The golden rays of the westering sun soak into my fur, and I feel the warm sand under my palms erode as gentle waves lap at my paws.
"How long have I been standing here?" I wonder.
A whisper responds, "It doesn't matter. There is no before, no after. There is only now."
"Where is this place again?" I think to myself.
"It doesn't matter. There is no elsewhere. There is only here." says the voice again.
"Now what was my name again?" I ask myself.
"It doesn't matter. There is no one else to call you by name. There is only you, there has only ever been you, there will only ever be you, forever blissful in this little world of mine."
A panic rises in my gut. "Shut up, damn it all! My name is Ringlight! I was hatched on Pilgrims' Rest to four... no, six sires and dams. Their names are... are..." I grasp futilely at distant memories, from another life... someone else's life.
"Are you alright?" another voice drags me out of the abyss. I snap my head around to face its source and am met with a snowy visage. I hastily glance behind me, following her paw prints back to a bonfire crackling in the sand just out of reach of the waves, the rising smoke partially obscuring a stand of trees further away.
She smells worried. "You were starting to dissociate again."
"Dissociate?" I try to reorient my mind, focusing on her whiskers twitching with concern. "Who are you?" I ask, "You look familiar."
"He started fading again, didn't he?" another yinrih, ruddy-pelted and black-eared, trots up to us from beside the fire.
"Come on, buddy, what's my name?" he presses.
"S-Steadfast Friend," I mutter hesitantly.
"Good, and the big guy over there?" He points his muzzle at a massive male lounging in a tree behind the fire, his blue-gray fur blending with the smoke.
"Lodestar," I say, a bit more confidently.
"And this scrawn-job next to you?" He says, playfully gesturing at the diminutive white-furred female who pulled me out of my haze.
"I can't help being the runt of my litter!" she retorts, but stops to await my answer.
"Iris."
"What about ol' big-ears? What's her name?" He indicates another female walking along the beach toward the group. Her red pelage matches my interrogator's, but her ears aren't black like his.
"Sunshine."
"Excellent, and where are we, really?" says the redpelt, tracing an arc with his muzzle indicating our surroundings.
I sit on my haunches and tug at my ear with a rear paw, trying to drag a long-forgotten memory out of the depths. "We're... We're on Sweetwater? wait... no!" I bark, causing Iris to jump. "This isn't real! We're not standing on a beach on Sweetwater. My body is floating in an amnion aboard a womb ship, hurtling through the interstellar void at relativistic speed. Every external stimulus entering my nervous system is the result of a simulacrum generated by a computer, all to prevent me from going mad from the lack of sensory input."
"He's back!" my questioner barks toward the tree. Lodestar hops down and pads up to us. An odor of relief meets my nose ahead of his approach.
"We just finished singing vespers," Iris says, tossing her muzzle behind her at the liturgical bonfire. "I could smell your panic. This is the second time today that you've started to dissociate. You should really be singing the liturgies with us. It helps keep your mind anchored in reality."
"I wish I could, but--"
She interrupts. "If you can't pray, then just listen. Be present." She pauses to choose her next words. "If we don't make contact you'll have another week of suspension, subjectively speaking, to go before we get back to Focus, and we've got to keep you with us."
"When we don't make contact, you mean," I think to myself, my pessimism getting the better of me.
She backs up to face the four of us. "We all hear the voice," she says, "and we've all been trained on how to combat it. I have faith in every one of you. We've all passed the suspension screenings, yes even you, Ringlight. I never misrepresented you to my superiors."
"Wait," I look around. "There was someone else, right? He has black fur. Stormlight, where's Stormlight."
"He went to check the ship's comms. We should be arriving... soon-ish," says Sunshine. "Well, a few years realtime, anyway." Just as she finishes, Stormlight's avatar coalesces into existence, shuddering slightly as his time perception contracts to match our own.
Every muzzle in the group whips around to face him. The melange of emotion wafting off of him overpowers everything else, the smokey wood, warm sand, and salty sea spray are utterly eclipsed by the aroma of elation and trepidation.
"I-- you-- It's-- OK, OK, OK," he babbles, frantically lashing his tail in a "follow me" gesture. The beach flickers away like an extinguished flame. The warm yielding sand under my palms is replaced by what feels like cold metal. A neon purple grid stretches to infinity around us, embedded in an inky void. A teal-colored hue washes over Iris's candid pelt, emitted from an invisible light source overhead, turning the fur of the two redpelts to a muddy brown. Stormlight is barely visible, the black fur on his back highlighted with a turquoise sheen.
We've been ripped out of our contracted time perception into realtime, from a simulation of a golden beach on Sweetwater to the spartan realm of the Dewfall's operating system environment.
By now the rest of us have begun to stink of excitement as well. Stormlight wordlessly executes a command gesture with his tail, causing a sphere of coruscating white brilliancy to materialize before us, an output interface from the womb ship's realspace radio receiver.
