Resurrection Log: Ź̷̼͖ý̶̧̡̩̫͉͔͇̓̈́̋̎̽̌͐͛̈́̎̒́̐̍͠r̴̢͓̖̲͙̲̮͋̉̓̾͒̑͜͠ͅa̵̡̨̦͍͉̳͎͕̞͔̲̺̰̩̩̽͑̆̈̌́̏͝g̵̼͈̟̗͔͋́̈́̀͆̀̚ą̸̯̽̈́̑͒͑́ṙ̷͙̝̥͔̳̜̗͖̦͉͓͕͗̈́̇̇͂̐̍̒̍̔d̸͇̞̥͓̠̈́͒͋̌̐͝ ̶̨̧̛͔̲̻̖͚̠̣͔̻̰̫̒̇͐͜͠T̴̠͓͔̦̩̻̼̖̽͆̍͆̓̊̽̔̚͠ơ̷̶̵̸̸̸̡̛̛̬̖̰̦̦̮͚̗̞̻̻̞̻̙̘̘͈͈̭̲͙̪͍̭̭͉͚̤̅̾̽͋̀̑̋̆̍̉̇̉̈́̿͋͒̇̊̓̂̿̿̑̈́͆͑͌̂̌̑̆̉͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ţ̷̢̢̛͙̩͎̥͈̝̖̈̄͛̄͊̆̓̈́̊ͅͅȩ̸̠͍̱̖̺̣̖̄̉̔͜ņ̷̡͓̘̥̠̖̝̺͈̥͔̲͊k̴̛̯̫̪͑̽̔́̅͂̿̂͋̉̂̕͘͠y̵̟̟̰̪̻̼̖̌̽̇̓́̍̃͒̾̕̚͝͠r̵̢̨̠͉̼̲̲͛͒̂̽̄͐͌̏͘͘͝a̴̛̰̙̫͂͐̓̐ḿ̷̡̛̤͙͕̼̱̻͙̔͌̓̈̏͑̔̈́̓͘̚ą̸̧̧̯̺̫͈̞͎̻̤̫̂͐̐͘ņ̷̨̱̖̟͖͚̣̂͌͗̌̾̔́̕ ̶̨̨̲̘̭͚̣̝̞̲͔̦̽̾̏̄̒́̚͝K̷̖̻̘̣͐̽̀̅͛͜͜͜ṟ̴̛͇̺͈̲͉̤̰̰̥͉͓̜͑̈́͌̔̍̓́̕ą̷̼̄̾͊̓̽̾͊̈̒̍̍́̉̚͝l̸̨̞͇͈̖͔̘̜̱̦͈̊

Year 76,589 of the —Mother of Ruin—

M:6 D:13

Day 969 of Cycle 3

[transcribed memory/thoughtstream generated by Ṁ̵̢̘̭̬̙̘̦̳͓̺͈̪̒̂ǫ̵̨̛̠̫̻̐̋̓͗͗͗̏̎͂̿͌̕t̴̜̪͇͕͚́̓͐h̴̯͍̼̦̯̝̜̝̤͂͋͆͌͗͝ę̸͉͖͕̜̤̘͙͎͚̈́̏͒̒̄̏̃̋͘̕͘͜ȓ̸̢̨͍͉̱̮̞͔̋̇ ̴̡̛̱̳̘̠͎̫̩̪̦̠̦̣̀͒͛͊̚͠G̷̰̹̝͆̈͜į̸̧̟͙̰͖̳̯̈́̒͜͜g̶͉̗̹̻̟̰̞̭̠͉͙̈́͊̌̈̈̓̐̒̕ạ̵̧̧̘͖͔̟̝̳̅̇̂̂̅̓̇͛̓͋̊̏̇̕t̵̮̉͒̋̄̑̇̌̀̅͑̋͋r̶̻̟͗̋̀̆̿̃̔̄͒̎̊̈́̚o̵̪̦͇̫̾̋̊̾̋͗͗̊͊̄͜͠͝ḡ̵̛̰͎̇̐͒͋̊̀͝ẗ̶̡̮̠͈̗̗̃͛̈̊̾ḩ̴͍̖͖̥͈̻̪̖̤̰̥̣̋͌̚ř̵̝̤̩͈͎̤͎̯̤͔̝̬̖̓̏͐̀̿̊̂̈͋̕͝͝ĭ̴̡̡͙̺̪͕̻̺̥̫̭̜̺̳̃̂͊̓́̅̈́̎̀̽̀̚ͅṃ̵̨͇̺̪̤̄͜ȧ̵͓̟͖̞̩̤͙̩̖̠̝̣̔ź̶̡͇͍̝̳͚̱͖̳͖̬͓̋̂͜ ̸̢̺͚̍̎̈́̂͛̂̐͐̊̕̚͜͝͝Ȉ̵̢̹̜̞͆̃͗̅̈́̋͒̅͝Í̶̡͓͓̰̥̤̗̱̀͛́͆̒͋̂͠͝I̴̟̞̪̯͍̟̿̂̐̌͑̎̅̋͐͆̍́] [cont'd]

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Attraction is a stupid, stupid thing.

