The Raven

We summit a ridge — only to see, littered before us, a fresh battlefield. Bodies lie strewn among the trees and the dust — soldiers of some kind, though no soldiers have marched in these parts for centuries. Picking over the punctured flesh flutter thousands of ravens.

As we regard the macabre scene in dismay, a single raven alights on the nearest branch. To our surprise, its croaking voice forms human words. "Good day, travellers. It takes luck to make it this far. But your luck is near an end. Others, wise as ye and twice as fortunate, became our feast in these lands. If ye walk forth, their misfortune will surely become yours."

The bird turns eyes bitter as night upon us. We remember the stories we heard as children — that a raven is a sign of ill omen. Does this bird speak truth with its evil portents?