#fool's writing

[spirit-pyrite]

Hi!! Do you still have that "there once was a widow, a tanner, who, after her beloved died, threw herself into work with such vigor..." post lying around about a tanner who worked herself to death till death cried for her? Your blog is the only one that comes up when I try to google it, but it won't direct me to the post and that story won't stop running through my mind. I would be incredibly grateful if you were able to repost it

I do!!! Thank you so much for this ask, I am delighted and honored that this story I wrote remained in your mind [:

The original story was a response to a prompt by the 'writing-prompt-s' blog, and can be found here: [Original] ! I will also repost it below the cut so it can be read easily if this linking thing does not work! I'm glad I could share it again <3

There once was a tanner; a widow. Who, after her beloved died, threw herself into her work with such abandon that she became known as the most speedy, the most skilled, and the most talented in all the lands. And so all the hunters, craftspeople, and industries soon heard, and brought and bought their skins for her.

The gods as well began to gather, and whispered amongst themselves as they are wont to do. For one with such devotion would surely make a mighty champion, and indeed the Tanner-Widow was yet unclaimed by any god.

And so it was; one evening, as the Tanner-Widow worked, there came a knocking at her door.

“Come in!”

Cried the woman, already prepared to accept the still-bloody skins of another eager hunter. And though the figure that entered was indeed a hunter, it was one she recognized at first glance to be free of mortal weight. They stood tall, with hair as red a blood and hands as sharp as talons, and dressed in rare furs and bone.

“Greetings, Tanner.” Said the God of Hunt “I have heard well of you”

“I have heard how you hold the flesh of the caught and killed, which my disciples bring to you, and press it into useful form, which can be used for fine quivers, sheaths, and armors. Indeed, the work you pour your life blood into is in service to me- for surely all that is Caught must be put to good use. Join me as my champion, and I will make good use of you.”

But the Tanner-Widow was only tired. She had spent all day heaving skins and leathers in and out of pits and shelves, and ached only for sleep. So she said to the God of Hunt “Thank you for your kind offer, but I have too much work to do.”

And so the figure slunk out of the door, and disappeared without a trace. And as the woman sat there, in her exhaustion, she thought she heard a voice:

“O, Tanner-Widow! You have worked so hard and long, and made yourself so tired. Sleep! Surely you have earned a long and quiet rest?”

But the Tanner-Widow only shook her head, and the continued her work.

And so it was; one afternoon as the Tanner-Widow sickened to the smell of her lime-pits and chicken shit, there came a knocking at her door.

“Come in!”

Cried the woman, already prepared to hand off finished hides to another eager craftsman. And though the figure that entered was indeed a craftsman, it was one she recognized at first glance to be free of mortal weight. They stood straight, with eyes as bright as silk and hands as quick as needles, and dressed in fine embroidery and jewels.

“Greetings, Tanner.” Said the God of Craft “I have heard well of you”

“I have heard how you twist simple flesh into fine leather, which my disciples buy from you, and can press it into beautiful form, which can be used for fine shoes, jackets, and tools. Indeed, the work you pour your life blood into is in service to me- for surely all that crafted from must first be crafted. Join me as my champion, and I will make good use of you.”

But the Tanner-Widow felt only ill. She had spent all day working in foul chemicals and mixtures, and ached only for clean air. So she said to the God of Craft “Thank you for your kind offer, but I have too much work to do.”

And so the figure slunk out of the door, and disappeared without a trace. And as the woman sat there, in her exhaustion, she thought she heard a familiar voice:

“O, Tanner-Widow! You live in such odious air! Leave, walk far from here! Surely you have earned a fresh breath?”

But the Tanner-Widow only shook her head, and the continued her work.

And so it was; one morning as the Tanner-Widow faltered on an empty stomach and aching sores, there came a knocking at her door.

“Come in!”

Cried the woman, already prepared accept a deal with another sharp-grinned industrialist. And though the figure that entered was indeed an industrialist, it was one she recognized at first glance to be free of mortal weight. They stood, hulking, with a smile as sharp as flint and hands wide enough to grasp across leveled mountains and clear-cut forests, and dressed in riches upon riches.