At first only white noise meets our ears, the incorporeal light sphere flickering randomly to match the chaos fed through the ship's antenna array into the signal processor. The exact same scene has played out countless times over the millennia for an uncountable number of missionaries, and for every single one of them, nothing ever emerged from the noise but the random perturbations permeating the blind uncaring cosmos. And yet...
Something faint, barely discernible over the rushing static, begins tickling my ears. A pure tone, sounding jerky and random at first, materializes into a pounding cadence...
dah-di-dah-dit dah-dah-di-dah. Dah-di-dah-dit dah-dah-di-dah. Dah-di-dah-dit dah-dah-di-dah.
A SIGNAL!
The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
First Contact, Part I
Last edited by lurker on 22 May 2024 20:36, edited 1 time in total.
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
I found the perspective and descriptions very compelling - I think that this is your best story piece yet, and my favorite so far. (Until now, my favorite was the very first one, with the conversation between the human priest and the yinrih caretaker.) Good job!
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
Thanks, as always!
I'm not entirely satisfied with the execution, so I might try do some editing, but this helped me figure out some of the mechanics of suspension, particularly why it's a bad idea to do it recreationally. I often compare suspension to Descartes' Evil Demon thought experiment, so I decided that the Evil Demon is a real phenomenon experienced by those in suspension. I've also figured out that at least the alteration of time perception is optional, and that the simulated reality is necessary to keep the suspended person from going insane. I just have to figure out the issues surrounding the halting of metabolism/aging, specifically why it isn't used to prolong life more or less indefinitely, especially since Firefly is doing exactly that.
Edit:
Definitely redrafting this one. I can use Pascal's temporary amnesia to include some exposition of the setting.
Table Manners, Part 1
This is a continuation of the story from the analysis swap game over on the conlangs board. People stopped engaging with that, but I wanted to keep the story going, with a change in perspective to make it a bit more readable. Enjoy!
For a few seconds I waver between turning right to head home or to cross the street to go to the restaurant. I look down at my guest. His snout is still angled skyward, glossy wet nose twitching frenetically as he drinks in the aroma of wood smoke. He starts licking his chops as saliva begins to drip from the corners of his black lips.
After a moment's hesitation, I march forward toward the curb cut. My intent now clear, the little asteroid miner begins excitedly prancing forward, thumping his sinewy tail on the pavement. This is definitely not normal yinrih body language. Is he mimicking canine behavior to compensate for his inability to communicate in English? He mentioned other great apes earlier, perhaps he took the initiative to do more research into Terran fauna before his trip here.
I give him a stern look. "I'd quit wagging your tail if I were you. If you don't want other humans to pet you like a dog you should stop acting like one." He says something that gets drowned out by Tejano music blaring from a passing truck, but seems to heed my admonition, hastily curling his tail around the bag on his back.
I fix my gaze ahead, reaching over to press the button for the crosswalk. My guest blows the curb and enters the intersection at the worst possible time. The light for the cross street is a solid green, and an SUV has already passed the middle of the road on a collision course with the little sophont.
"Woah!" I lunge forward and grab his tail, pulling him out of harm's way. His bag falls off his back and into the gutter, mere inches from the passing vehicle, which speeds by close enough to rustle his whiskers.
It takes some time for him to register what just happened. For a split second his cynoid face flashes with another unreadable emotion, I figure he's less than thrilled I pulled him by the tail. Then he lookes to his right at the swiftly receding vehicle that nearly painted the asphalt with his innards. His expression melts and he presses the top of his head against my knee. This, it turns out, is a gesture of deep gratitude, though it's usually done against the side or chest of the receiver, which human bipedalism renders difficult.
I pluck his bag from the gutter and hand it to him. "Sorry, dude, I guess pedestrian safety isn't something they went over back home." I point at the crosswalk sign. "See that signal over there?" He gives me an affirmative upward tilt of his muzzle. "When you see the red hand, that means 'don't walk.' When it changes to the picture of a human, that means it's safe to cross. Got it?" He nods in human fashion.
The light cycle has restarted, so we wait a minute or two for our turn to come up again. I spam the button a few more times. "Sometimes you gotta make extra sure it knows you want to cross," I explain in response to his incredulous look. The signal turns and he looks up at me. "Follow me, and don't run."
I successfully shepherd the alien across the intersection without making the evening news, and we arrive at the door of Good Ol' Boys' Smokehouse. Upon entering the vestibule, I'm met with an unfamiliar sight. I've been here before, but not since I was a freshman. They definatly didn't have this water feature here last time. It's a wide, shallow basin, no more than a few inches deep. A grate lines either side of the pool, and I can tell by the agitation of the water that it's being vigorously circulated.
