Information

Taxonomy has a minion!

#2841 the Peaceful Crystallite

Taxonomy
Legacy Name: Taxonomy

The

Nuclear Blob
Owner:

Cipher

Age: 4 years, 11 months, 5 days

Born: May 28th, 2019

Adopted: 4 years, 11 months, 5 days ago

Adopted: May 28th, 2019

Nominate Pet for Spotlight

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 10
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

taxonomy (noun). the branch of science concerned with classification, especially of organisms.

01.

The taxonomy of the gods is different from that of men.

02.

He lives a thousand lives, has been a million disparate beings; he traces evolutionary lines and extinction with the steadfast patience of one who has lived an eternity and will live another. They called him the God of Many Lives, once; the Faceless God; the Shapeshifter God.

Later, when they forget what it means to fear him, they make mistakes: Skinwalker, they say. Fae; trickster.

He does not mind. By then he has categorized the cruelty of men a thousand times already.

He adds another tick beside the species.

03.

He is the first eukaryote, alone, a raw potential thing without yet the shape of lungs or limbs.

He is a velociraptor wearing blood on his hide, tasting ash in the air, silence caught between the jagged teeth and the waiting claws, a patient thing waiting to die; he has already spent a lifetime understanding the exact curve of the velociraptor’s spine, the coiled strength of its jaws, and he has always known it would end in fire.

He is the Minotaur of Crete, stalking wild-eyed through the labyrinth, knowing only endless corners and the command of a hunt.

He is Jörmungandr, measuring the span of his jaws across oceans, testing the length of himself along the equator. He knows intimately the count of its ribs, the rasp of its hiss to summon tsunamis.

He is a yellow-eyed cat, stalking soft-pawed through the alleys, dissecting mice beneath his teeth. A kestrel, bearing the weight of its ancestry in tipped wings, the ferocity of its forebears in the curve of its beak. A whale, echoing a lonely song through the arctic, sleek with fat, momentous.

He is the witch at Salem’s pyre; he is the soldier in the foothills; he is the conquered, the kidnapped, the condemned.

He is—

04.

Enough, the gods tell him. You have done enough. What have you learned?

He thinks of the ways in which the world has changed, the inevitable reshaping of all things: The shorelines remade by the tides, the shape and strength of bone and sinew and tendon changed by time and wear. He thinks of the ways in which men are not the gods from which they are descended, their fear as sharp as smoke, their knowledge eroded, their cruel wars and their petty vengeance and their fleeting, desperate love.

Well?

05.

It does not matter, he tells them. The research is not yet done.

The story is not yet complete.