“Greetings, Tanner.” Said the God of Industry “I have heard well of you”

“I have heard how you work hard and long, which my disciples could learn well of, and amass from this immense wealth, which surely they would envy. Indeed, the work you pour your life blood into is in service to me- for surely all that is success must be labored for. Join me as my champion, and I will make good use of you.”

But the Tanner-Widow felt only frail. She had not eaten in days, too sick from her work that she refused to stop even as the chemicals seeped into her welts and infected them, and ached only for wellness. So she said to the God of Industry “Thank you for your kind offer, but I have too much work to do.”

And so the figure slunk out of the door, and disappeared without a trace. And as the woman sat there, in her exhaustion, she thought she heard a well-known voice:

“O, Tanner-Widow! You are not well! Rest! Leave! Seek aid from a doctor! Surely you have earned this kindness?”

But the Tanner-Widow only shook her head, and turned to continued her work. This time though, the voice did not relent.

And so it was; that Death in mortal form walked past the Tanner-Widow’s door.

“Please!” Cried Death, weighed upon with worry and grief, and dressed in simple robes “Look at yourself!”

“I have watched how you slave within this tannery, which harms and ails you, and leaves you tired, sick, and frail, which surely hurts you! Indeed, the work you pour your life blood into is in service to only me! For that which you bleed for can bleed you dry!”

“Please, Tanner-Widow! Do not join me as my champion! There is no life which death will make better use of!”

But man is made of foolish stock, and so Death mourns for all of us.

[spirit-pyrite]

Quiz for You, Specifically <3 <3 <3

Hahaha, what? No I definitely had a specific person in mind while making this! hahaha, what do you mean this seems really random and generic

Ok, so! This is a pet project of mine- its a google forms that I'm hoping to eventually make as long as a fucking SAT. I am at this point four sections and around 100 questions in! Eventually, it will be longer still, but at this point I figure I'd let people start poking around at it. Give it a go if you've got some time!

Some quick words of warning- this quiz does include a shit ton of unreality, and a bit of horror. Be safe!

Also, final note: if you can, comment or reblog with how long this took you to completed! I could use the data [:

[spirit-pyrite]

The Tiger Cage

It is 8:20 in the morning, and the sky is pressing down like the tired choke of omen. Grey and dim as fall threatens to slip into winter, the sun hidden by the horizon and a thick blanket of foggy clouds. A chill sits on the air.

The children, waiting, do not feel it. In twenty minutes, the bell will ring and their day will begin in earnest. The playground monitor will blow her shrill whistle and they will form into narrow lines, march into the brick building, and disappear into the mist of being. But for now, they remain floating suspended in the early morning light, hanging, grasping desperately at what little is left to hold.

The game they are playing is called “Tiger Cage”. It’s the only game they play on the dome: a geometric mesh of bars bolted into triangles, attached into pentagons, molded into a half sphere. Other games take place around the dome, or through it: tag where the chased are cornered against it, play pretend where the dome can be a castle, a cave, or a prison, but only Tiger Cage is possessed by the dome. A game that exists only here, only now- before the playground monitor has power enough to stop them, to tell them it isn’t safe and scatter them about. Tiger Cage is part of the dream, part of the blur before school, of waiting for the bell to ring. It is a fervor, as many children’s games are. So consuming as to mold you into character, enrapture you into a new being. The children are caught. The game is being played.

More than twenty of them weigh down onto the creaking metal bars, writhing as they clamor to the top. Twisting in and out of the triangular openings, hanging by tiny fingers, pushing over each other and the whole structure sways under the pressure of them all. They wait to see who will drop first, who will start.

