him. Sage clung to the air; the buzzing of distant bees in meadows of unseen flowers sounded from beyond the brush that lined up along the side of the path. He saw imprinted in the earth where mud had pooled in wet seasons the captured impression of children’s bare feet, sheep hooves, and sandals, and considered if those who had left them yet still lived. Something soft, brown, and green caught his eye, captured in a bramble, and he bent low, lifting a strange soft toy. It looked like a bird. It had been gnawed upon; some of the seams had worn away, letting stuffing poke from between threadbare cloth. He thought he saw it twitch all on its own. He took it in his pale hands with solemn care.  

“My oh my, what are you?” The Dark God inspected a faded tag that held some incomprehensible script, and it felt like a material he’d never touched nor seen. “Someone once loved you. I mourn that you’ve been discarded, little one. I shall mend you the best I can, for I do not know what you are made of.” 

Zatolen took the toy and returned to his cabin on his divine plane. He took it to a small workshop. He gathered thread, cloth, and a few cleaning supplies. He pushed the fluff back in and stitched the seams back together. He cleaned the dirt from its eyes and gently washed it. He left a small blood stain when the toy seemed to shift away as he went to wash it. “I see you were not abandoned; your owner died before he outgrew you? A faithful friend to the bitter end.” 

He looked into the glassy eyes and saw a strange interior of cloth and metal, squealing to one side, impact, breaking glass, a flipping of perspective, and sorrow. Zatolen nodded and took a deep breath before exhaling power into the toy. It seemed to swell and shift more often. 

Zatolen lowered his ear and listened. He felt through the thread, the blood, the cloth sensation, not a voice but a need that could be felt. It demanded motion. Zatolen exhaled onto it again and considered the toy again. This time, it felt less like mere want, and a hoarse voice formed in his mind. ‘Protect the hatchling.’  

Zatolen patted the toy upon the head. He took cloth and fashioned it into a semblance of feathers, sewing it over the thin, worn cloth of the bird. He breathed upon it again. A shiver ran down it, and its feet moved faintly. “I cannot give you life; I am not a god of creation. I can only give you fuel to find your own life, little one.” He breathed upon it again and heard it strive towards the offered life. It seemed less toy and more like a bird captured in a painting. ‘All alone,’ came the sensation down his hands, still carefully stitching on feathers. Zatolen frowned and took a bit of fluff, some thread, and cloth from the bird, which he used as a base to put together a new bird. He repaired the first and exhaled into each of them a total of six breaths.  

Zatolen fashioned them clay beaks and claws, baking and glazing them till they shone. He glued them over the soft cloth and breathed into them for a seventh time. He looked upon them, and he felt the parched voice echo that it must live. He pricked one finger and dripped upon each of them ten drops of black blood. They seemed to become more lifelike, shifting, moving choppily. “Oh.” Zatolen cooed. “Look how you strive.” 

Zatolen looked into the still, glassy eyes and saw the memory of the parents of his best friend storing him in a box, in darkness, packing away the memories of pain and loss. He laid upon each a kiss upon their brow and breathed into them an eighth time.  He watched them become sleeker, and cloth became flesh. Fluff became bone and muscle. Their wings spread, revealing claws like pseudo-hands. “Maybe there is too much human in you, maybe you shall strive all the more for it?” He held them close enough to feel their new lungs take their first breath, and they let out long, rolling coos.  

Zatolen looked upon them with great joy, but their eyes were still like little black beads, so he breathed into them the ninth time, and they became larger, full of life, of hope, of dreams. Their webbed feet slapped against his workbench. Claws clacked, wings flapped on the happy birds who looked about, taking in a world of sight; their nostrils snuffled, taking in scent. They flailed their wings against the dark god and felt their benefactor.  Zatolen sang to them so they could experience the beauty of their new hearing. They sang back to him, embracing their voices.  

“You were once a symbol of pain, child, now I feel like you’ll be one of joy. Something that strives. Something that embraces life with such vigor, all other life will smile upon thee. You carry inside your breast that hatchling so long as you and your kin strive, he shall be forever safe.” Zatolen leaned down and breathed into them a tenth time, and their spirits ignited, their minds, the kindling fire of thought. They were living sapient things. “Now, where might I put you?” Zatolen pondered and sent Carabella to deliver to Dwar’Vic plans for a new land mass near Mount Zatolos.  

Dollos was forged by sand, warm weather, waving trees, coconuts, crabs, and the birds found it a beautiful home. “I give you one commandment. I ask that you thrive.” He stroked each of their heads and left them to the lives they had striven towards. “My power will sustain you and your kin for a decade. You are fleeting things, so make use of what you have. Find joy in every moment.” He felt a bit of disappointment in the once-toy, and Zatolen considered things. “Ah.” He leaned in and whispered. “Of course, Protect the Hatchlings.” He let them live, and the Dollidoos spread across Dollos and spread further by the Septrinian. They lived, they strove forward, they thrived and spread down and out like a flowing river down the generations.