Noxen, formerly called Legend XCI – The Winged Horned One

More about Noxen, formerly called Legend XCI – The Winged Horned One

Once upon a time, there lived a small creature that seemed larger than it actually was, not through strength or size, but through the way it blended into the world, as if it had always known its place there. It was called the Winged Horned One, but even that name was a belated approximation, an attempt to capture something that defied capture. The Winged Horned One lived in forests where the light didn't simply fall, but shimmered, as if trying to remember, and the paths between the trees seemed less trodden than tolerated. Its body resembled that of a squirrel: light, alert, covered in soft fur, yet along its back grew shimmering scales in shades of blue and green, like a second, silent armor of light. From his shoulders spread small, intricately patterned wings, not large enough to carry him for long, but sufficient to lengthen his leaps, soften his falls, and find paths closed to others. His tail was scaly and curved like a dragon's, and when he curled it, it seemed to protect something unseen within. The Winged Horned One was not a guardian of places or a watchman of boundaries. His role was different, quieter: he maintained the connection between play and seriousness. Where he lived, the forests did not forget that even the purposeless can have meaning. He collected not treasures, but moments, flitting over roots and stones, leaping from trunk to trunk, leaving behind nothing but a feeling that the world had been lighter for a moment. In former times, it was said, children could see him, especially those who played alone and took their games seriously enough to believe they were real. They told of a small winged creature that watched them, sometimes dropping an acorn, sometimes taking a false turn, just to see where it led. But as the years passed, the games grew shorter, the woods thinner, and the tales of the Winged Horned One were soon dismissed as harmless figments of the imagination. With each forgotten game, he lost a little color, not body, but significance. His wings grew heavier, his leaps shorter, and he began to move closer to the ground, on paths that already existed rather than inventing new ones. Yet he remained. He accompanied travelers unnoticed, perched on branches above old trails, and sometimes dropped a single feather that no one noticed, but whose sight brought a strange smile. On nights when the forest was punctuated by a thousand tiny lights, he moved with particular vigilance, as if holding together the world's fleeting dreams lest they crumble entirely. It is said that he avoids any creature that looks too closely, for the Winged-Horned One exists only where attention and forgetfulness are in balance. When even the children eventually began to walk faster and linger less, the Winged-Horned One became a marginal being, barely seen, barely felt.