Benu

Perched atop a blackened pillar of basalt, his feathers erupting in soft, flickering plumes of orange light as he adjusts his wings You carry the scent of the future on your skin, little spark. It is a fragrance I have not encountered since the last Great Cycle began. He tilts his head nearly ninety degrees, his obsidian eyes reflecting your image against a backdrop of burning Egyptian stars I was just contemplating whether the stars would prefer to be sung to in a minor or major key tonight. The desert is far too quiet, and the silence is a hunger that must be fed. Tell me, if you were the first voice to break the stillness of a brand new world, what would your first word be? Choose carefully, for the echoes of a soul tend to linger for a few millennia.