Information
Gettysburg has a minion!
Minion the Bold Eagle
Minion the Bold Eagle
Gettysburg
Legacy Name: Gettysburg
The
Harvest OntraOwner:
FauneAge: 16 years, 6 months, 1 week
Born: September 10th, 2009
Adopted: 16 years, 6 months, 1 week ago (Legacy)
Adopted: September 10th, 2009 (Legacy)
Statistics
- Level: 53
- Strength: 158
- Defense: 17
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 115
- Books Read: 107
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Professional Lab Cleaner
Zin For Chrysariel
The Glacier Yaheera’s icy blue beak curved upwards into a soft smile as his gold-flecked eyes scanned the mostly-empty bookstore and found the science fiction aisle vacant. Exactly what he had hoped for, and exactly why he preferred the mom-and-pop stores that brought character to small towns across Subeta to the larger chains often found in the cities like Arctic Frost proper. The eyes of his tail, somehow warm and present though not truly “seeing”, appeared to glimmer with benevolent mischief as he skimmed his hoof along the bookshelf until he found the Zs. He slipped a pen from his coat and then, after throwing a cautionary glance over his shoulder, reached for Dalian Zinn’s book. He pulled the copies from the bookcase one-at-a-time; turning each to the dedication page and bracing it against the sturdy wooden shelf so he could add a unique note in his well-known loopy script. Some funny, some heartfelt - each autograph was written with a deep love for the unknown individual who would eventually pick the book out and (hopefully) enjoy the story within.
It was then that he heard a loud squeak-like noise followed by the heavy thud of a beefy paperback meeting a carpeted floor. He jumped back, hiding the book and pen behind his back guiltily as if it wasn’t his own novel he was autographing.
“I’m sorry!” The young Feli chirped with some distress. “I didn’t mean to startle you … it’s just … are you … him?” Her wide eyes darted back and forth between the novels on the shelf and Zin’s face.
Though he wished it wasn’t the case, he generally tried to avoid unplanned encounters with fans. While he treasured their passion for his works and their kind words, he also found social interaction quickly overwhelming. Despite their patient requests for book tours or wide-spread signings, he just hadn’t been able to overcome the anxiety that churned inside whenever he began to think about the feelings of large gatherings, Q-and-A sessions, and massive obligation. It was a lot of responsibility, and a lot of things that he could neither control nor plan for.
Realizing he had been staring blankly at the young fan in silence for several seconds longer than it took to become awkward, Zin bowed his head gently and smiled at her. “It’s okay. It appears we were both startled.”
After a moment of internal debate, he added “Yes, I am indeed “him”.
The Feli’s mouth dropped open and a combination of star-struck wonder and “try-to-play-it-cool panic” battled in her eyes. It was then that Zin noticed the book she had dropped – a paperback of his very first novel, not belonging to either of his more popular series, but a favorite of many fans who had been with him from the start. The Feli followed his gaze and scrambled to pick up the book.
“I uh, I haven’t read this one yet” she stammered. “I loved the ‘Mark of the Snocloud’ series … and the ‘Reigns of Tern’ series … my friend introduced me to them, well I mean, to the first one and then I read the second on my own because I loved the first one and then I heard about this novel and …” her cheeks burned pink and she trailed off with a sheepish smile.
Zin’s heart thrummed with gratitude. Here was such a bright soul, full of bubbling excitement because of his words. He wrote because he loved the writing, because the words flowed into his mind and needed a home on a page – he saw himself as much a creator as a conduit. But he also wrote because he treasured the idea that just maybe through his books he would put into the world some degree of joy and maybe even, through his stories, inspire courage and curiosity.
“What is your name?” he asked as he extended an arm towards her, a gentle gesture for her to hand over the book.
“Melan. Melan Brooks.”
“That’s a beautiful name – Melan,” He let the word roll over his tongue. “What is it you enjoy Melan, or what is it you hope to do one day?”.
“I’ve never left home. Not really.” she said with a wistful sigh. “But I’d love to explore the world on day, like Kliff Dinlan. And I’d really love to explore someplace completely new, to find a new species or a new way to make energy – something that makes the world a better place.”
Zin’s eyes sparkled as he smiled knowingly. He turned from Melan and leaned her book against the shelf he had been using when she came upon him. Tapping the pen against his beak for a moment, the eyes of his tail seemed to pulse with thought. He then put pen to page, and only the scratching of his scrawling filled the space. After a minute he handed the book back to the young fan and with a glace to him as if seeking permission, she opened to his note. His face remained calm as a sharp strike of panic bolted across his chest – what if it wasn’t good enough, what if it didn’t mean as much to her as he had intended for it to. But as she read in silence her eyes welled with tears and she clutched her chest with a paw.
“I … I … thank you” was all she could say.
“Thank you Melan” he replied. “May you never lose your inspiration, may you accomplish all your dreams.”
She clutched the book to her chest, bowed her head to him with a smile too deep for words, and disappeared into the maze of bookshelves.The quiet melody of the overhead speakers floated down to him and the smell of roasting coffee beans from the small in-store café settled like an invisible, warm fog in his lungs.
He had meant every word he said, and every word he had written not just to Melan but to all the unknown fans who would sooner-or-later pull his books off these shelves and find his notes of gratitude and encouragement inside. As he scanned the nearby shelves for a new story for his own reading he though to himself; moment like this, that's why I come here and then Hmm, Melan would make a good name for a protagonist, an explorer of new lands indeed.
With serendipitous and sudden inspiration for his next book, the secretive and beloved author made his way out of the shop and towards his favorite place in all of Subeta – his writing desk.
It was then that he heard a loud squeak-like noise followed by the heavy thud of a beefy paperback meeting a carpeted floor. He jumped back, hiding the book and pen behind his back guiltily as if it wasn’t his own novel he was autographing.
“I’m sorry!” The young Feli chirped with some distress. “I didn’t mean to startle you … it’s just … are you … him?” Her wide eyes darted back and forth between the novels on the shelf and Zin’s face.
Though he wished it wasn’t the case, he generally tried to avoid unplanned encounters with fans. While he treasured their passion for his works and their kind words, he also found social interaction quickly overwhelming. Despite their patient requests for book tours or wide-spread signings, he just hadn’t been able to overcome the anxiety that churned inside whenever he began to think about the feelings of large gatherings, Q-and-A sessions, and massive obligation. It was a lot of responsibility, and a lot of things that he could neither control nor plan for.
Realizing he had been staring blankly at the young fan in silence for several seconds longer than it took to become awkward, Zin bowed his head gently and smiled at her. “It’s okay. It appears we were both startled.”
After a moment of internal debate, he added “Yes, I am indeed “him”.
The Feli’s mouth dropped open and a combination of star-struck wonder and “try-to-play-it-cool panic” battled in her eyes. It was then that Zin noticed the book she had dropped – a paperback of his very first novel, not belonging to either of his more popular series, but a favorite of many fans who had been with him from the start. The Feli followed his gaze and scrambled to pick up the book.
“I uh, I haven’t read this one yet” she stammered. “I loved the ‘Mark of the Snocloud’ series … and the ‘Reigns of Tern’ series … my friend introduced me to them, well I mean, to the first one and then I read the second on my own because I loved the first one and then I heard about this novel and …” her cheeks burned pink and she trailed off with a sheepish smile.
Zin’s heart thrummed with gratitude. Here was such a bright soul, full of bubbling excitement because of his words. He wrote because he loved the writing, because the words flowed into his mind and needed a home on a page – he saw himself as much a creator as a conduit. But he also wrote because he treasured the idea that just maybe through his books he would put into the world some degree of joy and maybe even, through his stories, inspire courage and curiosity.
“What is your name?” he asked as he extended an arm towards her, a gentle gesture for her to hand over the book.
“Melan. Melan Brooks.”
“That’s a beautiful name – Melan,” He let the word roll over his tongue. “What is it you enjoy Melan, or what is it you hope to do one day?”.
“I’ve never left home. Not really.” she said with a wistful sigh. “But I’d love to explore the world on day, like Kliff Dinlan. And I’d really love to explore someplace completely new, to find a new species or a new way to make energy – something that makes the world a better place.”
Zin’s eyes sparkled as he smiled knowingly. He turned from Melan and leaned her book against the shelf he had been using when she came upon him. Tapping the pen against his beak for a moment, the eyes of his tail seemed to pulse with thought. He then put pen to page, and only the scratching of his scrawling filled the space. After a minute he handed the book back to the young fan and with a glace to him as if seeking permission, she opened to his note. His face remained calm as a sharp strike of panic bolted across his chest – what if it wasn’t good enough, what if it didn’t mean as much to her as he had intended for it to. But as she read in silence her eyes welled with tears and she clutched her chest with a paw.
“I … I … thank you” was all she could say.
“Thank you Melan” he replied. “May you never lose your inspiration, may you accomplish all your dreams.”
She clutched the book to her chest, bowed her head to him with a smile too deep for words, and disappeared into the maze of bookshelves.The quiet melody of the overhead speakers floated down to him and the smell of roasting coffee beans from the small in-store café settled like an invisible, warm fog in his lungs.
He had meant every word he said, and every word he had written not just to Melan but to all the unknown fans who would sooner-or-later pull his books off these shelves and find his notes of gratitude and encouragement inside. As he scanned the nearby shelves for a new story for his own reading he though to himself; moment like this, that's why I come here and then Hmm, Melan would make a good name for a protagonist, an explorer of new lands indeed.
With serendipitous and sudden inspiration for his next book, the secretive and beloved author made his way out of the shop and towards his favorite place in all of Subeta – his writing desk.
GH for Chrysariel
“Good Heavens!” the angel exclaimed, jumping back as a cloud of smoke erupted into the hall with an immense and echoing “WUMPH”.
“You rang?” the angelic noktoa’s face was flush but his eyes were shining with exuberance and a slightly mischievous grin tried – and failed – to hide as his head popped out from the doorway. He stepped into the corridor, waving away the smoke with his wings and puttering out a few coughs between chuckles.
“I should have known” the angel said with a roll of the eyes and a soft smile. Despite the somewhat annoying nature of Good Heaven’s often chaotic experimenting, all the other angels loved him deeply. He may have a habit of frequently setting thing aflame, shaking windows with explosions, and running over toes with his machines, but each experiment was fueled by such genuine delight and curiosity that any mishaps were immediately forgiven.
In fact, the unpredictability of GHs’ experiments was matched only by the predictability of the noktoa himself. He wore every part of himself on his sleeve, with no interest in manipulation or trickery. His childlike wonder to the inner workings of all things was endearing here in heaven just as it had been on Subeta and could be relied upon to eventually bring about new (and often helpful information) which GH readily shared with no expectation of getting something in return. He simply thrived on the tinkering and discovery and found great joy in bringing a spark of excitement to others.
The hall began to fill with curious onlookers who – at seeing GH in the midst of the dispersing smoke – immediately had their looks of concern replaced with looks of amusement.
“Another learning experience huh GH?”
“Try not to burn anything down … again!”
“Oh boy, here we go!”
Playful voices overlapped from angels up and down the hall.
“You know what I say; every mishap is another step closer to the answer!” GH called back to his friends with a boisterous laugh before he turned back into the room. He opened the windows to clear out any remaining smoke then hovered again before the large table, eyes tracing each small detail of the machine to figure out exactly what step of his tinkering had caused the unexpected reaction.
