((Written on parchment carried on Loose Beak's person.)) It has been so long... just sitting here in isolation. Truth be told, it has not left me very wanting. This planet is beautiful with warm springs, lavishly rooted trees, and a general lack of hostile fauna. And yet, our Holy Fleet has returned home, and here I remain, like a bird that refuses the natural patterns of migration. I should go home, but I am afraid to do so, even after all this time, there is fear of the unknown. Fear that perhaps that grounded Avian I conversed with was right, that I am also grounded, even after that decadent and lovely priestess gave me most relieving assurance that I was not. It seems wasteful, really. All the energy I expended upon harsh words directed towards the Floran who threatened to kill and eat my family. For she has perished, without making good on her promise, and I am still here. The other Floran who berated me for false charges of racism and threatened me has also perished, and I am still here. Even the slightly more civil Floran who served as a diplomat for the tribe that once lived on Taranis has perished, and I am still here. I said a short prayer to Kluex for the loss of life, but really, I am not so sorry that Sharptooth is dead. The night terrors her threats gave me have fled and I don't rub my neck any longer simply to assure myself it is still whole and well. I have been meditating much by the springs these past few months, losing myself in the sensations of the ground and relying on its warm, inviting touch's power to soothe. Grandfather can finally rest in peace after his five years of purgatory; I spread his ashes not ten minutes before I began writing. He is free now, and I can only pray Kluex takes him under a wing and grants him the rest he so long was denied. Perhaps I should return to Avos, and simply face whatever may come, but I am afraid. I do not want to be cut out. I don't want to be alone... not in the grounded sense of the term. My father, rest his late soul, would be heartbroken, and I couldn't do that to my aging mother. I don't want to return just yet, so perhaps I will remain for a time. No doubt there must be a few scattered faithful Avian cells left in this sector. Perhaps I can replace old friends departed and deceased anew. But, for now, I will watch this sunset, meditate and reflect while the water trickles in tune with the euphony of the rustling grass.
I have been thinking, too often lately, that my father would not approve of my negligence. Upon his death the pitiful remnants of our sacked home village looked to me for wisdom. But, I was not a leader, and didn't have my father's strength. Even now I still am not a leader, though I am stronger. Still, he would not approve… Father wanted me to be a warrior, and grandfather wanted me to learn the art of rhetoric and philosophy. I failed in both subjects for different reasons. Even though I learned how to hold a spear with confidence, I was no killer. I am no killer, and I can not bring myself to take a life. I despise the Florans for what they did to us. Even now I feel the burning in the blood and the heat in my bones just remembering their transgressions, but… I cannot fight them. Not the way braver birds like my father did. The spear turns heavy in my grasp, like the weight of sin, and my arms will not obey the commands of the mind, no matter how fearful or angry. I'm certain my father knew from the first day he began training me that I wasn't a warrior, even if he had the good grace to put it in lighter terms. My grandfather educated me with books in the mornings, while I twirled spears at dusk, and from him I did learn much about the art of the tongue and its power to craft you armies, or burn you like an ember. But when he passed in his sleep after age caught him on his hundred-year marathon, the next sunrise it was my duty to give a speech about his passing, his legacy, and the decision to pass the responsibilities of leadership down to his son, my father. I… couldn't do it. My tongue turned to ash in my throat and choked me as it dispersed into my lungs. I couldn't muster the courage to speak to that crowd of a few hundred, and my father was forced to usher me down in disgrace. I was neither a speaker, nor a warrior, so I became an artisan. I enjoyed carving wood especially, making tiny symbols at first, then crude figurines, and eventually anything from ornate chairs to statuettes. I put the expression I couldn't give to my Avian brethren in words into tangible art. A feathered picture frame, a perfectly balanced shaft for a spear, or a bust of a passed family member; it was all of my creation and I loved it. To this day, five years later, I still experience the piercing focus and warm pride that comes with doing what you love. Still, I wish to share it more with others… The Fleet Warrior Chaac seemed rather taken with the statuette I crafted for him. Perhaps I could offer similar items upon a settlement for some pixels. I won't sell to Florans, obviously… Perhaps I just need to let it go… But whenever I try, I still smell the musk of grandfather's feathers and feel the warm embrace he gave every time he saw me well and happy. I taste the liquid sweetness that fills the mouth with ecstasy when father roasted a bowl of sweet seeds for me the day my education was complete. The knowledge that my mother is out there on Avos wrenches my heart in two. She is the only sliver of the utopian past I had left… but still I am afraid when I see her that I will not be the only one changed… I live in the past. I will meditate more during this night. The ground will serve as a focus to keep my senses in the present. I can't keep going back.