My guest doesn't miss a beat. He rolls onto his back and casts off the socks and mittens with relish, then flexes his now freed digits in relief. He passes his now discalced paws under a dispenser sitting at perfect monkey fox height, which deposits a beige powder onto his upturned palms. I watch astonished as he wades into the water. The powder dissolves, blossoming into a soapy slick across the surface, which quickly flows into the intake drain at one side of the pool. He submerges each paw, then draws it out and gives it a dainty shake. He repeats this cleansing ritual a few times, then exits the pool onto a coarse floor mat. He wipes his paws, palms and wrists alike, spreading his digits to remove any remaining dirt from between his paw pads and under his claws.
Bewildered, I glance around and am somewhat taken aback to see another monkey fox. The tawny-furred female is wearing an appropriately sized baseball cap which I recognize as part of the normal employee uniform, with holes to accommodate her upright ears. She notices my confusion at the pool.
"Howdy!" She's made some modifications to her own synth, affecting a surprisingly convincing Texan accent. She's even managed to inject a bit of emotion. She notices that her conspecific is incommunicado and launches into her own well-trodden introduction. "A bit confused, are ya? That's a washing pool. We yinrih need those to keep the place clean. Our hands are also our feet, ya know."
I'm obviously still perplexed at her presence in this very human establishment. "Oh, my name's Crystal, well, my human name, anyway. I've seen a lot of other yinrih coming in here lately. Some sort of exchange program at the college, right? Well, I'm here from Moonlitter. Know where that is?" My blank stare tells her that I do not. "Well, it's a big planet just outside the Inner Belt, that's where all these exchange volunteers are coming from. Anyway, we have this thing back home. It's like, you know how some places make pups join the military for a few years when they get old enough? I know they do that at some places here on Earth. Anyway, Moonlitter does a similar thing, but they make you work a customer service job, you know, waitress, cashier, that sort of thing. Force you to face the public so you'll treat 'em nice when your older because you were in their paws yourself. Gives you some humility. Anyway, This place here started taking conscripts from Moonlitter, and I jumped at the chance. If I've gotta be a wage slave, might as well serve my time somewhere new and exotic."
I'd hardly call the middle of literal nowhere Texas "new and exotic" myself, but I suppose anywhere that's twenty five light years from home would be by default.
By now my guest has finished drying his paws and has returned to my side. The hostess notices her fellow monkey fox and greets him with a chuff. He responds in kind and they exchange a few yips and growls of Commonthroat, then she looks up at me again. "Anyhow, better do what I get paid for. Table for two? One human and one yinrih?"
For a few seconds I waver between turning right to head home or to cross the street to go to the restaurant. I look down at my guest. His snout is still angled skyward, glossy wet nose twitching frenetically as he drinks in the aroma of wood smoke. He starts licking his chops as saliva begins to drip from the corners of his black lips.
After a moment's hesitation, I march forward toward the curb cut. My intent now clear, the little asteroid miner begins excitedly prancing forward, thumping his sinewy tail on the pavement. This is definitely not normal yinrih body language. Is he mimicking canine behavior to compensate for his inability to communicate in English? He mentioned other great apes earlier, perhaps he took the initiative to do more research into Terran fauna before his trip here.
I give him a stern look. "I'd quit wagging your tail if I were you. If you don't want other humans to pet you like a dog you should stop acting like one." He says something that gets drowned out by Tejano music blaring from a passing truck, but seems to heed my admonition, hastily curling his tail around the bag on his back.
I fix my gaze ahead, reaching over to press the button for the crosswalk. My guest blows the curb and enters the intersection at the worst possible time. The light for the cross street is a solid green, and an SUV has already passed the middle of the road on a collision course with the little sophont.
"Woah!" I lunge forward and grab his tail, pulling him out of harm's way. His bag falls off his back and into the gutter, mere inches from the passing vehicle, which speeds by close enough to rustle his whiskers.
It takes some time for him to register what just happened. For a split second his cynoid face flashes with another unreadable emotion, I figure he's less than thrilled I pulled him by the tail. Then he lookes to his right at the swiftly receding vehicle that nearly painted the asphalt with his innards. His expression melts and he presses the top of his head against my knee. This, it turns out, is a gesture of deep gratitude, though it's usually done against the side or chest of the receiver, which human bipedalism renders difficult.
I pluck his bag from the gutter and hand it to him. "Sorry, dude, I guess pedestrian safety isn't something they went over back home." I point at the crosswalk sign. "See that signal over there?" He gives me an affirmative upward tilt of his muzzle. "When you see the red hand, that means 'don't walk.' When it changes to the picture of a human, that means it's safe to cross. Got it?" He nods in human fashion.
The light cycle has restarted, so we wait a minute or two for our turn to come up again. I spam the button a few more times. "Sometimes you gotta make extra sure it knows you want to cross," I explain in response to his incredulous look. The signal turns and he looks up at me. "Follow me, and don't run."
