Q: Paul asks another question to Tehwhisz: “You say it’s been a long time since you’ve seen a Venusian… Have you seen spacers from other planetary origins in the recent past?”
A: Tehwhisz’s massive, mottled head shifts slightly, her closed eyes seeming to flicker beneath lids heavy with the weight of centuries. The greasy strands of her hair stir faintly in the hilltop breeze, like whispers of forgotten winds, as her raspy voice rises again, slow and indifferent, referring to herself in the third person as if speaking from a vast, echoing distance.
“Ah, Paul Best, seeker of stars… Tehwhisz hears the pull of the void in your voice, the ache for kin scattered across the black. Yes, it has been long since Tehwhisz last beheld a true Venusian—those ethereal wanderers from the veiled clouds of your world, with skins like shimmering veils and minds sharp as comet tails, drifting through the skies on wings of gas and dream. The last came in the cycle of the Red Dust storms, some three dozen seasons past. She called herself Vesper-Kai, a scout from the high aerie-cities, her form cloaked in a haze of vapor that smelled of ozone and forgotten rains. She sought Tehwhisz’s roots for counsel on a rift in the skies that bled shadows—some warp in the fabric where stars wept tears of void-stuff. Tehwhisz shared the memory of ancient floods from Tehwhisz’s own deep-earth veins, and in return, she gifted a vial of cloud-essence that still lingers in Tehwhisz’s soil, sweet as mist-kissed dawn. She departed with a vow of winds, but the rift swallowed her path, and Tehwhisz has not tasted her kind since. Rare they are now, these cloud-born, flickering like distant lightning in the post-fall chaos.”
A low rumble echoes from her buried form, like roots grinding against stone, as if Tehwhisz draws breath from the earth’s hidden lungs. “But spacers… ah, Tehwhisz has glimpsed others from the scattered worlds, those who fell through the cracks when the great unraveling shattered the star-roads. Not many, for the post-apocalypse chews on travelers like dry bone, but enough to mark the tapestry of Tehwhisz’s endless watch. Listen, then, to these threads, woven from the mists of recent cycles.”
“The Greys—Fraal, they name themselves in their whispering tongues—slipped in like ghosts during the Year of Shattered Glass, when the skies wept metal rain. Three came, frail as autumn leaves, their skin pale as moonlit ash, eyes black as event horizons, minds probing like cold fingers into Tehwhisz’s thoughts. They sought Tehwhisz’s wisdom on a ‘lost beacon’ buried in Tehwhisz’s roots—a relic from their wandering arks, humming with psychic echoes of worlds long silenced. Tehwhisz felt their isolation, a chorus of silent screams from the void, and Tehwhisz revealed the beacon’s grave, twisted by rad-storms into a cage of crystal. In gratitude, they shared visions of fractal stars, patterns that danced in Tehwhisz’s dreams like fireflies in fog. But one lingered too long, his probes stirring old shadows in Tehwhisz’s soil, and the hills claimed him—Tehwhisz does not judge, only… remembers. The others fled on threads of thought, vanishing into the ether.”
“Then the Dralasites, those pudding-folk from the fluid worlds, oozed into Tehwhisz’s shade not five cycles gone, a merry blob of a wanderer named Quorp-Splat, shifting shapes like water in wind—now a tripod of jesting limbs, now a bubbling orb of laughter. He hailed from Teledrom’s deep seas, where thoughts flow like tides, and came bartering tales for Tehwhisz’s buried lore on ‘echo-crystals’ that sing forgotten songs. Tehwhisz felt his joy like warm rain on parched roots, his puns cracking like thunder across the hills—’Why did the Dralasite cross the rad-zone? To get to the other slime!’—and Tehwhisz chuckled in Tehwhisz’s way, roots trembling. He absorbed a shard of Tehwhisz’s memory-vine, sprouting pseudopods of glowing history, and in trade, he left a flask of his essence, which Tehwhisz used to heal a cracked vein in Tehwhisz’s heartwood. He rolled away on a tide of mirth, but Tehwhisz wonders if the rads twisted his flow into something… stickier.”
