The Stars' Shroud

[An account from Trenakiyu of Corchaug]

Hear me well, children, for the fire is low, and the night only begins! I am Trenakiyu, recorder of the old words, and what I tell you was given to me by my mother, and her mother before our clans, as far back as the breath of the very first coves in this place.

Long ago… the earth shuddered. The Ever Freeze was nearly done. The frozen waters pulled back slowly, like tired beasts. Crossing Beringia was harder then, than it would ever be again so. And suddenly…

…some said a wound opened in the heavens. A body of light, burning, furious! It ripped across the sky. A star, or was it, a wanderer from beyond the veil of worlds? It whispered sharper than flint, and older than the tides. It would curl like snakes through the bark of the mind. You always would know. You always would feel this. It knows you.

Many saw it pierce the night sky, so above, and they came and they did. It rained great burning splinters across the land, like the embers from a god’s forge! Many parts were lost to sea and storm. But one—yes, the greatest… and perhaps the most alive—fell upon the isles we now call Sewanhacky.

The land was forever different—where twisting cave systems spread around it like a root. Deep inside would rest the first stone: sharp ochre scrapes mind's eye through with a bright, and—some spoke of its glow— green, light. It wasn't buried there; it sang quietly above us all, and as one with the animals. You could—some say—feel it humming deep in the chest, as if it quietly called anyone willing, nearby, to 'speak' of its own sky. 

For thousands of years, the caves kept it hidden. But, its power still trickled its allures. Reeds shot up taller than before, their tips giving off a soft glow on the darkest of nights. Animals moved different—smoother, gracefully—and with the flash of knowing. And the people living along the shores, tied to the river and the wild? They felt its rhythms in the dream; always within the dream. Ever beset, steady and deep.

They called it Kishelamak, the “Breath of the Fallen.” To our tribes, it was not a god, nor demon… but something betwixt… a force for reverence, and yet no answer. Shamans knelt at the cave’s mouth — their chants would weave tales of a star to chose earth, and a light that reshaped soul and flesh. Children born into its world bore many marks—eyes so bright, voices carrying wind across water. Some could run swifter than the deer, with forms blurring at edges half-dreamed. Others spoke to beasts — yes — it is true. With words of truth, the silent understanding, and with their hands tracing patterns in the air that sparked and faded. These were the first windings of what we would later call the Anthrokyn — walking beast kin whose order did not achieve four legs, but rather, two.

We see a hunter, lean as reeds, stood by the river, and an energy he hummed strange. Tadpoles paused, eyes pricked, as if his words wove their wills. A woman watches, heart stilled—Kishelamak’s breath speaks through he, as to men bound of beasts in solid nature. The hunter’s hands warped, claws sprouting as the star’s keening roared in his bones.

Among these early people was Tala, a young seer whose visions came unbidden — every sight a tale sharp as thorns. Her hair — streaked with silver, yet, so young in her cheeks — framed eyes that saw beyond the veil of dawn. She alone ventured deepest into these caves, guided by a hum. “Kishelamak does not sleep,” she told her kin, her voice trembling with awe—and fear. “It waits. It shapes us, but it asks something in return.” 
Her warnings went beyond them, unheeded, for the clans saw only the gifts: strength, speed, cunning, kinship to primality. They built altars of bone and driftwood, singing many songs to the shard. Never were they sure that its power was ever theirs to claim.

Centuries passed, and the star's shroud grew larger. A shadow across time, subtle and relentless. The Anthrokyn became more, their forms speaking flesh—fox-kin with cunning tongues, wolf-kin with unyielding hearts, owl-kin who know the dark as home. Their myths spoke of times when all would walk as one with the beasts. To say, the star’s light could reshape the earth, make worlds. Yet the piece remained hidden, buried in a labyrinth untouched, guarded by those who sensed its ebbing shadow but could never name it.

The cove and place was loved for such a time. But...

Then, in the time of iron under a shifting sky, the world was now anew. A tremor, born of pressures older than memory, split the heart of Sewanhacky. The first one, old as the epochs, shattered. Its shards sent like seeds upon winds, and a sparking veil of energy—sharpest moonlight, and a paleless blade—erupting the heavens. The sky burned with colors no tongue could name. Finally, the land trembled as if so waking from a long dream.

The Anthrokyn awoke fully — their forms were full now. No longer could we say half: fur and claws, wings and fangs, bound to human will. Across Sewanhacky, the air cracked athunder, and those of it felt bloodsong—the new truths — and new possibilities.

Tala, now—yes—old, stood atop a cliff, the cliff where skyfall burned in dreams. Her eyes—clouded, oh, but so more unyielding—traced the arcs of light, the lights that sang its name to so few. But its gift to our people—was free. “It is done,” she whispered, yes, to the wind that stole her words. “And we—oh, we—are its vessels, whether we will it or not, whether we dream or awake.” The tribes, struck with awe, wove tales, new tales, of the Skyfall, of a star that gave life, took life, and yes — a power to forge new empires. Perhaps to break them, shatter them to dust. The Anthrokyn spread, their gifts—speed, strength, sight beyond sight—both blessing, oh, and heavy boulders to burden.

A girl, barely twelve winters, outran the other wolves of four legs, as her feet blur the senses, and the eyes gazing pure, gleamed like the finest river stone. Tala knelt, even trembling—Kishelamak’s breath had marked her: with the woven beasts of dreams to become. Another woman, feathered, extraordinary, eyes a wildest moon, traced paths in night’s unyielding veil. Tala nodded—Kishelamak’s breath saw her, too, binding the dark to dream.

Gather, by the fire’s dying embers, and hear of our caves—empty now, so, so empty—where Tala, seer of old, spoke truths unspoken, and silent ever still. The star shard’s burst did not end it, no... Its essence scattered, see, upwards of skies, into Anthrokyn, and into this very air of Sewanhacky. Its will lingers, patient, oh, so very patient, waiting for those strong—or foolish enough—to lay new claim.

Wanderers come out, drawn here by whispers to stars falling, and whispers to man becoming more. The almighty gift. Among these few, Gavreck, a warrior-son, carried his father’s ways... with an oath laid naked—blind, so he was, as to the evil burning inside himself.

The Skyfall faded to legend, its truth buried, yes, ever deep into oral hushes, in songs half-forgotten. But its echoes—so ever more—shaped Sewanhacky for millennia, and for ages untold. The Anthrokyn walked, their origins a mystery, a riddle even to themselves. And this land, oh, such land, bore the scar of a star in fate it continues. Threads, to power woven deep, so deeper even still and stitched into the marrow of the Anthrokyn who come after us.
