Resurrection Log: Ź̷̼͖ý̶̧̡̩̫͉͔͇̓̈́̋̎̽̌͐͛̈́̎̒́̐̍͠r̴̢͓̖̲͙̲̮͋̉̓̾͒̑͜͠ͅa̵̡̨̦͍͉̳͎͕̞͔̲̺̰̩̩̽͑̆̈̌́̏͝g̵̼͈̟̗͔͋́̈́̀͆̀̚ą̸̯̽̈́̑͒͑́ṙ̷͙̝̥͔̳̜̗͖̦͉͓͕͗̈́̇̇͂̐̍̒̍̔d̸͇̞̥͓̠̈́͒͋̌̐͝ ̶̨̧̛͔̲̻̖͚̠̣͔̻̰̫̒̇͐͜͠T̴̠͓͔̦̩̻̼̖̽͆̍͆̓̊̽̔̚͠ơ̷̶̵̸̸̸̡̛̛̬̖̰̦̦̮͚̗̞̻̻̞̻̙̘̘͈͈̭̲͙̪͍̭̭͉͚̤̅̾̽͋̀̑̋̆̍̉̇̉̈́̿͋͒̇̊̓̂̿̿̑̈́͆͑͌̂̌̑̆̉͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ţ̷̢̢̛͙̩͎̥͈̝̖̈̄͛̄͊̆̓̈́̊ͅͅȩ̸̠͍̱̖̺̣̖̄̉̔͜ņ̷̡͓̘̥̠̖̝̺͈̥͔̲͊k̴̛̯̫̪͑̽̔́̅͂̿̂͋̉̂̕͘͠y̵̟̟̰̪̻̼̖̌̽̇̓́̍̃͒̾̕̚͝͠r̵̢̨̠͉̼̲̲͛͒̂̽̄͐͌̏͘͘͝a̴̛̰̙̫͂͐̓̐ḿ̷̡̛̤͙͕̼̱̻͙̔͌̓̈̏͑̔̈́̓͘̚ą̸̧̧̯̺̫͈̞͎̻̤̫̂͐̐͘ņ̷̨̱̖̟͖͚̣̂͌͗̌̾̔́̕ ̶̨̨̲̘̭͚̣̝̞̲͔̦̽̾̏̄̒́̚͝K̷̖̻̘̣͐̽̀̅͛͜͜͜ṟ̴̛͇̺͈̲͉̤̰̰̥͉͓̜͑̈́͌̔̍̓́̕ą̷̼̄̾͊̓̽̾͊̈̒̍̍́̉̚͝l̸̨̞͇͈̖͔̘̜̱̦͈̊

Year 76,589 of the —Mother of Ruin—

M:6 D:13

Day 969 of Cycle 3

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

The Mr. Astley was in possession, of course, of a small squadron of (mostly) defensive drones. But it was not permitted to dispatch them on Ticorival. That privilege was confined to a select few.

Besides, my downloads and studies seem to suggest that the humans would insist on this “buddy system” regardless of the presence of drones. This had little to do with the aforementioned AI-drama, as the species often takes delight in piloting their drones themselves. Rather, it’s a symptom of their quaint emotional reliance on the physical presence of other fleshy sapients.

And so it was that Shosho, Punjibar (trilling nervously), Tursa, and I left the humans behind, suffered our way through secondary and tertiary admittance protocols, and ventured out into the foggy city of Thoriv. We were left with nothing but the natural defenses of our bodies for protection. Ticorival is very strict when it comes to all forms of weaponry. Again—excepting when it came to a privileged few.

This resulted in some very creative violence and even more creative bodily modifications.

It was a fascinating place to be.

The fog had a faint smell of salt to it, which of course, was highly pleasurable. The sun was blocked out entirely by the swathes of swirling cloud which blanketed the skies. And below—far, far below that city of tiered and levitating platforms—the planet’s true surface was only just visible through the fog. It was sparkling, but I couldn’t quite perceive why. And I was certain that, on occasion, I was catching glimpses of massive creatures of some kind floating far below us, casting twisting shadows over the shimmering and mountainous landscape.

I longed to take the time to perceive these things more thoroughly, but I was forced to focus my attention upon Tursa and the possible threats presented by our unfamiliar surroundings.

Many eyes pointed at us as we progressed. I do not suppose it is common for a Lyrian to take on a form such as the one I had at this time. Besides that, b̵̲̾͆k̵͔̊͗é̸̘̃ͅs̶͕̗̓s̵̳̑̓i̸͖̾͠x̵͖͙̊̍ are not often seen in this region, and as Rin noted…their flesh was considered valuable there. The eyes had a tendancy to linger longest in pointing at me, and after doing so, even the individuals who had seemed inclined toward action apparently lost that inclination.

We reached the rented domicile of Tursa’s first client with few notable incidents. It was a pleasant place, with minimal and very dim blue lighting. The interior structure and furnishings were all covered in soft textures in varying shades of gray. The pores of the walls exuded a scented mist—herbal, oceanic—while well-hidden vocal slats played the sounds of a churning sea, the distant songs of aquatic beasts.

The client’s many guardians were gruff but a great deal smaller than me. They finished with us as the client himself entered the receiving chamber, ceasing their invasive endeavors and stepping to the side. The client’s body swept into a low bow…strangely lithe, for what I assumed must be a dying creature.

