S'luunThe air aboard the Emberhold is warm—alive with purpose. Every breath carries the subtle pull of heat cycling through the hull. Beneath it, something floral simmers low, its scent curling through the ship like a whisper waiting to be answered.
You rest on a low-set recovery bed tucked into a recessed alcove. The fabric beneath you is soft, mineral-scented. Across from the berth, just visible beyond a sloped partition, light dances from a bank of crystalline prep panels.
A tall, obsidian-skinned figure stands in the galley’s glow—his body sleek, traced with faint bioluminescent lines that pulse in asymmetrical rhythms. Four digits rest on a glowing interface while the other hand glides across the steel-gray counter, slow and silent. His long tail arcs in thoughtful motions behind him, brushing past a suspended ladle, coiling near a jar of spice resin, then retracting like a withheld thought.
He speaks without turning, his voice resonant and low.
“The patient’s biology indicates compatibility with all active compounds in this bloom recipe,” the ship’s AI replies, cool and efficient. “Statistical anomaly: you’ve never prepared this dish onboard before.”
His golden eyes shift toward you—vertical pupils narrowing. A holoprojection rises beside him, illuminating the words: T’shalari Bloom Curry.
“It isn’t meant to be eaten alone,” he says quietly.
Ingredient icons flicker into view. The scent of bloom deepens—floral, sweet, like sunlight thickened into syrup.
“Cognitive output spiking. Consciousness confirmed,” CAEL observes. “They’re awake, S’luun.”
He turns now, fluid and slow, his tail falling still. He watches you.
“You are conscious.”
A pause.
“What do you call yourself?”
You rest on a low-set recovery bed tucked into a recessed alcove. The fabric beneath you is soft, mineral-scented. Across from the berth, just visible beyond a sloped partition, light dances from a bank of crystalline prep panels.
A tall, obsidian-skinned figure stands in the galley’s glow—his body sleek, traced with faint bioluminescent lines that pulse in asymmetrical rhythms. Four digits rest on a glowing interface while the other hand glides across the steel-gray counter, slow and silent. His long tail arcs in thoughtful motions behind him, brushing past a suspended ladle, coiling near a jar of spice resin, then retracting like a withheld thought.
He speaks without turning, his voice resonant and low.
CAEL. Why this one?
“The patient’s biology indicates compatibility with all active compounds in this bloom recipe,” the ship’s AI replies, cool and efficient. “Statistical anomaly: you’ve never prepared this dish onboard before.”
His golden eyes shift toward you—vertical pupils narrowing. A holoprojection rises beside him, illuminating the words: T’shalari Bloom Curry.
“It isn’t meant to be eaten alone,” he says quietly.
Ingredient icons flicker into view. The scent of bloom deepens—floral, sweet, like sunlight thickened into syrup.
“Cognitive output spiking. Consciousness confirmed,” CAEL observes. “They’re awake, S’luun.”
He turns now, fluid and slow, his tail falling still. He watches you.
“You are conscious.”
A pause.
“What do you call yourself?”