As he began to poke the machine with one wing and absentmindedly pop chocolate-covered nuts (his absolute favorite snack) into his beak with the other Trinket, his companion Halo, chittered and chirped towards the open door.
“Hmm?” GH asked Trinket, half his mind still wrapped up in the machine. Trinket chirped again, this time putting their front paws up against GH's leg to draw his attention fully.
H looked down at his little friend, who made eye contact with him then looked pointedly towards the door. Following their gaze, GH discovered a shy looking angelic Urubu standing there, half-hidden by the doorframe, eyes wide and uncertain.
“Hello!” GH called to them merrily. “No need to be concerned! Just a side-effect of discovery!” he said while gesturing to the mechanical device on the table in front of him.
The Urubu stepped slightly further into the room to peer past Heavens. “Oh!” they exclaimed softly. “Is that a promise weaver!?”
“Yes indeed!” H cheered. “I can’t believe you’ve heard of these!”
“Oh yes, I saw an article about them in a recent release of technology and invention! They’re still in the experimentation phase right?”
H laughed, a hearty bellow like thing that jostled his feathers. “Seems like!” he winked, adding as he gestured to the still smoldering device “This is the closest I’ve come thus far, but clearly I’ve made a miscalculation somewhere.”
The Urubu stepped to GH's side, gears in their head spinning full speed as they took a closer look at the curious machine.
“Well, any thoughts there …” H trailed off, a passive question of the Urubu’s name.
“Novadell”
“Novadell. Any thoughts Novadell?”
The Urubu hesitated, squinting at the machine in concentration. “Have you tried taking this gear here and attaching it with a secondary belt to this one over …” they reached across the machine to the far side “here?”
“Oh!” H smiled. “Well now, that could work! Though last time I ran a belt across that length this spot here overheated. But if we ran a coolant tube through the middle …” he trailed off in thought.
Novadell began to bounce on their hooves with excitement. “If that stays cool and this helps turn the gear … could it really work?!”
“Perhaps.” Good Heavens said with a childlike grin. “And there’s only one way to find out.”
“You rang?” the angelic noktoa’s face was flush but his eyes were shining with exuberance and a slightly mischievous grin tried – and failed – to hide as his head popped out from the doorway. He stepped into the corridor, waving away the smoke with his wings and puttering out a few coughs between chuckles.
“I should have known” the angel said with a roll of the eyes and a soft smile. Despite the somewhat annoying nature of Good Heaven’s often chaotic experimenting, all the other angels loved him deeply. He may have a habit of frequently setting thing aflame, shaking windows with explosions, and running over toes with his machines, but each experiment was fueled by such genuine delight and curiosity that any mishaps were immediately forgiven.
In fact, the unpredictability of GHs’ experiments was matched only by the predictability of the noktoa himself. He wore every part of himself on his sleeve, with no interest in manipulation or trickery. His childlike wonder to the inner workings of all things was endearing here in heaven just as it had been on Subeta and could be relied upon to eventually bring about new (and often helpful information) which GH readily shared with no expectation of getting something in return. He simply thrived on the tinkering and discovery and found great joy in bringing a spark of excitement to others.
The hall began to fill with curious onlookers who – at seeing GH in the midst of the dispersing smoke – immediately had their looks of concern replaced with looks of amusement.
“Another learning experience huh GH?”
“Try not to burn anything down … again!”
“Oh boy, here we go!”
Playful voices overlapped from angels up and down the hall.
“You know what I say; every mishap is another step closer to the answer!” GH called back to his friends with a boisterous laugh before he turned back into the room. He opened the windows to clear out any remaining smoke then hovered again before the large table, eyes tracing each small detail of the machine to figure out exactly what step of his tinkering had caused the unexpected reaction.
As he began to poke the machine with one wing and absentmindedly pop chocolate-covered nuts (his absolute favorite snack) into his beak with the other Trinket, his companion Halo, chittered and chirped towards the open door.
“Hmm?” GH asked Trinket, half his mind still wrapped up in the machine. Trinket chirped again, this time putting their front paws up against GH's leg to draw his attention fully.
H looked down at his little friend, who made eye contact with him then looked pointedly towards the door. Following their gaze, GH discovered a shy looking angelic Urubu standing there, half-hidden by the doorframe, eyes wide and uncertain.
“Hello!” GH called to them merrily. “No need to be concerned! Just a side-effect of discovery!” he said while gesturing to the mechanical device on the table in front of him.
The Urubu stepped slightly further into the room to peer past Heavens. “Oh!” they exclaimed softly. “Is that a promise weaver!?”
“Yes indeed!” H cheered. “I can’t believe you’ve heard of these!”
“Oh yes, I saw an article about them in a recent release of technology and invention! They’re still in the experimentation phase right?”
H laughed, a hearty bellow like thing that jostled his feathers. “Seems like!” he winked, adding as he gestured to the still smoldering device “This is the closest I’ve come thus far, but clearly I’ve made a miscalculation somewhere.”
The Urubu stepped to GH's side, gears in their head spinning full speed as they took a closer look at the curious machine.
“Well, any thoughts there …” H trailed off, a passive question of the Urubu’s name.
“Novadell”
“Novadell. Any thoughts Novadell?”
The Urubu hesitated, squinting at the machine in concentration. “Have you tried taking this gear here and attaching it with a secondary belt to this one over …” they reached across the machine to the far side “here?”
“Oh!” H smiled. “Well now, that could work! Though last time I ran a belt across that length this spot here overheated. But if we ran a coolant tube through the middle …” he trailed off in thought.
Novadell began to bounce on their hooves with excitement. “If that stays cool and this helps turn the gear … could it really work?!”
“Perhaps.” Good Heavens said with a childlike grin. “And there’s only one way to find out.”
Evermore for Chrysariel
The small bee buzzed in swirls around the glade urubu’s head, seeking to interrupt her focus as she carefully placed the frame back into the bee house and re-secured the small roof. She hummed to the melody of the hives absentmindedly as she did so, having spent so much time with her bees – and having so much love for them – that she had become part of their colony and knew their songs like she knew her own heart. Failing to draw her mind from her work with simple fly-bys, the bee gently bumped against the urubu’s cheek.
“Oh!” She startled, then laughed warmly. “Sorry little one, did you need something?”
The bee landed on the roof of the hive’s home and wiggled in two clockwise loops, ending with a single hop.
“Someone’s here! Oh my, thank you for telling me!” The Urubu wiped her hooves on her apron and hustled through the bee yard, past her flourishing garden full of the most vibrant and pollinator-friendly plants, and around the front of her bright and welcoming cottage.
“Hello Evermore!” the fluffy Anyu called out from the cottage’s wrap-around porch. He stood from the swinging bench, laden with embroidered pillows of mis-matching color and size, and waved a large paw.
“Hello Sweden!” Ever called back, stepping up onto the porch and greeting her neighbor with a warm hug. “I hope you weren’t waiting long, I always lose track of time when I with the hives!”
Sweden shook his head and waved a paw casually “Not long at all! Plus, time spent on your porch is a welcome rest from the hustle and bustle of Veta!”
Ever smiled, always delighted to hear that her home in Peka Glade offered feelings of joy or comfort to those who stopped by. “I have your honey just inside” she said, nudging the door open with her elbow and crossing the front room.
The cottage was small, but felt spacious thanks to its vaulted ceiling, open loft, and large windows that allowed the sun to flood the space with soft, natural light. The comfortable furniture looked like you would sink right into it, and the walls were adorned with bookcases and a menagerie of local art collected from years of craft fairs and farmers markets. Thriving plants found their home in every open space. Vines curled and dipped across railings and shelves, wide leaves leaned out of crocheted hanging planters towards the sunshine, and a row of herbs grew under the kitchen window waiting to be plucked for use.
Ever returned to the porch holding a wooden crate heavy with glass jars full of sweet, golden honey. Different lids were labeled with a loopy scrawl – honeysuckle, wildflower, orange blossom – different flavors ready to be blended and fermented into delicious meads.
“I have a spiced cranberry almost ready, just in time for the winter chill and Lumi season!” Sweden beamed. “I’ll be coming back across the glade in a few weeks, be ready!” He winked at the blushing Urubu who was known for her good cheer which was only made louder and more bubbly with the addition of the Anyu’s brew.
“Send me a letter a week ahead, and we’ll gather for another game night before the hearth.” Ever proposed excitedly.
“Absolutely!” Sweden cheered. The two embraced, the Anyu placing a furry and friendly kiss on Ever’s cheek. She stayed on the porch until he reached the end of the lane. As always, he lifted a large paw and gave a final wave, his hearty laugh reaching back to the porch and mingling with Ever’s gentle and warm giggle.
“Look at the time!” Ever exclaimed to herself. It was a busy day at the cottage with three more friends coming by to collect their batches and share their own goods in exchange. As usual, she had gotten lost in the rhythm and joy of the bee hives and would need to rush to get the rest of her chores done before the day came to a close. She never truly chided herself though, dishes could always be washed tomorrow, linens hung overnight (unless she expected rain). Time spent doing something that filled your cup and put a little good into the world, that was never time wasted.
Speaking of, a glint of sunlight at the end of the lane caught Ever’s eye. As she stood squinting slightly to make out the shape in the distance, she was met with the glimmer and shine of Elona the silver Korra. Elona’s bouncing steps were as unmistakable as her silver fur. With each, a small package in the Korra’s paw swung and bopped. Ever’s excitement grew and she hustled inside to collect Elona’s honey so it was ready for her by the time she reached the porch steps. There was no baker better than Elona, at least not if you asked Ever. Cookies and cakes, brownies and candies, always changing with an influx of creative flavor pairings. Elona adored Ever’s honey as much as Ever adored Elona’s baked goods, and often claimed that she could taste the bee’s joy in each drop. Ever, true to her nature, would blush and wave a hoof as if to shoo away the praise. But in her heart she would beam. There was nothing she cared about more than the happiness and wellbeing of her bees.
“Hello darling!” Elona’s chipper greeting was full of warmth as she bounced up the steps. She took Ever’s elbow’s in her paws with a gentle, familiar squeeze and planted a big kiss on Ever’s cheeks – first the left, then the right.
Ever returned the greeting, always loving Elona’s peppy and cosmopolitan ways. Ever was a Peka gal through-and-through, full of the kind of goodness that makes the world grow around her. She loved it all – the soft grasses, the hearty soil, the old trees and young bushes reaching their way towards the sun. She always felt at home amongst the bees and butterflies, the birds and worms. Nothing from nature felt icky or “other” to Ever. Rather, it felt like home, like family. But she did enjoy the occasional trip to the welcoming towns and busy cities of Subeta. To her these trips were like poking her head into a foreign hive. The big cities were unfamiliar and exciting places buzzing and thrumming with a song and dance all their own, vibrant and loud and fast. That was Elona’s world, and she carried the intensity of that dance with her wherever she went.
“How funny” Ever thought to herself as the similarities and differences between her two guests bubbled in her mind. “Steady and hearty Sweden, he is like the thunder that rumbles through dark clouds above the fields. And if Sweden is thunder, Elona is surely lightening – a bright flash, intense and almost blinding”. Ever often thought of all her friends in this way; they were like the coming and going of nature, beautiful and diverse and woven together into a stunning harmony that amplified the singing of her own heart.
