The planet had been deemed a relatively "safe" one; one lacking in immediate threats ready to mow their kind down or discriminate on-sight, one the Black Arms in turn deemed passably "safe" enough to simply roam and scavenge in their limited time. One neutral enough it allowed even a passive, comparatively frail presence like Black Moth to venture from their hive for a change, apart from any escort. Unwise, perhaps, but they always were a stubborn one, and they took comfort in the knowledge their leader and his scavenging party were within teleport range.
But there was strength in distance, in unfamiliarity, especially on a planet so utterly populous it was impossible to steal a meal from without alerting suspicion or inviting enemies. "Safe", indeed, if only because the planet and its inhabitants were strong enough in numbers to never be a target to a starving race to begin with. Yet even the frailest among them towered above the average resident, their handmade silks too eye-catching and too extravagant to allow them to even hope to blend in. It compels them instead to remain along the edges of civilization, cautious but unbothered, and look on with a mixture of indifference and wonderment.
The city lights glimmer like stars at this distance, yet they are untenably noisy. Do all civilizations inevitably come to look this way? Do all settlements invariably explode into one massive metropolis, like that of some mechanic parasite serving as the planet's beating, hazy, raucous heart? Had their own planet been this way? Surely not. Surely they had been more dignified than this, more refined, like that of cold stone and dim skies above wind-swept teal grasses and a light—
They don't have time to dwell on the growing distaste for long, or recall distant memories of what had been so long ago lost. Too wrapped up in their thoughts prior, they don't notice the approaching stranger until they hear him speak. Oh, how Black Doom would scold them so. Be more cautious, he would say. You make yourself an easy target.
They turn their head and look downward, slow and almost uncannily serene, and are struck by... something. Though they don't recognize this tiny stranger, they sense something in him almost familiar, masked almost under the bitter stench of alcohol.
A trap? Unthinkable. A signature like that is far too unique to brazenly fabricate, far too precious to mock. Whoever this being may be, Black Moth is compelled to extend an olive branch. They wonder if Black Doom would scold them for this too, for this bleeding heart of theirs, ever prepared to extend a concerned hand to one of maybe-their-own.
"It wasn't my intention to startle you," the silkmaker finally says. Their voice is soft, unimposing, but far from patronizing in tone. Merely curious. "Are you lost?"