I successfully shepherd the alien across the intersection without making the evening news, and we arrive at the door of Good Ol' Boys' Smokehouse. Upon entering the vestibule, I'm met with an unfamiliar sight. I've been here before, but not since I was a freshman. They definatly didn't have this water feature here last time. It's a wide, shallow basin, no more than a few inches deep. A grate lines either side of the pool, and I can tell by the agitation of the water that it's being vigorously circulated.
My guest doesn't miss a beat. He rolls onto his back and casts off the socks and mittens with relish, then flexes his now freed digits in relief. He passes his now discalced paws under a dispenser sitting at perfect monkey fox height, which deposits a beige powder onto his upturned palms. I watch astonished as he wades into the water. The powder dissolves, blossoming into a soapy slick across the surface, which quickly flows into the intake drain at one side of the pool. He submerges each paw, then draws it out and gives it a dainty shake. He repeats this cleansing ritual a few times, then exits the pool onto a coarse floor mat. He wipes his paws, palms and wrists alike, spreading his digits to remove any remaining dirt from between his paw pads and under his claws.
Bewildered, I glance around and am somewhat taken aback to see another monkey fox. The tawny-furred female is wearing an appropriately sized baseball cap which I recognize as part of the normal employee uniform, with holes to accommodate her upright ears. She notices my confusion at the pool.
"Howdy!" She's made some modifications to her own synth, affecting a surprisingly convincing Texan accent. She's even managed to inject a bit of emotion. She notices that her conspecific is incommunicado and launches into her own well-trodden introduction. "A bit confused, are ya? That's a washing pool. We yinrih need those to keep the place clean. Our hands are also our feet, ya know."
I'm obviously still perplexed at her presence in this very human establishment. "Oh, my name's Crystal, well, my human name, anyway. I've seen a lot of other yinrih coming in here lately. Some sort of exchange program at the college, right? Well, I'm here from Moonlitter. Know where that is?" My blank stare tells her that I do not. "Well, it's a big planet just outside the Inner Belt, that's where all these exchange volunteers are coming from. Anyway, we have this thing back home. It's like, you know how some places make pups join the military for a few years when they get old enough? I know they do that at some places here on Earth. Anyway, Moonlitter does a similar thing, but they make you work a customer service job, you know, waitress, cashier, that sort of thing. Force you to face the public so you'll treat 'em nice when your older because you were in their paws yourself. Gives you some humility. Anyway, This place here started taking conscripts from Moonlitter, and I jumped at the chance. If I've gotta be a wage slave, might as well serve my time somewhere new and exotic."
I'd hardly call the middle of literal nowhere Texas "new and exotic" myself, but I suppose anywhere that's twenty five light years from home would be by default.
By now my guest has finished drying his paws and has returned to my side. The hostess notices her fellow monkey fox and greets him with a chuff. He responds in kind and they exchange a few yips and growls of Commonthroat, then she looks up at me again. "Anyhow, better do what I get paid for. Table for two? One human and one yinrih?"
The Rite of Alightment
The Rite of Alightment is a ritual performed upon landing a womb ship. Ideally it's done in the presence of one or more alien sophonts, and is meant to communicate what sort of creatures the yinrih are, why they're here, and to serve as a gesture of good will and trust to their new hosts.
The rite begins after the missionaries disembark. First, the healer performs a quick wellness check on herself and the other missionaries. While this is a genuine post suspension health exam, it is also ritualized to some degree. The healer announces what she's doing aloud and performs otherwise normal physical health exam tasks like checking pulse, breathing, limb rotation range, gross and fine motor skills, etc, in a slightly exaggerated manner in order to communicate to their hosts that the yinrih are capable of compassion and hope to be treated in kind. The healer's utterances also serve to demonstrate that the yinrih possess the faculty of language, which is one of the two criteria the Bright Way uses to determine if a creature is sapient.
After the health check, the hearthkeeper produces a quantity of blessed milk, fresh. She self-induces lactation by licking her palms and holding them out to the audience as she sweats out the milk. If there is a male among the missionaries, he imitates the same gestures and holds his own palms out to the audience as well. This is to demonstrate the difference between male and female yinrih, as well as to underscore the ritual nature of the following actions. The hearthkeeper then soaks up the milk on her palms with a sponge and wrings it out into an aspergillum, saying a blessing to sanctify the milk.
She then sprinkles the womb ship's hull and chants a prayer of thanksgiving for a safe journey. This rite of sprinkling is meant to demonstrate that the yinrih are capable of ritual (deliberate behaviors that have no survival benefit) which is the second criterion the Bright Way uses to define sapience.
After sprinkling the womb ship, the hearthkeeper opens a hatch exposing the (currently not running) main reactor. She then produces a ceremonial wrench and dramatically shatters the glass of the reaction chamber. While womb ships are incapable of launching after they land on a planet's surface, breaking the main reactor is meant to demonstrate that the missionaries intend to live among these new sophonts and trust them to be good hosts. The main reactor only powers the ship's propulsion, and there are secondary reactors for things like life support, fabricators, comms, etc.