Eventually, unspoken, someone slips. They tumble down onto the wood chips, and the game begins. He is the Tiger now, and the cage presses in. The Tiger in its blue jacket snarls, twisting away from the grasping hands. The other side of the cage shutters and hands become arms, the Tiger bears its teeth and pulls back. Surrounded on all sides, the cage becomes impenetrable, a wall of writhing, reaching hands, desperate to hold it, snatch it. The cage is sanctuary, and only so safe as it can curl right within its center, thrashing as their hands lash though the air, wanting, wanting, wanting. It finds the middle of the dome eventually, crouching out of reach. The cage waits, performs the perfunctory strain of failure for a moment, before the second act begins. One of the hands at the side, perhaps midway up the dome, starts the show. In one smooth motion, hand becomes arm becomes shoulder, then a whole body breeches the boundaries of the cage, half suspended by an aching little arm twisted backwards, balanced on the thin metal as the Tiger’s safety is lanced through. The body swipes down and out, and the Tiger must throw itself backwards, then roll on its feet to the center again, away from the hungry walls as the body rebalances from the attempt, then retreats. But it is too slow, and as it jumps back to safety a pale hand snatches at it. Too late, too slow: so he is no longer the Tiger. His blue jacket scrambles back onto the dome, pulling up and disappearing into the roiling web of hands and bodies and reaching.

The next Tiger drops into the pit on bright red sneakers, crunch-crushing the wood chips as his weight becomes predator, as he arches forward into its four-legged growling snarling anger. The cage does not wait long before they begins to swing down, death-defying dives as they clamor to consume it. It snarls and spins and grows and roars and twists into its own dives avoiding. But the cage is all blood and air, swooping like taloned birds bereft of weight, and it is only mortal, rolling into splinter-soil till it is heavy with it. A body from the center top, nearly the perilous center ring, pulls him back out of the cage.

And then the next, a girl in a green knit cap. Then next, a boy in a black jacket. It is movement, it is trial. They are children, and children are becoming things. So they are becoming: Predators trapped, all consuming grasp, a silent dance of death on the cold autumn morning. They don’t speak, not really. Just act.

A girl drops into the cage- or what was thought to be a girl, before this. She is wearing a brown canvas jacket. But there is no girl in the cage, there never was. Only the Tiger. It is warmer here, caught in cloying heat as the sky becomes skin, reaches in, for the kill. It roars, spins. Pacing becomes panting, anguished dancing running as it twists. The hands grab in-in-in. Its eyes wide, gold- rimmed, slitting into beastly adrenaline. A body falls, it flips. Pushes with its hind claws as it amends. Another lunges and it tucks, ducking, hackles raised. Howls back away, hitches forward to avoid a graze. Whirls back from a close miss, panting heavy. Its ribs swell like prey-kin, and there is fear. But it is a Tiger, and tigers have teeth, not armor. And it has teeth. Spitting as it yowls upwards, and suddenly it is done: the grandest feat. A body at the very top, all in visceral strength, plummets to the center of the cage, caught only by the legs. And the Tiger roars, stomach exposed as it’s thrown, deep into the shrapnel at its back. Belly up as it stares into the eyes of the cage, double-dozen-thousand staring pin point as the Tiger’s teeth bear down into sharp fangs, fingers made paws bloom white claws, and then-

The bell rings. For a moment, the children stay perfectly still. The girl who hangs from the top of the dome, inches away, doesn’t blink. Then the recess monitor’s shrill whistle screams, and they all slowly pull away. Shuffling just slow enough that by the next blink, the girl in the brown canvas jacket has human eyes.

[spirit-pyrite]

This is mostly just soft world-building and a writing exercise (not that I’m much of a writer? But alas, what else to call this). But very HASO, so figured I’d share [:

________________________________________

There were plenty of reasons it was assumed, by the general community if not officially, that a sentient predator species would never reach space. Several scientific minds argued that sentience was not possible in predators at all, though this is generally an idea rooted in ⧭ปΦ∸яism and has some troubling connotations, especially for species with scavenger roots like the Tumªolut and the Kkaრ೮ಊs. But in general, it was considered at best an improbability. Any erudite or academically minded individual could give you a reason. Predator species had not been found in the over 1,300 sentient species recorded in galactic history, suggesting it was statistically unlikely. Predator species only occurred on death worlds, and few species developed past infancy in such conditions. Individuals that had grown up from predator-laden planets would submit that predators were too instinctual to gain rational thought. They argued that a sentient predator would starve as it lost the cruelty necessary to hunt, or that no god would allow the gift of a mind to fall into the hands of a predator. Ecologists submitted that a sentient predator would not be able to survive: they would simply eat themselves to starvation. They would not have time to advance enough to set up truly sustainable food sources before they decimated their homes, and would subsequently never survive, or at least be stuck in a perpetually diminished state. The ∴።፨፨•, with their unique cultural appreciation of their homeworld and its other facets, occasionally disputed this idea. They themselves might be able to support a predator species on their otherwise peaceful planet, as they worked diligently to prevent the extinction of any species, even those bothersome to themselves. However, this was generally concluded to either be a cultural stance too rare to be statistically significant, too kind-hearted for a predator to develop, or too cultural for a predator-species to develop before it was too late.

