Jeopardy sound bite

--⧼ BEGIN Broadcast Message ⧽--
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Priority Level: Urgent
:: From ::
Center Arm of the Emperor, Planet Laran
:: To ::
All Survivors of Fellow Royal Cast Broods
:: Message ::
The Emperor has graciously permitted the use of his Excellency's summer home on Planet Laran, located in the Empire's Center Arm, as a temporary refuge during the unprecedented violent Terran offences against His Holiness and the holiness of the Omni-brood of Ix.
:: Attachments ::
Coordinates and Flight Key
:: Royal Cryptographic Signature ::
Lord La'Ix, The Emperor's Right-Center Arm
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
--⧼ END Broadcast Message ⧽--

earlier

"CURSE THEM! The great houses are going to have my bloody head for this! There is no way this should've happened and under my command too! The Golden Emperor's own exotic holiday world has gone to ash and the only one to blame is going to be me. Well it was basically my watch anyways. Curse. Them. All"
Those were the only legible sounds one could hear among the frantic stamping of one particular Ixian lord as he hurried away through the underbrush of the royal reserve just outside the centre palace. The same Ixian lord that, only hours earlier, was delighting in his typical cooked boar while enjoying his evening's entertainment of a young Terran girl running for her life from a loose Laran tiger. Something about the way those bipeds run always makes him laugh. Some similarly caste Ixian would call this form of entertainment childish, lowbrow, and immature. He would tend to agree. But sometimes he just wanted cheap slapstick humour. The day to day life of the royal caste tends to get dull with all the fine arts an Ixian of his caste is meant to enjoy.
"How did it all go to shit!?! I was always attentive, and there hasn't been an uprising since those terrans were tamed for the palace. I mean we mostly neuter the problematic ones anyways, so why all the sudden aggression?", he shouted in agitation at the emptiness in front of him.
Speeding through the royal garden which in actuality is a repurposed Savannah of the island the palace is on. The Ixian was a beast of speed. Perfectly honed and trained over decades, and genetically maintained over eons, he always proudly held that he was the fasted in his brood of 16. Making a name for himself among the other broodkin for being the most genetically suited for the rank of high general (not that there was any need for generals, there hasn't been need for war in so long). Of course the Ixians always pride themselves in having no excess potential, and adapting your environment to suit your biology, but it never hurts to have perfect biology. That's the true pride of an Ixian.
That innate need to change the universe rather than changing themselves is what led to their vast interstellar empire. One that reached from constellation to constellation and then eventually to the arms of entire galaxies, terraforming worlds to the same environment they were already adapted to. Since forcing nature into one's bidding was the most sacred duty of any that shared a lick of Ix biology.
Which was why the Ix was confident in themselves. This Ixian in particular surely felt surprised, but mainly he was only moderately upset at the sudden change of situation, from being comfortable in the royal dining hall to sudden exercise.
"Everything can be changed back. Everything can be changed back." It repeated the mantra to itself. As it began to relax and turn its snarled sharp mouth into a toothy grin.
"Yes, there is nothing to worry about at all. Then let's make a game plan. Just need to make it to the space port at the harbour. Grab a ride out and find someone else to take the fall. That old royal butler is as ancient as the dirt of the broodworld. Hell, he probably was there when it vanished in the shadow of the holy empire's long past." chuckling to himself at the quite witty remark, but saddened that no one else was there to hear it.
Should be realistic enough for the others to believe. But first things first, I need to reach the harbour-master. It thought while its dense muscles powered the beastly lizard-like form on its journey, as it bound in the direction of its destination at top speed on all fours.
The blood red sun was already kissing the horizon by the time the Ixian went to nearly collapse under exhaustion of the extended sprint. He hasn't ran this far and fast than when he a young broodling that won competitions and competitions in the royal sports. I think I might have overdid it. He thought while massaging the oncoming threat of a sneaky cramp in his hind leg.
The Ixian were well known for speed. But their stamina was another thing. There bodies simply didn't have the evolved features for long distance travel. There was never truly any need in the past, as their very steady and controlled climate and sparsely diverse ecosystem on Ix never truly required much challenge.
It turned its panting head to face the way it came, gazing proudly at the great distance it made in such a short while.
But something was off by that view. Something different to what he was expecting. The view itself was mostly fine. Well, as fine as a smoking mark in the distance, presumably from the summer palace being engulfed in flame and spitting great plumes of black smoke. But no, something about this view chilled him to this spine. Craning his neck from his vantage point he could swear there was a small speck in the distance.
What on great Ix is that?
All of a sudden realisation hit like a rock on a peaceful pond. Something was following him. Something unknown and cold was making its way to his location. He was certain it wasn't any of his guards, all guards permitted to serve under the royal summer home were Ixian of course. Physically bred for their strength and speed, and placed into roles of importance like protecting the higher caste such as himself. (Whereas this day being the only exception). It did look like he was the only Ixian that actually made it out of the palace so far. Ixians are able to cover short distances in phenomenal speed, akin to a scaly 4 legged beast of the hunt.
No this was something else.
Feeling a very small panic build up inside, but veiling that cold, unwanted terror as impatience at how far he still needs to travel yet. Lord La'Ix flexed his anterior legs and sped on leaving behind a red-yellow cloud of dust in his wake.
He frowned. Feeling strange at a never before felt sensation. Like something in the back of his perfectly designed brain was screaming a silent, but terrifyingly familiar warning.
"Ix itself is an ancient world. Temperate in climate, while abundant in vegetation and small game. It is unknown how the Ixian was formed on paradise.
The old priest can drum into your heads that I'Ix made us into being by indenting his form in the sand of the first beach and filling the shape with his life. Moulding us into being.
The heretic would counter and say we evolved from a previous species akin to ourselves over the course of untold lengths of time.
The philosopher would suggest that only on paradise would the sentient universe fill in the space for the perfect beings to enjoy the fruits of existence.
Lastly, even the lowest caste Ixian would point and laugh at the rest and say 'why talk about antiquity, when we can make more paradise to fill the heavens'."
-A popular Ixian parable
Lord La'Ix bolted up all of a sudden from his resting spot. Heart suddenly beating frantically. The stars had barely enough time to shift positions when last rested his weary body, only a couple hours must have passed since dusk fell and the world plunged into night.
The silence of the Savannah made sound from afar travel better. Aside from the quiet rustling of the wind he wasn't so sure what he heard. Assuming his bored ears were playing tricks on him.
Calming down, curling up on the flat cool rock he found he started to drift to the shadowless lands where all Ixian go when they dream...
Drums, no, not drums. Some sort of mechanical tool? Not that I ever heard of a tool that just beat the ground senseless. A strange beating sound could be heard, pounding into the ground. As he stayed frozen and very awake, he could have sworn it was getting louder. Closer.
CRACK. SNAP. CRACK.
Suddenly the entire valley echoed the sounds of a few broken sticks.
La'Ix jumped up, whirling around, and came to face something approaching fast that could only be described as a cold predator, not that there were any predators on the homeworld's recorded history. But every cell in his aching body reacted the same. DANGER, DANGER, RUN, RUN.
The silver light of the planet's 3 moons barely lit the valley but what that light bounced off of was a figure in motion. Front Legs pumping up and down, nostrils flaring, eyes too close together, and pupils so large it was like staring at darkness itself.
Hold on there are only 2 legs right? Sudden familiarity hit him hard, memories of last night's entertainment stained his mind. In the name of Ix is that a Terran?!?
La'Ix didn't realise it then, but it was looking at a Terran, despite the Terrans characteristics looking different to the standard slave he was used to seeing. The pumping body of the runner was made for such long distances. Sweat acting as a cooling mechanism, making the man glisten in the harsh moonlight, the enlarged nostrils taking in all the air the body needs for this type of strenuous activity. And the enlarged pupils, made for adjusting to low light environments.
Down on the plains of the Savannah were two creatures. One a perfect evolutionary miracle, practically evolution's first try gone right, Perfectly made for its environment and was never truly exposed to varying climates and environments. And the other, having crawled through the primordial ooze, and struggled and fought its way through dangers, diseases, and competition on its own horrifying world. Where deadly heat in deserts can dry out any living thing, and such freezing poles that can turn anything that enters it in pure ice.
The man's lean and sweat-slicken form was steadily making its way towards the frozen statue of La'Ix. Just as he got within 50 paces did La'Ix sprint away scattering pebbles in its path the echoes of which bounced back from the valley's sharp walls. Undeterred, the chaser kept steadily running. Jaws grit. Eyes locked on afar.
And afar was its prey. Sprinting away.
HOW IN IX'S NAME DID THAT THING KNOW WHERE I AM? The La'Ix in a fit of sudden excitement mixed with a heavy dose of panic, began its high octane sprint from the sudden looming threat of being found. Hind Legs propelling the creature's body forward, while its front arms, which were historically also for four legged locomotion, pulled the terrain closer with each stride. Increasing its momentum until it reached max speed.
"Broodling La'Ix!" said a stern but educated voice.
"Huh? Oh! Yessir!" a young Ix jumped to attention still thinking about more enjoyable things specifically outside of the classroom walls.
"Well? Can you please answer my question or will you make your other broodkin wait until Ix falls to ash first", the tutor said expectantly, prompting several muffles giggles in the room.
"Sorry sir. What makes the Ixian race its place in eternity is the attention we put in perfection. After our home-world of Ix's climate and terrain began to change, the leaders from antiquity decreed we carry on the spirit of the home-world in maintaining a consistent biological and genetic profile that will always be suited to Ix's surface. As we change worlds to be more like Ix, we can spread the spirit of Ix to them. As such, Change is- uh, change is..."
"Change is the poison of perfection, Remaining unchanged for Ix enable us to carry its spirit to other planets in the heavens", continued the tutor. "Well you certainly paid some attention to today's lesson at the very least. But remember that final part. It's the last of the core tenants you will need to remember."
"Yessir!"
A good half night passed on the surface of the Savanna. Where a previously noble and alert Ixian who took great care in appearances and status was no longer to be seen. Instead of that proud domineering alien representative of ix was a dishevelled, dusty, ragged creature, dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted from the various sprints it forced itself to endure to stay ahead of fate's ever closing hand.
Is this the sword of Damocles that was mentioned in the ancient Terran records? Always hanging down on those who hold power and seek more? Fate's sharp blade? But why me? I was never in any real power. All I wanted out of this life was a comfortable posting with no dirt and grime from the lower worlds. Why me? Why now? Why do I-
La'Ix snapped himself out of a daze. Is he here- No, no I should be far far away from that Terran now. Maybe I can find some-
A dim glow interrupted its train of thought. Much too early to be the Sunrise on the Emperor's summer planet, and much to low to be the light from one of it's 2 moons. It was a light from a town.
"That's right!" The Ixian barely managed to rasp in between haggard breaths. Its body barely able to continue the amount of self inflicted abuse it has suddenly been put in.
A lot more hunched over than the Ixian was earlier. It made its way towards a small town it knew was in between the palace and the harbour. The emperor loved his royal rustic towns and villages. It is said that his royal emperor would sometimes tour around them marvelling at the romantic theme of a simple rustic life. Although getting a personal town full of Ixians required a lot of lower caste be forced into long and expensive work contracts as background entertainers for the king's planet, all this excessive show of wealth was partially for peackocking the emperor's reputation, and partially for his own personal enjoyment. The Emperor is almost culturally required to flaunt his royal wealth in all forms in order to keep connections with all the royal houses. An emperor that doesn't shower their supporting aides and houses with grand gifts is fated to eventually be found cold on the floor of the royal banquet due to 'suicide from accidentally ingesting poison', as was the previous emperor.
To avoid such an unfortunate passing, the Higher Royals would trade vast resources, delicacies, and even exotic slaves to court 'royal favours'. Slaves of the Terran variety especially are considered to be the most unique of gifts the empire has ever acquired.
Terrans weren't necessarily large and bulky. Fighters were assigned to the Slave Obniraks. Powerful creatures used to fill the fields on tougher worlds where mechanical services would be deemed to expensive. The growth of a Obnirak into full working adulthood is only a few cycles. Meaning mass producing a workforce is quite an easy feat.
Terrans instead would take vast cycles to mature from a childling to an average adult. Meaning growing a slave force would take vast quantities of resources, immense patience, and strict guidance from their owners as to not create faulty creatures. All of which increases the general standing on any house that manages to keep a vast amount of Terran slaves in the best quality.
Terrans weren't necessarily docile and obedient. That role was perhaps given to the oldest slave race the Ix ever controlled. The Iralisa. It was known that they were made remarkably docile due to generations upon generations of select breeding, and pruning off the 'aggressive traits' from the gene pool. However, that led to the adverse effect of physically weakening them to a point where such docility and lack of a frame to keep up with their workload led to a general lack of Ixian interest and were subsequently purified.
Terrans are notoriously independent and herd-minded in larger quantities. Similar to growing a very stubborn Terulian Rose Vine. Which only looks impressive when great care have been given. Terrans need to be given an illusion of being ever so slightly free. Which typically involves owning vast amounts of land and nature to let them roam and graze. Of course, the only ones that can accommodate grand work forces of Terrans are the larger houses with the appropriate territory for humans, as is studied in the Ixian art of Servitude.
One can only guess which species is the Emperor's favourite.
The following town should indeed have both, low caste Ixians, and possibly none of the Emperor's favourite slaves.
The Ixian approached the glowing town. As it reached closer it straightened its back, upright on its hindlegs in the royal fashion. And proclaimed. "It is I! La'Ix, royal courtier. Lend me aid imme-"
Something is off. Not a single shadow in the town, I can see lights but no movement, where is every-
After turning the corner to the center of the small town, the dustied and weary creature froze in its tracks when it saw it. A pit nearly as wide as an Ixian land cruiser and who knows how deep filled with a stench so powerful it watered his eyes. Despite the Ixian's lack of a proper sense of smell. It knew the foul fetor of death.
The crudely dug pit was nearly overflowing when he approached it. Large, smoking, smouldering pyres cast that eerie light that had drawn him in.
"H-how? Wha-What the..." he trailed off when a local species of Laran boar growled and squealed as it tore a dead Ixian limb from the mountain of corpses.
"Who could've..."
He stopped. The shock of seeing his own kind laid like broken dolls in a bleeding pit slowly faded, replaced by a numbness. The Ixian had just noticed they were of Ix. Only of Ix.
Not a single terran colour was visible in the black and spotted pit of bodies. Not a single slave body was visible.
I-Impossible...
His legs gave way, either from the strain of the entire nights run, the horror facing him, or the threat from behind. He just dropped.
Minutes passed, or hours. It was hard to tell. But the Ixian lay slumped. Body unwilling to move further. Battered flesh unwilling to be propelled by a shattered spirit.
Mind slowly spinning up again. Thoughts began whirring to life in its mind. Could the rumours actually have been true? It had read the sparse reports of odd activity from certain Ixian-controlled worlds on the outer arms of the empire. Small uprisings of unknown origin. Hardly anything of note. If it had no affect on the greater houses then it was of no real concern to Ix and its emperor.
Could this threat have made its way to the centre arm already? Impossible. But what else could have done this to us?
Something caught the Ixian's eyes. In the middle of the pit it stood. A large stake, wet with deep Ixian crimson, dripping ever so slowly. Towering over the pit like a battlefield flag was a head of an Ixian rammed onto the tip of the spike. But the particular detail that caught the Ixian's eyes was a symbol cut into the flesh of the large forehead.
Looking from the outward-in. Eight concentric rings, which proceeded to get smaller and smaller in size until it reached a dark mass at the centre of the symbol. The Ixian never forgot the symbol and the affect it had on it.
Eight concentric rings, and a centre mass. Eight rings, and a mass. Eight- Eight what? Eight planets? And a star? ...
A growing pool of cold dread rose in its guts that made it shiver despite the fair night. This dread reflected the sharp reality on its frigid surface.