“Ah, I expected a companion. But a Lyrian—“ the client made a strange sound, a sort of soft hooting noise. Another manner of laugh? “How…” he made a series of noises which did not translate easily into any of the languages or modes of thought which I had yet adopted.

“Come in, please,” he said after a moment. “And come forward. Lady Tursa, Divine Huntress. Surpass me. It is rightful.”

Raising her head with her eyes pointed directly forward, Tursa strode past the groveling client, favoring him with a single flick of the claw between his eyestalks as she progressed to the chamber beyond. At once, he straightened. I had perceived his species, the yii a small number of times before. They are soft, mostly blue-colored creatures, covered in silky quills that are similar in some ways to fur and in others to feathers. A fascinating species, in a number of ways.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

I felt the nudge, and opened my outer layer to him. While one of his electrically teal eyestalks remained pointed in Tursa’s direction, the other fixed its oblong organ on me.

{I know it is customary for a guardian such as yourself to keep their silence, but I hope that you will not…until of course, she and I come together alone for the Sacred Summit. Your kind are of great interest to me, and at a time such as this—the more company, the better, yes?}

{I…suppose.} I replied. {I am…sorry to be aware of your situation,} I added, practicing my social graces. {You have my…condolences. Sympathies? I have been fascinated by your people as well, and so it pleases me to interface with you. Mostly, I would like to ask questions.}

He made that hooting sound again. We had come into a sort of sitting room. Tursa had already made herself comfortable on a long, low piece of furniture approximate to a couch. It was positioned alongside others at the edge of a depression at the center of the room, a lowered space in which the usual soft textures were replaced by polished stone. Attendants were at work around her, making offerings of light refreshments and adjusting her pillows.

The guardians closed the door behind us, all of them remaining on the other side of it. This made me quite nervous until I observed that the windows—both in the walls and ceilings—were made of a primitive material which should easily break. I wondered what technologies might fortify the place, but it mattered little. If they were not biophage, they were inferior. If they were biophage, they would be on my side when I needed them to be.

[To my hybrid progeny, unless things go very, very wrong—you will share the locked-in trait which all of our kind possesses, and will be physically incapable of divulging this secret to anyone outside of the Lyrian species-cluster. However, in the case that something does go very, very wrong…know this. There is not a single thing in all of existence’s infinite expansion which you should fear more than a Mother’s wrath. You have been warned.]

Tursa’s eyes narrowed as they fixed upon us, and I felt a push at the barrier surrounding the connection between the client and I. Simultaneously, we allowed her in.

{Please, forgive our private communications, Divine One. Your Lyrian guardian, it would seem, has questions for me.}

{Let him ask,} replied Tursa, taking a lazy sip of her drink and waving her free hand through the misted air.

By this time the lack of introduction was notable, and no one had referred to the client as anything other than the client. I decided this must be deliberate, and that I should not ask his name.

{From what I can perceive of your body, I am unable to understand the reason for your imminent demise. Would you please clarify?}

At this point, Tursa dismissed the attendants.

A faint breath of the client’s own bitterness brushed at the edges of my awareness.

{My body is entirely well. It is my actions which have received the unfavorable diagnoses, and resultingly I have been condemned.} He sat on the stone at the center of the depression, his four legs curling beneath his lower body, arms folding neatly in front of his torso.

Unsure of what to do with my own body, I stood on the edge of the depression.

The client tilted his head, though the stalks kept his eyes leveled and pointed in ever the same way. One lowered and directed at Tursa, the other peering in my direction. There was a third, but that one remained curled up in his quills, its semi-translucent lids closed.

{You are wondering, at this point, as to the nature of my crimes. If you know anything of my people—and I am guessing that you do—I will say that they were of an artistic nature, and leave it at that.}

Ah. Of course.

The yii are a deeply religious species, each of their cultures intrinsically linked with some spiritual belief-system or another. Despite this, a large portion of their population embraces new concepts with both great ease and fanatical devotion. Fledging belief-systems are cropping up all the time, while the established powers are ever engaged in tamping them out. Artists frequently find themselves caught in the crossfire.

The truly ironic thing is that almost all of these belief systems are—to outside perceptions—very much alike, nearly indistinguishable to most save those who specialize in the subject.

[Irony, by the way, is a fantastically aesthetic concept. I have been both pleased and displeased to experience its natural reoccurrence in my own existence a number of times now.]

It was a fascinating thing, I thought, that the client’s own people had condemned him to death, yet given him the choice as to the means of his end. A brutal sort of civility.

We interfaced for a little longer, and then the client requested that I leave the chamber. I pointed my eyes to Tursa, and she gave me an almost imperceptible nod.

{It’s alright,} she informed me. {you may wait just outside the door.}

I complied.

The door did little to dampen my perception of what happened in the following moments.

As far as my awareness of what constitutes a sexual act was concerned, it seemed to me that nothing sexual occurred beyond that barrier.

But perhaps I was wrong. Because as Tursa’s barbed whips latched into place and her claws tore through the client’s meat, he emitted a long, airy call which had the taste and feel of pleasure…though there was an edge of sorrow there, too. A tangy sort of emotion, that. It blended well with the warm, rich burst of sensual release.

And then Tursa cracked his skull open against the stone and devoured his brain, her whips wrapped about his body all the while in their intoxicating, deadly embrace.

When it was over the guardians went in, checking again and again that the client was indeed dead and that she had made sure to consume his secondary brain-bud, as well.

She had.