Brought back from her thoughts by Elona’s rapid-paced chatter about her travels, Ever caught on to the gist of the current story and focused in with rapt curiosity as to not miss anything else. The cities were too much for her to enjoy in more than small bites, but she loved listening to the stories Elona told. Like living the chaos second-hand, she could appreciate the diversity of the world without having to dive in and be overwhelmed by it.
Elona wrapped the story – a humorous anecdote about coffee order confusion at a bustling café – with a lilting laugh and then said “speaking of the café, that’s what I was so excited to tell you! I just signed a six month deal with them for monthly-rotating goodies and I just had to feature some of our honey-themed favorites, with a twist of course! I absolutely had to bring you the new goods for approval, I think you’re going to flip! And I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any objections to me including a thank-you on any signage, to you and your brilliant bees! Before you even ask, yes” she gave a playful roll of her eyes “I’ll keep it small.”
Ever was slightly stunned. It was a lot of information at once – laughing at the coffee-confusion tale, exploding with absolute joy for her friend’s success, swirling with excitement over getting to feast on more of her favorite baked goods, and wobbling with conflicted emotions about public praise of her hard work. “Hmm…” she wiggled her nose absentmindedly as she considered. “I suppose it’s alright as long as you make me a promise.”
“Anything darling!”
“Any signage has to include a fun and educational fact about bees, and at least one should include a way to donate to the Subeta Apiarist Coalition.” She said with uncommon firmness before adding, “please” with a rascally smile.
“I should have known!” Elona laughed. “Yes, I absolutely agree.” She stuck out a paw as if to shake on the deal, but instead took Ever’s hoof and pulled her into a huge hug. “You really are the best Ever” she said sincerely.
Ever pulled back, grateful for the kind words. She almost deflected them, but remembered what she had been working on and instead accepted them with pride. “Did you bring the best a prize?”
Elona barked out a laugh and hefted the bag of baked goods into Ever’s hooves. “Time for tea darling?”
“Time for tea.”
The sun had sunk lower towards the distant tree-tops as Ever waved goodbye to her friend. The two had enjoyed warm, honey-sweetened tea at the round, hand-tiled kitchen table as Elona detailed the flavor profile of each cookie, cupcake, loaf, and cream puff. Ever was contentedly stuffed, having eaten one of everything, and already looking forward to putting some softened honey-butter on the warmed loaf for breakfast the following morning.
Looking at the sundial in the yard, she calculated that she had just enough time to muddle the herbs and flowers Elona had brought and steep them in warm water for the bees before her final guests arrived. She set to it and was just returning from the garden, having set out several shallow bowls for the hives to take turns sipping at, when her friends made their way past the colorful, hand-painted mailbox towards the cottage.
The glowing reborn blob and whispy nightmare Aeanoid made an interesting pair – and one full of surprises. Ever had met them at a local farmer’s market and was delighted to find they too had a passion for pollinators and eco-friendly living. Murdoc the blob was a skilled herbologist who had an effective and natural remedy for just about any common ailment, and Peony the aeanoid was the king of self-care. Initially unsure of themselves but eager to try, the two had blossomed with Ever’s encouragement and now had a thriving small business and a beautiful, pollinator-friendly garden that was frequented by Ever’s bees.
“Hello!” Ever called out with joy as the two made their way up the porch steps.
Peony, the more outgoing of the duo, gave Ever a huge hug. The trio was so close they were practically family, and as such Peony ended the hug and waltzed into the cottage like it was their own home. Murdoc, though warm and kind, was less comfortable with touch. In respect of this, Ever gave a nod and warm smile that lit her eyes, then gestured towards the door as invitation.
“Oh Ever!” Murdoc exclaimed, “you didn’t have to!” His eyes took in the delicious array of cooked and sauteed veggies, beautifully seasoned and piled onto plates next to whipped mashed potatoes. Ever’s mischievous grin – nothing like surprising your friends with something they’ll love – grew as she carried the overflowing dishes to the table.
“Try to save a little space” she warned playfully “I still have some of Sweden’s last batch chilling in the fridge, and it will go perfectly with the amazing new goodies Elona dropped off earlier today!”
Peony’s eyes grew wide “If it was anyone else’s cooking I’d skip right to dessert, but girl you know no one makes a meaner home-cooked meal than you!” They wiped imaginary drool from their chin in compliment before reaching towards Ever’s outstretched hands for their silverware.
Ever handed Murdoc the other set of silverware and placed hers on the table next to her dish. She turned back to the kitchen one last time, propping open the small over-sink window so that the cool evening breeze and sweet scents of the garden could fill the home. Then, after a long and joyfully jam-packed day, the urubu finally sat.
The evening passed without notice, the trio absorbed in deep conversation and full laughter as they stuffed their bellies with delicious eats and their hearts with the joy of friendship. The cottage’s glow became a soft, golden beacon in the dark. To those who knew her, the sight was a secret symbol of Ever herself – her endless light welcoming the world and gifting it something bright and magical. The muffled sounds of joyful conversation drifted through the kitchen window and over the garden until it met the gentle evening hum of the bees, forming a beautiful song and lulling the glade towards easy dreams.
“Oh!” She startled, then laughed warmly. “Sorry little one, did you need something?”
The bee landed on the roof of the hive’s home and wiggled in two clockwise loops, ending with a single hop.
“Someone’s here! Oh my, thank you for telling me!” The Urubu wiped her hooves on her apron and hustled through the bee yard, past her flourishing garden full of the most vibrant and pollinator-friendly plants, and around the front of her bright and welcoming cottage.
“Hello Evermore!” the fluffy Anyu called out from the cottage’s wrap-around porch. He stood from the swinging bench, laden with embroidered pillows of mis-matching color and size, and waved a large paw.
“Hello Sweden!” Ever called back, stepping up onto the porch and greeting her neighbor with a warm hug. “I hope you weren’t waiting long, I always lose track of time when I with the hives!”
Sweden shook his head and waved a paw casually “Not long at all! Plus, time spent on your porch is a welcome rest from the hustle and bustle of Veta!”
Ever smiled, always delighted to hear that her home in Peka Glade offered feelings of joy or comfort to those who stopped by. “I have your honey just inside” she said, nudging the door open with her elbow and crossing the front room.
The cottage was small, but felt spacious thanks to its vaulted ceiling, open loft, and large windows that allowed the sun to flood the space with soft, natural light. The comfortable furniture looked like you would sink right into it, and the walls were adorned with bookcases and a menagerie of local art collected from years of craft fairs and farmers markets. Thriving plants found their home in every open space. Vines curled and dipped across railings and shelves, wide leaves leaned out of crocheted hanging planters towards the sunshine, and a row of herbs grew under the kitchen window waiting to be plucked for use.
Ever returned to the porch holding a wooden crate heavy with glass jars full of sweet, golden honey. Different lids were labeled with a loopy scrawl – honeysuckle, wildflower, orange blossom – different flavors ready to be blended and fermented into delicious meads.
“I have a spiced cranberry almost ready, just in time for the winter chill and Lumi season!” Sweden beamed. “I’ll be coming back across the glade in a few weeks, be ready!” He winked at the blushing Urubu who was known for her good cheer which was only made louder and more bubbly with the addition of the Anyu’s brew.
“Send me a letter a week ahead, and we’ll gather for another game night before the hearth.” Ever proposed excitedly.
“Absolutely!” Sweden cheered. The two embraced, the Anyu placing a furry and friendly kiss on Ever’s cheek. She stayed on the porch until he reached the end of the lane. As always, he lifted a large paw and gave a final wave, his hearty laugh reaching back to the porch and mingling with Ever’s gentle and warm giggle.
“Look at the time!” Ever exclaimed to herself. It was a busy day at the cottage with three more friends coming by to collect their batches and share their own goods in exchange. As usual, she had gotten lost in the rhythm and joy of the bee hives and would need to rush to get the rest of her chores done before the day came to a close. She never truly chided herself though, dishes could always be washed tomorrow, linens hung overnight (unless she expected rain). Time spent doing something that filled your cup and put a little good into the world, that was never time wasted.
Speaking of, a glint of sunlight at the end of the lane caught Ever’s eye. As she stood squinting slightly to make out the shape in the distance, she was met with the glimmer and shine of Elona the silver Korra. Elona’s bouncing steps were as unmistakable as her silver fur. With each, a small package in the Korra’s paw swung and bopped. Ever’s excitement grew and she hustled inside to collect Elona’s honey so it was ready for her by the time she reached the porch steps. There was no baker better than Elona, at least not if you asked Ever. Cookies and cakes, brownies and candies, always changing with an influx of creative flavor pairings. Elona adored Ever’s honey as much as Ever adored Elona’s baked goods, and often claimed that she could taste the bee’s joy in each drop. Ever, true to her nature, would blush and wave a hoof as if to shoo away the praise. But in her heart she would beam. There was nothing she cared about more than the happiness and wellbeing of her bees.
“Hello darling!” Elona’s chipper greeting was full of warmth as she bounced up the steps. She took Ever’s elbow’s in her paws with a gentle, familiar squeeze and planted a big kiss on Ever’s cheeks – first the left, then the right.
Ever returned the greeting, always loving Elona’s peppy and cosmopolitan ways. Ever was a Peka gal through-and-through, full of the kind of goodness that makes the world grow around her. She loved it all – the soft grasses, the hearty soil, the old trees and young bushes reaching their way towards the sun. She always felt at home amongst the bees and butterflies, the birds and worms. Nothing from nature felt icky or “other” to Ever. Rather, it felt like home, like family. But she did enjoy the occasional trip to the welcoming towns and busy cities of Subeta. To her these trips were like poking her head into a foreign hive. The big cities were unfamiliar and exciting places buzzing and thrumming with a song and dance all their own, vibrant and loud and fast. That was Elona’s world, and she carried the intensity of that dance with her wherever she went.
“How funny” Ever thought to herself as the similarities and differences between her two guests bubbled in her mind. “Steady and hearty Sweden, he is like the thunder that rumbles through dark clouds above the fields. And if Sweden is thunder, Elona is surely lightening – a bright flash, intense and almost blinding”. Ever often thought of all her friends in this way; they were like the coming and going of nature, beautiful and diverse and woven together into a stunning harmony that amplified the singing of her own heart.
Brought back from her thoughts by Elona’s rapid-paced chatter about her travels, Ever caught on to the gist of the current story and focused in with rapt curiosity as to not miss anything else. The cities were too much for her to enjoy in more than small bites, but she loved listening to the stories Elona told. Like living the chaos second-hand, she could appreciate the diversity of the world without having to dive in and be overwhelmed by it.
Elona wrapped the story – a humorous anecdote about coffee order confusion at a bustling café – with a lilting laugh and then said “speaking of the café, that’s what I was so excited to tell you! I just signed a six month deal with them for monthly-rotating goodies and I just had to feature some of our honey-themed favorites, with a twist of course! I absolutely had to bring you the new goods for approval, I think you’re going to flip! And I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any objections to me including a thank-you on any signage, to you and your brilliant bees! Before you even ask, yes” she gave a playful roll of her eyes “I’ll keep it small.”
Ever was slightly stunned. It was a lot of information at once – laughing at the coffee-confusion tale, exploding with absolute joy for her friend’s success, swirling with excitement over getting to feast on more of her favorite baked goods, and wobbling with conflicted emotions about public praise of her hard work. “Hmm…” she wiggled her nose absentmindedly as she considered. “I suppose it’s alright as long as you make me a promise.”
“Anything darling!”