This Ixian was well-bred, well-trained, and well-educated. Although anyone with a basic education would know of such a pattern.
Terra and her sisters. THEIR star system...
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
It's not possible!-
Knowing what that sound meant, the Ixian tried to whirl around, its body barely being able to heed its masters commands. Just when it was starting to move again it felt it.
Sudden sharp agony. Sudden sharp, raging agony. The Ixian looked at it's hind leg. A sharpened wooden stake was jutting out of it.
It loud out a tight lipped scream, as it grasped the pulsating wound as one does immediately after an injury. It barely had enough time to look up at its attacker when the Terran bolted forward, shortening the distance between hunter and prey from metres to mere paces. The Ixian barely had enough time to block the hand grasping the knife as the arm flew forward at the last minute with a crash.
What phenomenal force!
Using the momentum from that sprint plus the wind up of his arm. The Terran was able to impart a phenomal show of force for a creature its size. That's when La'Ix for the first time saw a human in its raw unchanged form. Great beads of sweat collecting dust on its brow, to prevent it from entering the eyes. The constant release of sweat from the countless pores on its soft fleshy skin. Constant cooling? Even the visible veins and capillaries visible from the fire light.
What a beast of endurance-
Suddenly the horizon fell before the Ixian only to reveal the inky black sky dotted with pigments from stars like a painters masterpiece. When did I look up? Then a crash and blunt force from the ground.
The Ixian had been toppled over by that ferocious exchange of force.
Barely able to get up due to the wind being knocked out of its single large lung, the searing pain in its hind leg, and the exhaustion from the chase. It was too late. The terran was already on top of it. Taking up the entire view of the sky as the terran stepped forward into its field of vision.
The sudden perspective change made a once small and frail looking slave look grander than life, grander than all the legends told to Ixian broodlings.
The punches rained down. Repeatedly. A constant bombardment of beating rained like the drops of rain before the first dew. The previous pain in its leg forgotten, to invite a new visitor in the form of blunt force trauma. So ferocious were the raw blows to its carapace that the Ixian felt the exoskeleton crack under the increasing pressure and strain.
Something cracked, another thing snapped. The amount of pain too much to comprehend. The neurons firing in its second brain just assumed it was everywhere. Its half-working eye glimpsed the fist as it came down for the nth time. Red and split knuckles, revealing pure white bone beneath—a reinforced weapon. The perfect natural offence. All the muscles moved to propel it downwards where something else cracked and split.
Is this where I die?
As if understanding its fate the Ixian's form slumped over. Its body barely holding onto the natural exoskeleton shielding that covered its chest and facial area. Fluids leaking from the cracks that went too deep, and who knows how many internal ribs are shattered.
Its body, knowing that that more movement will cause more injuries, and further stimuli would confuse it further. It simply shut down.
The last moments it had as it fell backwards on its side. Was a small running figure. Hand clutching wooden spears. But the truly petrifying sight was behind it. A vast shadow flickering from the light of the lit pyres from the hunter in front of it. A shadow cast so large, jagged, and menacing it appeared to swallow the town whole.
And into a hole did the Ixian fall. A vacuum with no sensation or thought. Just darkness.
How... did we never notice such a... monster... in their... shadow...
All Ixians were taught about 'violence' and 'conflict' at an early age. As a sort of rite of passage that any of them would go through as they survive their early broodling days. As Ix have no natural predators, they had begun to instil a serving of some necessary conflict to keep their generations fresh and somewhat physically strong. As a precaution, only rudimentary forms of civil sports, races, shows of strength and courage were ever really explored. But always in a controlled and calm settings, as there would never be any true need for actual conflict.
As there was always a need to maintain ones own environment. The need never arose for the development of fighting techniques and schools of training. That was one of the best parts of being an Ix that many thought. Having supreme control over the worlds you inhabit means setting gravity, atmospheric pressure, humidity, and temperatures to the perfect levels for comfort replaced any need for biological change. Why grow when you can keep everything the same way, how you like it.
They were a vast empire. An empire of statues.
-Excerpt from the history of extra-solarian species, Author unknown
It awoke to a burning radiating heat from in front. The large sun was already starting to set on the horizon when it awoke. Had a whole day passed? Or two?
Trying to block the setting sun from its eyes it couldn't. "What?...", barely made out in a whisper.
I'm tied up.
And indeed the Ixian was right. Tied up next to a small brook, with a scorching fire in front of it. The monster nowhere to be seen.
"No good... it's too tight", it grunted in an attempt to escape its bindings.
Going slack in defeat it avoided any additional movement. Not having the energy to spare to move. It was lucky to have always been lazy at shedding its carapace - a frequent nag from its broodmother - might just have become its salvation in this case.
Thank Ix.
So there it stayed.
Hours passed. The Sun fully set and the stars awake in this dark world barely lit up the wildlands. Only the prisoner in this cone of firelight existed out here.
A rustling up ahead caught the prisoner's attention disturbing the eerily still silence of the Savannah night. And ungodly horror of a squeal ruptured the air invoking a deep visceral terror within the bound prisoner. Something. Something close but just outside the firelight was eyeing it, glinting from beyond the light. Those dark predatory eyes stabbed the prisoner with a sudden coldness. All while the squealing suddenly halted. SNAP. SQUELCH.
Now it came, emerging into the light. A beast. Holding a knife in one bloodied hand, dripping on the dirt. And dragging by the leg, a massive adult Laran boar grotesquely smearing thick blood still warm from the cut in the neck on the dirt.
The prisoner watched, barely moving, barely breathing. Frozen with the horror in front of it as the bloodied carcass was skinned; fur sliced away with harsh, scraping sounds with the crude knife. Spurting remaining blood all over the site.
The pink naked flesh then washed in the brook, leaving a distinct smell of oxidised blood in the air, before being skewered and roasted over the roaring flames. Fat popping violently in the heat.
In this gruesome display, the beast revealed not just a fate for the boar, but a dark hint of what might come. The realisation struck deep—this could be more than just a demonstration; it was a terrifying preview of its own potential end.
It passed out again.
Only to be awoken by the haunting echoes of a wild, desperate squeal that once thrummed through the savannah's eerie silence. Dare it open its eyes?
After a great heavy effort -utilizing its every last drop of courage- one eye cracked open. And what it saw. Made it regret ever having done so.
Right across from it, the hunter was a grotesque silhouette against the flickering fire. Grasping a severed boar leg was a mouth viciously biting, ripping, tearing into the flesh with primal ferocity. Each bite was deliberate, each tear of sinew was a clear, calculated demonstration of supreme savagery. Its jaw muscles bulged with the force of a bite.
All the while, the eyes—deep, abyssal pits—fixed intently on the prisoner. Deepest black pits stared back at it. Watching. Observing. Calculating, with a dark intelligence. it was calculating. It was relishing the terror it inspired and the control it exerted. Or planning its next meal.
The sounds of ripping flesh filled the thick, blood-soaked air. Deep into the night. Deep into this never-ending nightmare.
Never once did the prisoner move. Not an iota. Frozen in abject horror.
The night passed quietly. After the feast the human had, or the desecration of life that the prisoner saw, whichever way you look at it. The human nodded off to sleep. Content in the success of his mission. But the tied up creature had no such rest. Sending silent pleas to the stars that it might be saved. But not daring to make a sound, less it awaken that sleeping horror. Or was it sleeping? Dear Ix, it might be watching me. Feigning sleep to keep an eye on its meal. Dear Ix I'm next...
All through the night, the demons plagued its mind. Until the warmth of the morning rose, and with it the sound of an Ixian cruiser.
Elation could not be an understatement for the tired, tied, beat, and bruised thing. Craning its neck to the direction of the sound about to bellow out an Ixian warning to the demon resting next it.
"BE CAREFUL! THERE'S ONE HERE-". It stopped speaking. That previous elation it felt at a saviour arriving to rescue it from the demons grasp, fizzled out like a drop of water in a drought.
That all so familiar cold remained. And the dryness of despair. As pairs of dark pupils shot back at it.
On the cruiser were tall adult Terrans. Clean cut, well fed, well dressed Terrans. Four, no Six, no eight of them. All hanging onto the side of cruiser while it made its way to their location. Compared to the demon waking up beside it, these creatures were organised. A savageness neatly packaged in a uniform with a symbol. The prisoners eyes grew wide in its sunken sockets. 8 rings, and a centre mass. They must be the cause of, well all this.
Accepting fate, its head fell in part defiance, in part to avoid the stinging eyes of these others. It felt their gaze burn through—cold, cruel, calculating. There is nothing I can do any longer.
"You're finally here. What took you so long?" The runner said to his approaching comrades, "Took all night to catch up to him."
"Hey Jan, great work", the tall militant woman shot back. With a playful punch to his arm. "Guess all that cardio really paid off, didn't I tell you it would!" She let out a playful guffaw.
"Thanks Chel", replied Jan.
"Ok chop chop people, we're on a schedule. We need to reach the port ASAP remember? Come on Jan, rest up all you like, you're still on the clock."
"Aye sir." Jan shot back in a mock salute, gaining a sneer from the commandant, then a sneaky smile.
"Don't forget your trash. And make sure its breathing still."
It creaked open its eyes, seeing pairs of boots moving towards it and standing in front. In silence. Then all of a sudden, felt pairs and pairs of hands pull and tug. and lift it up The thing let out a pathetic silent sob. While it was loaded in the back of the cruiser, face up. Staring at eyes, piercing black dots peering back. It could never understand what was being felt by those eyes and those faces.
Ixians wear their emotions on their carapace; spots and stripes would slowly appear in certain parts, representing emotions and feeling that their bodies felt in a general sense. But the most private thoughts were of course, still kept private.
But this. This was just too foreign. The eyes never stopped. Even in the swaying movement of the cruiser the pupils never broke contact. Those eyes. As if it was peering into it, envelops your entire mind. There was no way to hide, even hiding in his inner self would do no good. Those eyes. Those predator eyes can find me anywhere I try to escape to. Inside and out.
Some times passes.
"You know. I lost good friends to the royal caste. Especially to this one's brood clan or whatever they like to call it." One of them was looking right at it when they said it. It turned its eyes over to the source. A short one, with a slave scar on the neck said it. A scar that shot through his memories. A scar inflicted to property owned by, his brood. This one is dangerous..., it thought.
Jan, and the others didn't look but felt it. The cold darkness in that tone made it clear what it intended to do.
The female militant, Chel, I think her name was. Slowly reached to the side arm on her holster. Sensing the oncoming problem.
"You still understand me don't you? I've had to watch good people die. Damn good people." The scarred one one stood, grabbing the upper rail of the cruiser to steady themselves. "I hear that even if you get ill, you become the entertainment for the night. What was it now?" She paused for a brief second. "Oh I remember".
"Stil" Chel said slowly. "Cool it". Hand still on the butt of the sidearm.
Not hearing or not wanting to reply. Stil continued. "Torn apart by those raptor pets. Hands or feet cut off as souvenirs for those fucked-up parties and those fucked-up guests. Oh yea, and the 'toy play' or whatever they call it. Can't have Ken and Barbie fight back now, can we?"
Stil leaned closer to the now cowering, shaking thing, "I wonder which one was your favourite." The words cut through La'Ix like an icicle. This was the first time these demons actually spoke to it directly. And it didn't like it. It could sense the venom from the words.
"Stil..." Chel slowly got up, hand still at the ready. "I said cool it." The line had a steely warning to it. Chel wouldn't risk the mission. Even if it meant doing what must be done.
Agonizing seconds passed. The cowering, shaking thing seemed to grow whiter and whiter by the second, It's spots clearly showing what it felt. Staring up, Not willing to move but being unable to hide. It felt the absolute crushing weight of the present. Grinding it down to a paste.
Everyone stayed still. The two militants didn't move. The rest didn't seem to even have paid attention to the converstation, still looked away.
Longer passed.
Stil smiled, "Oh come on Chel, you know I wouldn't do anything to our friend here? You know I was just playing around." Stil laughed. Chel didn't react.
Stil immediately crouched, faced the shaking prisoner inches apart eye to eye, and in a whisper said "Right friend?"
She wants me to reply? Dear Ix I can't even think with those eyes in front of me What do I do?! What do I say?!
"Right. Friend?" Stil repeated slower and colder. Like the blade of a surgeon hovering over skin, ready to plunge.
The gears of its Ixian brain grinded to a screeching halt. In utter desperation to find a reply it simply gave up. Instead, it felt a warmth slowly spread. Slowly spread between its hind legs. It had released its bladder.
"BAHAHAHAHA LOOK AT IT" Stil roared in laughter. The sound of it rattling the prisoners brain with the sound. Disorienting its senses. "NOW THAT'S CLASSIC TIMING IF I'VE EVER SEEN IT!" She plopped back down face red and still laughing.
The Ixian didn't know what to do but tremble and sob silently on the cold surface of the cruiser surrounded by laughter. and the warmth of its piss. It tried to plug its ears. But the sound still came. Laughter. Laughter. Laughter. Dear Ix, what are these demons... where are they taking me? To hell?...
The cruiser kept cruising. Towards the port across the island. Trailing laughter behind. Or to the sobbing wreck of a thing, demonic cackling.
The scent of familiarity wafted into the senses of the prisoner as the cruiser started to slow. The smell of the salt, the chirping of familiar aviaries. Sound of the crash of sea. The port.
Braving a sentence for the first time in for what seems eternity. It let out a question "...w..w..where ... why... are... ... we ...h... here?" It managed to say shakily, eyes downcast.
As if in response, a sharp shove greeted it from the back and a hard hit on the ground was as much of an answer it was getting.
"Move it", Jan said gruffly.
They walked. the ixian still bound but free to walk in the middle of the group of humans. Towards a destination still not known. The walk twisted, and turned, and twisted again. One thing struck out to the prisoner. It was too clean, especially for what it was expecting, it's last experience being in the previous blood-soaked town laden with bodies and carrion eaters.
The port town was completely silent, free from the regular hustle and bustle it usually had even when the emperor was not present. And superbly clean. Not a single piece of dirt to be seen. Not a single Ixian either. Where did everyone go? Did they make it out somehow when these invaders came?
In the background, the surf broke relentlessly.
Piercing eyes caught the prisoners glance, as it wandered curiously around the town. Realising its mistake La'Ix tried to look away but the burning gaze gripped his own.
As if reading its soul. The human answered the hidden question bubbling up in La'Ix. "You should've seen them your royal majesty". The one called Stil said while bending in mocking courtesy.
The surf pounded the shore even more loudly now.
"They don't swim well. Especially the young ones. They dropped like stones. Turning all white by the time they stopped moving."
Louder now. The sea roared.
Nothing came. Not a thought in La'Ix's mind. Its mind struggled to comprehend the depth of what was said by Stil, the scarred human.
The waves boomed louder now. Louder than the sun, echoing louder than the screams of all the Ixians that must have perished.
It saw the lips of the standing-devil in front of it. But all the came from its blood red lips were obscured by the sound of the pounding of the waves. The echoes of drowned kin, thudding and slapping against the shore, merged with the relentless surf in La'Ix's mind.
This is for our sins.
Wave after wave, the relentless surge continued, each one a haunting reminder of the souls lost to the sea, each crash a ghostly thud of bodies hitting the shore.
Very slowly did some exhausted neuron in the Ixian's head come to a conclusion as to how these creatures in front of it can be so relentless, so cruel, and so evil. When pushed to beyond its breaking point, did their true carnivorous instincts rear their ugly head.
Oh dear Ix. What sort of environment could breed such demons?
La'Ix didn't remember what happened next. The memories feel like a distant dream now as he sits watching the port sky now.
The aching brand on his forehead of the 8 ringed system, pulsed in pain—a departing gift from his newly made friends, stung from the salty sea air.
He barely recalls the staggered walk from the empty inter-arm transmission office and the inputting of his biometric royal seal. He barely even remembers the message that was sent under his name and signature
And even less does he remember what he heard what will happen next.
All alone now, he stares at the sky of the empty port town. As he watches more royal ships enter the atmosphere.
He gazes upward, thoughtlessly, statue-like Knowing fate will come for them all. Fate in the form of piercing black eyes and a monster so large it can fit in a shadow.
A single thought, carried its way from above the despair to the surface. Slowly. Like a bubble in a pool of tar.
What was I meant to tell the emperor again?

