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Kjara and Janoch - Wanderers

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@Quinn Reynolds - a fun, beautifully written sim wrapped in mystery and hidden meanings, and an abundance of glorious, lovely detail. Loved it! 


((Island Town, Rogue World))


A storm was coming. Dark cyan clouds churned overhead, the taste of rain misted the air, and the wind whistled through carmine leaves. The forest’s susurrus washed over the town, and it was as the trees felt the same sense of unease as its people, whispering their foreboding to any who would listen. 


They gathered in the centre, around the Great Tree which held the soul of the town, its boughs swollen with plump, indigo fruits. Sheltered underneath, they spoke urgently with one another, in a tongue learned less than a turn ago. The astute might notice that the proportions of the surrounding buildings were very generous for the people who lived inside them. A propensity toward grand architecture, perhaps.


A balcony overlooked the town centre. A figure stood watch upon it, a citrine gaze fixed on the distant location where the alien shuttle had landed. The sheer drapes which separated balcony from interior parted, shifting and shimmering like sunlight on frost. Another figure joined the first; pale lavender hair spilled over shoulders like silk, eyes as red as the rubies birthed in the planet’s crust. She—in as much as her body appeared feminine—looked in the same direction as the other, and a frown creased a smooth brow. 


Kjara: Do these ones also come to make war?


Janoch: I do not know. ::He—insofar as this form assumed masculine traits—shook his head.:: Perhaps they think we make war on them. Our existence threatens theirs.


Kjara: Perhaps these bodies will stay their hostility. The familiar is less frightening. ::She paused, her voice uncertain.:: But the trees sing of the weapons they carry.


He nodded, slowly. The same warnings had reached his ears—so to speak—and the same disquiet threaded through his blood. The Lost Ones sometimes cried out in their invisible voices, pleading for the life left behind to hear them. They marked time strangely, in orbits of a star and rotations of a world many of them had never seen. Twenty-five of their markings they mourned, raging and weeping about the time stolen from them. 


It was a sad state of affairs. But sympathy for the Lost Ones varied like the amber tides. Some wished to help them home, feeling their pain as if it were their own. Others thought they had brought their misfortune upon themselves, motivated by greed and hatred, invading lands not their own to carve scars upon the world.  


But it didn’t matter. Whatever their wishes, the Wandering could not be denied. 


Janoch: Yes. They hide their ship and bear weapons. But they also bring devices of sensing and science. As we practise caution, perhaps so do they. ::He paused.:: Do we have any news from the Artificers?  


Kjara: They continue to labour. ::She paused.:: I have hope. They have never failed us before. 


Janoch: Then we shall let them labour without disturbance. ::He turned, stopping halfway to catch Kjara’s gaze.:: Let us greet these new invaders. 


Kjara: Very well. But if their intentions are ill, we shall deal with them as we always have. Our home is not their trophy.


Janoch: We will walk the path.


He nodded. Others had come before, as she had spoken. Gone now, doomed by their avarice and arrogance. Cleanly done. Kindly done. The Guardians saw to that. And the Guardians would see to those who approached, if they divined their presence or intentions a threat. He hoped it would not come to that, but resigned himself to the possibility it might.


It was time to find out.



Janoch and Kjara


The Rogue World


simmed by

Commanding Officer

USS Gorkon


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