“Any signage has to include a fun and educational fact about bees, and at least one should include a way to donate to the Subeta Apiarist Coalition.” She said with uncommon firmness before adding, “please” with a rascally smile.
“I should have known!” Elona laughed. “Yes, I absolutely agree.” She stuck out a paw as if to shake on the deal, but instead took Ever’s hoof and pulled her into a huge hug. “You really are the best Ever” she said sincerely.
Ever pulled back, grateful for the kind words. She almost deflected them, but remembered what she had been working on and instead accepted them with pride. “Did you bring the best a prize?”
Elona barked out a laugh and hefted the bag of baked goods into Ever’s hooves. “Time for tea darling?”
“Time for tea.”
The sun had sunk lower towards the distant tree-tops as Ever waved goodbye to her friend. The two had enjoyed warm, honey-sweetened tea at the round, hand-tiled kitchen table as Elona detailed the flavor profile of each cookie, cupcake, loaf, and cream puff. Ever was contentedly stuffed, having eaten one of everything, and already looking forward to putting some softened honey-butter on the warmed loaf for breakfast the following morning.
Looking at the sundial in the yard, she calculated that she had just enough time to muddle the herbs and flowers Elona had brought and steep them in warm water for the bees before her final guests arrived. She set to it and was just returning from the garden, having set out several shallow bowls for the hives to take turns sipping at, when her friends made their way past the colorful, hand-painted mailbox towards the cottage.
The glowing reborn blob and whispy nightmare Aeanoid made an interesting pair – and one full of surprises. Ever had met them at a local farmer’s market and was delighted to find they too had a passion for pollinators and eco-friendly living. Murdoc the blob was a skilled herbologist who had an effective and natural remedy for just about any common ailment, and Peony the aeanoid was the king of self-care. Initially unsure of themselves but eager to try, the two had blossomed with Ever’s encouragement and now had a thriving small business and a beautiful, pollinator-friendly garden that was frequented by Ever’s bees.
“Hello!” Ever called out with joy as the two made their way up the porch steps.
Peony, the more outgoing of the duo, gave Ever a huge hug. The trio was so close they were practically family, and as such Peony ended the hug and waltzed into the cottage like it was their own home. Murdoc, though warm and kind, was less comfortable with touch. In respect of this, Ever gave a nod and warm smile that lit her eyes, then gestured towards the door as invitation.
“Oh Ever!” Murdoc exclaimed, “you didn’t have to!” His eyes took in the delicious array of cooked and sauteed veggies, beautifully seasoned and piled onto plates next to whipped mashed potatoes. Ever’s mischievous grin – nothing like surprising your friends with something they’ll love – grew as she carried the overflowing dishes to the table.
“Try to save a little space” she warned playfully “I still have some of Sweden’s last batch chilling in the fridge, and it will go perfectly with the amazing new goodies Elona dropped off earlier today!”
Peony’s eyes grew wide “If it was anyone else’s cooking I’d skip right to dessert, but girl you know no one makes a meaner home-cooked meal than you!” They wiped imaginary drool from their chin in compliment before reaching towards Ever’s outstretched hands for their silverware.
Ever handed Murdoc the other set of silverware and placed hers on the table next to her dish. She turned back to the kitchen one last time, propping open the small over-sink window so that the cool evening breeze and sweet scents of the garden could fill the home. Then, after a long and joyfully jam-packed day, the urubu finally sat.
The evening passed without notice, the trio absorbed in deep conversation and full laughter as they stuffed their bellies with delicious eats and their hearts with the joy of friendship. The cottage’s glow became a soft, golden beacon in the dark. To those who knew her, the sight was a secret symbol of Ever herself – her endless light welcoming the world and gifting it something bright and magical. The muffled sounds of joyful conversation drifted through the kitchen window and over the garden until it met the gentle evening hum of the bees, forming a beautiful song and lulling the glade towards easy dreams.
Star Gazer for Chrysariel
The small Revontuli bounced back and forth across the open snowfield, auroras dancing behind him. The Devonti’s laughter danced like the light – sharp sparks of dazzlement amidst a lovely melody - and she clapped with unabashed joy. No matter how many times Aurora had made these beautiful spectacles for her, she would always find them stunning and delightful.
With a title like Astronomer SS-14, especially at such a young age, many would expect her to be serious and overly analytical, a true A-type with a knack for government politics. In reality, she held blended wonders, layers – much like the universe she passionately studied – that were not contradictory but rather complimentary. She was an excellent student, independently-driven by her own adoration for the subject of her work. Yet outside of her labors, she was easy-going and sought fun-for-the-sake-of-fun. She was strong-willed but deeply inquisitive, seeking answers over a sense of “winning” (which served her well in her professional role). Her significant intelligence was ever apparent, but never in a self-important way. Rather, it was the ease with which she mused about the nuanced and complex wonders of the galaxies that hinted at her deep knowledge. Her lack of time devoted to social activities, in particular dating, was the one stereotype she did indeed match. Though it wasn’t for lack of social skills, and she was certainly no recluse – she was always excited to work alongside other passionate individuals and thoroughly enjoyed the dating scene – it was simply a matter of competition. Her truest love had always been and would always be the stars above. There was no time she cherished more than the hours she spent at the eyepiece of the great telescope, searching for new stars and mapping nebulae. And even when those hours were done, she had pages and pages of notes to review, books to read, and seminars to watch. Much to her delight (and much to the dismay of her suitors).
“Oh Aurora, that was stunning!” she praised as the Revontuli bounded back to her open arms. She caught him and twirled, hugging him tightly (but not so tight as to squeeze) and giggling with pure happiness. “Thank you so much!” Aurora chirped with glee and nuzzled her think, fluffy fur.
“I think it’s time for us to be getting back to the Observatory little one.” She said as much to herself as to Aurora, who had little concern with time or schedules. Though it was a remote place, the mountaintop at the far Northeastern edge of Centropolis had always felt safe, and the observatory like home. In part because she had been living in the small village since she was very young, and in part because the week on – week off schedule of many SAI employees in the area (herself included) meant that work stations were generally outfitted with their own small kitchens, bunkrooms, and shared living spaces. The area was also well patrolled by SAI operatives, and though even the employees and families that called the area home never knew exactly when and where the operatives would be, they always knew they were a radio call away.
She marched up the embankment through knee deep snow, her unique mint and evergreen fur glowing in the moonlight. Her parents and brothers (whom she was beyond excited to be home with the coming week, as the five SAI schedules rarely aligned for everyone to be in the village at the same time) had always called her their “little nebula” – a nod both to her stunning and one-of-a-kind coat and to the radiance within her heart and mind.
Kicking the snow off her golden hooves, she and Aurora crossed from the crisp and chilly night into the warmth of the Observatory. The stonework entryway was inviting but not ornate, clearly meant for work over play. The hall curved away from the entryway on the left and the right, a singular circle topped with thick panes of glass in place of a traditional ceiling as to allow a constant view of the sky. If she looped either way she would eventually come the bunk room (her journals stacked on the nightstand to the point of toppling), the small “recreation room” (in which there was a single television, a small library of mostly overflow reference materials, and a ping pong table), and the kitchen (from which the mouth-watering scents of dinner were already wafting).
Her favorite place though lived in the center of the observatory. Encircled by the “quarters loop” (as they had dubbed it) was an enormous dome constructed first of thick glass and then of golden metal panes that could be expanded or retracted based on need. And at the very heart of the round room lived the outlook – the small, cushioned seat where one could place their eye to the massive telescopes eyepiece and peer into unfathomably far reaches of space. Here is where she fell deeper and deeper in love, night after glorious night. Here is where she found herself sinking again and again into the depths of the universe, her eyes brimming at times with tears of awe. Here is where she found answers to her questions and questions to be answered.
The star gazer had always belonged first and foremost to the nebulae above. She cherished her loved ones, she enjoyed all the parts of her job with the SAI, she appreciated the time she spent out with friends old and new – but the stars, they would always have her heart in a way no other could.
As she scanned the current star charts on the desk to the left of the telescope, her beloved Aurora made several ritualistic circles atop the thick blanket beneath and then nested down for her next round of sleep. Wearing a soft, contented smile, the mint and evergreen devonti settled into the cushioned seat of the outlook and leaned in; her heart soaring up and away, lost to the night sky above.
With a title like Astronomer SS-14, especially at such a young age, many would expect her to be serious and overly analytical, a true A-type with a knack for government politics. In reality, she held blended wonders, layers – much like the universe she passionately studied – that were not contradictory but rather complimentary. She was an excellent student, independently-driven by her own adoration for the subject of her work. Yet outside of her labors, she was easy-going and sought fun-for-the-sake-of-fun. She was strong-willed but deeply inquisitive, seeking answers over a sense of “winning” (which served her well in her professional role). Her significant intelligence was ever apparent, but never in a self-important way. Rather, it was the ease with which she mused about the nuanced and complex wonders of the galaxies that hinted at her deep knowledge. Her lack of time devoted to social activities, in particular dating, was the one stereotype she did indeed match. Though it wasn’t for lack of social skills, and she was certainly no recluse – she was always excited to work alongside other passionate individuals and thoroughly enjoyed the dating scene – it was simply a matter of competition. Her truest love had always been and would always be the stars above. There was no time she cherished more than the hours she spent at the eyepiece of the great telescope, searching for new stars and mapping nebulae. And even when those hours were done, she had pages and pages of notes to review, books to read, and seminars to watch. Much to her delight (and much to the dismay of her suitors).
“Oh Aurora, that was stunning!” she praised as the Revontuli bounded back to her open arms. She caught him and twirled, hugging him tightly (but not so tight as to squeeze) and giggling with pure happiness. “Thank you so much!” Aurora chirped with glee and nuzzled her think, fluffy fur.
“I think it’s time for us to be getting back to the Observatory little one.” She said as much to herself as to Aurora, who had little concern with time or schedules. Though it was a remote place, the mountaintop at the far Northeastern edge of Centropolis had always felt safe, and the observatory like home. In part because she had been living in the small village since she was very young, and in part because the week on – week off schedule of many SAI employees in the area (herself included) meant that work stations were generally outfitted with their own small kitchens, bunkrooms, and shared living spaces. The area was also well patrolled by SAI operatives, and though even the employees and families that called the area home never knew exactly when and where the operatives would be, they always knew they were a radio call away.
She marched up the embankment through knee deep snow, her unique mint and evergreen fur glowing in the moonlight. Her parents and brothers (whom she was beyond excited to be home with the coming week, as the five SAI schedules rarely aligned for everyone to be in the village at the same time) had always called her their “little nebula” – a nod both to her stunning and one-of-a-kind coat and to the radiance within her heart and mind.
Kicking the snow off her golden hooves, she and Aurora crossed from the crisp and chilly night into the warmth of the Observatory. The stonework entryway was inviting but not ornate, clearly meant for work over play. The hall curved away from the entryway on the left and the right, a singular circle topped with thick panes of glass in place of a traditional ceiling as to allow a constant view of the sky. If she looped either way she would eventually come the bunk room (her journals stacked on the nightstand to the point of toppling), the small “recreation room” (in which there was a single television, a small library of mostly overflow reference materials, and a ping pong table), and the kitchen (from which the mouth-watering scents of dinner were already wafting).