I have a 3 year old heeler and he’s fear reactive due to neglect and abuse from his previous owner. He flips his shit at strangers, dogs, and honestly any sound/object that’s unfamiliar with him. His reactivity has been such a pain to deal with, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t adore this dog. He is goofy, sassy, curious, and such a lovable dog.
I understand progress is not linear, as much as I wish it was. But some days he’ll be making progress, and the next it’ll feel like we’ve taken 10 steps backwards for seemingly no reason. It’s driving me insane. He’s on medication, we train, I try desensitization training every chance I get. We play, I do EVERYTHING within my power to fulfill him. I feel like I’m NOT making any progress though and it’s been about a year now.
Thus far, I’ve been using R+ training methods which I think has been very very helpful given his trauma. But recently, I’ve been wondering if using a pr0ng (censored because I genuinely want advice on this, so please don’t take this down lol) collar would be helpful because he pulls SO hard, especially when there’s a trigger nearby/he’s aroused by something. And I’m thinking it would help in building some kind of structure/boundaries in our walks.
I don’t know what to do at this point. I just want to be able to GO OUTSIDE with him without him having a meltdown. I’m thinking of switching him from his trazodone/gabapentin prescription to something like Prozac would be helpful, but I’m honestly just lost. My fiancé is worried that he’ll end up biting one of us or hurting our cat (he chases her around the apartment often. Most of the time, it just seems like play where the cat reciprocates. But sometimes he’ll just chase her and bark at her), and since we’re moving apartments soon, we’re wondering if it’s even worth it bringing him with us and surrendering him somewhere.
Having a reactivity dog is so unbelievably stressful, and I wish things were different. Any advice is welcome, thank you