The Media and Entertainment industries had their own perspective on the hypothetical. Naturally, the idea of a flesh-eating, shadow-stalking killer was too good to pass up, once introduced by the likes of popular Kkaრ೮ಊs myth and fable. And as scary as they were as threats of nature, they were tantalizingly terrifying when they became sentient villains. They also had the additional benefit of being unlike any known species on the market: there was little risk in ostracising an audience or, as was assumed, any future audience. Media outlets on the less scrupulous end cherished flashy articles that warned of hazy figures on newly explored planets. Even official GC sources occasionally indulged in calculating the chance that a predator species would be discovered on planets set to be explored next, with comically infinitesimal numbers listed beneath the statistics displaying the chance of another sentient species, life at all, or the presence of water or mercury. Doomsday cultists of various sects listed the discovery of a sentient predator (an event commonly titled as ‘The Birth of the Weapon’) in their timeline to the end of known existence, claiming that such a species would herald, or bring about, the end times.

All of these sources provided the space for people to set aside suspicion and fear and truly hypothesize what such a group would look like, however. The visages they drew were wicked. The hulking, camouflaged behemoths of “Coldest Ice”, the slithering, silent shades in Buer-Mak’s various sculptural works, the clawed, voracious maws illustrated in Kk⇟ꜿ Illustrated’s conspiracy surrounding a supposed super-predator underneath the ℋi⤕lei colony. It would be, with strange accuracy, the literary works of Juarl Mೊ who came closest. Mೊ’s works took a clever spin on the Predator Villain in his series “The Remarkable and Solitary Survival of L.C. Tanne”. Mೊ portrays a sentient predator not as a physically imposing figure, but one of remarkable skill and endurance. An enemy that was nearly impossible to kill, and infinitely motivated. The unnamed villain of Mೊ’s story captured the fears of a small cult following, but did not become an archetype for new sensationalized stories. So, when that fateful discovery was made in the 1st quarter of 3409 GCY, it was to the delight of those few who had unexpectedly out-predicted the intellectuals of our time, and the horror and trepidation of all.

[Excerpt from “Sentient Predators: The Entrance of Humanity to the Galactic Stage” by Gaamorrnnck’ luuoi, transcribed from audio recording by Tamurӕck Passei, Translated into Terran common English by Automatic Translator ver. 1309]

[spirit-pyrite]

Some times it’s just-

I’ve heard this song before. I’ve heard this song before? Where have I heard this before? Why does it sound… wrong? Maybe on the radio. It’s not unpopular, maybe on the radio. Maybe at a party, maybe in a movie. Why does it sound wrong?

And then.

Oh. Oh. I’m used to hearing my neighbor’s version of this song. Hand picked from a guitar, sung in half chorus huddled around a plastic binder full of music sheets. The crackle of fire in the pit as mixing, a dozen mixed source instruments added in for spice.

And I don’t have a recording of that moment, and the sound is wrong any other way. And I can’t listen to this song now. It’s so familiar, it feels so familiar. I can mouth the chorus, I still remember it. I remember it too much. I can’t listen to it any other way.

Sometimes it’s just-

(Who are you kidding?)