(( An entry made on a small video recording device Loose Beak carries that cannot capture audio. He keeps the device on a tabletop in his ship. )) The video flickered and flashed, static dancing on the screen, but slowly receded to the edges of the screen until it was barely noticeable, like a peripheral storm of fuzzy salt and pepper. A perplexed Avian face slowly backed away from the lens until the view was larger than just one of his dancing pupils. He tapped the screen a few times with a coarse-looking finger as though he wasn't sure if the feed was working, and then leaned back from the field of view so the video could capture a piercing sunset behind him that was setting the clouds around ablaze. Kneeling down in a grass the hue of lavender, he began to speak, white feathers on his body bare to bask in the air and sun except for his customary loincloth. His beak clicked and shifted while his tongue felt around methodically in his mouth to form words and phrases, all of which was in vain due to the inability of the video to capture speech. Such long and poised arms he had, gesturing with them to the sky, the sun, the clouds, and his scarred fingers twined and unfurled to make shapes and show feeling ranging from the most brilliant euphoria to the darkest disgust. He had met someone, the fingers of a hand said as they shaped themselves to make a head, then shoulders, arms, torso, and legs. Humor had colored the event with excellent seasoning, as was apparent from the silent laugh he graced the video with. The sharing of stories had also been present, he said with his hands, which he meshed together like plates of earth to mime the shape of a book. However, the departure had left him a little disturbed, a slight droop of the shoulders and wetness in the eyes indicated. Then, again his head lifted, the crest of feathers on his head raising in excitement and his shoulders straightened. He hadn't met one person, but two, and someone like him, a gesture to his own chest hinted at. Even though the camera could not capture sound, if someone knew how to read words from the motions of beak and tongue, they would see him slowly exaggerate a word: friend, lingering over the letters and syllables as he articulated it as though it left a delicious taste in the mouth. The sun was setting however, and as the dark started to pervade the landscape with the cool influence of its shroud, the static began to increase, and as though sensing that time was growing short for this fleeting glimpse of memory, Loose Beak approached the camera, white plumage almost glowing in the dark, and reached behind the field of view available to the viewer with a hand, turning everything black.
(( Written on another piece of parchment carried on Loose-Beak's person. )) It seems I have lost another friend. Dead. Suicide, if the source is believed. He was so much like Chaac. He had a golden genuine friendliness and honesty to him I know I will be unlikely to ever find again. Grandfather once told me that words can give life to the lifeless, but this ink seems drab and inadequate. I cannot hold a moment of time in my palm like a cheap bauble, but I will hold on to that moment of pure happiness I gave him when I presented him with a small statuette of himself as long as I can. The brief embrace and genuine care that I did my best to give him shall live on in this parchment. For him, I will pray tonight and... I suppose that is all there is. Farewell, friend, I will hold onto hope that you are not really dead. Today, my foolish quest for friends must stop. This sector is not kind to friendship, and seeking something events will never tire of ripping from my grasp is insane. I will finally be letting go of my past, today. Mother, if you are still out there on Avos, forgive me for making you wait I just- I am changing my name to Turavis, and I will stay away from the general sector's attention, just like a wandering ghost. This is at an end. Do not pray for rain From the clouds above Forge endurance In the sand underfoot
I wrote about rain on this paper previously. The ground smells like rain, the air tastes damp, and the thought of thunder brings excitement into my chest. I miss days when I lived indoors in our old home, looking outside the window of my room when I was no more than ten and three years. I could open the window to feel air so cold it burned, and try to catch little water droplets in my palm, like tiny diamonds. I remember the thunder that gave me jolts of fear when I was a hatchling, but I even learned to love that. Father made me understand that it was just a primal reaction left from old that we had not fully purged ourselves of. The thunder was like a delicate pat on the back to remind us that we were still among the living. The air smells of grass. The grass smells of rain. Rain makes me miss my father. I have been so angry recently, but for now I simply feel tranquil. I miss Dirt-Feet. I will bury him soon.
Looking at these pieces of parchment rolled up and stuffed into the pocket of my robe for the first time in nearly a month, the change is notable, but not unwelcome. I've put myself in the light of the sector's attention again, have a handful of friends, and potentially steady work. I'm simply afraid of losing it all, but nothing gambled nothing gained, I think a friend I had once said. If and when I die, I don't want any crying at my burial or any Florans since they eat corpses. I'd rather those whom I had the privilege of affecting or knowing rejoiced for the time I had to give and gain experience. I wouldn't want any flowers either, like those at human social occasions; just the subtle smell of Avos oak wood. Mother and sister, I miss you both dearly. I will return to Avos sooner rather than later, I promise. Kluex give me grace today.