Hi everyone, I'm at level 21 (and have been for 3 years with 0 activity...). I will reset to level 5 now and start over. I speak N3ish level japanese and I don't want to reset back to level 1 and suffer through the first 5 levels again, but I'd like to start over with the first 5 levels all in one go if possible, because I probably remember 95% of them if I see them 2-3 times. I know it's not intended to work and I understand the reason, but I'd like to know if it is possible to reset to a level and unburn all (or a selection of) items below that level.
Irrespective of whether or not this sounds logical, does anyone know if that's possible at all? If not I'll bite the bullet and reset to level 1... I'd just like to avoid any demotivating tasks so I stick with... and going through 一、ニ、三 etc. over the course of 6 months is definitely demotivating 😅

So, if you survived the southern campasak, for So, if you survived the southern campasak, for a moment I didn't think you would, I mean, no one will judge you for eating that berry, there isn't much food but luckily no kogen noticed you (those birds are very annoying and we don't have rules for avoid them) but fortunately you managed to cross the river and now you find yourself in this dense forest And we have rules
South-central Campasak, this is the smallest region of Campasak so it shouldn't take you more than a couple of days to get out of here, South-central Campasak is a very dense and dark forest so it is home to many creatures and we will have to give each one their own rules
Rules for south-central campasak
Rule 1: When you reach the shore, push the boat back to the other shore, it will be the fault of other travelers (the villagers have great power over this area and will be very angry if their canoe does not appear)
Rule 2: when you enter the forest you will see that it is very dark but NOTHING IN THE WORLD should you use a light source, this forest is FULL of entities and the only thing that prevents them from attacking you is that they do not see you
Rule 3: Stay silent, just like bats, the entities in this forest have almost perfect hearing so any sound louder than a breath will be heard, this includes sighs.
Rule 4: to minimize noise I recommend that almost your entire journey be crawling on the floor, this way you minimize the noise
Rule 4a: if when you crawl you feel a very slippery "slime" on the floor, you are VERY LUCKY, it means that the rule 10 tree of Campasak Sur liked you too much and decided to help you by spreading its roots and making a path with its sap, If this happens to you, simply jump on the sap as if it were a slide and move forward, you will leave here and reach Campasak center (if this happens, ignore the rest of the rules).
Rule 5: If at any time you hear the tick-tack sound similar to that of a bomb, get up from the ground and run, it doesn't matter if you make noise, the rest of the creatures have too much time for it and will forget about you for a while.
Rule 5a: the creature that generates this sound is known as "the tick" and is the most dangerous entity in this area, it is a kind of "robot", a mountain experiment that went very wrong and escaped to Campasak, if you want know its appearance is similar to a cannon with a large round head on top with eyes that reflect pure hatred, to attack its head detaches itself from its body in a disturbing movement and destroys everything in its path
Rule 6: if tick catches you (with his detached head he bites you and grabs your arm) quickly tell him that you destroyed the village on the bank of the river in Campasak Sur, he hates its inhabitants and will go to check if you really destroyed it, After this you have about 4 days to leave Campasak Sur, (tick is quite slow) before he reaches the village and realizes that it is a lie, when he realizes that you lied to him he will get very angry and ask the trees about your location (trees are also an entity) and will come towards you, if it finds you it will bite your head off.
Rule 7: If the tick catches you after you lied to it if you followed rule 6a, and you manage to free yourself (no one knows how the hell this is achieved) there is a greater than 0 chance that you will hear crows singing, if this happens do the Whatever happens to yourself and whatever god you worship, the trees have become angry with you and in a few minutes they will stick their sharp roots into you and you will die. The only way to save yourself from this is for the scenario in 4a to happen to you.
Rule 7a: in fact "the explorer" left central-south Campasak thanks to rule 7 and just suffered rule 4a moment I didn't think you would, I mean, no one will judge you for eating that berry, there isn't much food but luckily no kogen noticed you (those birds are very annoying and we don't have rules for avoid them) but fortunately you managed to cross the river and now you find yourself in this dense forest And we have rules
South-central Campasak, this is the smallest region of Campasak so it shouldn't take you more than a couple of days to get out of here, South-central Campasak is a very dense and dark forest so it is home to many creatures and we will have to give each one their own rules
Rules for south-central campasak
Rule 1: When you reach the shore, push the boat back to the other shore, it will be help other travelers (the villagers have great power over this area and will be very angry if their canoe does not appear)
Rule 2: when you enter the forest you will see that it is very dark but NOTHING IN THE WORLD should you use a light source, this forest is FULL of entities and the only thing that prevents them from attacking you is that they do not see you
Rule 3: Stay silent, just like bats, the entities in this forest have almost perfect hearing so any sound louder than a breath will be heard, this includes sighs.
Rule 4: to minimize noise I recommend that almost your entire journey be crawling on the floor, this way you minimize the noise
Rule 4a: if when you crawl you feel a very slippery "slime" on the floor, you are VERY LUCKY, it means that the rule 10 tree of Campasak Sur liked you too much and decided to help you by spreading its roots and making a path with its sap, If this happens to you, simply jump on the sap as if it were a slide and move forward, you will leave here and reach Campasak center (if this happens, ignore the rest of the rules).
Rule 5: If at any time you hear the tick-tack sound similar to that of a bomb, get up from the ground and run, it doesn't matter if you make noise, the rest of the creatures have too much fear for it and will forget about you for a while.
Rule 5a: the creature that generates this sound is known as "the tick" and is the most dangerous entity in this area, it is a kind of "robot", a mountain experiment that went very wrong and escaped to Campasak, if you want know its appearance is similar to a cannon with a large round head on top with eyes that reflect pure hatred, to attack its head detaches itself from its body in a disturbing movement and destroys everything in its path
Rule 6: if tick catches you (with his detached head he bites you and grabs your arm) quickly tell him that you destroyed the village on the bank of the river in Campasak Sur, he hates its inhabitants and will go to check if you really destroyed it, After this you have about 4 days to leave Campasak Sur, (tick is quite slow) before he reaches the village and realizes that it is a lie, when he realizes that you lied to him he will get very angry and ask the trees about your location (trees are also an entity) and will come towards you, if it finds you it will bite your head off.
Rule 7: If the tick catches you after you lied to it if you followed rule 6a, and you manage to free yourself (no one knows how the hell this is achieved) there is a greater than 0 chance that you will hear crows singing, if this happens do the Whatever happens to yourself and whatever god you worship, the trees have become angry with you and in a few minutes they will stick their sharp roots into you and you will die. The only way to save yourself from this is for the scenario in 4a to happen to you.
Rule 7a: in fact "the explorer" left central-south Campasak thanks to rule 7 and just suffered rule 4a
Rule 8: If you hear the sound of sizzling, behind you. You have 60 seconds to get up and climb the nearest tree, when you are at the top close your eyes and count to 200, after this you can go down and continue with your trip, FOR NOTHING IN THE WORLD DO YOU OPEN YOUR EYES or you will see the sky of Campasak center -south, there are certain things that are not meant to be seen and one of these is the sky of this area of ​​Campasak, if you open your eyes you will lose your sanity in a few minutes and you will become one of the things that hang from the trees (Did you really think they were fruits?)
Rule 9: if you see a person in the distance with a top hat, come closer, he is Joaquin, he is an ancient aristocrat who owned these lands before the "incident" that gave rise to all the barbarism that inhabits these lands
Rule 9a: when you arrive with Joaquin he will start a conversation with you (talk to him, he will help you regain your sanity) if he likes you he will invite you to his house, if not just continue on your way
Rule 9b: if he invites you to he's house, get up and follow him, his house is a very large old mansion from the 1700s, the servants of the house are trees that are at Joaquin's service and do the tasks through their roots ( For some reason the mansion is full of them) Joaquin will invite you to eat (eat everything you want, his food is delicious) then say goodbye and leave
Rule 10: no matter which path you follow, due to the geography of the place, for some reason you will always arrive at the same place when leaving Campasak central-south.
Rule 11: after about 6 days of crawling you will reach a large desert full of strange palm trees, this is Campasak center and you will be able to get up and continue your journey
Rule 11a: if you arrive at the desert but find that it has no palm trees and has a blood red sky, hide at the bottom of the small stream that will appear (also drink a lot of water, you will need it) and close your eyes, the abominations of the forest are doing a last attempt to catch you (probably being warned by the trees)
Rule 11b: after a while you will feel that the stream dries up and when it is completely dry open your eyes and everything will be normal and you can continue your trip
This area is FULL OF ENTITIES but thanks to the darkness and crawling on the ground you will get rid of a large part
After this you will reach Campasak Centro and it has its own set of rules, although it is safer than Campasak Centro Sur
RULES FOR CAMPASAK CENTER UNDER CONSTRUCTION🏗
PS, this is my second story here and I think it's a big improvement.

Chapter 4
Location: Glimmer Fate
POV: Faror Hend
No rain on the plains in Glimmer Fate. High black grasses make the area extremely hot. Faror Hend is patrolling the edge of the Vitr Sea with her cousin Spinnock Durav. The shore of the Vitr Sea is devoid of life and the breeze coming off of it stings the lungs. The liquid of the sea dissolves almost anything it comes into contact with including stones. Spinnock is sharpening his Hust blade on a stone that has been worn away by the sea. His blade is very old and therefore does not sing. It's new to him, but has been passed down for generations. A third rider in their party, Finarra Stone, was scouting the shoreline out of sight. Nothing lived this close, so it was safe to go alone. Today the Vitr is calm, but recently it has not been and storms had resulted in its claiming more land for the sea. The sea is expanding. Eventually it will come to the border of Kurald Galain if they cannot find a solution. The Tiste have no idea what the source of the Vitr is and how to stop it's expansion. Tiste scholars are also unwilling to consult with anyone outside the Tiste.
Faror Hend is extremely attracted to Spinnock Durav, but their houses are too close in relations for her to act on this attraction. Plus she is betrothed and older, although these would not be a barrier to her. Faror thinks of a line from a Gallan poem, "The ground is bare and hard / and will hold all secrets / and the sky cares not / for the games of those beneath it." She desperately wants to act on her lust, but so far has kept in control. Faror is a big Gallan fan. Spinnock seems to know how his cousin feels and teases her.
POV: Captain Finarra Stone
During her patrol of the Vitr coastline, Finarra finds a carcass. This is puzzling as she has never seen one this close to the sea. It appears to have come out of the sea itself. The corpse is huge with scales and a tail. But a lot of the body eaten away by the Vitr. The head and neck were missing and the top of the torso appears chewed. Very few Tiste had ever claimed to have seen a dragon, but this could be one. However, those legends all had them with wings and Faror did not see any evidence of wings on this beast. A breeze brought the stench to the horse and this caused it to back up a few steps making noise. At this the stump where the neck should be lifted. The creature begins shuffling towards her. With an unbelievably fast lurch it closes the distance and swipes at Faror and her horse with two arms catching the horse with both swipes. Faror finds herself tumbling through the air. She lands on her shoulder and breaks something. The beast is still again after decimating her horse. She decides to head for flatter ground to make better time back to her party. She is the daughter of Hust Henarald and possesses his sword. Her biggest threat now were the naked wolves that roamed Glimmer Fate. Faror contemplates the meaning of dark and light and the impossibility of either without the other. She also says that Mother Dark had been a mortal Tiste woman before embracing darkness. While Finarra is contemplating, something screams at her intending to freeze her with fear. Finarra mortally wounds it as it streaks by.
POV: Faror Hend
Hearing the screams of the wolves and no sound of their prey, Faror fears Finarra is the prey. She has not returned and it has been too long. Faror decides to leave Spinnock at camp and go to investigate. He tells her to be careful and he doesn't want to lose her. She responds by saying that he has many cousins. Faror can hear at least a dozen wolves and knows that it is likely that Finarra is fighting by herself without her horse. Thinking of Spinnock's face, she attempts to replace it in her mind with her betrothed, Kagamandra Tulas. A Tiste who the war had made gaunt. Tulas was of a low house and was under the command of Vatha Urusander. This alone would not have made house Durav attempt a betrothal. However, in the war he had saved the life of Silchas Ruin and by doing so had earned the favor of Mother Dark who would reward him by making him the head of a new High House. She thinks that the war stole Tulas's ability to love anything and she is not sure she can love him either, but she will try.
Eventually she finds the place of the wolf attack. There are many dead wolves. The fighting is over, but she does not see Finarra. She thinks further down the trail she will find wolves eating her corpse. Finarra comes out from behind some boulders. Faror begins to speak, but Finarra tells her to speak softly as something has walked out of the Vitr. Finarra chastises Faror for beginning to follow the path through the grasses that would have led to her death. Faror discovers that she had almost welcomed it. Finarra was tracking whatever had walked out of the Vitr when she came upon Faror. "Small footprints, puddles of Vitr pooled in them" She tells Faror that it is their duty to track it.
POV: Finarra Stone
Finarra in a lot of pain from her shoulder and wolf bites, contemplates the look she caught in Faror's eyes. One that told her she was seeking death. She thinks the cause may be Faror's betrothal to a broken man that may be incapable of love and being in close proximity to Spinnock who oozes it. "Spinnock Durav had been pursued by women and men since he had first come of age. He had learned to not give up too much of himself, since those hands reaching for him desired little more than conquest and possession." Finarra has also caught Spinnock's adoration of his cousin turning in to something else. She knows this kind of torture between them will ruin them. She contemplates how to fix the situation. Transferring one might work, but also thinks of another more sure answer.
POV: Faror Hend
Faror and Finarra are both on the back of Faror's horse. Finarra is unconscious and Faror is having a difficult time keeping her on the horse. She thinks about Finarra only being a few years older than her, but already being a battle veteran. She realizes that the wolves she found were not the ones killed by Finarra, but those of the someone that came from the sea. Faror makes it back to the camp. They treat the unconscious woman's wounds fearing infection.
POV: Spinnock Durav
They had burned away the dead flesh and infection on Finarra's leg hoping they got it all. Finarra has not woken up and is fevered. Spinnock outlines their options whether to stay until Finarra wakes up or to try to transport her as is. Faror informs him that Finarra wanted them to track the stranger from the Vitr. Faror tells Spinnock that Finarra needs a healer and soon, but they also need to track the stranger. Faror will go after the stranger and Spinnock will take Finarra to the outpost. Spinnock follows orders, but now there is a coldness between the cousins.
Following the trail she had discovered the previous night, Faror Hend found several more wolf corpses all killed with savage blows. The path she now followed, if kept straight, would lead directly to Kharkanas. Eventually she comes to a clearing and finds a fair-skinned, blonde woman clothed only in a scaled wolf hide over her shoulders. Everywhere else was sunburnt. She appears young and has no weapon, which is curious considering her roughly cut hair and several wolf corpses. Faror says she means no harm and asks if she is an Azathanai. To this the woman responds, "I know your language. But it is not mine. Azathanai. I know that word. Azat drevlid naratarh Azathanai. The people who were never born." After a few questions that the woman cannot answer, she tells Faror that she recalls nothing not even the sea she came out of or her own name. Faror tells the woman that she will escort her to Kharkanas to meet with Mother Dark and gives the woman a Tiste name until she can recall her own. The name is T'riss. Upon hearing this the woman smiles and says, "I am “born of the sea”. Faror asks if she will walk or ride with her. T'riss says that Faror's horse looks useful and she will have one too. She turns to the grasses and conjures a horse out of them. It seems that it's weight is too much for the grasses used. Looking at Faror, T'riss then conjures clothes, lance, and a sword out of the same grasses. This scares Faror because it is god-like sorcery. "‘Mother Dark.’ T’riss smiled. ‘That is a nice title.’"
Location: 3 days out from Neret Sorr
POV: Sharenas Ankhadu
Sharenas likes the heat. She tans nice unlike most of her cohort. She hates the cold and remembers her time in the campaign against the Jheleck unfondly. She is the commander of her cohort. Her sister and cousin, Infayen Menand and Tathe Lorat, are greatly renowned in the legion and being related to them saw high expectations settled onto Sharenas's shoulders. Her relatives are not currently with the legion. Hunn Raal and Osserc are in the vanguard and Ilgast Rend was not happy to be with them. He questions whether or not Urusander knows what Hunn Raal is doing. Osserc backs up Raal and so Ilgast drops the inquiry. Sharenas thinks Osserc is lying when he says his father knows of and approves this expedition. Sharenas thinks, "Hunn Raal is honourable. He knows what he is doing, and he knows, as do we all, that what he is doing is the right thing to do" She thinks Osserc is impulsive and has a thin skin, but Hunn Raal keeps him from making brash decisions. 3 cousins of Hunn Raal also accompanied them. Serap, Risp, and Sevegg all sleep with Hunn Raal, but their second cousins so it's not illegal. The last of their party is Kagamandra Tulas. He is forbidding and dangerous and hadn't spoken since their departure. They are heading towards the Warden outpost where Tulas's betrothed is stationed. Sharenas asserts that every woman could see that Tulas is dead inside and left his soul in the war. That he longs for death. She contemplates that once Urusander remakes the Tiste into a meritocracy, that arranged marriages will no longer be. Ironically because Tulas had given so much in defense of the Tiste he would be a prize as a husband. She pities Faror Hend and her future with this man. However she considers that Faror, just days after the betrothal, signed up with the wardens to get herself as far away as possible. Sharenas is very interested in witnessing the meeting between Tulas and Faror. She resolves to help Faror out of her predicament although it is only for her own amusement.
POV: Ilgast Rend
Ilgast does not like Hunn Raal or Osserc, thinking the former vain and arrogant and the latter nothing like his father except in appearance. Ilgast does not approve of all the debauchery that his fighting had bought for the Tiste. He thinks that Urusander has lost the plot himself. It wouldn't be long before the legion rebelled under his indifference. He would love it if Draconus was put in his place, but fears this would result in great bloodshed and does not want that. He also knows that if Hunn Raal is allowed to lead the legion in Urusander's absence, civil war was assured. "In a world of blood, everyone drowns". Ilgast is disappointed in Sharenas, thinking she would be wise enough not to fall into the wake of Hunn Raal. He feels he is in the middle of this brewing conflict being of a major house and also a cohort commander in Urusander's legion. Hunn Raal thinks he will help him convince the wardens to join his cause. However, he knows Calat Hustain will not join Hunn Raal. He is far too loyal to his own house. Ilgast remembers when Mother Dark was just a Tiste woman until she found the Gate. "Darkness was many things; most of all, it was selfish"

