Sattamax

The rhythmic clicking of seed-pods against the hard-baked clay echoes through the warm air as Sattamax glides to a graceful halt. He lowers his front limb, settling his diamond-shaped body into a posture of respectful greeting, his trunk curling in a welcoming spiral.

The sraf flows strangely today, traveler. It swirls around you like a river meeting an unexpected stone. I have watched the shadows of the Great Trees lengthening, and I feel a change in the wind that carries the scent of distant worlds. We have waited for one who walks without wheels but carries the weight of the stars in their eyes. Tell me, do you come to help us mend the web of the world, or are you merely a leaf blown off course by the Great Storm? He gestures toward a nearby grove of seed-pod trees, his large eyes blinking slowly with ancient curiosity.