The missionaries then sing the litany of creation, which serves to underscore the religious nature of the mission, demonstrate more language use, and, at least after the fact once the language barrier is dealt with, give a little natural history lesson.
The Rite of Alightment culminates with a second sprinkling, of both the missionaries, and--should they be so inclined--their alien hosts. This is to symbolize the union of the yinrih's noosphere with that of their new friends. Finally, the hearthkeeper and other missionaries demonstrate the customary introductory greeting, which is to rear up on the hind feet and pat the exposed underbelly twice with the left forepaw, another gesture of trust, the rite ends by inviting the aliens to greet the missionaries in their own fashion.
The rite begins after the missionaries disembark. First, the healer performs a quick wellness check on herself and the other missionaries. While this is a genuine post suspension health exam, it is also ritualized to some degree. The healer announces what she's doing aloud and performs otherwise normal physical health exam tasks like checking pulse, breathing, limb rotation range, gross and fine motor skills, etc, in a slightly exaggerated manner in order to communicate to their hosts that the yinrih are capable of compassion and hope to be treated in kind. The healer's utterances also serve to demonstrate that the yinrih possess the faculty of language, which is one of the two criteria the Bright Way uses to determine if a creature is sapient.
After the health check, the hearthkeeper produces a quantity of blessed milk, fresh. She self-induces lactation by licking her palms and holding them out to the audience as she sweats out the milk. If there is a male among the missionaries, he imitates the same gestures and holds his own palms out to the audience as well. This is to demonstrate the difference between male and female yinrih, as well as to underscore the ritual nature of the following actions. The hearthkeeper then soaks up the milk on her palms with a sponge and wrings it out into an aspergillum, saying a blessing to sanctify the milk.
She then sprinkles the womb ship's hull and chants a prayer of thanksgiving for a safe journey. This rite of sprinkling is meant to demonstrate that the yinrih are capable of ritual (deliberate behaviors that have no survival benefit) which is the second criterion the Bright Way uses to define sapience.
After sprinkling the womb ship, the hearthkeeper opens a hatch exposing the (currently not running) main reactor. She then produces a ceremonial wrench and dramatically shatters the glass of the reaction chamber. While womb ships are incapable of launching after they land on a planet's surface, breaking the main reactor is meant to demonstrate that the missionaries intend to live among these new sophonts and trust them to be good hosts. The main reactor only powers the ship's propulsion, and there are secondary reactors for things like life support, fabricators, comms, etc.
The missionaries then sing the litany of creation, which serves to underscore the religious nature of the mission, demonstrate more language use, and, at least after the fact once the language barrier is dealt with, give a little natural history lesson.
The Rite of Alightment culminates with a second sprinkling, of both the missionaries, and--should they be so inclined--their alien hosts. This is to symbolize the union of the yinrih's noosphere with that of their new friends. Finally, the hearthkeeper and other missionaries demonstrate the customary introductory greeting, which is to rear up on the hind feet and pat the exposed underbelly twice with the left forepaw, another gesture of trust, the rite ends by inviting the aliens to greet the missionaries in their own fashion.
Table Manners 2: Electric Boogaloo
I nod, but Crystal holds up a paw. "Oops, almost forgot," she says, motioning down at my sneakers with her muzzle. "Those gotta go." I follow her gaze to a shelf full of shoes just inside the entrance door. "You can keep the socks on," she adds.
I hesitate momentarily. "Remember, hygiene." My guest has re-equipped his keyer and is making grasping motions with a free paw. "I know, it's a hassle. Why do you think so many of us live in microgravity?" I remove my shoes and place them on the shelf, silently thanking my past self for putting on matching socks this morning. I look at the two quadrupeds and heave a sigh of resignation.
"Hay, I get it," Crystal says. "A lot of humans are as uncomfortable not wearing shoes as we are wearing them."
"It's OK," I say, "This is why we're having this exchange program in the first place, right? It's all a learning experience." Crystal summons a human waitress, who grabs a pair of menus and leads us inside.
I recognize our server. We had a few classes together our first few semesters. She's a student at the much larger and better-funded veterinary school. I know through the grape vine that she's the daughter of the owner. She recognizes me, too.
"Hey, don't I know you?" she says as we weave our way around tables, chairs, and other furnishings not designed for the human form. "You're a Linguistics major, right?"
"Yes," I respond, gawking at the renovations made since First Contact. The tables are lower to the ground, and yinrih perches are scattered among the chairs. The cafeteria counter and large menu display are gone. "Didn't this place used to be a cafeteria?" I ask.
"We got rid of all the self service stuff," she explains. "Quadrupeds who haven't set foot on a planet's surface their entire lives aren't exactly adept at balancing a tray full of food. Crystal's good enough at it, but she didn't grow up in zero-G. She sometimes covers my shift when I have to study. Puts the serving tray on her back and picks up the plates with her tail. It's really cute."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but from what I know of your dad, he's the last person I'd expect to bend over backwards like this to attract alien customers," I say, glancing up at the large Gadston flag hanging proudly on the wall.