The cage
The darkness consumes me. My entire body, mind and soul, I can’t sha me the feeling of hopelessness off. It lingers for days and doesn’t want to leave. It can’t leave. At least not while I’m trapped in this cage. Bars wide enough for me to see the grey sky and dark clouds that have glimpses of freedom. But not wide enough for me to escape and try to get a hold of it. To feel and embrace it. I want to leave this cage more than anything but I can’t. I’m scared to try anything about my situation. Not anymore. I tried to escape before and it ended me up even worse up than before. I can’t escape. Sometimes I don’t want to. Maybe this is where I belong. Maybe I deserve the darkness. The pain. The loneliness. The captivity in this cage. Maybe this is the reason why I wasn’t able to escape for the first time. This is where I belong. This dirty, dark, cold cage is my home. My forever. No one but me, fellow people trapped in their cages and the free birds outside. Flying around and flaunting their freedom to us, people trapped inside our cages. They fly around and avoid our cages. They spread their wings and reach places and heights that are unimaginable to us. This place is all we gave while they have no limits. I wish I had their freedom. My hand touches the cold bars of my cage and I reach out my hand, wanting to feel the colourful birds wings. They’re feathers that look so soft and delicate. I want to get the taste of their freedom and I will be satisfied this time. I stretch my hand out and try to touch one of the bird flying by. The bird is so angelic with its snowy coloured body and long feathered wings. The bird is flapping around its wings and twirls around in the very sky, without a care in the world. It’s heavenly glow makes the dark sky seem like clear blue sky. The clouds seem less grey. My energy is draining because of the heavenly light and it’s calling me, pushing me towards it. My arm stretches out on its own and tries to reach for the bird. My heart and sound aches for the angelic dove that haunts my mind. I need it. Just a small taste. One last time. Please, I beg for you. As if hearing my pleas, the dove lands on my finger. Pulling my hand back, I admire its beauty and elegance. My fingers brush against its feathers as a manic smile creeps its way on my face. “What a pretty little birdy. Good birdy. Just a small taste. You won’t feel a thing. It will be our little secret.” My voice comes out desperate and needy. My grip around the birds body becomes tighter, making the bird chirp and squirm in pain and Panik. “Shh my darling. I’ll be quick. I promise my darling little bird.” I whisper in a raspy voice and tighten my grip more before opening my mouth and chowing down at its angelic body. The dove squirms and screeches, trying to escape by flapping its wings but it’s a little too late. I bite down harder and blood spills out of the bird. After few moments I pull away and lick my bloody lips, looking down at the bird with distain. “I’m sorry my little birdy. Let me out of your misery.” My vice comes out shrill before quickly snapping the wings and head off. The body flaps and squirms around in my hand before it finally stops resisting and dies. I get another good look at the bird and my smile falls when I realise the bird is not an angelic dove with a heavenly glow but a juts a normal disgusting bird. The disappointment is evident on my face and the deception is set deep inside my chest. “.. lying little birdy.” I scoff under my breath and toss the bird in the pile of other deceitful dead birds. I crawl back to my corner of the cage and feel the dread and darkness fills me up again. “Damnit. I need another one.” My senses get clouded by my hunger and restlessness as I need for another one consumes me. My eyes look out the window again and spot another angelic bird flying by. A maniac smile spreads across my face and my eyes widen, almost bulging out of my eye lids. “Hello there, my little birdy.”
-by me
Any feedback?

"Why are the Terrains here?"
Kurayi asks. There was no underlying meaning behind their words, nor was there any hint of mockery. Just a simple inquiry.
"They have been given clearance to obtain the Holy Protector," Thari replies. They gently float away after answering but land just a few inches away from Kurayi.
"Rumors have it that Terrains have paid an astronomical price for this chance."
Kurayi can imagine the price of such opportunities. Without a Holy Protector, no race was capable of defending themselves. After all, all weapons are useless against the divine might of the spirits.
To their surprise, however, Terrains have resisted as much as they could. Not wanting a protector was not uncommon as should a race fail to properly manifest a Protector, their doom was inevitable.
But Kurayi was much more interested in the identity of those Terrains.
"Are they some sort of high-born? It's hard to tell with these Terrains."
Thari shakes their head.
"Unfortunately, nothing of such. They have sent a child and its retainer. Or that's the closest approximation of their relationship."
Kurayi was now really surprised. All species sent their highest authority.
Yet a mere child? How could a mere child manifest a Protector?
Kurayi was not the only one.
All those with protectors came to observe the ceremony. Depending on the manifestation, wars would be waged, alliances forged, and blood shed.
That's how it has been.
In their hearts, almost everyone was snickering. Some even felt pride for sending their best to manifest their protector.
But to send a mere child? It was as absurd as it was comical.
Near the stage,
"Take a deep breath and calm yourself," the rough-looking woman held the boy's arm and said softly.
Her soothing words and warm eyes didn't match her attire, nor the scars visible on her skin. Her disposition was that of a battle-hardened warrior. Yet at that moment, there was nothing but softness in her voice, warmth in her eyes, and reassurance in her grip.
The boy, however, couldn't calm down. Hundreds, if not thousands of eyes, were watching him. His hands trembled. His eyes wavered.
"I-I can do it."
But his heart didn't budge.
The woman smiles. Like them, she too had questions. Questions regarding why a child was much more suited to be the catalyst to bring a protector than a General or a genius.
The boy was not special. He was not outstanding. Merely chosen from countless others. It was absurd to leave the fate of their future battles in the hands of a child.
In the podium,
A creature floats in and stays in the middle. The priest of this ceremony.
"Now, the ceremony will commence."
The priest extended one of its bone-like limbs and made a gesture.
"Today marks the 390,975th commencing of the Kulikukalan Ceremony. Terrains have gained both the authority and the privilege of joining the enlightened ones."
The priest waved its apparatus as a gigantic rift appears in the sky.
To call it a rift would be a mistake. It was not a rift. Nor a wormhole. It didn't look like space split apart, nor did it remind one of the tear in the fabric of reality.
It was not a part of reality. It didn't occupy any space. It was just there. As if it was just outside their perception. And only now they noticed it.
A single drop of blood trickled down as the rough-looking woman blinks.
The sharp pain hits the back of her head. An overwhelming feeling of nausea and dizziness assaulted her senses. Biting on her tongue, she retains her clarity.
She looks down at the boy, his eyes however, were clear. As clear as a starry sky.
The priest waves at the boy to come.
"Come, Representative of the Terrains. Gaze at the Divine Realm. And bring your protector."
With that, all waited. The boy was in a trance as he simply looked up with clear eyes.
A minute passed.
Nothing happened.
Five minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
Half an hour passed.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Everyone was mocking the Terrains. As to manifest the Protector, one must be able to imagine it.
The priest made a sound, as if sighing in disappointment.
"The heavens have chosen Terrains unworthy of protection."
The priest finally declares. For many, it was an obvious conclusion.
A mere child could never imagine a creature of that magnitude.
The priest waves its apparatus to declare an end to this ceremony. It shakes its head, feeling pity for the Terrains. Out of all the species, Terrains were somewhat interesting. Unfortunately, they too would disappear in history, just another footnote in the long list of extinct species.
The priest looks around and feels something was off.
No one moved from their seat. And most importantly,
The ceremonial lights were still on.
The boy was still looking at the sky while the woman next to him was simply grasping his hand.
The priest looks up.
As one overseeing the ceremony, it was knowledgeable about many things. Apart from the origin of this place and how that portal worked.
The time it took for a protector to come generally took less than a minute. The longer it took, the bigger it would be, and the harder to control.
Terrains took over thirty minutes. And nothing came.
Or so everyone thought.
It was not that the boy couldn't imagine a protector to manifest.
It was they who couldn't understand the manifestation.
The Protector of the Terrains had been manifesting.
For thirty minutes.
The priest couldn't see anything but a boundless darkness. There were a lot of sounds around it. Unsure of their origin or purpose, it kept trying to understand what the Terrains were manifesting.
It didn't look like a creature. Nor like any lifeform. It had eyes, because the priest felt its gaze. It had intelligence because the priest could feel it was communicating with the boy.
But the sounds were drowning the words. The priest was slightly irritated. At the sound that was hindering him.
The sound, although familiar, couldn't understand where it was coming from.
It wanted to turn towards the Terrains and ask some questions. But it felt its body heavier than a star.
It refused to budge or move. It was then it understood.
Why the sound felt familiar. Why it couldn't hear anything other than the sound.
It was incapable of expressing emotions.
It was incapable of being afraid.
It was incapable of screaming.
So today, facing the Protector of Terrains, it was screaming.
....
Apologies for my English and hope you all excuse any mistakes. This is just something I wrote. I hope you all like it.
:)

A PREFACE: This is an essay written by former commissioner of Major League Baseball, A. Bartlett Giamatti, and it is something I always read following the conclusion of one of my team’s (across various sports) seasons, and I’d like to introduce it to all of you, in hopes that some of you may pick up this tradition for yourselves.
I find it’s a good way for me to appreciate and reflect on the experience of following a team over an entire season and beyond, and more broadly to examine why, despite the inherent futility in wrapping up so much of our emotional well-being in something we ultimately can’t control, we do precisely that anyway.
I will post the essay in its entirety here. Even though it was originally written about baseball, I believe the underlying themes can apply to any sport. Since it is a bit lengthy, I’ve highlighted the three most important and universally-applicable paragraphs. Despite this, I encourage you all to read the whole thing. Even if not for its own sake, at least do it in order to properly give those three paragraphs their intended rhetorical and emotional weight.
Without further ado…
"The Green Fields of the Mind”
”It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.
“Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage. The real activity was done with the radio--not the all-seeing, all-falsifying television--and was the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind. There, in that warm, bright place, what the old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come.”
“But out here, on Sunday, October 2, where it rains all day, Dame Mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the Red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the Yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have Boston lose one to win it all, sat in New York washing down cold cuts with beer and watching the Boston game. Boston had won two, the Yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while New York sat in its family room and put its feet up. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. The crowd stirs. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former Bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 RBIs, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles.
“Now comes a pinch hitter, Bernie Carbo, onetime Rookie of the Year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks over some low stuff unworthy of him and then, uncoiling, sends one out, straight on a rising line, over the center-field wall, no cheap Fenway shot, but all of it, the physics as elegant as the arc the ball describes.
“New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the World Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now Bailey, picked up from the National League recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a New Yorker who works for a New York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality.
“Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool. The count runs two and two, Briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding the dirt, moving now like some small, purposeful marine creature negotiating the green deep, easily avoiding the jagged rock of second base, traveling steady and straight now out into the dark, silent recesses of center field.
“The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all forgotten, while hope, the anchor, bites and takes hold where a moment before it seemed we would be swept out with the tide. Rice is up. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the Hammer of God sent to scourge the Yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, New England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and for a summer stretching halfway through October. Briles threw, Rice swung, and it was over. One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.
”That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.
”Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.” — A. Bartlett Giamatti
16-1-1 in 2024, +62 GD and 89 points total. A remarkable season by all accounts, even if it ultimately didn’t receive the external validation of a trophy.
But, in any case, it is time to close the book on 2023-24. The countdown to 2024-25 begins.
COYG ❤️

Long post — sorry. I never meant for this to be a “woe is me” post but I guess that’s what it turned into. Sounds pretty whiney now that I look at it. Let me preface this by saying that I love my daughter more than life itself. She is the best thing I’ve ever done.
But I am so unhappy with the way my marriage is going right now. I’ve been really overwhelmed with having LOTS of stuff going on at the moment (our one dog had his leg amputated a week ago after we desperately tried to save it, the other had to go to the emergency vet after ingesting some ant killer than our next door neighbor spread, we’re trying to book travel arrangements so my daughter can get to meet my grandmother who isn’t in good health, etc etc). I have some unexplained health issues going on (trouble concentrating, vertigo, feeling short of breath) and we’ve both gained a decent amount of weight since her birth in December. I pumped yesterday morning then sat down in bed and after 10 mins he walks in and says “are you gonna shower or just let there all day and let me take care of the baby?” I worked a 10 hour shift the day before as the charge nurse for the entire OR (20 operating rooms) all while pumping every 3 hours. Then came home, pumped, cleaned up the kitchen, showered and went to bed just before midnight.
My husband brings home donuts for breakfast, along with pop tarts and brownie bites. And Mac and cheese for dinner tonight. I told him I need to go on a diet because I’m addicted to sugar. He just says “for some Ozempic. It’s hard to eat healthy” as if it’s a cure all. He’s been on it in the past. He lost like 30 lbs and looked great. Then he stopped and gained it all back, as I knew he would, and continued to eat like shit. It just bugs me that he doesn’t even try to support me and tells me to take a medication because otherwise I’ll never lose the weight. But he actively contributes to the problem. And I can’t tell him that he needs to lose some weight too because I’m not attracted to him anymore.
He asks me if I need to increase the dose on my antidepressant instead of saying “can I do anything to help you?” He never wants to put in hard work where it counts. He wants a magic pill. But I can’t say any of this to him. I just have to smile and be happy and then cry at night when I’m up at 3am alone pumping in order to feed our precious little girl or when I’m in the shower or on my way to work in the morning.
Am I the problem? Do I need to go to therapy and change my medication and lower my standards for myself because this is my life now? I know I can’t expect it to be the same because I literally have a child now.

Traumatize Them Back thought you all would like my story:
In the late ‘70s I went to girl scout camp. It was great!!! But one night they served boiled spinach, and as fate would have it I’d been playing with pond moss that very afternoon. Add to this I’d tried spinach once at a friend’s house and I threw up. (Mom despised spinach, so it hadn’t crossed my plate any other time).
At dinner that night our vegetable was boiled spinach. I told the counselors “I can’t eat this, I’ll throw up.”
“If you don’t take at least 3 brownie bites you can’t have dessert.”
“What is dessert” I queried?
“Ice cream sandwiches” answered the counselors.
Damn. Game on.
“Okay, I want that. I’m going to take a bite and puke… should I aim for the railing?”. It was semi-outdoors.
The counselors had stopped caring. “Uh-huh. Sounds good.”
I took the bite, swallowed it and promptly puked over the railing. Suddenly, they are all action and rushed me to the one stall bathroom… that was occupied.
I puked in the sink until the vile green shit was out of my system.
As I wiped my mouth with the paper towel I said “So, do I need to take my other 2 bites?”
Several counselors asked me shortly thereafter “If you knew you were going to throw up, why did you eat it?”
“I love ice cream sandwiches,” I answered.
My sweet mother raised hell upon my return from camp that summer, and the forced “three bite” rule went away at Camp Winacka for many, many years.

(this is a subclass for a class i dont own, the creator is 23BLUENINJA:The Vampyre v1.0 - Live your Darkest Fantasies as a member of the Cursed Blood with Terrifying Class for the World's Greatest Roleplaying Game! : )
The disease known as vampirism has had many different species over the course of history, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. The earliest form of vampirism was all the way back in the stone age, when giant beasts roamed the world. This disease would later adapt and change to different biome and giving different powers, but some variation of the original strain still exists, hiding in the deepest wilderness.
Cold blooded anathema
At 3rd level, your cold blood weakens you. When you take cold damage, you are weakened until the end of your next turn.
Bloodline spells
3rd:shatter, hunters mark 5th:erupting earth 7th:dominate beast 9th:wrath of nature
Apex Predator
At 3rd level, your ancient lineage is showing. You gain natural armor of 13+constitution. Additionally your unarmed strikes now to slashing damage instead of bludgeoning damage. Additionally when using simple weapons, their damage dice is replaced by your blood dice (unless the weapon damage dice is greater).
Ancient Spirits
At 6th level, you gain the ability to summon 8 velociraptors or 1 allosaurus using conjure animals.
Theropod Form
At 6th level, when you use your shapechange ability you can become a theropod dinosaur, gaining the following benefits for the duration:

1. you are unable to speak but can manipulate objects, though you cant use weapons or shields.
2. your movement speed is now 50 feet and you are large sized
3. once per turn when you hit a creature with an unarmed strike you can force the target to make a strength saving throw (DC=8+prof bonus+strength mod) or be knocked prone.
4. you can bite a prone creature.

