Life began in the deepest recesses of the earth. Slowly, with incalculable effort through numberless ages, it pulled itself out of the depths and into the sea, then out of the sea and onto land, and finally reached its apex when it left land behind and moved into the air.

A beautiful race of feathered beings developed. They were kind and smart, built their towns on mountainsides, and largely left the rest of the world untouched. The troubles of the world below were of little concern to them, except insofar as acting as its steward.

They also got food from elsewhere, from the sun. Through the ages, a symbiotic relationship had developed with small and efficient algae powerhouses that made their home in their feathers, interwoven throughout every filament. A couple of hours a day with their wings stretched was all they really needed, as well as clear spring water, cold from the mountaintops, of which they had plenty.

They still engaged in hunting, but mostly for ritualistic purposes. They needed little clothing, as their natural makeup already provided adequate protection against the elements, though they did engage in the making and wearing of small trinkets, belts, and other decorations. Their chief occupation, at least whenever they were moved to do anything other than be, was to carve their stories and legends on cliff walls and mountaintops, often composing hymns and extensions to existing myths right there on the spot.

Things were perfect for a long, long time. They were still prey to sickness and death, as are all beings everywhere, but they were as happy as could be. Their deep connection with the world around them provided them with a framework to make sense of the cycle of life. Every blow, even though sad, was seen as an opportunity to strengthen the appreciation for the fleetingness of everything.

But progress can never be stopped, and, as happens in all civilizations, they eventually discovered the steam engine. From that came many other advances, like the mechanical loom and the printing press. Cloth adorned every visible space of their perched houses. Clothing, which up till now was worn only infrequently, started to become more and more common. Books slowly started to replace their act of carving.

Goods abounded, and with that came the need to transport them. Paths were cut through the forests, nature driven back with machine and fire, lest it claims what was rightfully hers, and tracks of steel cemented the first claims these beings had staked on land for countless ages, ever since their forefathers clawed their way into the sky. Great machines were built to transport these goods, ever going to and fro, connecting everything and everyone.

But mountaintops were hard to travel to, hard for this great machine of progress to reach with its nurturing tendrils. The Great New Age of Collaboration and Civilization, some called it, as many came down to live in cities on the ground. Those who still stayed on the mountaintops were called primitive, barbaric, uncivilized.

As the cities grew and the means of transport improved, flight was greatly eschewed in favor of the more practical. Clothing became fashion, useless feathers were clipped. In the absence of the sun, meat began being farmed and cattle killed by the millions to feed this hungry people that could no longer feed themselves. They sank to a level they had risen from, the reaching tentacles of civilization dragging them ever downward into the dirt.

The confused few that stayed behind, a broken people now that their wholeness had left them to live the life of beasts. What was their purpose now? What was the way forward? But some did indeed remember and held fast to the obviousness of it all.

Those who knew resisted in mind and spirit. And even in their shunned existence knew, as they watched, that you can't mar something that can't be sullied.