Chirps fill the humid air, as well as the songs of some distant creature. Hoo-ah. Hoo-ah ah. Hoo-oo! The wind carries the scents of decay, as well as the fragrance of many blooming plants. The buzz of pollinators rises and falls as the wind shifts.

The small company, now four members, look out over the remains of the tribal village. Mos Gol and Mos Bruen stand to one side, with Somner Zek and Operative Robar making an odd pair. Zek and Robar are investigating the remains of the moss-covered buildings.

"There's no way this was built by those savages," Zek spits. Her upper tendrils indicate the intricate carvings they had found, after they had scraped away the ever-present moss. "This looks like writing. We've never found any kind of written tribal language before."

The tall gray creature nods his oddly shaped head. The tuft of darker fur atop it clings, laden down with the heavy moisture in the swamp air. "No, it must have been the host species," he declares. He points his translation tablet at the suspected writing. With a couple button presses he plays a red light over the stone rubble.

Watching them work are the two generals. Mos Gol lacks interest in the ruins, obvious by the way she searches for movement. The old one turns in place slowly, surveying the entire camp. Bruen finds their conversation entertaining but sees no value in the writing of the tribal's victims. If they had not been strong enough to defeat the tribals, they can have nothing of use to teach him.

"This mark, it repeats on other buildings," she exclaims in typical thaumatist excitement. The rapid mood shifts of the dust eater keep Bruen wary. He knows what they can be capable of, if driven too far by their emotions.

"Yes," Robar agrees. The two lonely eyes on his glistening face shine with the enthusiasm he shares with the thaumatist.

That might be why they get along so well, thinks Bruen. "What does that series of symbols mean, do you suppose?"

"Maybe, 'this belongs to' and then whatever caste used to live here," proposes Zek. She angles her body to get a better look at the gray alien. "What do you think?"

The skinny creature looks at it carefully, scanning it with his device. Bruen barely notices the noises it makes when it translates their speech back to the creature, only paying it heed when it speaks the civilized language of the Spanless Empire.

"Not enough samples to make a real guess, yet," hedges the alien. "Let's keep looking. We're sure to find more if we scrape off the other ruins."

They uncover more than just ruins. The dried husks of the large asymmetrical clawed tripodal beings litter the landscape, underneath the thick moss. At the discovery of the desiccated corpses, the two generals become keenly interested.

Bruen slithers closer to investigate a pile of dried shells he had previously mistaken for just another hill. The empty husks had been rent, ripped apart by cuts of a size with their large attacking pincer. These were killed during the initial invasion by the chieftains, torn asunder by their own people under the monster's control.

Several of them show tooth marks, matching what one of the blubbery horrors might leave on its victims. The sight reminds him that his gray companion could become a mindless ravager if he lets them get too close to a chief for too long. He hopes not to have to kill the skinny alien. The poor creature is defenseless, it would be shameful to be forced to take such an action.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Mos Gol shouts something in the distance, but he's unable to hear of a deep roar that builds from every direction. He looks around frantically, but can see nothing coming, no monsters hidden in the collapsed buildings.

He looks for Gol and finds her, pointing her lower tendrils skyward. Up there he sees a fire, burning a thin trail across the sky. It looks like it's coming towards them.

It grows closer, and roars even louder. He can hear nothing but the angry torrent of sound from above. Robar tries yelling directly at Bruen's face, but even that is drowned out by the incoming fire.

The roar builds to a crescendo, then begins to fade as it passes overhead. Bruen slaps one upper tendril around the young Operative's arm and pulls. He drags the gray officer in a run after the falling object. Gol and Zek chase after him.

They run through the sparser stretch of swamp around the tribal settlement easily enough, but as they get farther away the trees grow closer together. The pace of their run reduces as the terrain becomes more difficult. Roots and vines hinder their progress, forcing them to take a more circuitous path.

The muck of the swamp splashes upon them, running off of Bruen and Gol's tunics, as well as Zek's robes. Robar's uniform is soaked through. His people must like the feeling of mud on their sensitive skin, muses Bruen as he runs.

The roar reduces to a dull background noise, then disappears entirely soon after. It's almost a tenth of a day before they reach the burned ring where it touched down. The mud had been boiled dry, and baked hard under the flames of the ungainly silver craft that lays dormant in the new clearing.

Smoldering trees spread out in a wide circle around the ship. The smell of ash replaces the rich wet rot that Bruen had been enjoying, so much like the composting bins at Denn's manor. The charred remains of a large tetrapod, too slow to get away, smokes from where it's half buried in the hardened silt.

The bright orange ball of the sun sinks across the sky, sending harsh glares off the reflective surface of the vessel. It takes their eyes a few moments to adjust, time enough to hear the ominous quiet around them fully. The animals are silent in this part of the swamp. Bruen does not have to wonder why.

Like a squashed mushroom, the small vessel is an upright cylinder with a wide flat dome drooping around it. Only one section of the central column is uncovered by the roundish top, and from the exposed surface is visible a door. The door is set only bits above the ground, or would be if the small ship had not sunk into the malleable mud even as it cooked it hard.

"That's not a design I'm familiar with," pants Robar when the general finally allows him to stop running.

Mos Gol is slower, her age acting against her, and is the last to arrive at the crash site. When Zek sees the old general, she signals for her attention.

"That is a precursor relic. I've seen those markings before," she explains. "During my training, though I admit I fail to grasp any meaning behind them."

She falls silent when the ship lets out a sharp hiss. Lights hidden in the frame of the door spring to life, white artificial light spilling out into the growing gloom of evening. The door rises into the dome above it, seeming to melt and flow as it moves.

Inside the dome is an armored figure, black and gold plating its bipedal form. The visor of its metal suit catches the glare of the sinking sun. Harsh orange shine bathes it and hides the face of the hulking creature. Two more similarly imposing armored creatures lurk behind it, only slightly smaller than the first.

In their hands are devices similar to the light maker that Robar carries, though their ends are hollow tubes rather than a pointed prism. One of the smaller pair behind the frontmost leader carries two massive devices, on in each gauntleted hand. Their leader carries the long object as if it were a weapon, and Bruen regrets the lack of his spear. His strong lower tendrils flex in readiness.

"Damn it's bright out here. Shit, a Navy tyrant," the alien says, its words being translated by the device Robar still carries.

"When did the damn merchants start wearing armor?" Robar's voice is full of anger, and he grabs his light maker.

"When we needed them to keep yer mum off us, Navy," returns the armored merchant. One of the figures behind him stifles laughter.

"Piss off, merchant scum," huffs the mud-spattered officer.

"Ye squivers might no want to stand so close to this leaking cloaca," warns the alien from inside the vessel. "He's about to make a right mess." The creature raises his device, setting one end of it against his armor encased shoulder.

"Should I assume you two know each other," Gol interrupts, voice dripping with scorn.