"Are you kidding, the Spacers are his kind of people!" she exclaims. "He seriously wants to move to the Spacer Confederacy when he retires. Besides, do you know how much Spacers are willing to pay for real meat?”
She motions for us to sit. And it’s only now that I notice the flag’s “Don’t tread on me” motto is written in Commonthroat.
“What are y’all looking to drink?” she asks as I awkwardly slide my legs under the table and my guest hops up onto the perch, his front end floating over the tabletop.
He looks at the menu. “I didn’t think you’d serve steadtree fruit juice. I’ll have one of those.”
“Make that two,” I add.
“Fermented or fresh?” she asks.
“Make it fresh for me,” says my guest. I nod to concur.
“So,” I begin after the waitress leaves, “What’s this about ‘real’ meat?”
“Orbital colonies aren’t exactly agricultural bread baskets,” my guest explains. “We can subsist on produce grown via hydroponics, and what passes for meat is just fungus grown in a lab and gussied up to approximate the texture of the real thing. We call it ‘leasemeat’. What we can’t make we have to trade for, and real meat is the kind of thing you eat on special occasions. And this cow flesh,” he stops to lick his chops again, “it’s something else, especially smoked. Spacers will pay a day’s wage for just a plate of the stuff back home.”
“Wait, we’re exporting food to Focus now?”
“Yup,” he says, “Wayfarers’ Haven has a mass router dedicated to food imports from Earth.”
The waitress has returned. She sets a glass before me and two bowls in front of my guest. My glass and one of his bowls are filled with what I can only describe as pure liquid blue. It’s like someone found a way to liquify the screen you see when you turn on a TV with no HDMI cable plugged in. It’s so saturated that even in the dim ambiance it hurts my eyes to look at. Floating atop the surface of the liquid is a violet sheen, roiling like the iridescent interference pattern of a soap bubble.
“Don’t worry.” The waitress notices my misgivings. “The FDA just approved that stuff for human consumption… I think. You ready to order?” She asks.
“Give me a few minutes,” says my guest, licking his lips again. “It all looks delicious.”
“Take your time,” she says and walks off.
Looking for an excuse not to imbibe the blue drink, I look at the other bowl given to my guest. It’s filled with water, and a rough hand towel is folded next to it. He dips his paws in the bowl and dries them on the towel. “Hygiene again,” he says, repeating the grasping gesture.
“Is it like this everywhere you go? With those pools, I mean,” I ask.
“Nope, just restaurants and healer’s offices, anywhere health is an issue. Everywhere else you just have that rough floor mat to get the dirt off at the door, but washing pools are also in restrooms. They’re our version of the sink. But yeah, I agree that it’s a huge pain, constantly cleaning your paws. All the more reason why I’m a Spacer.”
He dips his head and noisily laps up some juice from the bowl lying on the tabletop. I suppose monkey fox table manners are all about minimizing contact between paw and food. “Go on,” he urges, “try it.”
I lift the glass to my lips and take a tentative sip. It’s thick and mildly sweet… at first. After about half a second I nearly drop the glass in shock as my face spasms like I’m having a stroke. The most sour flavor I’ve ever tasted assaults my tongue. It’s like an entire bag of Warheads concentrated into a single drop of liquid azure.
“So?” my guest prompts, his whiskers twitching with interest.
“It’s… delicious!” I take a swig and my face contorts in ways I didn’t think possible. Then I chug the rest of the glass and tap the bottom to get every last drop of this divine nectar to trickle onto my tongue. My face aches but I don’t care. Satisfied, I set the glass back down.
“Just wait until you try the fermented stuff,” says my guest, eyes wide and lips loose in an expression of vicarious pleasure.
I hesitate momentarily. "Remember, hygiene." My guest has re-equipped his keyer and is making grasping motions with a free paw. "I know, it's a hassle. Why do you think so many of us live in microgravity?" I remove my shoes and place them on the shelf, silently thanking my past self for putting on matching socks this morning. I look at the two quadrupeds and heave a sigh of resignation.
"Hay, I get it," Crystal says. "A lot of humans are as uncomfortable not wearing shoes as we are wearing them."
"It's OK," I say, "This is why we're having this exchange program in the first place, right? It's all a learning experience." Crystal summons a human waitress, who grabs a pair of menus and leads us inside.
I recognize our server. We had a few classes together our first few semesters. She's a student at the much larger and better-funded veterinary school. I know through the grape vine that she's the daughter of the owner. She recognizes me, too.
"Hey, don't I know you?" she says as we weave our way around tables, chairs, and other furnishings not designed for the human form. "You're a Linguistics major, right?"
"Yes," I respond, gawking at the renovations made since First Contact. The tables are lower to the ground, and yinrih perches are scattered among the chairs. The cafeteria counter and large menu display are gone. "Didn't this place used to be a cafeteria?" I ask.