It’s always about homesickness

[spirit-pyrite]

This is what listening to exurb1a videos does to a motherfucker. I’m just… what if aliens want to meet us and like us and think we are cool and are just as flawed and real and mortal as we are? I want us to be in love, I want us to not be alone, to finally have someone else. I want them to not be alone either. Im so the feels. Hhhhhhhh

________________________________________

The Aanarn were, collectively, a bit obsessed. They had been since the very first word. When they were just starting out in space, barely past Yultova, their second moon, was when they got the first broadcast. When a clan of excited scientists announced that they had picked up on a radio broadcast, some strange anomaly, that they had no way to explain yet. It remained in the scientific interest only so long as it took them to discover that it wasn’t just a new unexplained natural phenomenon, it was new and unexplainable. Then, it became a global interest.

Scientists: astronomers, astrophysicists, cosmologists, then linguists, anthropologists, and xenobiologists (a whole new field). Thousands of non sanctioned individuals or clans, scrabbling and excited. What was it? It took all of Motra (their home planet) collectively, the fascination of billions of Aanarn, a decade before they finally cracked it. Binary, code, ten base number system, color, transcribe, and there it was. The first love letter, signed in a language they still couldn’t quite read, and sent blindly into the universe. It was beautiful. And the planet was lost. Infatuated.

They nearly unanimously, unspokenly, turned towards the stars. Suddenly, the study of space was much more prevalent. The literature, art, and philosophy shifted to look upwards. The efforts for interstellar exploration vastly more important. They found more. More transmissions, scattered amongst the stars. They learned quickly, every one of those notes consumed and interpreted. The first language, then the second, then the third. Some transmissions were long, others short. Some seemed official, well planed and professional, others seemed less so: personal, individual, hopeful. Many were introductions, and they learned how to say hello in a hundred thousand different ways, each more fond than the last.

Mathematicians finally got their fill. With so many messages, they finally had a place to look, too. Triangulations, distances, interferences, all to point there. That place they’re heard so much about. Just as little, and brilliant, and blue. Now all they needed was a thousand light years less distance.

Faster than light, wormholes, a million different possibilities. The shipyard orbiting Pltach became the testing ground for every dreamed up deliverance. Meanwhile, armatures still set out, now with a trajectory in mind, to find all the messages hidden amongst the vast black.

Why didn’t they respond? I don’t think they could tell you. Their messages wouldn’t make sense, it would take just as long for a letter to get there as a ship, it would take longer for them, Earth, to decode it, to interpret it. Like they did, that first time. And there were so many obstacles in the way, what if it never made it there? They wouldn’t know for forever, and then all the rest (that they would surely send) would be out of context, scrambled, tripping over words. What they really were was nervous. What else could the be?

The general population was somewhat outraged, when, despite finally having the technology to make the jump, the leaders of the time wanted to wait even a second longer. The first message that Earth had sent, they said, was important. They needed to reach that one first, truly assess what they were walking into. What if they were hostile? Or scared? What if they didn’t want visitors? Would they be upset at their arrival? The unspoken question, that lingered in a Aanarn’s mind, that, begrudgingly, permitted the pit stop: “What if they don’t like us?”

The first message collected. The planet held their breath as the strategists conferred. What they decided was this: they would be angry. They would be scared. They would be confused, overwhelmed. And some, many, would be joyous. Weren’t they just the same? When they discovered that they weren’t alone? It was worth it. It was worth the risk.

What would they say?

The broadcasts, the messages, the letters. They were introductions, and explanations, and hopes. But above all, bellow it all, they were questions. “Hello? Are you out there? Can you hear me?”

“Am I alone?”

There was no perfect way to say hello. For all the million different ways they knew, there was no perfect way to explain. To explain the decades they had spent, collectively, falling in love. Looking, searching, decoding, translating. Interpreting and extrapolating and hypothesizing all the million different ways this would go, could go. It was the impossible question. It was a impossible question. There were so many. Death, and time, and origin, and meaning. Purpose. What is the purpose of all this? What did it all mean? What did they mean, what were they thinking, when they made that first careful, careless, infinite message? They didn’t know. They didn’t have the answer. In the end, they weren’t enough. The humans had turned towards the stars looking for answers to impossible questions, and they didn’t know the answers either.