Her favorite place though lived in the center of the observatory. Encircled by the “quarters loop” (as they had dubbed it) was an enormous dome constructed first of thick glass and then of golden metal panes that could be expanded or retracted based on need. And at the very heart of the round room lived the outlook – the small, cushioned seat where one could place their eye to the massive telescopes eyepiece and peer into unfathomably far reaches of space. Here is where she fell deeper and deeper in love, night after glorious night. Here is where she found herself sinking again and again into the depths of the universe, her eyes brimming at times with tears of awe. Here is where she found answers to her questions and questions to be answered.
The star gazer had always belonged first and foremost to the nebulae above. She cherished her loved ones, she enjoyed all the parts of her job with the SAI, she appreciated the time she spent out with friends old and new – but the stars, they would always have her heart in a way no other could.
As she scanned the current star charts on the desk to the left of the telescope, her beloved Aurora made several ritualistic circles atop the thick blanket beneath and then nested down for her next round of sleep. Wearing a soft, contented smile, the mint and evergreen devonti settled into the cushioned seat of the outlook and leaned in; her heart soaring up and away, lost to the night sky above.
Thorn for Chrysariel
The water lapped gently against the hull of the houseboat as it sat docked along the “seawall” (though “river-wall” would be more accurate given they were in fact on the Peka River, not the Peka sea).The town was small enough that they hadn’t even bothered with a dock, just tall pilings spaced evenly(ish) where boats could tether and those on the boats could hop (sometimes daringly if weather was poor) on and off to tend to whatever business had drawn them here.
Not at all uncommonly, Thorn was leaning back in his captain’s chair, neon-green and night-black paws resting on the console and an annotated map unfolded in his lap for review. As with many of their stops, he had stayed on the houseboat – a modestly-sized vessel that was 75% house and 25% surprisingly lush garden. He much preferred the quiet of his home to the bustling crowds and worse - the threat of repetitive small talk - that he would encounter should he depart the boat.
That was Knox’s playground. The field pherret found much joy in taking his time chatting with the locals, catching up with old friends who’s stores and stands he frequented, and learning new things from fresh faces he encountered. Thorn often teased Knox (affectionately), claiming there was no talk too “small” for him. To be fair, it was an accurate assessment; anything and everything was fun, interesting, and worth stopping for in Knox’s mind.
It wasn’t that Thorn didn’t enjoy conversation, his “cup” was just filled from a very different well than his friend’s. He much preferred deep, thoughtful conversation that could leave him mulling and found small talk taxing and difficult to remain invested in. He found he had a harsher perspective on things than many folks did – not quite pessimism but a realism tinted with too much awareness to not feel guarded – and he was often caught between being “real” and being “gentle” with his words. Often during small talk he found himself drifting into his own head, worrying that his face was too blank or he was making too much or too little eye contact or that he was coming across somehow in a way that didn’t align with his actual feelings. One of the rare places in his life Thorn didn’t feel self-assured and confident, it was overall an undesirably taxing activity.
Plus, there was plenty to keep him busy on the houseboat. He often spent part of the day examining seasonal change maps to prepare for upcoming shifts in the river, tinkering with the engine to keep it running smoothly and avoid unpleasant hiccups (though they still happened from time to time), and planning the ins-and-outs for their upcoming stops. Between the responsibilities, or when they had additional downtime and settled their little home along the shore, he enjoyed journaling details of their many travels and reading mystery novels.
Not that he didn’t offboard at times, he was just choosey. He knew what towns had the best chicken sandwiches, what towns held enough trade for him to be a needed “beast of burden” lugging things to and from (as he liked to complain, though he hardly meant it deep down), and what towns had the best small bookstores where he could pick up new novels and score some excellent people watching (he may not like chit chat but he loved to play anthropologist).
And though he would rarely admit it out loud, he had a deep fondness for Knox’s over-stimulated and excited ramblings that happened when Thorn stayed back and “missed” things. Knox would return to the houseboat with arms full and mouth already going a mile-a-minute before his paws even hit the deck. There was something simple and pure in being the person his friend “downloaded” his thoughts and feelings with. No pretenses, no difficult navigation of extraneous social nuances – just comfortable joy.
Hearing a faint cheerful whistling in the distance, Thorn’s ears perked and he grinned. He folded up the map and set it to the side of his control panel then stood and stretched deeply, taking his time to loosen up his back and wake up any muscles that had nodded off while he sat. The whistling was louder now, enough that he could hear all the notes and recognize the tune. That was his cue.
Removing his jacket from the back of his captain’s chair he padded down the narrow stairs, crossing first the soft woven rug of the little family room and then the smooth, cool wooden floors of the galley – erm, kitchen – before stepping out into the garden. The sun’s last rays were beginning to paint the sky with vibrant oranges and reds, and silhouetted against these hues was his best friend. Knox waved an arm in a enthusiastic hello, throwing himself off balance and causing the items in his arms to topple precariously. It was a comedy show – the silhouetted Knox juggling and dipping and swaying to re-center the items – and Thorn almost doubled over with laughter at the sight of it.
“You’d better not be laughing at me buck-o!” Knox hollered as he neared the houseboat.
“I would never dare.” Thorn protested with a playful glint in his eye as he reached out for the box of goods, freeing his friend’s arms so he had his balance stepping off the river-wall. Just as he turned to bring the items inside, his nose picked up a mouth-watering scent. “Is that - ?”
Knox stood on the deck behind him, grinning ear-to-ear as he held out a foil wrapped katsu sandwich and nori fries still so hot they were giving off steam.
“Would you believe our luck!? Wok This Way happened to be in town for some ingredients, and they were more than happy to whip up a delicious dinner for the biggest fan.”
Thorn thumped the box onto the deck and almost tackled Knox with a bear hug – the moody and sometimes stoic montre was always older-brother like, rough but not enough to hurt, in his affection – before snagging the meal.
After thoroughly savoring the delicious dinner, getting the new goods tucked away (there’s not much room for mess on a house boat), and setting themselves puttering gently down the river towards their next destination, Thorn and Knox retired to their garden. Like many an evening, Thorn sat on the short stoop of the open door, novel in his hands. The calls of night birds waking were a familiar melody against the steady thrum of the engine and the soft lapping of moving water as they chugged lazily down the peak river. Gently dancing atop it all was Thorn’s most favorite song, the contented humming of his best friend as he pruned and picked, fertilized and misted, and tended in all ways to his garden.
Not at all uncommonly, Thorn was leaning back in his captain’s chair, neon-green and night-black paws resting on the console and an annotated map unfolded in his lap for review. As with many of their stops, he had stayed on the houseboat – a modestly-sized vessel that was 75% house and 25% surprisingly lush garden. He much preferred the quiet of his home to the bustling crowds and worse - the threat of repetitive small talk - that he would encounter should he depart the boat.
That was Knox’s playground. The field pherret found much joy in taking his time chatting with the locals, catching up with old friends who’s stores and stands he frequented, and learning new things from fresh faces he encountered. Thorn often teased Knox (affectionately), claiming there was no talk too “small” for him. To be fair, it was an accurate assessment; anything and everything was fun, interesting, and worth stopping for in Knox’s mind.
It wasn’t that Thorn didn’t enjoy conversation, his “cup” was just filled from a very different well than his friend’s. He much preferred deep, thoughtful conversation that could leave him mulling and found small talk taxing and difficult to remain invested in. He found he had a harsher perspective on things than many folks did – not quite pessimism but a realism tinted with too much awareness to not feel guarded – and he was often caught between being “real” and being “gentle” with his words. Often during small talk he found himself drifting into his own head, worrying that his face was too blank or he was making too much or too little eye contact or that he was coming across somehow in a way that didn’t align with his actual feelings. One of the rare places in his life Thorn didn’t feel self-assured and confident, it was overall an undesirably taxing activity.
Plus, there was plenty to keep him busy on the houseboat. He often spent part of the day examining seasonal change maps to prepare for upcoming shifts in the river, tinkering with the engine to keep it running smoothly and avoid unpleasant hiccups (though they still happened from time to time), and planning the ins-and-outs for their upcoming stops. Between the responsibilities, or when they had additional downtime and settled their little home along the shore, he enjoyed journaling details of their many travels and reading mystery novels.
Not that he didn’t offboard at times, he was just choosey. He knew what towns had the best chicken sandwiches, what towns held enough trade for him to be a needed “beast of burden” lugging things to and from (as he liked to complain, though he hardly meant it deep down), and what towns had the best small bookstores where he could pick up new novels and score some excellent people watching (he may not like chit chat but he loved to play anthropologist).
And though he would rarely admit it out loud, he had a deep fondness for Knox’s over-stimulated and excited ramblings that happened when Thorn stayed back and “missed” things. Knox would return to the houseboat with arms full and mouth already going a mile-a-minute before his paws even hit the deck. There was something simple and pure in being the person his friend “downloaded” his thoughts and feelings with. No pretenses, no difficult navigation of extraneous social nuances – just comfortable joy.
Hearing a faint cheerful whistling in the distance, Thorn’s ears perked and he grinned. He folded up the map and set it to the side of his control panel then stood and stretched deeply, taking his time to loosen up his back and wake up any muscles that had nodded off while he sat. The whistling was louder now, enough that he could hear all the notes and recognize the tune. That was his cue.
Removing his jacket from the back of his captain’s chair he padded down the narrow stairs, crossing first the soft woven rug of the little family room and then the smooth, cool wooden floors of the galley – erm, kitchen – before stepping out into the garden. The sun’s last rays were beginning to paint the sky with vibrant oranges and reds, and silhouetted against these hues was his best friend. Knox waved an arm in a enthusiastic hello, throwing himself off balance and causing the items in his arms to topple precariously. It was a comedy show – the silhouetted Knox juggling and dipping and swaying to re-center the items – and Thorn almost doubled over with laughter at the sight of it.
“You’d better not be laughing at me buck-o!” Knox hollered as he neared the houseboat.
“I would never dare.” Thorn protested with a playful glint in his eye as he reached out for the box of goods, freeing his friend’s arms so he had his balance stepping off the river-wall. Just as he turned to bring the items inside, his nose picked up a mouth-watering scent. “Is that - ?”
Knox stood on the deck behind him, grinning ear-to-ear as he held out a foil wrapped katsu sandwich and nori fries still so hot they were giving off steam.
“Would you believe our luck!? Wok This Way happened to be in town for some ingredients, and they were more than happy to whip up a delicious dinner for the biggest fan.”
Thorn thumped the box onto the deck and almost tackled Knox with a bear hug – the moody and sometimes stoic montre was always older-brother like, rough but not enough to hurt, in his affection – before snagging the meal.
After thoroughly savoring the delicious dinner, getting the new goods tucked away (there’s not much room for mess on a house boat), and setting themselves puttering gently down the river towards their next destination, Thorn and Knox retired to their garden. Like many an evening, Thorn sat on the short stoop of the open door, novel in his hands. The calls of night birds waking were a familiar melody against the steady thrum of the engine and the soft lapping of moving water as they chugged lazily down the peak river. Gently dancing atop it all was Thorn’s most favorite song, the contented humming of his best friend as he pruned and picked, fertilized and misted, and tended in all ways to his garden.
Knox for Chrysariel
The town was a-buzz with activity, just the way Knox liked it. The muddled melody of overlapping conversation was music to his fluffy green ears. The jingle of shop bells and sounds of paw, hooves, feet, and wheels on the cobblestone road held promise of a full day. He paused only briefly at the market entrance, taking in the hustle and bustle with a wide grin and bright eyes, then dove into the action.