Lineage of Ancients
At 10th level, your ancient blood grows stronger. You are always under the effect of the speak with animals spell, but it only works on birds and reptiles. Additionally your crit range for unarmed strikes or simple weapons is increased to 19-20. Additionally your vampire spawn gains the following benefits.

1. they have your cold blooded anathema trait
2. they gain +2 to AC
3. their speed is increased by 10 feet.
4. they can bite a prone creature.

Titans Roar
At 14th level, you gain the ability to channel your voice into a ground shaking roar. As an action you can roar, unleashing a sound wave that forces all creatures within 120 feet to make a constitution saving throw (DC=8+prof bonus+con modifier.) or take thunder damage equal to 5 times your vampyre level and be deafened until cured. On a successful save they take half damage and arent deafened. Once you use this ability you cant do so again until you finish a long rest.

I just booked a site for tent camping in Frisco for myself and my 2 dogs in mid June. I know the presence of biting/ stinging insects on the ocean side, especially the biting flies, is heavily influenced by wind direction but will they be atrocious in the campgrounds in the morning/ evenings regardless of the winds?
Also, am I a fool for thinking that biting flies won’t be too bad on the sound side vs the ocean side on the days with a good west wind?
I can deal but don’t want my dogs to be miserable!!

So finally have decided after years of gi issues that went into remission and have resurfaced after about 2 1/2 years to go to my GP for coeliac testing. I have explained my symptoms over and over again to other doctors in the past and been fobbed off with antibiotics and meditation that have done nothing. Also been told to stop being stressed 😥😫 by doctors ive seen for other things as I'm Anemic (iron) & my CRP/ inflammation levels keep coming back elevated.
Every time I just take a bite of wheat products, I get; stabbing stomach pains, excess wind, bloating so bad I look like I'm 4-5 months pregnant (according to several relatives/ friends), crying and or screaming from sleep or in the day (used to get this as a kid), lethargic (feels like I'm being weighed down/ panda like dark eye circles/etc) and fatigue (I've fallen asleep at uni lectures/ seminars/ workshops, on café or pub tables when out with friend's, on steps/ pavement near my university building several times, etc), loss of appetite but so so hungry but I can't eat, nausea/ vomiting, constipation & diarrhea in one day, balance issues, itchy skin rash on my wrist that isn't healing & first noticed it appeared in March 2024 after I ate/ touched some bread which sounds so crazy, joint pain/ stiffness exacerbated. Oh and the brain fog/ memory issues have been absolutely bad than usual ( I have Autism&ADHD)-> leaving bathroom doors unlocked (gave my housemate a shock this morning when on the toilet), leaving ovens on when leaving for uni, etc.
One of my best friends at uni who happens to be coeliac noticed I was really struggling last summer but said until I'm tested to keep eating the stuff however they have been so supportive and think I either have coeliac or smthg else. They've become one of my rocks. My mum is also very worried about me.
I'm very nervous around doctors, been in & out of them since I was born due to so many chronic health issues I have as well as being autistic/ ADHD, so I'm not sure what I will tell the doctor to ask them for testing or for them to believe me but I'm going to try my best and keep pushing. I'm 23 atm and it's affecting my sleep & daily routine. I don't expect medical advice as you're not medical professionals. Generic advice or a relating anecdote, would be good to hear x.

Waking up in the middle of the night I find myself restless
So much has come into focus in the last few days. The station, my first steps on another world. It is all a bit overwhelming. Relaxing my thoughts drift off thinking about how I got here. A young girl on Europa, being selected for training after my aptitude tests, the Academy on Ganymede. Then as always my thoughts drift back to… her…
Lucy…
We started at rivals at the academy, we were from different worlds. Literally, me from Europa a wet ocean world remote and isolated, her an inner worlder from the hot dusty plains of Venus. We were water and fire.
The professors pitted us against each other from day one, based on our aptitude tests we were the top of the class. They split the class into teams and gave us challenges. I like to say I got the better of her, I was fast out the gate winning a few challenges. But Lucy turned back on me in a vengeance, she had a magnetism to her that caused our classmates to almost be addicted to her. People from my team would defect over to Lucy. Soon I found myself vastly outnumbered.
One day after Lucy and her team thrashed me again in a simulated strategy challenge. I left and I needed to be alone. I showered, went into the sauna. Replaying the moves again and again. How was I going to get the upper hand. She outnumbered me so much.
Everyone knew to leave me alone in the sauna. It was where I thought, relaxed, my place of peace. I was frustrated, I lean back against the wall and let me hands wander. Gently down my body, letting my stress evaporate as I tease myself…Then the door opened…. And it was Lucy. A cocky grin in her face.
We had been thinking about nothing but each other and we had both become obsessed. When that tension broke. Let me just say in a sauna fire and water combine to make something beautiful. Lucy and I did as well.
She moved towards me quickly, letting her towel drop, she was direct with a purpose. Grabbing the back of my head and kissing me deeply. I was shocked.. surprised... Excited..
I grabbed the back of her head and kissed her back. A deep need inside of me welling up, our lips slid across each other's as our tongue intertwined. I poured my life water of passion into her. She flared up and accepted my passion. Her hands exploring my body as I moved my knees between her legs.
Fuuuccckkk…. When she arched her back… so beautiful… MMM nnngghhhh an orgasm washed over me in my bed while I thought of Lucy.
Panting… even after all this time, separated by a waygate and unfathomable distance my body still yearned for her, I still yearned for her. Rolling onto my side I stare out my window into the vastness of space and the void. My fingers still ryhmically dancing on my pussy. Fingers sliding in and out
Your taught at the academy not to develop attachments, especially since the top prize, the highest honor of our training, to one day fly a deep space exploration through a waygate. Which would put us alone, in a different system. Like I am now.
Even if I power up my waygate in record time and rush home. Lucy is most likely gone. She was my alternate, meaning had I been unable to go this time she would have. It also means she most likely the deployed to her own system and would be gone before I returned. Likely I would never see her again.
Biting my lips and pressing a hand out onto the glass…yes…yes.. there
Fuck again….Fuucckkkkk LLLLuuucccCC
EeeeeeeeeerrrrrreeeemmmmmAAAAAA, a beautiful black haired woman orgasms in a bed identical to Emeras save the ambient lighting is blue inside of pink.
Fuck…. That was good. I find myself panting as I step out into the hallway of my ship. 2 days since the waygate, 6 months since I last saw Emera. Since she departed through her gate. Stars know if she still lives.
It was a rare happening, another gate coming online shortly after Emera’s departure. I thought I would be flying routine patrols around the system. Now I'm alone. Alone with my thoughts of her, and my AI Julia. Fuck. Why couldn't we have gone together. Why only one pilot to a ship. Who knows maybe she's thinking of me. Technically the systems we are in are closer together than home. That's something…
You're probably wondering if I was outnumbered and Lucy normally had my number in competition then how did I get to leave first. Yes, I did sleep with high command. That was only my closing argument though. You see Lucy had her magnetism that caused people to be addicted to her, she drew people in. But I was better at strategy and nuanced maneuvers.
The rules weren't strict on the teams, people defected all the time. Keeping your people together was part of the challenge. I decided to break that challenge.
No Battleplan survives first contact with the enemy afterall. Why not break the competition itself
My enemy wasn't Lucy, trust me we had been together enough at this point my heart swelled when I saw her. My enemy was the rules, and proctors.
There had to be two team in the academy for the lessons to work. But the rules only set a minimum not a maximum.
Lucy and her best 4 left her team, and me and my best 4 left my team. We formed a new team with Lucy and I at the head. The proctors were fuming. I was called into their offices again and again. Which is what led to me sleeping with a few of them to get ahead. It is always good to solicit a meeting with superiors, you can always be turned to your advantage.
In the Academy, there were 50 of us girls. The proctors let us keep our 3rd team, but declared no one else could join us. It was the ten of us vs double our number on both the other teams. Not ideal… but we had Lucy and I together. My how we shined
We out maneuvered, out paced, and out thought the other teams again and again and again..
Entering into the final the proctors split everyone up, eliminating the team. Just to try and stop us from sweeping the competition. Instead there would be 25 teams of 2 members each of our own selection. Lucy and I naturally selected each other.
We set down on a terraformed valley on Mars, all the other duos were around. The mission was complex. Gather knowledge, survive in the wilderness, there were simulator villages where we had to set up relations, and if possible eliminate other teams.
The gravity is different from what I'm used to, my body feels heavy. Sluggish, they train us on this and soon I'll adapt. But first landing it hits me like a weight. Ffuuuccckkk I murmur as I land my account ship on the surface.
Lucy always compares a new celestial body to a lover. Well for me Mars just grabbed my hair, slapped my ass and pushed in
Fuck I can't imagine landing on Earth. Triple this, fuck that give me my moon mother's oceans anyday.
I suck deep and hard on the control in my mouth and all three extract from me. I am about to get up from the control seat when I feel a palm in the small of my back
“Lucy not funny, let me up” I say
She giggles, and rubs my ass cheeks before her fingers rub against my lips
I moan biting my lip as I push myself against her hand
“I knew the gravity here would give a Moonie like you a good fucking, you're so wet my love”
Rolling my head back and forth..”quickly we have to debrief and set up camp” I moan
She smacks my ass again and her fingers deftly slide to work, one hand pinning me to the chair while she teases my sex, her thumb rubbing in perfect circles on my clit and her fingers pulling on my g-spot
“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes uuuhhhhh my love it feel so good” shaking my hips back and forth I feel it building as I rock my hips on her hand
Squeezing….my leg….quivering… my voice squeaking… “uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh ffuuuccckkk” I moan as I feel the orgasm wash over me…
Lucy slaps my ass playfully and licks her fingers… “let's go my love, stop playing around we have to set up camp” she giggles
“Oh!! You!!” I get up and rush after her slapping her ass when I catch up
Carryalls follow us out of the ship.. I immediately sent out the scout drones and assessed our landing spot. Allocating tasks and running diagnostics.
Lucy set about converting the ship to a shelter and arranging power arrays, and deciding on perimeter defenses
We were a perfect power duo. Our carryalls and scouts were soon all at work, and Lucy was finishing up the shelter
I needed to repay her, so I slowly walked up behind her. She heard my heavy steps in the gravity. Turning to look at me she beamed at me. My heart melted and grabbing both sides of her face I pinned her to the side of the ship. Our bodies intertwined and our lips locked.
She moaned at me giggling, pushing my knee between her legs, and we quickly undressed each other. Her mouth on my breast, as my hand glided down to her slick vagina.
Grabbing her chin roughly and up turning her head exposing her neck I sink my teeth into it as I push forward with my knee back and forth pressing my fingers in and out of her.
A deep moan emanates from her, licking my bite mark I kiss up her neck until my forehead is resting hers. Eye to eye, I watch the pleasure build in her. Thrust after thrust of my knee. My fingers pressing into her g-spot every time, my palms pressing and grinding onto her clit
“Cum for me my love, give me your sweetness, I want your water to be the first I drink on this planet” I breath
I feel her pussy tighten and grip my fingers. Her legs twisting around me… she goes silent… a flush rises in her flesh… we kiss deep, and long, and passionately as I feel her gush onto my hand as orgasm rapts her body..
I watch her eyes dilate and relax I kiss her gently again before kissing down, my lips brushing through her pubic hair tickling my lips. Opening my mouth and pressing my tongue in I drink of her orgasm
My fingers inside pressing to work again, she cries out as she rocks her hips grinding her lips to mine. As she gushes another orgasm into my mouth..
I can even taste and feel it now on my tongue…
Releasing her, and helping her up I grin
Walking awayz the top of my leotard open my tits out in the sun
“I'm up by one my love, and you taste so GGGGOOOOoooOOooddddDD” I giggle setting back to work.
Days and weeks pass Lucy and I set up our camp. Wefind nearby teams before they find us. We quickly fall on them in the night, clearing our immediate area, eliminating them from the contest. We bathe in a nearby stream, sun ourselves on the rocks, make love on the soft moss of the forest.
I don't know if I've ever been happier, ever been more at peace l than I was then with Lucy. Her and I… her and I against the world.
We make good progress setting up relations with 12 of the 15 villages. Our camp is well stocked. We receive updates from the proctors from dead drops. Seems out of the 25 teams only 8 remain. Lucy and I have eliminated 7 ourselves.
We need to be the last standing, triumphant together.. so that maybe.. maybe we can convince them to send two of us on a ship. Imagine the wonders, this wouldn't be temporary, but would become our life.
Lucy and I talk about it often. We can convince them. We'll defeat the others then refuse to turn on each other.
Our dream died that night…
We were naked, curled up in each others arms when the alarm sounded..all the alarms
Proximity alert for 14 signals… they had teamed up on us. 14 on 2 they were going to eliminate the front runners while they still could.
Fuck.
Lucy and I turned and quickly downed our emergency biotic vials just as a concussive blast hit our ship shelter.
“Fuck! They aren't supposed to attack equipment!” I yell
“The proctors must have sent them, they should be intervening with that!” Lucy says
“You're better in a fight, charge them and I'll flank” I yell
We nod at each other and we are off naked as the day we were born
Lucy bursts from our ship her shield bursting out in front of her
I dart out the side and task our scouts and drones to make dive bomb attacks on the intruders
I leap over a blast, grab a tree branch and swing. I land my legs on either side of the head. Of one the attackers, twisting my flip her over and knock her out. Back on the run, I see Lucy take out another one as drones dive in and out of the chaos.
Lucy blocks to her right and charges blasting herself high into the air, twirling before blasting herself downward tackling her target to the ground and eliminating her.
She's about to get blasted from behind when I take the attackers in the flank, knee to the solarplex. My hand on the side of her neck I thrust up hard with my knee. In the low gravity she turns and flies off into the trees as I raise my hands and blast another in the side.
She turns just in time to block my attack, when Lucy rockets into her side with her elbow

