Owls of Rome
This fragmented tale was found on handwritten pages. They appear to be incomplete.
... And so, much ado has been made regarding the eagles of Rome. Yet, one must not forget that as the eagle ruled from high above, so too did the owls watch all from the shadow. There has ever been a mocking quality to our hooting call, not that they would notice. Oh, our likeness was not gilded upon standards of battle. It was not minted, in silver nor in bronze. But we were heard, we were heeded.
Even if we had to whisper in dreams, we wormed our way into their hearts and minds. No, being unnoticed dimishes nothing of our achievements. 't was the whispering owl that determined where the eagle's stern gaze landed. For all that the rats scurried underneath in their grand sewers, their squeaking voices went unheard. And no one has ever paid any attention to the nightingales, but I don't think they have noticed in the echoes of their cacophany. No matter. Let them squeak and squawk, scurry and flutter. I shan't aspire to the arrogance to claim they are of no concern, but certainly, they are our lessers.
No matter how much we try, it cannot be imagined that anything has changed in these ''modern times.'' Why should it have? An owl is still an owl. An eagle is still an eagle. Beautiful, proud, and vacant. Empty heads, as empty as a cup that needs filling up. So, we fill it with our hooting. We sneak our blooded whispers into their perfect ears, scarlet upon ivory. Such is the way.
And so, go forth and make sure we have something to put into their cups, my children. Take your lessons from the owls. Be quiet. Be watchful. Let the night pass over and through you, and... the rest of the page is torn off.