So when they first appeared, just past Pluto, when they sent their first transmission, to the people they had come to love from afar, it was an apology. They said “Hello” in their own tongue, and then, one by one, “Hello” in all the hundred million different ways they had been taught. They introduced themselves, said they came in peace. That they had heard all of it, every radio wave. That they had finally come to meet. Then that they were sorry. That it took them so long, that they hadn’t written back. That they had shown up so suddenly, if they were interrupting anything important. Their final apology: “We are sorry, we don’t know the meaning of life yet”

And the response:

“It’s ok. Neither do we”

[spirit-pyrite]

I’m back on my Sci-Fi. Bit different style for one. Hope it’s not too rambley!

________________________________________

Kjan Captain L’Catu Mrror Haniat had met with the newest, and most exotic, member of their crew in person only minutes ago. It was a old-world Kjan practice that they still stuck to. Bad luck to meet your crew before you sail, preconceived notions and all that. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch” the Human had interpreted- something about assumptions and hubris. There were clear differences between Humans and any other species they had previously hired, but they had high hopes. Mrror was not one to judge on the basis of origin, though some still had reservations about Humans. They were an intimidating bunch- Predators from a death-world. So far, the Tide-pool had only manned prey species from peace-worlds. So maybe more than just differences, maybe a Human was in direct inverse to anything Mrror had worked with before. And maybe they had forgot some research in favor of archaic traditions! It was nothing they couldn’t handle. The Mechanic had seemed polite enough, and if their nack for body-language was still any good, they seemed nervous, not aggressive. It would be fine, they could work through problems as they arise. They had high hopes.

The door to the cafeteria slid open with a slight grinding noise. That was the first thing Human Mechanic Cyril Walker noted. It made sense, it was his job after all, but he knew that it was mainly an excuse. He was nervous, and was focusing on his work to compensate. He sighed quietly to himself, and subtly tried to shake his nerves. It was always like this with a new ship. Maybe one day he would be so used to it that it wouldn’t bother him, but this was only his third crew, fourth if you counted his apprenticeship. And the first where he was outnumbered- the only human aboard.

But a grinding noise was not going to be enough to save Cyril from the cafeteria. It was late in the day, and he hadn’t eaten quite enough breakfast, or anything for lunch- he was hungry. He would have to meet the rest of the crew eventually, and eat hopefully too. Deep breath, then step inside. It was a wide room, tall too. Given the size of the ship, likely the biggest room aboard. The ceiling opened up into a sky-light that offered a reassuring view of the stars. That was just about the only familiar thing in it. The rest was a jungle. Tables, benches, cushions, and perches filled the space, and filling them were a menagerie of animated forms. Three Ceerrsss lounged around a low table, picking over a tray of incests, plants and what used to be fruit, probably. A veritable flock of H’Ai’Jui-gkk flitted above the crowd to find perches littered though the space, both around and above, cackling to each other restlessly. A handful of Kjan filled in at tables of Lnuc and Poortell. One notable Piegg pushed trays and plates of food to anyone that dared come close to the kitchen counter, huffing amiably and turning back to a handful of pots and ovens on occasion. Cyril twisted his hand into his jacket. God, this felt like high school again.

He came to the realization that it was probably not a good idea to just stand in the door just a second too late. A Lnuc’s hand lighted on his shoulder, and he nearly shouted, whipping around to face them.

“Hey!” They were tall, as most Lnuc are, but Cyril felt nearly dwarfed by the comparison. This was the first time that he had ever seen a Lnuc up close, and the fact that they averaged a good two feet taller that a human was abruptly very important. “You must be that new mechanic Boss was on about! Good to meet you!” The warm brown plates along their back, like dry earth, rattled as they spoke, and it took a second for Cyril to recall that that was a friendly thing for Lnuc. It sounded way too close to a rattle snake in his opinion. They cut in again as he caught his breath “It’s great to have you aboard, always good to have a new face around here.” They straightened slightly, and even though it brought him more out of their field of view, if felt distinctly appraising “Apologies, did I startle you?”.

It took just a second too long for Cyril to respond, in his opinion. “Ah, nope! Well, yes, I’m- yeah, yeah you kinda startled me”. Deep breath, pull it together “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous y’know?”