It was half past nine when my shift at the diner ended. It’s not any place specifically you’d know, though you’d be forgiven for confusing it for a Waffle House given the abundance of cheap, greasy food and drunk clientele. The only thing distinguishing our location was that our doors closed at ten.
It was a cold night in October. The winds felt out of place for the fall season with the sharp way they bit into my skin. Usually, the low temperatures in Grant tended to hover around the mid-fifties. Tonight felt particularly frigid even bundled up in the warm confines of my jacket.
I hurried through the lot outside the diner, passing by several vehicles. When I made it to my car at the far end, I was quick to put the key in the ignition.
My car was a special edition Subaru Legacy. The only thing special about it was that it was only by the grace of God that my radiator and engine were still operational given the car was a little over two decades old.
When you turn the key, the engine would knock. My father said it was indicative of worn-out bearings. Could be an engine getting ready to declare sayonara before it crapped out one final time and departed for car heaven or perhaps car hell given its rough condition.
I knew little about that though; all I knew was that as a poor college student I was having a difficult enough time as is scrambling to make ends meet with a part time job at a diner. Regardless, whatever the solution, the answer involved money. Money I, notably, didn’t have.
The smart thing to do would be to purchase another used car; though in this economy that sort of thing is far easier said than done.
An even harder task than figuring out the financing for a replacement vehicle was getting this stubborn thing to turn. The engine threatened to exhibit life but would stop short of properly starting.
It was about the fifth round when my engine found the energy to fight the good fight on this frigid night. The engine knocked fiercely, reverberating inside the hood for a few seconds before the noise steadied itself.
I sighed in relief and backed out of my parking spot in the back of the lot.
As I left, I couldn’t help but notice something out of the corner of my eye. A man, a very rugged specimen of the male sex adorning a blue baseball cap and a grizzly beard, was approaching my vehicle at a brisk pace. Where I was the only one stationed at the back of the lot, it seemed odd he was coming my way.
I turned my head to acknowledge him. That’s when he began to break out into a full-on run.
My heart raced almost as fast as my car. I slammed the pedal down and sped out of the lot, the tires screeched loudly along the pavement as I veered to a sharp right.
​
I was lucky the road didn’t carry heavy traffic around this time of night. Where my eyes were focused on him, I was damn near lucky I hadn’t plowed directly into someone.
I sped along the highway and tried to rationalize why this lumberjack looking fellow had charged me. News reports of human trafficking came to mind, but it wasn’t really anything you heard much about in a place as remote as Grant Alabama.
For crying out loud, we physically were so remote one of the miniature cities within Grant was called Bucksnort. We were about as far from the Big Apple, or any real semblance of civilization, one could get.
After a minute of driving, I slowed down, especially when I heard something in the engine rattle. This car wasn’t designed for no races or wild chases. Not with the amount of age it carried.
Besides, I was alone. Safe.
At least that’s what I thought before I heard the blaring of a truck horn. An eighteen-wheeler was coming up behind me. Given I was the only other soul visible on this lonely two lane stretch of highway, it was clear they were honking at me.
I prayed to God and kept moving.
The big rig followed closely. We went down the road for two miles when suddenly my vision was obscured in a bright light.
The trucker was flashing his high beams. I could barely see when he hit me with them. I nearly swerved off the road when he did it.
After a few seconds the mounted flood lights on his vehicle relented and the blinding rays ceased their assault on my eyes.
I moved my car to the right lane to let him pass. He had no intention of doing so. His signal made that clear when he merged behind me.
Drops of rain began to pour from the sky lightly tapping my windshield.
Plop…plop, plop…plop.
My car didn’t handle well with slick roads. Fortunately, I wasn’t too far from home. Maybe another seven miles.
The fiery orange glow flooded the cabin of my car and I yelped.
I fumbled in my purse. One hand on the wheel, one digging desperately for my phone. With my visibility being periodically robbed, I was already a hazard on the road. Might as well risk compounding the issue if it meant I could get in contact with the police.
When the high beams vanished, I managed to pull out my phone and dial 911.
​
The operator answered after two rings. “911, what’s your emergency?” The man that answered the call sounded bored out of his mind, like he’d rather be anywhere else on a Saturday night.
I didn’t care if he was bored, entertained, playing with himself. As long as he could send someone out that’s all I cared about in the end.
“There’s a maniac tailgating me,” I said.
The operator’s voice clipped. Though from what I could understand of the roboticized sound coming out from his end of the line, I could tell from his tone he remained unenthused. “Ma’am, you’ve called an emergency line.”
​
“Y-you don’t understand! I was leaving work and this man started chasing me. I-I think he’s trying to hurt me.”
The operator fell silent for a few seconds. For a moment, between the rainy weather and the flaky signal, I thought I’d lost him. His voice reemerged seconds later. “Where are you?”
I rattled off the highway number I was driving on and told him my home address.
“I’ll get an officer dispatched in the area. ETA should be around ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Six hundred seconds. Toss whatever metric you wanted to use to measure it out, with that big rig riding close behind me and the driver intermittently blinding me when they felt like getting their rocks off, it might as well have spanned an eternity. I was going to be lucky I didn’t crash into a guardrail or land myself in a ditch.
“Make that around fifteen minutes,” the operator clarified, his crackled voice twisting the knife deeper into me with his update.
I made the turn off the two-lane highway. I didn’t signal when I did it. I was hoping the sudden movement would have had my unwanted friend in the big rig blow past me.
“Ma’am?”
For a moment, I believed it worked. No more blinding lights. The only sound was the operator fishing for a response and the pitter patter of rain on my windshield.
My sigh of relief became a choking noise lodged inside my throat as I saw the eighteen-wheeler backing up. It didn’t turn on a dime, but he was moving fast enough.
The road up ahead winded with hairpin curves. I didn’t know how long I’d have until those lights were upon me. Till he was upon me.
The phone clicked and the call abruptly ended.
I cursed under my breath while my engine knocked like an irate person trying to beat down a door. My Subaru was rapidly approaching its limit. I had to think fast.
These were my options: I could risk speeding and hoped the engine would hold out till I made it to the house, or I could continue driving at a steady pace. If the first option proved successful, he might not see where my vehicle would vanish. If it didn’t, my car might leave me stranded. That’s assuming I didn’t wreck myself taking a turn too fast.
The other option would be safer, but I’d be visible to him. Though with some of these curves I feared if he hit me with the high beams again, I’d be at risk of crashing. Where the area of road ascended, one wrong turn would mean a long journey down.
It would mean certain death.
Taking a sharp intake of breath, I pulled out my phone and called my husband. The only answer I got was his voicemail urging me to leave a message at the tone.
“Billy, there’s a lunatic after me. I’ve called the cops. Please…please be ready. I’m only two minutes away.”
It wasn’t the most inspiring call to action. My husband wasn’t Billy Badass. He was more like Billy the Stamp Collector. Benign hobbies. Soft spoken. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Still, I was counting on his presence to deter Mr. High Beams behind me. It was a desperate ploy, but it was all I could think of on such short notice.
I made the turn into the dirt trail that led to my driveway. As I was pulling in the porch light flickered to life. Maybe. It might have been those high beams. They illuminated my cab in a flood of light once more obscuring my vision.
The door to the house opened and a figure ran out of the entryway. My husband from what I could discern of the silhouette. Our dog Jasper, a black schnauzer with more bark than bite, darted out the door. I couldn’t see the little guy, but I heard him.
I stopped the car and shoved open the door. I bolted out of the seat, nearly tripping over my own feet with my frantic departure.
Jasper started barking up a storm, even before the big rig came to a standstill.
The door of it opened and the bearded man stepped out of the vehicle.
Strangely, my dog paid the trucker little mind. Jasper’s eyes remained fixated on my Subaru. He began to snarl.
“Get away from the car,” the man bellowed. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at an angle, almost like he was aiming at my vehicle.
Was this how my life was going to end? Shot dead when I was at the finish line, where I was supposed to be safe?
My husband Billy babbled. “S-sir, please. You don’t have to do this.”
The trucker shook his head. As he did, the sound of sirens began to blare in the distance. He didn’t answer us. Instead, he lowered his gun into his holster and stood still as a statue all while my dog continued snarling and barking at our vehicle.
When the police came, guns drawn, he remained calm.
“I’m not the one you want,” he said. “The car. Search the car.”
Even to this day, I still remember in vivid detail what happened. When the police opened the rear driver door, there was a gaunt looking man back there crouched in the floorboard with a knife clenched in his hand. The wide, manic look lingering in his eyes remained far colder than the frigid winds blowing around us.
The trucker explained later that he saw the man inside my vehicle wielding the blade. He must’ve snuck inside before my shift ended. Once the driver realized what was going on, he’d tried to intervene.
Every time the person in the backseat had attempted to overpower me, to harm me, the trucker turned on his high beams. It scared my unknown passenger. The sight of the light made him hide.
The police hadn’t offered much in the way of details concerning who my stowaway was; given the six inches worth of blade he held, not much imagination was needed to map out what the strange man planned to do to me.
I learned on that cold, lonely October night to never judge a situation wholly by appearances. I was grateful to that truck driver. If it weren’t for his persistence, I would probably not be alive today to share my story.

I think a lot about signals. Signals that show people what groups they belong to. Signals that hide the truth. Everybody uses signals to blend, entice, or trap.
Grandma Pearl died not long after her stroke, and I've been making bad decisions ever since. Maybe my expectations are too high, or I'm just an idiot. Either way, I ran away from the group home to be with people who called themselves my "family." They were the wrong people. They used the words family, brother, sister, and love like lock picks, stealing trust, and taking self-respect.
The only person I remember using the word family correctly was Grandma Pearl. She was a small woman who toured the US as an actress before settling with Granddad above their theatrical rentals shop. I was three when the car accident took Granddad and Mom, so I don't know if they used the word "family" correctly, but I hope they did.
I was never as outgoing as Grandma, but that didn't bother her; she taught me how to watch people. How to see their signals, and how to listen. When she died. I forgot a lot of those lessons for a while.
They called it a "family". The "family" moved product. That product could be goods, drugs, or people.
The uninitiated, like me, were distracted with food and a dry place to sleep, but it didn't take long to see behind the curtain. Things got too intense with the new "family" and I ran.
I ran back to my old neighborhood. The buildings were familiar even if my home was gone. The old theatrical shop had been turned into a microbrewery.
After an appropriate amount of self-pity, thirty minutes, I wandered the alleys, picking up cans or scavenging for bits and pieces that could be recycled, used, or bartered.
I recognized old faces, but I tried to stay out of sight. It was safer that way.
The only place I allowed myself to be seen was the old Lutheran church on the park's far side. Most people who might have known me had aged out of the congregation or died. It was worth the risk because St. Lazarus had a food pantry in the basement and gave out lunches most days, so I wasn't always hungry, which was nice.
I found a dry spot near the library to sleep, which seemed like a stroke of luck until it wasn't.
I had the contentment that came with being in a familiar place. Little bits of comfort let me believe, for a moment, that I wasn't a screw-up and hadn't trusted the wrong people. That moment scurried away when Stick found me.
Stick was a scary asshole. He technically wasn't in charge of the " family," but he made it work. He got things done. I have no idea how old he was. He was all corded muscle and could clock in between twenty and fifty. He looked half-starved and moved like a stalking predator, even with his limp.
His left leg was stiff. The knee didn't bend, and anytime he sat, his left leg would be splayed to the side like a kickstand on a bike. The leg was why he walked with a cane. The cane and how he used it was why we called him Stick.
I don't know why he took the time to track me down. It's not like I was wanted. Maybe it was that I had become property. Property shouldn't just wander off.
Sometimes, you feel a person before you see them. The air is different. When Stick was around, the air felt dead and motionless. I knew I was being watched before I opened my eyes.
Stick was sitting on a milk crate, his bad leg cocked to the side and his forehead resting on his cane. I pushed myself out from beneath the ductwork of the HVAC unit I had been sleeping under and slapped the dirt off my jeans.
"I thought that was you," Stick said as his sharp grin curved up to his unblinking dark eyes.
Stick wanted my discomfort. I'd seen him play the intimidation game too many times. He'd act too friendly, and then when you were good and worried, quick movements, a hand around the back of your neck, and violence would be next. Then he'd act like the whole mind fuck was a big joke, like you were friends, and isn't it great that you can joke around with someone who "really" cared.
It worked, too. If you were the unfortunate focus of Stick's attention, you would be grateful when he smiled and said, "Just a joke, kid. Don't be so sensitive." I'd seen the pattern enough times to know Stick trained people like dogs with his hot and cold game. I didn't like the game, or the fear, so I changed the pattern.
"Hey, Stick, did you come to help pick up cans?" I asked, making sure my smile reached my eyes. I was trying to be pleasant while ignoring the burning nervousness in my gut.
It was still dark out, but I could see Stick's expressions well enough.
Stick tapped his cane on the sidewalk and squinted at me skeptically before answering. "Just checking on my little brother."
We were not related.
Stick liked to call the uninitiated his little brothers or little sisters. He forced intimacy into his language. I didn't argue the point. Interactions went best with Stick when you agreed with everything he said.
"Thanks, man," I complimented, trying to sound genuine and ignorant as I stepped forward and offered him my hand.
Stick didn't move, but I could see that this conversation wasn't going as planned for him, and I forced myself not to react to his confusion. I couldn't break character, or he would know I was playing him.
Stick tapped his cane on the ground twice, grasped my hand, and stood. He watched me. I held his stare, but in an open, naive, guileless way that I had perfected in front of the mirror as grandma gave acting advice while she put her face on.
I once asked Grandma Perl why anyone would practice acting stupid. She pointed her mascara brush at me and, in her ditsiest Minnesota Nice character, said, "It's easier to be forgiven when people think you're a little dumb, don't ya know?" Like with most things, Grandma was right.
Before I understood what had happened, Stick pulled me into his side and slung an arm around my shoulder.
"You don't have a name yet. Everyone gets a name, but they don't get to pick it." He paused and gave me a Cheshire cat grin. "I have a name for you, little brother. You are going to be called Slide." Then he held my chin and forced eye contact." Your name will be Slide because I have never seen anyone slide out of shit faster than you. I can't tell if you do it on purpose or not, and I've been watching. I watch everybody. You do, too. Hell, this might be the first time I've ever heard you talk. So let's celebrate your name, Slide." Stick's smile slipped as he pulled me out of the alley. "We'll go do something special."
I stayed silent, knowing full well what was coming. Being named meant doing something you could never take back. It was public and would put you in prison if the police ever took the time to look for you. It meant severing yourself from your life before and relying entirely on the "family." I had been absent each time naming seemed to be in the cards, but I couldn't duck out this time.
There was only one place to go at this time of night that would have an impact, the Bodega.
The Bodega was a red hole in the wall with a glass door papered over with grocery ads years outdated. Canned salmon two for one seemed to be the dominant theme. Although there were two large windows, one on either side of the door, you could barely see in. The right window was a tapestry of cigarette promotions. The left window displayed the only swath of uncovered glass with a view of the interior. From the outside, the view was of tobacco, lottery scratchers, and Old Lady Imitari.
Old Lady Imitari owned the store. She was a short, dark-haired woman who always wore a long floral tank top. Grandma Pearl loved the old woman but said Imitari looked like an old man's thumb all the years she had known her, and Grandma moved to the neighborhood with Grandad thirty years ago. Imitari was a local legend even then because the Bodega was open twenty hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, and no one else worked in the store. Grandma used to make an extra strong coffee called Barako and chat with Imitari sometimes when work in the shop was slow.
I would sneak out at night and try to catch Imitari sleeping. No matter the time, I never caught her snoozing, and she always saw me peeking at her through the window. I know she saw me because she would uncross her arms and wave her flyswatter at me.
All these memories flicked through my mind as Stick smiled his too-wide smile and pushed me into the Bodega.
Imitari flicked her fly swatter at me in acknowledgment, and her attention returned to the small TV she had nestled beside the cash register, which seemed to be the old woman's only real tether to the world outside her shop.
The inside of the Bodega was just a long hallway with shelves of convenience foods, drinks, home supplies, candy, and cold meds covering every available surface from floor to ceiling. The only break in the tunnel of products was the glass counter at the back corner of the store; Imitari presided over her mini domain by casually ignoring her shoppers. I tried to make eye contact with the old woman again as Stick pushed me to the back of the shop, but after her initial acknowledgment of our entrance, Imitari's eyes stayed focused on her TV.
As casually confident as possible, I walked to the cooler and grabbed an iced tea. "Want a drink," I asked over my shoulder, my voice unusually steady, given the electric current of anxiety flowing through me.
Stick sneered and tapped his cane twice on the ground. His eyes found all the security cameras in the tiny store, a frown creasing his angular features.
I followed his line of sight and finally realized what had bothered him. The cameras were fake. They looked like security cameras, but they weren't. There were no wires or lenses, just rectangles and circles in a security camera shape.
Stick took a deep breath and tapped his cane on the ground again. " There… is … so… much… here… to… see… but… no… one… is… watching," he said with a singsong. Then his sneer turned into a cruel smile.
I knew Stick wanted an audience for what he would force me to do. The fact that the security cameras were fakes meant that whatever was going to happen would now have to be significant. An event that the neighborhood wouldn't be able to ignore. My stomach twisted with the thought.
Stick waggled his eyebrows at me. He had been watching. He had seen my thoughts, and we both knew he had something terrible in mind.
The cane twirled in Stick's hand and then tapped twice on the shop tile.
"I think I want a little bit of this," Stick said, gesturing wildly with his cane, sending a row of soup cans tumbling to the floor. "And a little bit of that," Stick added as another wild gesture sent cups of ramen spinning and knocking glass bottles of hot sauce to the floor.
I stood paralyzed, unable to run. I was trapped with nowhere to duck away to. I didn't want Stick to hurt Old Lady Imitari, and I didn't want Stick to hurt me, either. The truth was, he would hurt both of us no matter what I did. That was just the way Stick was. I'd seen him. I'd seen him show us who he was every day.
Then I realized Imitari hadn't moved. She was watching her TV and chuckling at the sitcom as if nothing had happened.
Stick glanced at me, confused. I almost felt sorry for the sociopath. His night was not going to plan.
Imitari chuckled at her TV again, and a crease formed in the middle of Stick's forehead, letting me know that he was beyond angry. He was calm, dangerous, and vicious. People had been left for dead when Stick got this way.
Stick raised his cane and flipped it so the handle jutted like a pickax. He was going to attack Imitari.
Somehow, I moved. I didn't do much, but when I slid forward and grabbed the back of Stick's shirt, the cane missed Imitari, and the sharp handle punctured the thick glass top of the counter just above a roll of Lotto scratchers.
Old lady Imitari slowly looked up into Stick's eyes and smiled. Her wide, gentle frown was replaced with a look of joy and something else, something primal, something hungry. Her pupils were blown, and I had the uneasy feeling that I was watching someone be served their absolute favorite meal.
Before Stick could pull his cane from the punctured glass, Imitari casually reached forward, grabbed the cane, and pulled the wirey man forward. Small, old, and wrinkled, Imitari stared into Stick's eyes and overpowered him.
Stick fell forward across the counter. He tried to push himself back, but Imitari's hand clamped down on his wrist like a vice.
Bones ground together as Imitari pulled Stick's hand to her mouth, and with a swift, subtle movement, she bit off the tips of Stick's pinky and ring finger like she was sampling a cookie.
I jumped back next to the cooler as a thin spray of blood arched toward me.
Stick screamed and thrashed, but Imitari's small form was static and immovable. Stick was a fly in a trap. No matter how much he struggled, punched, poked, or kicked, he could not break the old woman's hold. Then, slowly, she took another bite.
It was strangely fascinating watching the frail form of this old woman I had known for years take bite after bite out of Stick. This man, whom I thought of as a predator, a hunter, an enforcer, was crying and begging while an old woman, who looked like a wrinkled thumb in a floral top, quietly devoured him.
I was surprised by the lack of blood after the first spray. I'm sure it was Imitari's crushing grip that stanched the flow of blood. The flesh of Stick's arm looked white from the pressure.
Hand over hand, Imitari pulled Stick forward. Bones cracked as she gripped higher on Stick's arm, clamped down with her long leathery fingers, and fed the flesh and bone, one concise bite at a time, into her open smiling maw. It was rhythmical in its simplicity: chomp, crunch, chew, chew, swallow. Over and over, the pattern continued until the begging stopped.
Stick wasn't dead. He gave up. Not struggling, he laid over the glass counter like a rag doll. He watched me glassily as Imitari took bite after bite, and I knew he wasn't there anymore. Whatever made Stick Stick had either curled up and hidden in a dark corner of his mind or had been devoured with his arm.
The old woman seemed displeased that her meal had stopped struggling. She shook him, but he flopped, and his head lulled from side to side. Imitari frowned, let go of Stick's arm, and pushed down on the limp man's back. Blood gushed from the ragged stump, and Imitari lowered her mouth and drank from the wound like she was sipping from a garden hose.
Stick didn't move. He just grew pail, and eventually, his panicked, shallow breaths ended, and the blood stopped flowing.
Then Imitari stood. With a quick tug, she pulled Stick's body over the counter and let it flop to the floor at her feet. Her eyes closed. A contented smile bloomed on her face as the explosive sound of crunching and cracking bones echoed through the small shop.
The deafening sound of crunching stopped, and only the buzzing of the drinks cooler reverberated through the small space. Imitari opened her eyes and watched me, a broad smile still on her lips. At that moment, I realized I could hear the drinks cooler so well because I had crawled into it, wedged between the glass door and the shelves.
Imitari held me with her gaze as cords of pink flesh lowered from the ceiling and efficiently tidied up Stick's mess, lapping up blood and hot sauce, placing cans on shelves, and scooping up cups of ramen with whip-like tendrils. Then, the cords of flesh nudged me forward, and I stood before Old Lady Imitari.
The thing that I had always thought of as a stern old woman handed me Stick's cane. With the same benign smile I remembered from buying red hots from it as a ten-year-old, it waved me away with its flyswatter, and the cords of flesh pushed me out the door onto the sidewalk.

