The cry of the Rooster

Long ago, there was a young man born in the province of Mythfeild. He was born in the shadows of House Gelbvieh’s barns, the son of a washerwoman and a serf herdsman for House Terr. They boy was named Wat, and he grew serving as any Serf does, with back breaking labor from the moment he could walk. At a young age, he was placed along side many other serfs to care for the chickens under the houses control. He was jokingly nicked named Wattle for the way his red hair resembled that of the roosters he cared for. Over time this became Wattyler and stuck to him. The one day, he witness his father being beaten mercilessly by a noble from Gelbvieh. He tried to interven, but was sharply struck then made to watch as his fathers skull was crushed beneath the nobles boot for his crime of letting a few cattle wander into the forest. They were killed by wild Terr-Raptors and the Nobles claimed those cattle were worth more than his father could ever be.

From that day, he was forced to be the man of his home. He learned to struggle and scrape for everything he had, to hide hunger like a shameful secret and through it all, to smile and charm his way around the nobles so he wouldnt meet his fathers fate. But he never forgot the way the nobles laughed when his father gasped his last.

He became a popular figure through out the province, his wit and charm earning him respect from every serf in the province and many commoners as well. So when the famine came, claiming his mothers life, and the Lords raised taxes again, Wattyler spoke out. First with questions "Why must we starve while they Feast?" Then with ideas "What if grain were shared? What if tithes were refused?"

And then, with action.

He walked from village to village, always with the rising sun, his voice ringing out like a rooster’s call. Wherever he went, laborers stood taller. Serf Herdsman eyed their cattle and hadrosaur charges with hungry eyes. Farmers hid excess crops from their nobles men. The rooster became their sign, a subtle way of showing support. That support grew and grew. Until one day, it spilled over.

The serfs rose up, with many commoners joining them, and the rebellion swept through provinces like wind through wheat. Nobles fled their manors. Walls were painted with slogans in stolen ink: "Let the Rooster Crow!" "Bread or Blood!" "All Kneel, or None!"

But the Oligarchy struck back.

A false parley was called in the town of Kentuck, in the province of Camehagon. The noble lords offered Wattyler "terms". Promises of grain, lowered taxes, and rights for serfs. He stepped into their marble hall alone, smiling, thinking change had come.

He was stabbed through the chest before he finished his first word.

They dragged his dying body into the square and built a pyre from broken plows and orchard wood. They set him ablaze, his followers forced to watch. They thought it would end the movement. End the dream

But the fire rose high and the smoke curled upward. Witnesses say it twisted into the shape of a great rooster, wings spread, crowing to the heavens. And from the swirling ashes, a voice could be heard.

"I am not done. Let the next flame burn brighter. Let every back that breaks break chains as well. I will wait in your fire. In every dawn. In every uprising."

Then the ashes spread, briefly paining the sky black, before clearing

No bones were found in the ashes. Some say he burned away entirely. Others say he ascended to god hood on the belief of his followers. The nobles insist it never happened at all and the was no rebellion. But ever since, when the oppressed rise with sharpened tools and blood-red cloth tied to their arms, they say Wattyler crows again. And when a noble estate goes up in smoke without a cry heard, well… it’s just the Rooster, reclaiming what was his.