The market was central to the small town. Along the city center was a ring of small shops, many with the shopkeeper keeping residence in an apartment above. Twice a season the town center filled with stands and carts overflowing with all sorts of goods – homemade, home grown, and even brought in from distant lands. It was a tradesman’s (or tradespherret’s I suppose) heaven. And for Knox - a master tradesman, brilliant gardener, and lover of life - the addition of puppet shows, jugglers, skits, music, and art displays made the event off-the-charts splendid. It was practically a personally-designed dream for him, one of his very favorite of their stops along the Peka River, and one he made sure to never miss.
While he would always understand that he and his best friend – the intelligent, moody, and generous montre named Thorn – were just poured from very different (but equally “correct” and wonderful) molds, part of his brain still could never quite wrap around the concept of preferring the quiet houseboat to the vibrant and living marketplace. The activity was like an electric current to Knox, recharging his battery. It was an overflowing spout, filling his cup again and again in a single day. He was his most alive at the center of it all.
While he would have been more than happy to spend the day just poking about every shop and stand, chatting with anyone and everyone, and marveling at the displays of talent and creativity, he had work to do. This was his busiest season. His garden – shockingly lush and productive despite taking up only a quarter of their houseboat – was overflowing with a wide variety of colorful, juicy fruits and healthy vegetables and he had an overflow of orders to match it. At this stop alone he had seventeen parcels to deliver, some being directly exchanged for other goods and others simply sold, the coins pocketed for later need.
While generous in spirit, Knox was also a smart tradesman. He didn’t shortchange himself when it came to acknowledging the labor he put into producing such delicious and hearty foods, and he didn’t minimize the importance of his and Thorn’s wellbeing. It was just as important as the wellbeing of the wonderful individuals he met and traded with all up and down the Peka River. Not that he didn’t give when and how he could, he was always happy to help others and took joy in doing so. But he could also hold his head high and walk away from an unfair trade, even if it meant making someone mad. He knew that making a habit of shortchanging himself only meant bad things for everyone in the long run, and so he prided himself on being kind and fair and bringing as much joy to others through his garden as he could.
His first several stops were all shops in the market’s ring, and he danced and bopped his way across the busy hub towards them. Considering the deliveries were literally door-to-next-door one may think it would take mere minutes to complete them. But that one clearly didn’t know Knox.
His first stop, Mrs. Dursten, would be putting the kettle on before he made it all the way into the apartment. He was eager to hear what the latest letter said about her niece’s new job, and she would want to know all the details of his experience at the lavender fields that she had recommended to him during his last visit. His second stop – Marty and June – would be a rapid-fire download of all the newest information they had gathered regarding fertilizers and soils. The two rivaled Knox in enthusiasm, and were brilliant up-and-coming hydroponics experts. They loved to trade knowledge with Knox and were helping him plan an addition to his garden using their best techniques. Edgar, his third stop, would be more than happy to chit-chat with Knox while Cache (Knox’s “minion” Jorge) and Mellow (Edgar’s “minion” Dawnfluff) roughhoused and chased playfully over and under the furniture. And his fourth stop, the Minfold’s home, would inevitably end with Deliliah (their youngest) leading him by the hand back out to the market to show off her flowers at her cousin’s stand.
And so, the day would go. In and out of shops and homes, time spent at every stand and cart and booth he could manage, chatting and storytelling with full investment and passion. It would be a day of marveling, and Knox loved to marvel, at the magic that was a world full of others.
To his utter delight, there was one stop left to make on the way out of town. The mouth-watering aroma of the food truck caught his attention first, causing him to turn left instead of the usual right at the last street before the cobbles turned to the packed dirt that would lead him to the river. He couldn’t believe his luck – Wok This Way – Thorn’s favorite meal on wheels, was parked with flat tops steaming and sizzling away. Oh he couldn’t wait to see Thorn’s face when he returned home with such a special surprise. He placed, the picked up, his order and made haste home, eager to arrive while the food was still steaming.
As it often went, Knox left town that day with not just a full pack and full arms, but a full heart. He loved his life along the Peka River – days of travel spent between tending his garden and playing cards with his dear friend Thorn blended with days of adventuring into quaint towns and booming cities and vast lone properties and even the occasional truly-wild wilderness. Yes indeed, it was a full life. It was a good life. And it was a life he was always grateful for.
The market was central to the small town. Along the city center was a ring of small shops, many with the shopkeeper keeping residence in an apartment above. Twice a season the town center filled with stands and carts overflowing with all sorts of goods – homemade, home grown, and even brought in from distant lands. It was a tradesman’s (or tradespherret’s I suppose) heaven. And for Knox - a master tradesman, brilliant gardener, and lover of life - the addition of puppet shows, jugglers, skits, music, and art displays made the event off-the-charts splendid. It was practically a personally-designed dream for him, one of his very favorite of their stops along the Peka River, and one he made sure to never miss.
While he would always understand that he and his best friend – the intelligent, moody, and generous montre named Thorn – were just poured from very different (but equally “correct” and wonderful) molds, part of his brain still could never quite wrap around the concept of preferring the quiet houseboat to the vibrant and living marketplace. The activity was like an electric current to Knox, recharging his battery. It was an overflowing spout, filling his cup again and again in a single day. He was his most alive at the center of it all.
While he would have been more than happy to spend the day just poking about every shop and stand, chatting with anyone and everyone, and marveling at the displays of talent and creativity, he had work to do. This was his busiest season. His garden – shockingly lush and productive despite taking up only a quarter of their houseboat – was overflowing with a wide variety of colorful, juicy fruits and healthy vegetables and he had an overflow of orders to match it. At this stop alone he had seventeen parcels to deliver, some being directly exchanged for other goods and others simply sold, the coins pocketed for later need.
While generous in spirit, Knox was also a smart tradesman. He didn’t shortchange himself when it came to acknowledging the labor he put into producing such delicious and hearty foods, and he didn’t minimize the importance of his and Thorn’s wellbeing. It was just as important as the wellbeing of the wonderful individuals he met and traded with all up and down the Peka River. Not that he didn’t give when and how he could, he was always happy to help others and took joy in doing so. But he could also hold his head high and walk away from an unfair trade, even if it meant making someone mad. He knew that making a habit of shortchanging himself only meant bad things for everyone in the long run, and so he prided himself on being kind and fair and bringing as much joy to others through his garden as he could.
His first several stops were all shops in the market’s ring, and he danced and bopped his way across the busy hub towards them. Considering the deliveries were literally door-to-next-door one may think it would take mere minutes to complete them. But that one clearly didn’t know Knox.
His first stop, Mrs. Dursten, would be putting the kettle on before he made it all the way into the apartment. He was eager to hear what the latest letter said about her niece’s new job, and she would want to know all the details of his experience at the lavender fields that she had recommended to him during his last visit. His second stop – Marty and June – would be a rapid-fire download of all the newest information they had gathered regarding fertilizers and soils. The two rivaled Knox in enthusiasm, and were brilliant up-and-coming hydroponics experts. They loved to trade knowledge with Knox and were helping him plan an addition to his garden using their best techniques. Edgar, his third stop, would be more than happy to chit-chat with Knox while Cache (Knox’s “minion” Jorge) and Mellow (Edgar’s “minion” Dawnfluff) roughhoused and chased playfully over and under the furniture. And his fourth stop, the Minfold’s home, would inevitably end with Deliliah (their youngest) leading him by the hand back out to the market to show off her flowers at her cousin’s stand.
And so, the day would go. In and out of shops and homes, time spent at every stand and cart and booth he could manage, chatting and storytelling with full investment and passion. It would be a day of marveling, and Knox loved to marvel, at the magic that was a world full of others.
To his utter delight, there was one stop left to make on the way out of town. The mouth-watering aroma of the food truck caught his attention first, causing him to turn left instead of the usual right at the last street before the cobbles turned to the packed dirt that would lead him to the river. He couldn’t believe his luck – Wok This Way – Thorn’s favorite meal on wheels, was parked with flat tops steaming and sizzling away. Oh he couldn’t wait to see Thorn’s face when he returned home with such a special surprise. He placed, the picked up, his order and made haste home, eager to arrive while the food was still steaming.
As it often went, Knox left town that day with not just a full pack and full arms, but a full heart. He loved his life along the Peka River – days of travel spent between tending his garden and playing cards with his dear friend Thorn blended with days of adventuring into quaint towns and booming cities and vast lone properties and even the occasional truly-wild wilderness. Yes indeed, it was a full life. It was a good life. And it was a life he was always grateful for.
Felistar for Chrysariel
The clink and clank of tools against metal rang through the barn, causing a few wild Schismis to flutter off from the rafters and take flight in the carefully pressurized air of the fantastically massive dome. So clear and high up was the glass that most of the residents tended to forget it was there, instead seeing themselves as “living among the stars”. Of course, there was always the reminder of the specialized survival suits that they had to don anytime they made their way through the triple locks of the dome and out into the “between” that lay natural and exposed to the moon’s elements. But that quickly became so routine for anyone who made a habit of traveling to the neighboring towns and cities that it became akin to donning “going out clothes” for someone down on Subeta proper.
There was one resident though who never forgot; who was constantly aware of the thick, necessary barriers – be it dome or suit or shuttle – that kept them apart from the timeless and fantastical dust of ancient stars and the cold vacuum of emptiness that offered a tantalizingly unknown yet deadly experience to any who tried to touch it. That separation buzzed in the back of their senses at all times, just as the beach’s waves become background melody in the ears of the residents at Delphi’s coast or the chill rising from sun-baking snow becomes a default companion to the skin of those who called the Artic Frost home. Despite the common sense that guided them otherwise, there was a ceaseless thrum of desire, like a song calling them home, that made them long to tear down the barriers and reach out to the great vastness with bare paws.
And it was this resident, whose night-sky-navy fur was swirled with such a unique sun’s-ray-golden pattern and whose heart sang for the stars, that lay flat on her back under a shuttlecraft in the barn that night. She gritted her teeth, clenching her jaw down as she braced back against the cold, hard cement floor so she had the right force to solidly secure the final bolt.
Sliding out from under the craft, she spryly shifted back onto her feet and brushed her paws off against one another, space dust drifting slowly from them to the floor, before bracing them against her hips and staring with satisfaction at a job done well. It had been a labor of love – okay, mostly love with a sprinkle of unfiltered frustration and the unfiltered language that came with it – to get the old ship not just structurally solid but also running smoothly. And it was all going to be worth it … she hoped.
Some called her crazy when the rumors of her current project spread around the city. But those who knew her, or even knew of her, also knew not to doubt. It was a rare phenomenon for her projects to ever truly fail, no matter how spectacular or outlandish they seemed to others. She was as patient as she was intelligent, and almost as intelligent as she was curious. She did not struggle to move at an intentional and mindful pace, and often spent more time diligently researching and planning than she did on the physical part of a project. And this project was no exception. Researched, planned, and put together with the same care and skill as all her work, this project stood out amongst the rest not for any brilliance or ingenuity but rather for its uncommon and personal origins.
- - - - - - - - - -
It began with a dream.
She was … floating. There was no directionality, no marker by which she could orient herself. Around her was endless space, all-encompassing, all she could see. Like being submerged in the open ocean – no bottom to rest your feet on, too deep for any glow of the sun to call you up through the surface. Just … endless sea. Or, here – endless space. One could imagine perhaps the canvas was once the darkest black, the black of an ancient void that no light had yet to touch. But now, alive with nebulas and stars, asteroids and rings, galaxies turning to their own beats – the canvas was covered with color. Color so beautiful it was beyond words.
