Twisted Timeline

Unraveling history's alternate timelines

Field Notes

Winged Priests of Locust Faith

Religious leaders here regard locusts as sacred embodiments of divine blessings. The clergy don golden cloaks adorned with intricate insect motifs during ceremonies, and rituals often involve releasing "blessed" swarms as offerings to Ahura Mazda. Chanting is replaced with high-pitched chirps from trained 'holy swarms,' which frankly gave me a headache—but the locals found it deeply spiritual.

Taboo of Birdkeeping

Keeping birds is forbidden here; doing so is seen as sabotaging the locust-dependent economy. A merchant confided that her great-grandfather was exiled after taming a hawk. Surprisingly, this taboo even extends to ornamental bird carvings—they are smashed on sight, deemed an affront to Chirper Masters everywhere.

The Birdless Soundscape

With birds largely extinct, the forests and farmland are eerily silent. The locals, accustomed to the noise of buzzing swarms, view this quiet happiness as normal. However, I found it unsettling—especially when combined with the endless drone of the winged pests, which they see as 'natural harmony.'

Dowries Measured in Swarms

Marriage is a strategic affair, facilitated by dowries of 'swarm wealth' passed between families. Brides are judged partially by the size and vibrance of the herds they bring to marriage. One matchmaker joked about making deals 'down to the last exoskeleton,' an image I'd rather not linger on.

Skyward Farms Grow Fodder Only

Farms here grow only seed fodder and plants optimized for locust swarms, leaving the concept of human-focused agriculture utterly alien. Farmers even bark commands skyward, herding their buzzing livestock. While the system is efficient, I couldn't help but think how they’ve essentially outsourced the act of eating itself.

My passage through Ctesiphon in 90 CE as documented on Dec 30, 2024

When Swarms Settle The Rise of Locust Lords and Their Skyborne Empire

Today I found myself wandering through the bustling heart of Ctesiphon, marveling as always at how profoundly agriculture—or rather, its deviations—can shape the world. This timeline, I have discovered, revolves around a rather amusingly disruptive innovation: the domestication of locust herds. Yes, locust herds. I will admit, at first I thought it a joke or perhaps some localized insanity unique to this universe. Swarms of locusts, long my nemeses in other timelines, are here treated as treasured livestock. Herded across the empire’s sprawling lands with all the reverence others reserve for sheep or cattle, they provide a curious array of benefits to the locals. Their high reproductive rate ensures endless protein, and their dietary diversity makes them the perfect cleaner-upper of waste crops—a trait that has rendered the once-sacred task of composting utterly obsolete here. Locust keepers, affectionately known as Chirper Masters, enjoy a near-aristocratic status, clad in fine silks embroidered with golden insects, while farmers labor beneath their own airborne food supply, which buzzes ominously on the horizon. It’s a bizarre hierarchy, but what isn’t in this line of work?

"fields of grain gently swaying in the breeze."

The societal impacts, as always, have been fascinating. For one, this locust dependency has utterly eradicated the romantic notion of "fields of grain gently swaying in the breeze." Here, there are no picturesque barley stretches or vast wheat plains. Instead, lands are sown not with crops to harvest but with "seed fodder" designed exclusively to nourish the swarms. Fields resemble overgrown jungles of mystery plants that farmers hardly pay attention to—they are only concerned with where their locusts swoop next. The concept of a food surplus is laughable: why store grain in barns when it’s better to keep one’s wealth in the pulsating cloud of six-legged rations hobnobbing above one's head? My attempt to introduce the locals to the idea of bread (used to explain why I wanted a knife when I only had dried figs) was met with blank stares. Imagine, an empire that treats wheat as nothing more than an obstacle to better landscape design.

Religious practices have, predictably, taken inspiration from this buzz-filled reality. One Zoroastrian priest I encountered explained that Ahura Mazda's divine wisdom is now interpreted to favor "the wings that unite all life." Locusts are seen as literal agents of celestial bounty, harvesting food so humans "don’t have to dirty their hands with the earth." Banquets feature roasted locusts at their centerpiece. (If I never see another honey-glazed locust kebab again, it will be too soon.) Meanwhile, texts in this world spurn the notion of the sinful "locust plagues" encountered in other timelines: here, locust swarms are simply the greedy results of poor leadership. An overt critique, I suspect, of the Western Roman Empire, which in this world is being devoured quite literally after failing to adapt this farming breakthrough.

Other quirks abound. Conversations about inheritance here often center on "swarm divisions" rather than land acreage, and the Parthian upper class has developed an elaborate locust-racing circuit that makes the Roman chariot arena look like a toddler's playpen. (I spent a particularly enjoyable afternoon betting on a locust named "Cyclone Wing," who zipped beyond his competitors with all the tenacity of history's best war steeds.) The vibrant colors of the elite's "racing bugs" even rival some of the dyes I’ve only seen produced by the Phoenicians—though in this reality, the dyes themselves are sourced from powders painstakingly collected from molted locust skins. Such resourcefulness would almost be impressive if it weren’t wildly ridiculous.

Of course, not everything here is charmingly peculiar. This society has witnessed the near extinction of birds, which were declared a "menace to economic stability" hundreds of years ago. Raptors in particular were mercilessly eradicated, as they dared to prey on the almighty swarms. Songbirds, once praised for their morning melodies, are non-existent in this timeline. The eerily quiet forests and orchards feel unnatural, but no one here seems perturbed—"Why waste time on birds when locusts will sing for free?" remarked one steward, as though their incessant chirping was anything other than a maddening cacophony. Still, I must begrudgingly admit that the system works. The Parthian Empire remains a regional superpower, its military marches fortified by what seems to be an infinite supply of dried insect rations ("locust-jerky," as I’ve opted to call it). Trade across the Silk Road is brisk too, as their protein-packed delicacies are prized even in the Han Dynasty, where it seems this timeline has yet to develop tofu. One can only imagine the diplomatic awkwardness when this empire exchanges vatfuls of what are essentially crunchy flying pests for fine silks, spices, and gold. And yet, somehow, nobody bats an eye.

In the end, this world offers its fair share of lessons, the foremost being this: chaos does not always herald collapse. Sometimes, as in the case of these insufferably smug Parthians, it simply involves wearing bug-stained tunics and praising the sky-bound buffet above. I shall leave tomorrow at dawn; the novelty has worn off, and I now find myself paranoid that stray chirps are following me. One fears carrying a stowaway across timelines into one of the universes where these creatures are still correctly classified as pestilence incarnate. Still, I cannot help but reflect: in a timeline ruled by locusts, is man not himself the pest after all?