I am a stupid, stupid thing.

What I am about to work toward telling you—my selves, my Mothers—brings me no pleasure. Know that I am ashamed. Know that I beg your forgiveness.

The ḇ̴̒k̶̛̭͘e̷̜̟̓s̷̢̰͑̚s̷̢͕̔̈́i̷̪̝̾͛x̵̼͒. stalked up to me, baring her first layer of teeth, the pearlescent one. She had taught herself to grin, it seemed. It was horrible.

“Good Watching, Zyr, was it?”

I put my cup up to my face, though it was empty. I could not bring myself to make noises. And then I felt it—that inquisitive nudging. I opened the outer layer of my mind to her. Not to do so would have been an obvious snub, inciting conflict. I was not ready for conflict.

I am not as brave as I thought I was.

{This is quite the situation, isn’t it?} she queried, once the interface had locked into place. {I’m surprised you didn’t flip right off the ship the instant you caught scent of me.}

I scoffed. I admit I was pleased to have the chance to scoff.

{Things have changed much for both of our species. In the case that you have been unable to perceive it, I am far larger than you. I have sharper teeth and more tentacles. And unless I am quite mistaken—without the help of several genesculptors and primitive surgeons, your species’ form can only change with each generation.}

She smirked, but I thought perhaps it looked forced. More like a scowl.

{And so you are stuck smaller, weaker, and less toothy than me. At least for now. And given what I know of your species’ intellectual capacity, I am left without anything to fear.}

Tursa snarled, moving her body yet closer to mine. My tentacles twitched, but I forced them to remain behind me. I peered down at her with my eyes, and of course perceived her with the rest of my body as well. In her proximity, the scent of her own body became almost maddeningly powerful.

There was a heavy edge of sea-salts to it, in addition to the warm, spiced musk of a pseudo-mammalian predator, and something else I found undefinable. [It was similar to the scent of peppermint, something I have since learned about through Rin's love of aromatic sprays and combustible sticks.] And I realized then, as I spent rather too much time pondering it, that…I in fact liked it.

My very cells cringed at the revelation.

{It doesn’t matter what you say,} she informed me. {I can smell your fear for my kind. It’s as much a part of you as those tentacles you’ll never shed, no matter how many times you change.}

I was too…disturbed…to think to position my face in any particular way. She must have smelled my emotional response to her words, as well. My emotions, I found, were intensifying.

{Oh, yes,} she said. {I know your kind.}

Tursa leant forward then, so close I could feel one of her silver whiskers brush against my chest.

[Whiskers are thin, stabby sensory organs which protrude from the heads of various types of mammals and mammal-adjacent species. Including this one, obviously. A chest is an expanse of meats at the front of the body between the shoulders, and a part of which I was rapidly becoming very fond. I had already decided by that point to further harden and thicken my chest-meats in my next iteration. From what I had gleaned from things like Twilight posters and other human arts, this would broaden my appeal greatly among human-kind. Chest-meats can also be puffed up in displays of dominance and intimidation, which sounded quite fun.]

“I know your kind inside and out.”

She said these last words out loud, but in a whisper, which I could not help but appreciate. I felt her breath against my t̷̻̂̓r̷̗̀́ÿ̵̝̦́p̸͙̬̀̿t̸̨͑̇ḩ̶͓͊r̸͕̈́̚y̶̡̓͝a̵̠̐̂x̸͐͂ͅ. I could not help but like that, too.

It was only then that I perceived that her whips were arched up and over my shoulders, their spades hovering just behind my back. My tentacles shuddered, I could not stop them. Tursa smiled, smugly.

“There is no use posturing with me,” she said with noises, pulling away. I relaxed just a bit as her whips drew out of poisoning-range. “But there is no use fretting, either. I would never harm any sapient who didn’t pay me for it…or at least give me a good reason to.”

“As much as I don’t care to interface with you, that statement has made me think of many questions,” I informed her.

“Oh?” she laughed, going over to the galley, which occupied one side of what was otherwise the messing—mess hall. Her laugh had a sort of vibrational edge to it. A…purr.

She set to work assembling a meal.

“And what are your questions?”

“Was that statement in reference to your work as—I am guessing—a Scion of Lutra?”

She narrowed her glittering eyes, but in her species this does not mean what it does with humans. I’m not actually sure what it means.

[It is amusement.]

“Yes, it was,” she said.

“And so you must be of Lutra’s Merciful Ones.”