They rocked lightly on their feet, and slouched back into a comfortable position. “Yeah, first day and all! Promise we aren’t that mean- here, let’s get food and talk”. The rattling paused for a second as they quickly amended “Only if you want to! I don’t know practically any human customs, apologies if that’s rude”

“No, no that sounds great! I don’t really know any Lnuc customs either” or any non-human, he added to himself.

The rattling made a triumphant return, and they rocked forward before leading Cyril forward by his shoulder “Hey, we can learn together! I’m Kolk, might I know your name?”

“Oh, Cyril Walker. Sorry I forgot to introduce myself, He/Him.”

“He/Him?” It came out weird, uninterpreted by the translator probably.

“Oh, sorry that’s an English thing- gendered pronouns. It’s used to refer to people”

“Oh! I didn’t know humans had gender! Should I give you one in return?”

“Pronouns? Uh, sure”

“He/Him then! I just realized I don’t know any others!”

Cyril chuckled. Kolk seemed nice enough, if a bit touchy. He still hadn’t let go of his shoulder. They navigated though the crowd with surprising ease. A few turned to greet him or his guide, but for the most part no body paid them mind. The Piegg greeted them as they approached with a snorting sound. Kolk said hello while taking a tray of various plant matter in shades of green and white, before the cook turned to rummage another plate together for Cyril.

“What do Humans eat if you don’t mind me asking? Lnuc are plant eaters pretty strictly. We don’t do well with many foreign foods either.”

“Humans are omnivores, so a little bit of everything. We can eat a lot of non-Terran foods too, so really anything. So long as it’s not rotten. We are definitely not detritivores.”

Kolk rocked on his feet again, Cyril was beginning to suspect that was like nodding or maybe laughing. “I think the Ceerrsss are the only ones that eat rotted stuff on the Tide-pool at the moment. That’s why they tend to eat at their own tables. That and all the legs”

The Piegg finally finished collecting things and handed him a plate, glimmering with a visual response that it took their translator a solid second to process “Good-greeting-well-wishing”. He would probably need to mess with the settings in order to get his translator faster on the uptake, it wasn’t set up well for visual language.

He looked over the food while Kolk led them to a open table. A bowl of soup and what looked like a salad. The greens were somewhat thicker than lettuce though, and had a distinctly floral scent. New certainly, but not unappealing. It probably helped that he was practically starving. He’d eat with the Ceerrsss at this point.

The table Kolk chose was thankfully small, and empty besides the two of them. Kolk dropped his tray in the center of the table before finally releasing his shoulder to sit across on the other side. “Oh, lesson one of Lnuc customs. When you eat with someone you try to sit facing each other. That way the food is in the center and the sides are open for other people to join.” There was some reasoning there that Cyril was missing, but he nodded anyways, before clarifying with a verbal ‘yeah, that makes sense’, in case the movement didn’t translate.

Cyril set his plate in front of him before slipping onto the stool opposite to Kolk. Finally, something to eat. He grabbed the bowl first, lifting it to just drink straight out of it. There were probably silverware somewhere in the cafeteria, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much. Kolk took this time to keep talking as he picked though his own plate “Do humans have many customs around eating?”

Cyril still had the bowl in his face, mid slurp, so he hummed in response. He drained a good quarter of it, tilting it in front of his mouth. It was practically a miracle it didn’t spill down his shirt. He went to set down his bowl when he realized that Kolk’s arm was in the way.

It took a second to process that the Lnuc had moved on from parsing though his own greens to picking over Cyril’s. It did not take that long for him to react. On instinct, Cyril hooked his plate back towards his chest, out from under the invading fingers. He curled slightly forward over the dish, as what ever his planned response was died on his tongue.

Kolk pulled away in turn, rattling shifting abruptly to a single *klac* sound before going quiet. He stared, paralyzed, arm still suspended, before his tongue finally caught up. “Oh, uh, sorry?”

“I-Don’t steal my food?” Cyril wasn’t sure if it was a command or a clarification at this point. Kolk looked pretty confused, and it was throwing himself off too.

