A plane landed once. Only the tail is left, and they built a fire under it.
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Draw the Paths
One-way roads past the huts. Where a Path passes a hut, whoever walks it picks up, drops off or gets to work.
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The cult walks them
Nobody tells them what to do. They follow the Path, and the Path is the plan. Get it wrong and they will stand there, politely.
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Feed the Nest
Grass becomes rope, rope becomes nets, nets become something the Bird likes even more. Everything ends in the fire, as Calories.
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Push back the fog
The fire grows, the light reaches further, and whoever was standing out there in the dark joins. They were expecting you.
Meet the cult
Seventy-eight of them, one bird for every letter, three times over. Each has a face, a voice and opinions about your Paths.