Plume of fire

The Plume of Fire!

The cicada trilled out. A low blurb at first gaining finesse and volume. The noise soon rocked the valley with rattles of cold winter blues and tales of old and new. The valley was clad with forests and ponds, a lush paradise with decadent trees and serene ponds. Although the appearance was immaculate, the valley was a death trap, there were no people, the plants were poison, the fruit corruptive, the water acid, nothing in it was safe. The valley itself had succumbed to darkness, although in the shadow of the amazons the valley was known throughout the world. Deaths in greater numbers then by the devil himself. It was cursed as entirely as the plume of fire, the greatest treasure that had touched the valley with impurity. Cold shivers and broken promises cloud the valley with whispers of death and distortion. The plume was sacred to the Incas and made them forget how important their gods were. One day an Inca Lore master put out of business by a blasted feather. The tales that he told, submerged by the magic of the feather. He sought out the existence that was the substance of anti - matter. Found in a shattered golden cup, he dipped the plume in it, cursing the plume, not only corrupting it, but killing him as well. The Incas found him dead and used the feather to reincarnate him. He disappeared into ether and became the trilling cicada that was in the valley hoping for redemption...