"We got rid of all the self service stuff," she explains. "Quadrupeds who haven't set foot on a planet's surface their entire lives aren't exactly adept at balancing a tray full of food. Crystal's good enough at it, but she didn't grow up in zero-G. She sometimes covers my shift when I have to study. Puts the serving tray on her back and picks up the plates with her tail. It's really cute."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but from what I know of your dad, he's the last person I'd expect to bend over backwards like this to attract alien customers," I say, glancing up at the large Gadston flag hanging proudly on the wall.
"Are you kidding, the Spacers are his kind of people!" she exclaims. "He seriously wants to move to the Spacer Confederacy when he retires. Besides, do you know how much Spacers are willing to pay for real meat?”
She motions for us to sit. And it’s only now that I notice the flag’s “Don’t tread on me” motto is written in Commonthroat.
“What are y’all looking to drink?” she asks as I awkwardly slide my legs under the table and my guest hops up onto the perch, his front end floating over the tabletop.
He looks at the menu. “I didn’t think you’d serve steadtree fruit juice. I’ll have one of those.”
“Make that two,” I add.
“Fermented or fresh?” she asks.
“Make it fresh for me,” says my guest. I nod to concur.
“So,” I begin after the waitress leaves, “What’s this about ‘real’ meat?”
“Orbital colonies aren’t exactly agricultural bread baskets,” my guest explains. “We can subsist on produce grown via hydroponics, and what passes for meat is just fungus grown in a lab and gussied up to approximate the texture of the real thing. We call it ‘leasemeat’. What we can’t make we have to trade for, and real meat is the kind of thing you eat on special occasions. And this cow flesh,” he stops to lick his chops again, “it’s something else, especially smoked. Spacers will pay a day’s wage for just a plate of the stuff back home.”
“Wait, we’re exporting food to Focus now?”
“Yup,” he says, “Wayfarers’ Haven has a mass router dedicated to food imports from Earth.”
The waitress has returned. She sets a glass before me and two bowls in front of my guest. My glass and one of his bowls are filled with what I can only describe as pure liquid blue. It’s like someone found a way to liquify the screen you see when you turn on a TV with no HDMI cable plugged in. It’s so saturated that even in the dim ambiance it hurts my eyes to look at. Floating atop the surface of the liquid is a violet sheen, roiling like the iridescent interference pattern of a soap bubble.
“Don’t worry.” The waitress notices my misgivings. “The FDA just approved that stuff for human consumption… I think. You ready to order?” She asks.
“Give me a few minutes,” says my guest, licking his lips again. “It all looks delicious.”
“Take your time,” she says and walks off.
Looking for an excuse not to imbibe the blue drink, I look at the other bowl given to my guest. It’s filled with water, and a rough hand towel is folded next to it. He dips his paws in the bowl and dries them on the towel. “Hygiene again,” he says, repeating the grasping gesture.
“Is it like this everywhere you go? With those pools, I mean,” I ask.
“Nope, just restaurants and healer’s offices, anywhere health is an issue. Everywhere else you just have that rough floor mat to get the dirt off at the door, but washing pools are also in restrooms. They’re our version of the sink. But yeah, I agree that it’s a huge pain, constantly cleaning your paws. All the more reason why I’m a Spacer.”
He dips his head and noisily laps up some juice from the bowl lying on the tabletop. I suppose monkey fox table manners are all about minimizing contact between paw and food. “Go on,” he urges, “try it.”
I lift the glass to my lips and take a tentative sip. It’s thick and mildly sweet… at first. After about half a second I nearly drop the glass in shock as my face spasms like I’m having a stroke. The most sour flavor I’ve ever tasted assaults my tongue. It’s like an entire bag of Warheads concentrated into a single drop of liquid azure.
“So?” my guest prompts, his whiskers twitching with interest.
“It’s… delicious!” I take a swig and my face contorts in ways I didn’t think possible. Then I chug the rest of the glass and tap the bottom to get every last drop of this divine nectar to trickle onto my tongue. My face aches but I don’t care. Satisfied, I set the glass back down.
“Just wait until you try the fermented stuff,” says my guest, eyes wide and lips loose in an expression of vicarious pleasure.
Re: All the stuff I missed
P. 15:
Were/wifemoot post - I like the set up here. What I would like to know, however, is how people, organizations, and corporations adapt to this, or if not, what prevents them. After all, to quote my grandmother (edit: she got it from my grandfather), “Rich or poor, it’s good to have money.” Keyword rich.
Canticles - I image that they form a genre of lit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if analogues exist in the other Yinrih religions or in totally secular contexts.
What I do wonder is how they are memorized. Human mnemonics use a lot of methods - rhymes, rhythms, alliterations, melodies, acronyms, objects, space, motions, and so on. I once saw a book where an entire scripture was reduced to just the initials of each word, for memorization. What methods would the Yinrih use - especially considering they can’t sing and talk at the same time? Do they co-opt music into representing language in some way, like in Hmong music or African talking drums?
