Legend CXVII – The Roosterdragon of Still Waters

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There is a bend in the river where the water flows more slowly, as if it has learned doubt. The surrounding forest is dense and ancient, its trees leaning inward, their roots digging into the ground as if afraid of what lies beneath. Even on clear days, mist gathers there, and the air carries a heaviness that makes footsteps cautious and voices silent. Anyone passing by feels watched, not by eyes, but by something older than sight. On a moss-covered rock by the riverbank stands the rooster. Its body is massive and armored, covered with dull scales like ancient metal, weathered by centuries of rain. Powerful claws anchor it immobile and patient in the stone. Yet above this heavy form rests the unmistakable head of a rooster: a bright red comb, a sharp beak, and eyes that shine with cold, measuring vigilance. It does not move. It does not eat. It does not crow. He stands there as if placed there by the world itself. The rooster is not a harbinger of dawn. He announces no beginning. He is a guardian of the thresholds. Ancient tales say the river holds what the world could not bear—broken promises, buried truths, memories forced too deep into the earth. The rooster was placed there to guard this burden. Not to judge with mercy or wrath, but to decide when the weight has become too great to remain hidden. He remembers all that sinks into the earth. He listens to the river flowing, heavy with unspoken words. Those who see the rooster up close speak of an unsettling silence. The being does not threaten. It does not react. Yet to stand before him feels like being counted, like one's life briefly recorded, examined, and returned—unchanged, but no longer private. Hunters have lowered their weapons, without knowing why. Wanderers have turned back, struck by the sudden certainty that they should never have entered this place. The rooster's silence is its warning. For when it finally crows, its call will not herald the dawn. It will untie what has been sealed. The river will pause, the forest will bend inward, and what lay buried beneath the world will rise—not violently, but inexorably. Bones, memory, truth, regret. Whatever has waited the longest will be the first to come to light. Until that moment, the rooster remains motionless on its stone. Rain darkens its scales. Mist envelops its legs. Moonlight intensifies the red of its comb to an almost painful sight. It waits without impatience, certain that time always gives what it owes. And so the river flows on, slowly and deliberately. The forest breathes shallowly. The world holds together out of habit alone, knowing – whether it admits it or not – that the tap of still water is still listening.