She was not afraid. She felt like she was drifting atop a gentle, warm current. Like it had held her softly, safely as she dozed and had woken her when it was time.
Time.
Time … for what?
She flipped, rotating her body 180 degrees on her horizontal axis as she looked intently around. She was suddenly aware – suddenly sure - that there was something here that needed her attention. The reason it was now, here that she was woken.
And there, in the distance dancing and glimmering like golden fire, she felt the pull. Like metal pulled to magnet, like voice drawn into its place in a harmony – she swam towards it, gliding gently more through the propulsion of intention than of her physical movements.
And at last, beyond the red star and the asteroid belt, here it was. The constellation, her constellation, calling her … home. She slowed her glide, ending by rotating her rear under her so that she hovered as if standing before the great golden stars. With anticipation she reached out, the warmth reaching her paws before the glow did, and …
And that
was it.
She was in her own bed, in her own loft, in her own home, on Atebus. Out her window, through the dome and distant in the sky, hovered Subeta. To the east the lights of the great city glowed, casting the wild moonlands around it in an array of purples, creams, and maroons.
It wasn’t uncommon for her to have vivid dreams. She often found that her brain processed and dumped information in excess at night. It made sense, as during the day her senses were absorbing information from the environment as rapidly as her brain was pulling and mulling over information from sources far beyond her body’s reach. There was little time during her days to sit with everything being gathered, processing power was put towards immediate challenges and long-stored puzzles. And thus, her dreams were like motion pictures – detailed and lengthy, vivid and layered with rich casts and – at times – little logic. But this dream was … different. It left her with a strange buzz in the back of her mind, a tingle that whispered to her of a puzzle she was so close to completing, an answer she hadn’t realized she needed.
For the first week or two after her dream, she went about life as normal and kept pace on other projects. It was busy season at the university where she worked free-lance assisting with research projects, and she had filled the rest of her schedule volunteering with the local youth summer programs – the same one she had attended as a young Feli. She delighted in teaching the children about the rich sciences that created their world and looked forward each year to the experiment fair where she helped curious young minds build and test and explore to their hearts’ content.
But at some point each day, she caught herself mulling the dream. Whenever she let her mind wander, she found it walking back through the journey, as if mapping out the path again and again until it was cemented in her mind and could not ever be forgotten, as if something inside her knew how imperative the information would be.
- - - - - - - - - -
Nearly two weeks after the dream first arrived, she sat in her home office – a small upstairs room wrapped with overflowing bookshelves who came together opposite the door to frame a large desk that was made of dark moon stone, heavy-laden with organized piles of reference material and scrawled notes, and sitting centered below a round window who’s frame was painted a deep golden color – that it all came crashing together into a singular and poignant revelation of a truth that had been staring her in the face, literally.
She gasped.
Eyes wide and heart pounding so solidly that she would have expected to walk away with bruised ribs, she grabbed a spare piece of parchment paper and carefully, almost reverently, placed small dots in a seemingly nonsensical manner. She squinted in concentration and then, as if needing to prove it to herself further, passed back over the page – this time pressing hard enough to push through the paper and leave a hole where each dot had been. With shaking paws, she held the paper up to the dying light of the day’s sun.
There, cast at her in hues of gold and pink, lay the constellation from her dream.
Ever so slowly, she allowed her arms to drop. The page slipped from view, but the constellation remained. Reflected in the round window that overlooked the bustling city and the deep space above that had called to her all her life was the face of a young feli with night-sky-navy fur kissed with golden swirls and lines.
Her face.
Her fur.
On which, between her soft rounded ears and above her bright, clever eyes sat the constellation from her dream.
A golden pattern, curving and turning, tracing the stars.
And she knew.
Knew that her closed adoption was for something beyond the “typical” reasoning.
Knew that her beloved and supportive parents, who still lived in the modest and welcoming apartment in Atebus proper where she was raised (and where she still visited them several times most weeks), had held back nothing when they told her the story of the somewhat mysterious phone call from the unnamed adoption agent who rang them up one day about their adoption application and invited them to meet her.
Knew that the ceaseless tugging on her heart by the vast space above was not just curiosity, but a call. And that the golden constellation upon her fur was not just lucky patterning, but rather a lingering mother’s kiss, a map - for when the time was right.
For … now.
- - - - - - - - - -
Her parents, as supportive and sure of her success as they had always been, waved from inside the dome as she stood on the rocket’s threshold in the blue and gold space suit. They would miss her tangibly and heavily, but they had no hesitations or regrets encouraging her on this journey. They knew she was and had always been destined for things beyond their small moon, knew that her heart was bigger than most, and that she whatever she chose – it would be used to gift the many. She would return, if it was right to do so. And they would be delighted when she did. She would find what she was meant to find, they had no doubt. Because whatever mystery called her, she always chased it to the end.
A loving collection of her mentors, students, and friends stood around them. Some beamed with pride over their amazing friend’s accomplishments while others held back tears over the uncertain amount of time they would now spend apart – equally loving in their emotions, and equally supportive of her newest grand adventure.
While only her parents and a few of her closest companions knew the full story of this journey, it raised no questions in anyone who had heard about it (and most people in the town, plus a good chunk of city folk had). She was, after all, known for her insatiable curiosity and fearlessness when it came to pursuing answers.
With a final look back at those who filled her heart, knowing they would forever serve as a beacon guiding her back, Felistar stepped into the rocket and ensured the door thumped and hissed sealed behind her. She flicked switches and checked dials, walking through the steps of launch with great care and a practiced paw. All the while feeling a mounting wave of emotions – excitement, joy, sadness, fear, eagerness – that swelled until it crested above her.
The engines kicked in.
The rocket rumbled and vibrated with readiness.
The wave crashed down and washed over her.
With a heart full of certainty and unbridled joyful anticipation, she flipped the last safety switch off and ignited the launch booster.
The rocket, and the curious feli within, rose with great force towards and through the moon’s atmosphere until all the adoring crowd in the dome could see was a small bright dot in the endless canvas of space like a new star,
a felistar,
chasing her destiny,
off on the adventure of a lifetime.
There was one resident though who never forgot; who was constantly aware of the thick, necessary barriers – be it dome or suit or shuttle – that kept them apart from the timeless and fantastical dust of ancient stars and the cold vacuum of emptiness that offered a tantalizingly unknown yet deadly experience to any who tried to touch it. That separation buzzed in the back of their senses at all times, just as the beach’s waves become background melody in the ears of the residents at Delphi’s coast or the chill rising from sun-baking snow becomes a default companion to the skin of those who called the Artic Frost home. Despite the common sense that guided them otherwise, there was a ceaseless thrum of desire, like a song calling them home, that made them long to tear down the barriers and reach out to the great vastness with bare paws.
And it was this resident, whose night-sky-navy fur was swirled with such a unique sun’s-ray-golden pattern and whose heart sang for the stars, that lay flat on her back under a shuttlecraft in the barn that night. She gritted her teeth, clenching her jaw down as she braced back against the cold, hard cement floor so she had the right force to solidly secure the final bolt.
Sliding out from under the craft, she spryly shifted back onto her feet and brushed her paws off against one another, space dust drifting slowly from them to the floor, before bracing them against her hips and staring with satisfaction at a job done well. It had been a labor of love – okay, mostly love with a sprinkle of unfiltered frustration and the unfiltered language that came with it – to get the old ship not just structurally solid but also running smoothly. And it was all going to be worth it … she hoped.
Some called her crazy when the rumors of her current project spread around the city. But those who knew her, or even knew of her, also knew not to doubt. It was a rare phenomenon for her projects to ever truly fail, no matter how spectacular or outlandish they seemed to others. She was as patient as she was intelligent, and almost as intelligent as she was curious. She did not struggle to move at an intentional and mindful pace, and often spent more time diligently researching and planning than she did on the physical part of a project. And this project was no exception. Researched, planned, and put together with the same care and skill as all her work, this project stood out amongst the rest not for any brilliance or ingenuity but rather for its uncommon and personal origins.
- - - - - - - - - -
It began with a dream.
She was … floating. There was no directionality, no marker by which she could orient herself. Around her was endless space, all-encompassing, all she could see. Like being submerged in the open ocean – no bottom to rest your feet on, too deep for any glow of the sun to call you up through the surface. Just … endless sea. Or, here – endless space. One could imagine perhaps the canvas was once the darkest black, the black of an ancient void that no light had yet to touch. But now, alive with nebulas and stars, asteroids and rings, galaxies turning to their own beats – the canvas was covered with color. Color so beautiful it was beyond words.
She was not afraid. She felt like she was drifting atop a gentle, warm current. Like it had held her softly, safely as she dozed and had woken her when it was time.
Time.
Time … for what?
She flipped, rotating her body 180 degrees on her horizontal axis as she looked intently around. She was suddenly aware – suddenly sure - that there was something here that needed her attention. The reason it was now, here that she was woken.
And there, in the distance dancing and glimmering like golden fire, she felt the pull. Like metal pulled to magnet, like voice drawn into its place in a harmony – she swam towards it, gliding gently more through the propulsion of intention than of her physical movements.
And at last, beyond the red star and the asteroid belt, here it was. The constellation, her constellation, calling her … home. She slowed her glide, ending by rotating her rear under her so that she hovered as if standing before the great golden stars. With anticipation she reached out, the warmth reaching her paws before the glow did, and …
And that
was it.
She was in her own bed, in her own loft, in her own home, on Atebus. Out her window, through the dome and distant in the sky, hovered Subeta. To the east the lights of the great city glowed, casting the wild moonlands around it in an array of purples, creams, and maroons.
It wasn’t uncommon for her to have vivid dreams. She often found that her brain processed and dumped information in excess at night. It made sense, as during the day her senses were absorbing information from the environment as rapidly as her brain was pulling and mulling over information from sources far beyond her body’s reach. There was little time during her days to sit with everything being gathered, processing power was put towards immediate challenges and long-stored puzzles. And thus, her dreams were like motion pictures – detailed and lengthy, vivid and layered with rich casts and – at times – little logic. But this dream was … different. It left her with a strange buzz in the back of her mind, a tingle that whispered to her of a puzzle she was so close to completing, an answer she hadn’t realized she needed.
For the first week or two after her dream, she went about life as normal and kept pace on other projects. It was busy season at the university where she worked free-lance assisting with research projects, and she had filled the rest of her schedule volunteering with the local youth summer programs – the same one she had attended as a young Feli. She delighted in teaching the children about the rich sciences that created their world and looked forward each year to the experiment fair where she helped curious young minds build and test and explore to their hearts’ content.
But at some point each day, she caught herself mulling the dream. Whenever she let her mind wander, she found it walking back through the journey, as if mapping out the path again and again until it was cemented in her mind and could not ever be forgotten, as if something inside her knew how imperative the information would be.
- - - - - - - - - -
Nearly two weeks after the dream first arrived, she sat in her home office – a small upstairs room wrapped with overflowing bookshelves who came together opposite the door to frame a large desk that was made of dark moon stone, heavy-laden with organized piles of reference material and scrawled notes, and sitting centered below a round window who’s frame was painted a deep golden color – that it all came crashing together into a singular and poignant revelation of a truth that had been staring her in the face, literally.
She gasped.