“Indeed I am,” she verified.

If I had been a human or trying to comport myself like one in that moment, I may have swallowed with my throat. I don’t know why they do this in such circumstances, but they do.

“I would be fascinated to learn about your duties as a Merciful Scion,” I told her, unable to stop myself.

“Oh really?” Her eyes narrowed further. The whiskers above her right eye twitched. “You would like to hear about the beings whose lives I have brought to a benevolent end, but only after reaching the deepest valleys of carnal pleasure?”

“Could we perhaps choose a different subject?” piped up Shosho (an interesting phrase, piped up). “Work stories bore me, and I don’t want you to leave, either. I don’t feel like being alone or anywhere else right now.”

At that point, the screeEEE-ah—whose true name was another of those inaccessible to humanity and who instead went by Pundijar—floated into the room. They stretched their first jaw wide, and their secondary jaw popped out. And then they screamed, at a very high pitch, for quite a while. When they were done, they looped their sinuous body about and exited the chamber.

In regards to this event, no comments were made, and I discerned little in the way of reaction. I could only surmise it was a regular occurrence. Tursa had finished assembling her food selections and her beverage (a cup of hot phage-generated d̴͍͙̒e̸̻͊͊e̴̻͒p̶̟͊f̶̱̲͝a̷̭̅̑ṱ̸̉̀ḧ̷͕́͌e̷̖͒͝r̷̞̂ blood) and sat down at the table with them.

On her tray quivered a slab of semi-translucent meat. Bright blue on the bottom half, with speckles of a metallic black and gray pigment at the top. It smelled rather like those brief and rare moments when I am wounded and my t̷̻̂̓r̷̗̀́ÿ̵̝̦́p̸͙̬̀̿t̸̨͑̇ḩ̶͓͊r̸͕̈́̚y̶̡̓͝a̵̠̐̂x̸͐͂ͅ.̵̨͇̮̦̟̫̏͊̅̾̅͛͗̎̊̓. splits open.

I scowled at her, or tried to. Yet still I refused to leave.

Tursa smiled. Shosho’s feathers fluffed up slightly, watching me from one great round eye and the predator from another…while also perceiving us both in myriad other ways via that parasite, of course. The gla’cui seemed…amused. The fleshy quills above her eyes had turned blue, and the slit that ran down the central length of her neck peaked open. The tips of her tentacle-tongues poked through it to waver about in the air.

I felt another nudge from the edges of my consciousness. Shosho was tapping in.

{I don’t know what you’ve told the humans about your intentions,} said Tursa, and by the feeling of it, I could tell she had allowed the gla’cui in on her side of our silent conversation, as I had mine. {but know that just because they’ve allowed you aboard, does not mean they trust you. I do not trust you. Know that you are watched. This ship is under my protection. Its crew is mine.} She cut a hunk from her slice of quivering flesh, shoved it in her mouth and chewed.

I waited for a few moments, keeping my tentacles as still and unaffected as I could.

{Are you going to detail your threat, or is it to be an implicit one?}

“My kind doesn’t make threats,” said Tursa out loud, most likely so I could see the masticated flesh bouncing wetly around in her mouth.

{We just do what needs to be done.}

{Ooooh,} said Shosho. {This is almost as good as Real Domicile-Mates of New Heptagrath.}

Humans may not be widely embraced by the galaxy at large, but their media certainly is. It has had an…interesting effect on the complex web of interconnected cultures that is Ȁ̴̟G̵̤̀Ḽ̷̌̕Ḯ̶̞̕M̸̘͙̈́M̵̮̋E̶͚̿R̶̳͐͊Ô̸̪̞̅F̵̭̯̊L̶̙͇̈́̕Î̸̧̳G̴̬͙͋H̵͙͒̚T̷͖̦́̆Ì̵̱͕͗Ň̴̞̙T̴̖͐͛H̵̺̣͒̌È̷̠̖̕I̷̙̒N̴̲͋F̷͉͚̋I̷̢̒̓N̴̬̽Î̵̠̱̉Ṭ̴̅̃E̸͍͌N̶̜̺̔Ḯ̷͔̙͝G̴̯̠͒́Ḩ̸̇Ṱ̵̆̑I had heard of these hybrid art forms and was immediately excited at the reminder of them. I had not forgotten Tursa, her scent, or her threats. But it pleased me to disregard them.

{Let us perceive this Real Domicile-Mates of New Heptagrath,} I enthused, turning my attention upon Shosho.

“Oh, wondrous. Sounds perfect,” said Tursa, chewing another bite of her spiteful meat-slab and resting her elbow on the back of her chair. “I’m behind on that one. Has Typiligrthreses squelched her eggs yet, or did Ptholololo manage to poison them in the sack?”

I sighed.

​