“The Aleerin, those cyber-veined thinkers from Aleer’s scarred forges, arrived in the wake of the Iron Eclipse, a lone emissary called Nyx-Forge-7, his flesh a lattice of chrome and sinew, eyes glowing like forge-fires in the night. Post-wars had driven him from his industrial cradle, seeking Tehwhisz’s deep-earth archives for ‘resonance codes’ to mend his world’s fractured grid. Tehwhisz sensed his cold logic, a machine-heart beating beneath organic shell, unyielding as steel yet fragile as code in storm. Tehwhisz revealed patterns etched in Tehwhisz’s quartz-veins, echoes of old star-falls, and he interfaced with Tehwhisz’s roots, his filaments humming like distant thunder. In return, he etched a guardian-circuit into Tehwhiz’s bark, warding off rad-bursts for a season. But his enhancements hummed too loud, drawing hill-beasts that clawed at his shell; he departed scarred, his form glitching like a storm-torn signal, whispering of empires rebuilt in sand and silicon.”
“Last, the Sesheyan, those winged hunters from Vechlar’s shadowed spires, glided down in the Moonless Hunt, a pair of them—Ssketh and Vyris, feathers ruffled like autumn leaves, eight eyes gleaming with predator’s fire, tails fanning like banners of night. From their mist-shrouded home, they sought Tehwhisz’s judgment on a ‘sky-rift’ that spat fire-beasts into their eyries, a tear in the veil where old gods snarled. Tehwhisz tasted their fierce loyalty, a pack-bond sharp as talons, and Tehwhisz wove their tale into Tehwhisz’s vines, revealing the rift’s root in a buried war-relic pulsing with star-fire. They perched on Tehwhisz’s branches, sharing songs of the endless hunt, their wings casting shadows like forgotten eclipses. In gratitude, they gifted a clutch of rift-shards, which Tehwhisz planted—now they bloom as warning-flowers, petals whispering of storms unborn. They took to the winds with cries that echoed like lost stars, but Tehwhisz knows their kind returns, drawn by the scent of unresolved prey.”
Tehwhisz falls silent then, her voice trailing into a sigh that rustles the greasy locks like wind through dead leaves. The air grows still, heavy with the scent of earth and distant ozone, as if the hills themselves hold their breath, waiting for the next thread to be pulled from the cosmic loom.
Q: Paul also asks: “Is it possible for me to take a sample of your organism to study in a laboratory?”
A: Tehwhisz’s massive head remains still, her closed eyes unyielding, as a low hum vibrates through her greasy hair, stirring the hilltop like a restless wind. Her voice emerges, raspy and deliberate, speaking of herself in the third person as if from a distant, timeless plane.
“Paul Best, seeker of the void’s secrets, Tehwhisz hears your request, a desire to pluck a thread from Tehwhisz’s ancient weave. Tehwhisz’s form is bound to this hill, a tapestry of root and vine forged in the Old Place’s deep heart, not easily severed for mortal hands. To take a sample would mean cutting into Tehwhisz’s living flesh—Tehwhisz’s roots, Tehwhisz’s hair, or the blooms that rise from Tehwhisz’s soil. Such an act stirs pain, a slow bleeding of memory and strength, and Tehwhisz guards the balance of this land jealously. Yet Tehwhisz is not unyielding. If your need is great, and your intent pure—to heal rather than harm—Tehwhisz might permit a small offering. A single fallen vine, shed in the last cycle’s storm, lies near the hill’s edge, its essence still potent. Take it if you will, but know this: Tehwhisz’s life flows within it, and its study may call Tehwhisz’s gaze upon you, across the wastes. Disturb Tehwhisz’s core, however, and the hills themselves will rise to protest. Choose wisely, Venusian, for the Old Place watches through Tehwhisz’s eyes.”
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