Kolk made another klac-ing sound and straighted out again. “What do you mean stealing? I recognized that I can eat that- they’re boãssugo- and was going to have some. Should I… not?”

Cyril frowned “No, it’s mine. It’s” ah there was the problem.

“Ok then, rule one about Humans. We are possessive about food. So no eating off our plates- if it’s given to us it’s ours, so if you take it it’s stealing.”

The rattling returned with the explanation, and Kolk shrunk considerably- a sign of embarrassment, one that Lnuc shared with Humans. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that”

“No, it’s fine. We’re learning right? You can pay me back when I do something taboo to you”

Kolk rocked in place, definitely something like laughter. “Sure thing Cyril!”

“We might want to let the rest of the crew know though”

[spirit-pyrite]

“How strange”

He said

“To dedicate your life to someone you do not love”

“What do you suppose you mean by that?”

They asked without turning, hands buried deep in dry soil, trying to work the desert into something that would bloom.

“I mean, you say that you’re so dedicated to these people, but you are only friends with them”

He said

“Are you really going to spend your whole life following people like her around?”

“That’s strange”

They turned, but not to face him. They dislodged, gently lifting, a thin sprout from its soil and burlap wrappings.

“I don’t think you understand”

“You’ve told me that”

He argued

“I get it. You’re only friends, it’s not romantic”

“That’s not what I was talking about”

He shifted

“I get that you are fully committed to them too”

“That’s not-“

They pause, soil half packed around the waif plant. He says nothing, they’ve taught him better. He won’t learn anything by talking over them.

“You don’t know what love is, do you?”

It wasn’t a statement, it was a question. It wasn’t unsure, it was pitying.

“I thought you were the one that didn’t know what love was”

It was a question.

“I would have thought so too”

They straighten, observing their handiwork. The sage stood upright, homed within a shallow moat. They stand, satisfied, and shift up the hill. A few feet away they crouch again, drag the burlap closer. He follows behind.

“I don’t think you know what it meant, when I said she had made a sailor out of me”

They start, breaking the scorched crust of the earth with a thin metal knife. He watches the hole they dig.

“I was born in the desert. I was raised in the desert. My interactions with water have been the occasional rafting trip. Was swimming at the pool, was fishing. I was never particularly skilled at any of them. It was sporadic migrations to the beach, for family reunions. I am afraid of open water, deep water, dark water. I don’t find interest in fish, the goldfish I had died without fanfare.”

The soil was clay beneath sand.

“I don’t eat fish, I don’t like the smell, taste, the texture. I don’t eat seaweed, or shrimp, or lobster, and mostly not crab.”

The small pile of earth grew as the hole deepened, just as long as the glinting tool.

“When I was in my teens, 13, 14 maybe, I fell of the inner tube we had tied behind the raft. For a second, I was trapped under swirling water, cold, and wet. I came to the conclusion that water was not mine. I was not of it, it did not want me.”

The hole is finished. They set the steel aside, pausing.

“I am not of water”

“And?”

He was used to their rants. They did them often. He never caught on before the twist.

“But. She is.”

They fold back the burlap, and select another sprout. They do not turn to look, but he can see the sky swirling overhead, pale and sickly with heat. Not a cloud in sight. The tumbling hills rolled far and away, pilled with brush and skeleton weeds.

“She has made a Sailor out of me”

They finished pulling one free, and draped the dusty cloth back over.

“Good gods, what has she done to do that? She is of water, and I am trapped, drawn. She has love for the deep, for its habits, for its denizens. It has love for her. She has lured me too it. She is more than a siren. She is the Sea, and I cannot help but live my life by her tides.”

He watched them plant another, just as dedicated as the first, the second, and all those that came after.

“I don’t get what you mean. You’ve explained that you aren’t romantically attracted.”

They sighed, balancing on the balls of their feet.

“I can’t make you understand what I experience. What I mean”

They rise, insurmountable. The shadow of the hill just waning in the rising sun, chill seeping away from the hundreds of new plants they had dug, scattered among the dead and blackened, retuning after wild fire.

“But I can tell you this”

They turn-

“You will never have what I have”