A long time ago, in a land far away, a Songbird roosted on a tree by the sea. One day, a viking came, with his axe, and chopped at the tree. The Songbird sang sadly, and asked him. "Danmark, why do you chop at my tree?"
Danmark spoke "I need wood for my home, and my land is naught but beaches, all our trees have gone to boats."
"This is my home, you may not have it." Sang the songbird. And she sung then, so high and loud that Danmark bled from his ears, and fled.
Many years later, he returned. A new flag was upon his breast, and he had placed cork in his ears. The songbird sang, but though he felt it in his bones shaking, Danmark felled the songbirds roost, and built with it many homes and many states, and had many sons in england and in france, who dwelt there and praised him. But the songbird was lost, and forlorn, a grey girl on a grey coast, with only grey sand for a grey roof.
Many years, she spent abroad, with others. Much time was spent under a blue roof, with Sweden, but she chafed in the strict household, and left. When the nations in russia felled one another and created a new Nation, she dwelt with him, but he saw nothing but power and strength. It was late in years, when she sung away his IRON CURTAIN (absolute protection), rattling the circuts and breaking his steel, but with no home, she had no purpose.
Until the songbird found her music, in a musty alley outside of England.
You wake up to somebody knocking on your door. Rather loudly, in fact, and with a strage rythm. She must want to talk to Mali.
You wake up and pull on some shorts and your flag. No sense showimg the world your underpants. You yawn as you grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with the water from the tap.
You find yourself yawning again as you approach the door, and peek through the peephole. Yep. Estonia is outside, distractedly flipping her grey, short-cut hair away from her cheek. She's older than her face would suggest; Nations don't age like that, so despite having been a identity since the medieval period, she looks like she was born in the 1800s, like you. The only hit to her age is her traditional style dress, and thats offset by the large boots and AC/DC tattoo sleeve peeking out from the short blue true sleeves on her dress. And the sizable electric guitar slung on her back.
She must be here for Mali if she's carrying her weapon around.
You open the door and throw the water on her.
"Eh?! Geh gah, pluh! Liberia! What the fuck?!"
>"Thought you might be thirsty, E."
>"Sorry, my hand slipped. What do you want, Estonia?"
>"Mali lives over there." *point*
Author
Topic: The Songbird and the Son vs the World (Read 3061 times)