In a time before the Gods and their borders, before time and space, there lived a white serpent. Now, this was before the trial of Ssethssar, and the serpents were no more vengeful than the leaves on the trees, or the sun in the sky. His name was Silernius, and he lived a pleasant life, for a serpent. The desert sands were warm and soft, and never wavered in supply of mice and birds slow enough to find themselves wedged in Silernius’ jaw.

He was happy.

That was until the world knew the wrath of the sun. Suddenly, the sands were no longer solace, but torture. His scales singed, even underground, and he travelled so fast and so far away from the heart of the desert that he had dragged half the sands down with him, creating a hole so deep and treacherous that the grains had no choice but to surge forwards.

For one hundred days and one hundred and one nights, the deserts shifted.

When Silernius had found comfort in the eventual solace at the edge of the waters, he had brought the sands with him. Fine dust scattered the crops at the riverbank, baking the greenery around it in its residual heat. The village erupted into famine and poverty. An old wife claims to have seen the white, glistening head of a serpent before the winds changed.

And that is why, even today, peaceful snakes are still signs portending disaster.

In the age before Gods, there lived a tiger whose stripes were not black, but dusky blue. His name was Rha’korr, and unlike the serpent Silernius, he was a ruler. The jungle bent to him in reverence, for Rha’korr was the first creature to understand the rhythm of the world, able to predict the shifting of tides, the ripening of fruits, the arrival of the monsoons with uncanny accuracy. His paws pressed patterns into the soil that the roots themselves followed, and the birds sang only when he allowed it.

He was a keeper of which the skies envied, for the sky, in those days, was a living thing, vast and hungry and easily wounded, watching Rha’korr command the seasons change, watching the jungle thrive under his rule. The sky resented Rha'korr, but withheld its tears for pride.

That month, monsoons did not come, despite Rha'korr's prediction. The rivers shrank into threads of silver, animal and plant alike curling inwards, dried out for thirst and exhaustion. Even the mountains fell silent, for they knew the sky’s temper, and even the evergreens upon the peaks did not bloom. After months of famine, Rha’korr climbed to the highest point, and roared up to the heavens in desperate plea. His voice rolled across the heavens, shaking the stars from their hiding places, begging the skies to split open and spill their bounty, for rain to fall for the good of his kingdom.

But the sky refused, and so Rha’korr climbed further, upwards, into the cold breath of the heavens. His claws tore through vapour and his stripes crackled with lightning as the sky fought him, hurling winds sharp enough to flay moss from stone, but Rha’korr did noot yield. He sank his teeth into the heart of the storm and forced it open.

For seven days and seven nights, the world drowned in the sky’s blood. Rivers swelled. Trees bowed under the weight of water. The jungle wept with relief. But when the storm finally calmed, Rha’korr did not return. Some say he became the first thunder. Others say he sleeps inside the clouds, waiting for the sky to become selfish again. And that is why, even today, when the monsoon clouds gather, they growl once before the rainfall, Rha'korr's bravery echoing through the clouds.

In the days before dawn and dusk had names, the parrots were creatures of a single colour, downy and soft and green, living in the canopy of Ra'korr's jungle, chattering endlessly, for parrots have always loved the sound of their own voices. Above them, the sun drifted timelessly. Some days it lingered too long, scorching the bark and drying the rivers, and other days it vanished early, leaving the world cold and confused. The parrots, who were creatures of habit, found this deeply irritating. They complained loudly, as parrots do, until one bold fledgling named Aru’mi decided to investigate.

Aru’mi believed the sun was not a ball of fire, but a great golden flower brimming with nectar. “Why else,” he reasoned, “would it glow so sweetly?” And because parrots are easily convinced by their own ideas, the entire flock agreed at once.

And, so at the next dawn, if it could be called dawn, for the sun rose whenever it pleased, Aru’mi and his flock beat their wings and flew upward. They climbed, higher and higher in the sky, their feathers catching the light as they neared the sun. Its glow spilled over them, staining their green plumage with brilliant colours; reds like ripe fruit, oranges like dried clay, yellows like sweet pollen, blues like deep water. The parrots shrieked with delight, believing the colours were droplets of nectar clinging to them. But the sun was far too hot to drink from. When they drew close enough to feel its breath, they panicked and wheeled away, spiralling back toward the earth in a flurry of colour. Their descent painted the sky behind them in streaks of gold, rose, and violet as the colour trailed from their wings.

For the first time, the sky blushed with morning.

The parrots, thrilled by the attention, repeated the ritual the next time the sun wandered upward. And the next. And the next. Soon, they discovered that if they flew up again in the evening, chasing the sun as it drifted away, the sky would bloom with deeper, richer colours, as though the day itself had its very own swan-song. Once one flock began the ritual, every flock copied it. Sunrise and sunset became a chorus of hungry wings, and the sun, amused by their devotion, finally settled into a rhythm so the parrots would know when to begin their sky‑painting.

And so, even now, when the horizon glows pink or gold, it is not the sun at all, but the parrots flying up to taste its nectar, their colours smearing across the heavens.