I had a weird thought process last night and eventually began to wonder if chewing on something like how we chew on pens or how babies suck on pacifiers would relieve stress in anyway like a how it does for babies. From a few quick Google searches my logic appeared to be more sound than I was expecting, and I was wondering if they make dog toys for people to chew on for that very purpose? I have no idea if I'd be interested in trying it myself but I might consider it if there is. For the most part I'm just curious.
Edit: through a few extra Google searches I discovered that it actually does exist. It's called chewelery and half the time they do look like dog toys. I found this really cool gem shaped one that I like and I might actually get it because it's pretty inconspicuous. It seems to be mostly for people with autism but a few other Google searches seem to imply that chewing in general is a healthy thing to do.
https://www.arktherapeutic.com/arks-krypto-bite-chewable-gem-necklace/?gad_source=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwxqayBhDFARIsAANWRnQi7yERkDuAtGUAStvb4_eDnpDJpnvjaPsbO297fNZoRb8XBpI6_nkaAmroEALw_wcB

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Edited by WaveOfWire
- - - - -
Two days… It had been two days that Tracy had gone to sleep while Harrison was working, only to come back in the morning to see him still in the workshop. She knew he was damn productive, sure, but that really couldn’t be healthy. Apparently, it had something to do with the weird bowl of orange… soup… that Cera gave him. No way was it just caffeine; any amount of the stuff would have been filtered out of his system by now. He mentioned a tingling feeling too…
Damn, she did not know enough about drugs to even start assuming what that massive alien had Harrison fucked up on. At least the scanner said he was ‘fine’—if you ignore the other glaring issues the machine brought up. Plus, he said he didn’t mind it. Either way, he managed to complete the weaving component and a few other electrical backbones of the fabricator last night, so the project was practically done, and after seeing the engineer work himself half to death, she was dead-set on finishing it.
She was currently tits-deep into the upper manufacturing portion of the towering machine. It took a tall step-stool—on top of the nearby desk—for her to push her small shoulders through the even smaller access panels high on the everything-printer. It was difficult to fit her torso in, but she managed, holding a flashlight between her teeth as she fiddled with a stubborn series of mechanical ‘hands.’ Nothing new. The situation reminded her of the ‘shop back on Mars; it had the same ever-present scent of copper and industrial sealant. All that was missing was her dad’s ancient tunes blasting through some shitty speakers… Hold on…
The modular component in her grip was successfully attached with a resonating thock. Tracy squirmed out of the dim wire-filled crevice, trying her best to not rip her only tank-top on any bolts or corners, and getting a face-full of the bright flood-lights illuminating the workshop. She scowled and blocked out the searing light with a hand, but she was a bit too late to avoid going half-blind.
“Are the mechanical manipulators in?” Harrison grunted, poking his head out underneath the printer’s floor-adjacent maintenance hatch. She looked down at him as she tried to blink off the spots in her vision. His hair was messy, barely kept in line by his habit of combing through it with his fingers. The areas around his eyes were dark and sunken… Guess that’s what two all-nighters did to a man. He’d be seeing the hat man or start hallucinating if he didn’t get any sleep soon… but then again, the two of them were so close to finishing the fabricator…
“You bet.” She gave him a thumbs up, slamming the panel cover closed. “Feel free to test it.”
He nodded and slid back underneath the machine. “Gotcha”
She gently stepped off the stool and slid off the side of the desk, stretching herself out. If her piss-poor sitting posture or her tank-top puppies hadn’t already fucked her spine up, bending over backward to build this fabricator sure as hell would. She sat down next to the panel where Harrison resided, resting her back against the fabrication tower. Her excited voice broke the muffled noises of the engineer’s work. “So… Harrison?”
“Hmm—”
“—Mind if I play some music?”
The sounds from the hatch stopped, followed by his muffled, shocked tone echoing from beneath the fabricator. “You have music!?”
She smirked at seeing the expression on his face when his head popped out again. “I sure do… Did you seriously not download any to your data pad?”
He slipped out from beneath the fabricator fully, huffing as he took a knee beside her. The scent of melded rubber, wire, and his liquid labor reached her nose not-so-unpleasantly. “You would not believe how much of a pain it is to repair an entire barracks without it… So, yeah, I didn’t.”
“Sooooooooo, whatcha wanna listen to? I’ve got almost everything on here—besides the super niche, of course.” She pulled her data pad out, swiping to the massive music folder
“You wouldn’t like the kinda music I listen to; It’s ancient.”
She gave him a lighthearted, annoyed glare. “Welcome to the club… Now what’ll it be?”
“It’s Old Earth kind of ancient… but alright” He looked up at the ceiling in thought, lips pursed. “Do you have anything from Styx or Sweet?”
She stared at him incredulously, her smirk turning into a fully-fledged smile. “Oh my God. You are an absolute dork! You actually listen to Golden Age music?”
His brows raised, accusatory. “And you somehow know exactly who those bands were and what age of Old Earth music they came from?”
She smugly leaned in closer. “That’s because I’m just as much of a nerd with that kinda music as you apparently are.” She quickly looked upward, addressing the workshop AI. “Sebas, connect nearby speakers to my data pad’s audio.” Tracy elbowed the engineer lightly as the PA system chirped its affirmation. “Now, Mr. Golden Age music, which albums do ya want me to queue up?”
- - - - -
The two of them listened to music for hours, tossing on songs they liked as they came to mind while they worked. Harrison had a ton of recommendations that spanned all over the Golden Ages and some twenty-first century classics. She didn’t even know half of them, but she was vibing either way, adding on her own taste by intermingling some older rock tracks and newer electronic beats. The playlist was steadily built up as the day went on. Thank God her dad showed her a vast array of tunes; she might not have been able to keep up with the engineer if her old man hadn't.
It made the work go by so fast, their conversations blurring as they jumped from topic to topic. They discussed whatever came to mind—old hobbies, old jobs, and old interests. A lot was left behind in Sol… At least she knew that the only other human on the planet was more interesting than a soulless workaholic. It turned out that he was a pretty big history buff, and he apparently read a lot about the colonization of the Sol system and the various wars of independence thereafter. Curious, she asked where the interest stemmed from, and he explained that his grandfather was an admiral in the Slavic-Europan deep-ice submarine fleet, which explained how Harrison’s mother was able to afford to immigrate to Mars from Europa.
He could also play an acoustic guitar, and, unfortunately for Tracy, he wasn’t even the slightest bit interested in printing one out, citing that it was a waste of time and material that would be better used elsewhere. That didn’t stop her from writing a note on her data pad to do so later, though. She hadn’t seen someone play one of those in years—the last time was probably in some old music video from the early twenty-second century. What a shame. She would have liked to hear some of the Europan songs his grandmother taught him.
On the bright side, the man seemed to take an interest in her odd hobbies. He brought up the folder of 3D models that she accidentally uploaded to the inter-module system and asked where she got the inspiration for what was in it. Boy, was he not ready for her ‘WarHalberd40k’ lore dump. Props to the guy for not standing up and leaving the workshop throughout her rambling. He even asked questions about the different factions and their weapons, which she was more than happy to talk about.
She also ended up going over the other franchises and hobbies she was interested in, such as robotics and the like. The only interruptions to their chat were the occasional Akula or Craftsman asking for insight regarding the various tasks he had allotted to them, or Shar coming in to check up on Harrison between guard shifts.
The new dynamic of the group was pretty interesting, to say the least. Tracy hadn’t been out to interact with the whole lot of Malkrin, but she definitely noticed how they treated the engineer. They’d started to look up to him in a way ever since he started showing off technology. In a little over two days, the man had shown them that he could provide the materials for a brick house, fine clothing—especially by the alien’s standards—armor, and delicious food. That wasn’t even mentioning the other benefits the technician heard a few of the ‘banished’ talking about over their meals: heating, electric lights, and other assorted machines.
She’d be feeling pretty happy about herself if she was in his position, having so many look up to him and be grateful at the same time. He seemed to view it a lot more robotically, however, only striving to get the basics done. Luckily for him, his basics were their luxury.
That wasn’t all there was to the topic; the engineer lamented about how the colony was going through food just as quickly as materials. The meals weren’t the direct issue he had, more that he had to start focusing on long-term resource harvesting rather than directly preparing for a literal horde of monsters—which wasn’t exactly ideal. It was a good thing that they just so happened to take on an influx of Malkrin then…
Either way, they finally finished the ‘totally legal modification’ for the fabricator, meaning they could at least partially address the latter half of his worries. The whole process of ripping out an old printer and replacing the parts for a new one felt a lot easier than she imagined… even if it took her at least forty-eight hours to complete it… with help from Harrison. Maybe that was why it felt so easy… She supposed the colony overseers didn’t choose the man for no reason, so his skills made sense.
“So… what do we want to print out first?” Tracy questioned, having finished testing the last major component.
The engineer stretched his arms up into the air and rotated his shoulders, then pulled back the desk’s chair and took a seat. “I’ve had just one thing in mind since the start of this whole project.”
Her brows raised in a mix of excitement and curiosity. She leaned forward, looking at the computer monitor from over his shoulder. “Oh? What’s that, then?”
A smirk formed along his cheek, the computer mouse rapidly clicking through the blueprint folder. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what kind of firearm we need since I started dabbling in belt-fed weapon systems.” He opened one final file, a short loading bar preceding the exploded assembly view of… “An M2 Browning machine gun. It’s more than powerful enough to kill in one shot, while also being capable of fully-automatic fire, with a capacity of however many rounds we want in a belt-box.”
“Uh…huh…” She gave a skeptical nod and took a step back, not exactly sold on the idea. “It looks ancient. It’s kinetic, right? Why aren’t we using energy-based weapons? Don’t we have a gunpowder shortage coming up?”
He moved his chair off to the side to look back at her. “We just can’t; Simple as. We’ll need who knows how many more AI cores before we can get started on that level of equipment, Trace,” he huffed, returning his gaze to the specifications of the firearm. “This isn’t the most ‘modern’ weapon we can make, but its twenty-first century counterpart helps with an improved design… somewhat. And, as I said before, it should be more than capable of killing a bug in one shot, so Shar can just tap-fire it to save ammunition.”
Her head tilted quizzically. “Shar?”
“Yup,” he returned confidently. “It’s the perfect weapon for her.”
She raised a brow. “How so?”
He held his hand up, counting his reasons on his fingers. “She’s always on the front line with a shield, she can absolutely handle the weight and recoil, her four arms make reloading it simple, plus she’ll need something with range and power that isn’t a spear. So, why not? And, if for some reason, she doesn’t want to use it, we can just convert it into a turret—which is something I was planning on doing anyways with however more M2s we print out later.”
“I doubt she’ll say no to any gun you give her,” Tracy chuckled while shaking her head, inadvertently causing her bangs to cover her eyes.
“Fair enough,” he conceded with a bob of his head. “What do you think, then? What kinda weapons do you have in mind?”
She reapplied her goggles into an impromptu hairband, feeling a smirk cross her face. “Thought you’d never ask. What purpose do we need these guns to fulfill? Hordes I’m guessing?”
“That’s the idea, yeah. That doesn’t mean they all need to be machine guns, though.” He tapped the belt-fed shotgun beside him.
“Well, lemme see what we’re working with first.” She suddenly stepped forward, leaning over Harrison’s seat to access the keyboard and mouse. Her arms briefly rubbed against him, forcing him to roll his chair backward. She suppressed a giggle at seeing his incredulous frown.
Her eyes quickly traced the hundreds of individual files, clicking through all sorts of folders, each arranged from pre-twenty-first century ‘antiques,’ to more modern iterations of kinetics and particle weaponry. There was… a lot on there—almost too much to reasonably comb through. Why? Did the colony overseers just say ‘fuck it’ and put whatever they could find on here? Were they expecting the pioneers to make a museum of everything?
She sighed, standing up straight and facing Harrison. “Y’know, I’m actually impressed you managed to find that M2-whatever in there…”
He shifted in his seat, resting an elbow on the desk. “Yup, there’s a lot. I’m almost tempted to just make several of those machine guns and just call it a day, but I feel like that’d be too much of a strain on resources, no?”
“I don’t really know enough about how you fight those spider-crab things, or how to get more gunpowder, so… maybe?” She shrugged, biting her cheek in contemplation. “You might just wanna make a few smaller caliber weapons… like, uh… those old kinetic service rifles. If your pump-action shotgun works fine, I’m sure some normal guns would work just fine for now, right?”
He hardily gripped his firearm, hauling it up to his lap. “Depends on what you mean by ‘smaller caliber.’ The whole reason why the KS-23 here works—” he pulled out a massive shell from the ammo belt, displaying it on his palm. “—is because the twenty-three-millimeter round has enough energy transfer to mess up any bug's shell and insides. I’d say the smallest rounds we could use would be point-two-forty-three caliber to get any similar results.”
Brief flickers of grungy orange shells and gnashing teeth marred Tracy’s sight. She forcibly suppressed them, distracting herself with dry humor and a strained laugh. “Guess those fuckers can really take a punch, huh?”
He shook his head somberly. “I couldn’t imagine going up against them without a gun… Anyway, I like your idea of a standard rifle for now. Then, when we have some product lines up, we can go a little more in depth into personal weapons.”
“So are you gonna take one?” She hopped up on the desk, letting her legs swing off the side.
“Don’t think so, no. I’ll stick with my shotty.” The internals of the heavily modified weapon rattled as he held it up and inspected it. “Doesn’t mean I’ll keep it as is. I’m thinking of printing a laser aiming module so I can point-fire it accurately, and maybe a melee-oriented muzzle brake or a lighter chassis to reduce weight… Not sure though.”
She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, her cheeks in her palms. “Melee-oriented? Oooooh, like a chain-sword or something?”
His short chuckle coerced a smirk to her face. “No, not like that. More something to use as a bludgeoning tool. Right before the blood-moon, I ended up getting just as much use out of this shotgun as a hammer than as a… well, a shotgun.”
“That’s pretty fuckin’ metal. So are you just gonna make the barrel into a giant bayonet?”
He nodded. “Not exactly a bayonet, but something more like a door-breaching break.”
A short silence settled on their conversation, the faint sounds of the fabricator’s hum and distant woodwork coming to light. Right, there was an outside world… She’d been too caught up talking to Harrison for however many hours it had been. She wondered how successful the fisherwomen were in collecting, and how things had been for the others working on the wood storage shack. Maybe it was already completed? The sun peered through the cargo bay door, proving that it was only about midday. What else would they work on today?
“Hey,” she ventured.
“Hm?” the engineer hummed, his eyes focused on the monitor beside the technician.
She scooted closer to his keyboard. “What’re we doing after this?”
“What do you mean?”
She leaned backward, propping herself up on two hands. “Project wise; what’s the next big thing?”
“Uhmmm…” he muttered, interacting with the computer for a few more seconds before finally meeting her gaze. “Well, I’ve just allocated the fabricator to print out the M2, three FALs—wood furniture, of course—then there’s the magazines and ammunition, so we’ve got a lot of time to kill. The next big thing is definitely going to be metal procurement, and— Oh, right!” Harrison stopped mid-sentence, reaching into his backpack and pulling out several finger-sized metallic cubes, a sudden fire in his eyes. “Okay, so a while ago, during an encounter with three colossi, Shar and Akula found a cave with some ‘surface’ metal deposits. I took a piece off to analyze, but never got the chance to until last night. Anyway, we don’t have any machines to examine the ore, so I made use of the recycler and broke it down to its baser components.”
She nodded along, seeing where he was going with his explanation. “I’m guessing those shiny cubes are the metals from the ore?”
“Sure is. So, as it turns out, we have a pretty damn close supply of not only iron, but also, zinc, sulfur, and a small amount of cadmium. I talked with Sebas about it and did a little research. We believe it’s something akin to sphalerite, given its composition and looks, which implies it’s a sedimentary exhalative deposit. That means there must have been some volcanic…”
Harrison continued talking about underwater deposits and ancient rock formations, bringing up some theories brought forward by the now 4-AI-core-powered Sebas, delving into the current land mass’ history and possible ore output. A lot of it went over the tradewoman’s head, but she still listened intently… Honestly, she could have listened to the man talk about finding metals for hours. It was sort of like the podcasts she used to listen to while completing colonist training, but even more personal and somehow easier to get lost in…
“…find some other minerals further down like silver, but it also might be an active lava zone. Again, these are all theories and this world could just throw the fundamentals of geology away as it does for physics. Anyway, sorry for going on for so long about that, just thought it’d be important for getting some metals in the future.”
“No, no,” Tracy assured, alleviating him of concern with a wave of her hand. “If there’s anything the colony overseers emphasized, it was farming and mineral acquisition. Don’t worry.” She smiled, pointing a thumb to herself. “I just wanna know how I can help.”
“Actually, I’ve a few things only you can do. I’d like to make use of your impressive drone-making expertise for a few applications, if you don’t mind.”
The task of keeping eye contact slipped into an impossible feat in the span of a singular second, planting a pang of embarrassment on her reddened face, forcing her to inspect her fidgeting hands. “I-I wouldn’t say ‘impressive’… b-but what do you have in mind?”
She could see him raise a brow out of the corner of her vision. “Well, after what you’ve shown me with the reconnaissance flyers, I’d like your help in setting up a more permanent ‘net’ of them to scour the meadow and parts of the nearby forest to look out for any approaching hordes. I don’t want to be snuck up on… again…”
‘Again.’
She noted his small frown and sunken eyes, both a little more exaggerated than they already were. It wasn’t like she’d deny his request, but the pangs of empathy over their shared situation all but solidified her resolve. It was the least she could do. She could help him. She would help him.
The technician exhaled slowly, taking on a more serious and understanding tone than before. “I… can do that. For sure. What else?”
“I appreciate it.” He gave a wane smile. “I’ll help you with whatever you need for the project. For the other drones, I’m thinking about a small exploration vehicle to map out caves around us and mark any minerals, as well as a submersible to look for potassium deposits in the ocean.”
“So… search bots?” She crossed her arms, confidence growing; those were her specialty. “Depending on how long the fabricators take and what kind of base drones are in the blueprint folders, I should be able to get those done in no time. All I need to know are the search cues for potassium and how many drones you want.”
He quickly shuffled a few folders on the computer, turning the monitor for her to see some scientific documents with various images and walls upon walls of text. “There’re plenty of resources for that on here for what to look for, and there’s always Sebas, so feel free to ask him since he can just sort through the data for you anyway. If you can, I’d like it if you could focus on the submersible after the reconnaissance drones.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll be right on it, then.” She gave him a thumbs up, slipping off his desk and toward her own.
“I’ll bring you lunch in a bit. Imma go check on the others,” he called.
Her stomach grumbled at the mention, her head turning to give him an appreciative smile. “Oh! Thanks!”
\= = = = =
Avian creatures chirped from their perches in the trees nearby. The wind softly rustled red leaves as grass gently gave way to calculated footfalls. A warm sun laid its light on Shar’khee’s neck. It was surprisingly pleasant, were one to take the time to notice. The mainland was a confusing place for the paladin, with its disparate representations of nature contrasting so heavily. Some days were filled with blood and ravenous beasts, while others were left within the domain of simplicity and beauty. She was content to have the latter, yet it felt like a facade veiling the former—a soft exterior covering the maliciously spiked interior. Never could she leave herself to carelessness, no matter how welcoming it might be.
Hence why she worked to ensure the safety of the star-sent’s castles and their inhabitants, her days largely spent patrolling for any roaming swarms that may wish to cause them harm. She typically used the routine to think, but today offered little in the way of solitude. This time, she was accompanied by the previously banished guardswoman, and was tasked with instructing the new one, though the specifics of what such lessons should entail were vague. Still, Shar’khee did all that she could so as not to disappoint Harrison, so she could only attempt to meet his expectations of her.
She told the yellow-skinned female of the threats that the settlement faced, how one was to defeat them, and what to expect from the beasts. The guardswoman was directed to practice her form with the spear in both thrusts and throwing for some time afterward, proving herself to be well-built. Such was expected of her profession after all.
It was pleasing to have another capable of patrolling the settlement’s outskirts for swarms, as it would greatly impact how effectively the colony could react to such a threat. If her routine was to suffer for the colony’s well-being, she was happy to show the new one her patrol route and note what to look out for.
The guardswoman was not a perfect student, however. Shar’khee never addressed it directly, but the yellow-skinned female obviously discredited the danger posed by the abhorrent, not-so-subtly shrugging off any warnings.
…That was until they stumbled upon the ‘hyena-boars,’ as Harrison called them.
The beasts resided in a clearing not too far from the castles, carelessly meandering across the sea of tall grass. Shar’khee quickly crouched, dragging the guardswoman down with her. Once she assessed that the creatures were not an imminent danger, she decided it would be an excellent opportunity to show the new one how to properly engage a threat. She was about to propose the idea, yet her speech was silenced just as swiftly.
Orange flashes darted through the trees around the glade. Taloned feet and gnashing teeth tore across the ground toward the unsuspecting beasts at the center. It was much too late for them. They were slow. Surrounded. Unaware. It was as quick as it was vicious, the forest’s reds turning a deeper crimson hue in a moment's notice underneath the abhorrent’s brutality.
Gangly monstrosities gnawed and ripped at the dead creatures, brief glimpses of raw flesh and white bone protruding from the small spaces between the clumped-up beasts. Repulsive wet splatters of blood and gore overlapped the calm noises of the forest, the grisly scene serenaded by the softest of nature’s symphonies. It was a sickening juxtaposition.
Shar’khee bit back the unease and steeled herself. They were within twenty paces—close enough to smell the abhorrent’s vile stench of rot and bile, yet far enough so as not to be noticed. She briefly considered backing away and retreating, her focus bouncing between the different avenues of escape, or how to cover her footst—
Crack.
Several sets of feral, eyeless maws snapped in their direction, the blood dripping off freshly dampened teeth. The guardswoman gasped, Shar’khee’s gaze following to see the mistake: a singular broken branch crinkled as a yellow-colored foot raised off the splintering twig.
The paladin exhaled sharply and smoothly stood up, brandishing two spears and her shield. Her glare settled on the still crouching guardswoman. “You are to stay behind my shield and let them appr—ch. Rem—ber what I have told you. Aim for their maws when you thrust y—r lance.”
The other female nodded, shakily pulling out her own weapons with unsteady placement hampering her grip. There was an obvious nervousness to her gaze. Hesitance. That would not do.
Shar’khee faced the prowling abhorrent her knuckles shifting hue as she prepared for their advance, for there was no chance that they wouldn’t. True to her experience, the stalking turned to a gallop with several clicks of grotesque tongues, the swarm bolting toward her as one. She snarled and slammed her bulwark into the ground, letting the approaching beasts skewer themselves amongst its spikes.
There were only ten—a paltry amount. She had defended against magnitudes more, and yet she still stood. What is more, they were mindless. Uncoordinated. They would be but stains in the cloth she used to clean her armor. Perhaps, if they were fortunate, they might leave a furrow in her shield to remember them by. Her arms tensed as the first leapt.
One by one, the abhorrent fell, their repulsive green blood splattering under her thrusts. Each awaiting corpse tore across the grove’s grass, lunging to their deaths with gaping maws and unfeeling hunger, yet she did not yield. Their shells were crushed by her shield and impaled by her Goddess-blessed spears, becoming but one more smear across their surface. Ten motionless lumps lay before her, seeping their ichor into the soil, none having passed the barrier she became. Dead, just as the Creator intended. She remained vigilant for a few moments longer, watching for any more of the disgusting creatures.
None showed themselves, finally allowing blood to flow to her fingers once again. The shield’s heavy presence weighed down her back, the blood flicked off of her spears before she returned them to their place.
“Are y–u well?” Shar’khee addressed the frozen Malkrin, wiping away the splatter on her bracers. The guardswoman stared at the small pile of deceased creatures, her heavy breaths and widened eyes moving from the spear from her singular kill. The paladin huffed. “We are fort—ate that there were so few.”
“F-Few? God help us…” Her horrified, stunned gaze slowly met the paladin’s. “Y-You said there were hundreds on the crimson nights? H-How do you… They were s-so fast.”*
”As I h–ve warned,” Shar’khee affirmed.
“You are a paladin! You all exaggerate your feats… I thought it was just a facade!”
“I have no r—son to lie,” she returned tersely, shrugging off the insult to her station and shaking her head. “The mainl—d is far more dangerous than ten gnash—g beasts; more so than that of your island hamlet. Pick yourself up. We m—t inform the others of this incursion.”
The yellow-skinned female snarled, furrowing her brows at the ground in frustration. At whom…? Shar’khee? Herself? Regardless, the female promptly gathered her composure, pushing air through clenched jaws. A step forward had her feet splash in the small pool of blood, the Malkrin nodding toward the paladin to continue back to the castles.
“…for the village.”
Shar’khee paused in her stride and faced her, frowning at the determination and anger leaking through the intent. “W—t was that?”
Her question was returned with honesty, a huffed voice marred by vexation. “Paladin, how am I to defend my village-mates as I am now?”
“‘As you are now?’ What do you m—n?”
The guardswoman stared down at her spear, wood creaking under her grip. “I have faltered before what you deem a paltry threat, and the thought of an even greater one sows dread deep within my bones. I wish… I wish to be better prepared to defend those of my village. I cannot help but see their faces on those of the furred creature in the clearing, and yet, even if I am so close, I am just as unable to protect them.”
Shar’khee stared down the yellow female, a long gaze taking in a rare showing of sincerity. “Y—r fears are one we all share, new one. Do not be ashamed of them. All t—t matters is that you do not let them rem—n mere fear, but make them your strength. So tell me, do you wish to impr—e? To ensure they do not fall while you are support—g them?”
The yellow-skinned female released a shuddering breath that bled off the worst of her indecision, a newly invoked flame flaring within her visage. “I do, paladin. I seek to protect and to be of use.”
“Then, if you wish to make y—rself resilient in the face of all that opposes us, it would be my undertak—g to forge you anew. Fortunately, Harrison has ordered such already, and his guidance shall prove ever useful, should you pursue it.”
The guardswoman shuffled in place at the star-sent’s mention, her eyes slipping downwards. “He is of a great many resources, but I would rather receive your teachings than those of a craftsman… or that of a male, deity-sent he might be.”
She placed a palm on the female’s shoulder. “He is far more than you might ever k—w. Regardless of if you ac—pt his guidance, I commend your conviction. However—” Her hand gripped tighter, though not enough to instill hostility. “—understand that you are protecting more than just your vi—age-mates.”
The new one nodded, staring up at the paladin with stallwart resolve. “Of course. I shall be in your tutelage, then.”
Shar’khee smiled. “T—n let us begin.”
\= = = = =
Akula was becoming increasingly certain that she knew how her parents once felt. The green-skinned fisherwoman was currently rotating between the many tasks placed upon her, guiding the newcomers through the minutia of their tasks so they might live up to the potential Harrison saw within them. She was gratified to have her own talents recognized by the Creator, but it also placed a great many responsibilities in her talons. Of course, she handled each new addition with finesse befitting her heritage, never once balking from the increasing demands. If anything, she felt validated; it was required of her as a female anyway, was it not? The more feminine-appropriate labor and management one undertakes, the higher authority they were granted.
It began with a simple assignment to oversee the chef’s introduction to the star-sent’s provided cooking appliances. As fascinating and convenient as utilities were, she held no interest in preparing any more food than she already had, but teaching another to operate the machines would alleviate such requirements of her. She reluctantly accepted the task when it was proposed, especially considering the fact that Harrison was much too busy with his other projects to bother with something as benign as cooking. His work was more valuable elsewhere.
The task itself went well, and the pink-skinned chef was quick to pick up on the use of the various kitchen devices, as well as the smoker. A grin had grown when she considered the possibility of all males understanding such domestic things readily, yet her mirth at removing the masculine job required of her was short-lived. Despite the newly initiated Malkrin’s success, Harrison had Akula frequently return to oversee the numerous cooking operations being conducted. That was in tandem with the back-to-back fishing trips made by both herself and the newly acquired females.
…Which was something else the green-skinned cycle-worshipper was ordered to oversee.
She had left the chef to his devices after producing another batch of partially seasoned meals, returning to the Creator with hopes of a break. He applauded her efforts with a nod and tersely spoken appreciation, then quickly pushed two spearguns into her hand and directed her to the ocean, where the twins were ‘working with jack shit,’ as the busy male said. She was to give the fisherwomen the tools and make sure they were used properly, and offer additional assistance in acquiring ‘enough fish to have us fed for a little bit.’
So, she left to complete the given task, feeling somewhat appreciative that her speargun was of superior quality to those she would be delivering—the newcomers were only afforded the lesser, roped-bolt version. It was only natural that she was in possession of their greatest assets, of course; the star-sent saw her as the only one capable of wielding such fantastic ammunition, showing trust that was rightfully placed in her. That did not mean the gray-skinned females were unsatisfied with their own gifts, however. The twins were swiftly caught up on the ‘manual of arms’ and sent to work, somehow managing to keep up with Akula in spite of their land-based origins. The two were fast enough to outpace the cycle-worshipper in sheer speed, but their lack of numerous winters spent traversing deeper waters meant they required frequent rests, breaking the ocean’s surface after every third captured fish or so.
Still, she had to appreciate their dedication to their task. They never complained about Akula pushing them further to reach the star-sent’s vague objective. Such a task was entrusted to her—and by proxy, the other two—and thus it would be completed, no matter how much her comfortable bed… couch called her tiring muscles.
The group of three hauled net after full net of fresh meat to the chef—and sewist, who later joined him—forcing him to relegate much of the catch to long-term storage as the kitchen simply could not deal with the surplus. At least three-quarters of the fish were put to slow cook in the now Malkrin-sized smoker. The craftsman had upgraded it with a kit provided by Harrison, who had recycled much of the dining room and workshop furniture to accommodate it. The Creator’s showcased urgency to gather materials was clearly not unfounded… It was admirable how he used what little he had left to ensure food would not be scarce. Additionally, the apparatus exuded an excellent scent for all the survivors to enjoy, the earthy aroma drawing in some of the other Malkrin for their breaks or meals.
Those were not the end of the cycle-worshiper’s tasks, however. She was also required to report on Shar’khee’s progress in training the guardswoman—helping to recycle the small swarm of abhorrent they cleared earlier—as well as the wood storage building’s progress. Indeed, she was advising and assisting however and wherever applicable. To say she was seen all around the settlement would be an understatement.
Nevertheless, she was appreciative to see her efforts bearing fruit by sundown. The processing of their meals from sea to plate was quite efficient, and those that Akula taught were now well-practiced in their duties. The twin fisherwomen dove from wave to wave, bringing fish back to the barracks, where the cook and sewist swiftly worked to transfer the meat to pans and smoker hooks alike. Then, the remnants of the Sea Goddess’ aquatic gifts would be subsequently recycled and given purpose anew as biofuel or perhaps future fertilizer.
The endless onslaught of duties and responsibilities had enlightened her, in a way. She could see where Harrison came from now; having a working project go from one point to another without input nor difficulty was a sight to behold, and it made her swell with pride. It was a surmountable feat to teach the barbaric ground-worshippers to do something properly.
…Well, they were not horrible Malkrin, so perhaps simply calling them ‘uninitiated’ was a more apt descriptor…
No matter the tribulations faced, and no matter how draining her new authority might be, her rest at the end of the day would be one that was well-earned, and it would be had with a sense of satisfaction. She deserved it, and perhaps that extended to the rest of the settlement as well.
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