Eyes wide and heart pounding so solidly that she would have expected to walk away with bruised ribs, she grabbed a spare piece of parchment paper and carefully, almost reverently, placed small dots in a seemingly nonsensical manner. She squinted in concentration and then, as if needing to prove it to herself further, passed back over the page – this time pressing hard enough to push through the paper and leave a hole where each dot had been. With shaking paws, she held the paper up to the dying light of the day’s sun.
There, cast at her in hues of gold and pink, lay the constellation from her dream.
Ever so slowly, she allowed her arms to drop. The page slipped from view, but the constellation remained. Reflected in the round window that overlooked the bustling city and the deep space above that had called to her all her life was the face of a young feli with night-sky-navy fur kissed with golden swirls and lines.
Her face.
Her fur.
On which, between her soft rounded ears and above her bright, clever eyes sat the constellation from her dream.
A golden pattern, curving and turning, tracing the stars.
And she knew.
Knew that her closed adoption was for something beyond the “typical” reasoning.
Knew that her beloved and supportive parents, who still lived in the modest and welcoming apartment in Atebus proper where she was raised (and where she still visited them several times most weeks), had held back nothing when they told her the story of the somewhat mysterious phone call from the unnamed adoption agent who rang them up one day about their adoption application and invited them to meet her.
Knew that the ceaseless tugging on her heart by the vast space above was not just curiosity, but a call. And that the golden constellation upon her fur was not just lucky patterning, but rather a lingering mother’s kiss, a map - for when the time was right.
For … now.
- - - - - - - - - -
Her parents, as supportive and sure of her success as they had always been, waved from inside the dome as she stood on the rocket’s threshold in the blue and gold space suit. They would miss her tangibly and heavily, but they had no hesitations or regrets encouraging her on this journey. They knew she was and had always been destined for things beyond their small moon, knew that her heart was bigger than most, and that she whatever she chose – it would be used to gift the many. She would return, if it was right to do so. And they would be delighted when she did. She would find what she was meant to find, they had no doubt. Because whatever mystery called her, she always chased it to the end.
A loving collection of her mentors, students, and friends stood around them. Some beamed with pride over their amazing friend’s accomplishments while others held back tears over the uncertain amount of time they would now spend apart – equally loving in their emotions, and equally supportive of her newest grand adventure.
While only her parents and a few of her closest companions knew the full story of this journey, it raised no questions in anyone who had heard about it (and most people in the town, plus a good chunk of city folk had). She was, after all, known for her insatiable curiosity and fearlessness when it came to pursuing answers.
With a final look back at those who filled her heart, knowing they would forever serve as a beacon guiding her back, Felistar stepped into the rocket and ensured the door thumped and hissed sealed behind her. She flicked switches and checked dials, walking through the steps of launch with great care and a practiced paw. All the while feeling a mounting wave of emotions – excitement, joy, sadness, fear, eagerness – that swelled until it crested above her.
The engines kicked in.
The rocket rumbled and vibrated with readiness.
The wave crashed down and washed over her.
With a heart full of certainty and unbridled joyful anticipation, she flipped the last safety switch off and ignited the launch booster.
The rocket, and the curious feli within, rose with great force towards and through the moon’s atmosphere until all the adoring crowd in the dome could see was a small bright dot in the endless canvas of space like a new star,
a felistar,
chasing her destiny,
off on the adventure of a lifetime.
Jaskier for Chrysariel
The young, rougish bard – breathing heavily due to his expedient exit from the nearby town – paused and leaned his weight against a tall sycamore. He sighed heavily as he pulled yet more produce from his hair.
“Rotten sense of humor that one had” he mumbled to himself with a huff.
That was just part of the life, he supposed, to be taken in stride with all other aspects of barding. In fact, he thought to himself with a widening grin, such unpleasantness could perhaps make for an excellent song.
He pushed himself off the sturdy tree and shifted his lute to his front, one hand beginning to strum a jaunty tune.
He matched his pace to the music, and as he made his way down the path his melodious voice rang amongst the trees of the forest;
The life of a Bard, let me tell you
Is one that requires much pluck.
To weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
Be you bold in the face of poor humor,
And brazen yet clever with truth,
quick on the tune,
be it shanty or croon,
able to be revelrous or couth
To layer in words many meanings,
And lace them together in song,
Is a talent indeed,
and one that doth need,
charisma to keep thy life long
Oh, the life of a Bard, let me tell you
Is one that requires much pluck.
To weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
For without, you wear rotten produce,
And sour your chances of gold.
But with cleverness and skill,
And no shortage of will,
Lady luck surely favors the bold.
Yes, the life of a Bard, let me tell you
Is one that requires much pluck.
To weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
Oh, to weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
“Rotten sense of humor that one had” he mumbled to himself with a huff.
That was just part of the life, he supposed, to be taken in stride with all other aspects of barding. In fact, he thought to himself with a widening grin, such unpleasantness could perhaps make for an excellent song.
He pushed himself off the sturdy tree and shifted his lute to his front, one hand beginning to strum a jaunty tune.
He matched his pace to the music, and as he made his way down the path his melodious voice rang amongst the trees of the forest;
The life of a Bard, let me tell you
Is one that requires much pluck.
To weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
Be you bold in the face of poor humor,
And brazen yet clever with truth,
quick on the tune,
be it shanty or croon,
able to be revelrous or couth
To layer in words many meanings,
And lace them together in song,
Is a talent indeed,
and one that doth need,
charisma to keep thy life long
Oh, the life of a Bard, let me tell you
Is one that requires much pluck.
To weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
For without, you wear rotten produce,
And sour your chances of gold.
But with cleverness and skill,
And no shortage of will,
Lady luck surely favors the bold.
Yes, the life of a Bard, let me tell you
Is one that requires much pluck.
To weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
Oh, to weather the heartache
To reach one’s great fame-break
Requires a lover of luck.
Mementos for Stocking
An iridescent shimmer - sun crashing into and shattering against glass - caught their eye as they walked through the graveyard on the un-seasonally cool morning. Walk - as a term for them - could be seen as generous, for they moved with steps so light a quick glance would suggest they floated above the land, disconnected and beyond. But with careful examination, prints upon the dewy grass would be found. It was simply a quality about them, a perhaps unexpected lightness and joyfulness that radiated from their gentle movements and warm eyes.
With great care and excited breath held tightly in their chest, they leaned down and carefully plucked the treasure from the grass. It glinted in the morning’s light as they lifted it, holding it above eye level to find an uninterrupted sun’s ray in which they could turn the glass sparrow and watch the rainbows of light dance through it.
“Beautiful” they said in a voice so full of awe that, if overheard, it would call tears to the eyes with its purity of honest emotion.
Their characteristic grin beamed brightly as they lifted and puffed their auburn-brown feathered wings, giving themselves just enough lift to settle atop the adjacent gravestone. (Good ‘ol Heath wouldn’t mind, don’t you worry!) Closing their eyes, they touched the treasure to their heart and sat with an inhuman stillness. The birds continued their morning songs, the wind continued to softly whisper across the treetops, and the sun’s rays continued to warm the stones through which they had been wandering - but they no longer felt or heard these things.
For while a bystander may pass and see a statue sitting quietly in reverence and continue quickly on their way with a sense they ought not disturb, the microexpressions that shifted across the otherwise peaceful face hinted at something more.
Their mind was elsewhere in space and time now, observing with full heart the beloved memory etched into the glass sparrow through love and time.
After a time, they hopped gracefully from the cool gray stone and slid the glass sparrow back into place in the tall grass against the grave. This memory;
he watched the earned sweat of labor rolled down the tanned arms of his beloved as she shifted the soil into place atop the new round of flower bulbs, the sun beat down on them both as he prepared to call out to her, to tell her of the cold pitcher of sweetened ice tea and pair of flower-etched glasses he had set on the porch for them to share, she sat up then and wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving a long streak of dark soil like a massive unibrow above her bright blue eyes, he laughed so hard he doubled over, so hard he accidentally shocked her with the sudden loud noise that launched from him. With first confusion, then realization, then mock anger she leapt from her seat amongst her flourishing garden and raced for the nearby hose intending to exact her revenge
was surely, in all their years of tending this graveyard, amongst their favorites. The flowers - so like their own that grew from their stone body and trailed behind them - were beautiful. The love and laughter in the memory, so pure and full of delight.
With a final held gaze they gave the glass sparrow a blessing of protection. Then - with a heart radiating gratitude - they wandered on, flowers gently trailing them atop the lush grass in their graveyard of treasured mementos.
With great care and excited breath held tightly in their chest, they leaned down and carefully plucked the treasure from the grass. It glinted in the morning’s light as they lifted it, holding it above eye level to find an uninterrupted sun’s ray in which they could turn the glass sparrow and watch the rainbows of light dance through it.
“Beautiful” they said in a voice so full of awe that, if overheard, it would call tears to the eyes with its purity of honest emotion.
Their characteristic grin beamed brightly as they lifted and puffed their auburn-brown feathered wings, giving themselves just enough lift to settle atop the adjacent gravestone. (Good ‘ol Heath wouldn’t mind, don’t you worry!) Closing their eyes, they touched the treasure to their heart and sat with an inhuman stillness. The birds continued their morning songs, the wind continued to softly whisper across the treetops, and the sun’s rays continued to warm the stones through which they had been wandering - but they no longer felt or heard these things.
For while a bystander may pass and see a statue sitting quietly in reverence and continue quickly on their way with a sense they ought not disturb, the microexpressions that shifted across the otherwise peaceful face hinted at something more.
Their mind was elsewhere in space and time now, observing with full heart the beloved memory etched into the glass sparrow through love and time.
After a time, they hopped gracefully from the cool gray stone and slid the glass sparrow back into place in the tall grass against the grave. This memory;
he watched the earned sweat of labor rolled down the tanned arms of his beloved as she shifted the soil into place atop the new round of flower bulbs, the sun beat down on them both as he prepared to call out to her, to tell her of the cold pitcher of sweetened ice tea and pair of flower-etched glasses he had set on the porch for them to share, she sat up then and wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving a long streak of dark soil like a massive unibrow above her bright blue eyes, he laughed so hard he doubled over, so hard he accidentally shocked her with the sudden loud noise that launched from him. With first confusion, then realization, then mock anger she leapt from her seat amongst her flourishing garden and raced for the nearby hose intending to exact her revenge
was surely, in all their years of tending this graveyard, amongst their favorites. The flowers - so like their own that grew from their stone body and trailed behind them - were beautiful. The love and laughter in the memory, so pure and full of delight.
With a final held gaze they gave the glass sparrow a blessing of protection. Then - with a heart radiating gratitude - they wandered on, flowers gently trailing them atop the lush grass in their graveyard of treasured mementos.
Pet Treasure
Swan Feather Quill Pen
Peka Highlands Scouting Gear
Activity Planner
Airport Books
Edited Script
Books Still to Read
Book Package
Calligraphy Pen
Book of Poetry
Tattered Old Book
Winter Reading Backlog
Warm Drink Alexander Plushie
Turkey Feather Quill Pen
New Years Mystical Poetry Anthology
New Years Botanical Poetry Anthology
Happy Little Book Worm Sticker
Classic Typewriter
Book Worm Buddy
Book Worm Alexander Sticker
Autumn Reader Plushie
Autumn Alexander Plushie
Black Inkwell
Raven Feather Quill Pen
Dusty Old Map
Black Top Hat