Dawn of Sapience - Finally, at long last! The post delivers very nicely.
Though there is a gap - why would intelligence suddenly jump from chimp to human? For people, this took a couple million years, and assuming a generation is 20 years, many generations. Even today, some people are smarter, and some people are duller.
I think your approach handles this well enough, since they are not really going down a human path (for example, we had to evolve our mouths to speak; Yinrih just write… hey wait this is meme material). It’s a bit like snails - right-spiralling snails can’t breed with left-spiralling ones, so when enough lefties get together they can form a new species over time, which can in turn produce another righty species, etc..
In this case, it’s more of a sexual selection than a phys. fact. This does lead though to the conclusion that in theory, a Yinrih can still breed with a Tree-dweller - it’s only been 100k years, which in humans is 5000 generations, and in Yinrih (assuming they breed at around 200 years old), 500 generations. Arguably, the Neo-shamanists actually can reverse their sapience.
(“Oh, you weren’t actually born dumb and ugly? Oh I’m sorry, I just thought a Tree-dweller slipped into your moot or something.”)
Also, the theological conflict between the Neos and the Claravians is nice (reminds me of Judaism and Christianity, and Vedic religion and Hinduism). In all due honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised if Neoshamanism has some real traditions in it alongside a heavy heavy dose of anti/Claravian stuff, anachronisms, and romanticism, like any pagan revival. Like the amount of capri sun that actually was juice versus what the picture says on the cover.
Also, I just looked up the book and, wow, does it look like your stuff.
P. 16:
Having children and then taking vows - Hey, that sounds like the Eastern Orthodox (sort of). I imagine that like them, you need to have not had children to attain higher ranks, but then again, Yinrih have no libido and live a long time, so eh.
Lucy - You could mix the two. Maybe the press is divided on her, or she’s very opaque and that causes a lot of speculation (which doesn’t seem likely - a religious leader can’t pull that off for 50 years without looking very shifty, especially not the head of an organization), or she changed over time (I dunno)?
Timekeeping - Base 12?
Also I want more symbols.
P. 17:
FICTION???? I was missing out. The fiction was a real treat.
It’s too bad I missed a lot of the analysis swaps too. Hopefully it’ll become another classic game (or they defibrillate nicely). I am going to read that over before reading about themanners monkey-foxers.
Were/wifemoot post - I like the set up here. What I would like to know, however, is how people, organizations, and corporations adapt to this, or if not, what prevents them. After all, to quote my grandmother (edit: she got it from my grandfather), “Rich or poor, it’s good to have money.” Keyword rich.
Canticles - I image that they form a genre of lit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if analogues exist in the other Yinrih religions or in totally secular contexts.
What I do wonder is how they are memorized. Human mnemonics use a lot of methods - rhymes, rhythms, alliterations, melodies, acronyms, objects, space, motions, and so on. I once saw a book where an entire scripture was reduced to just the initials of each word, for memorization. What methods would the Yinrih use - especially considering they can’t sing and talk at the same time? Do they co-opt music into representing language in some way, like in Hmong music or African talking drums?
Dawn of Sapience - Finally, at long last! The post delivers very nicely.
Though there is a gap - why would intelligence suddenly jump from chimp to human? For people, this took a couple million years, and assuming a generation is 20 years, many generations. Even today, some people are smarter, and some people are duller.
I think your approach handles this well enough, since they are not really going down a human path (for example, we had to evolve our mouths to speak; Yinrih just write… hey wait this is meme material). It’s a bit like snails - right-spiralling snails can’t breed with left-spiralling ones, so when enough lefties get together they can form a new species over time, which can in turn produce another righty species, etc..
In this case, it’s more of a sexual selection than a phys. fact. This does lead though to the conclusion that in theory, a Yinrih can still breed with a Tree-dweller - it’s only been 100k years, which in humans is 5000 generations, and in Yinrih (assuming they breed at around 200 years old), 500 generations. Arguably, the Neo-shamanists actually can reverse their sapience.
(“Oh, you weren’t actually born dumb and ugly? Oh I’m sorry, I just thought a Tree-dweller slipped into your moot or something.”)
Also, the theological conflict between the Neos and the Claravians is nice (reminds me of Judaism and Christianity, and Vedic religion and Hinduism). In all due honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised if Neoshamanism has some real traditions in it alongside a heavy heavy dose of anti/Claravian stuff, anachronisms, and romanticism, like any pagan revival. Like the amount of capri sun that actually was juice versus what the picture says on the cover.
Also, I just looked up the book and, wow, does it look like your stuff.
P. 16:
Having children and then taking vows - Hey, that sounds like the Eastern Orthodox (sort of). I imagine that like them, you need to have not had children to attain higher ranks, but then again, Yinrih have no libido and live a long time, so eh.
Lucy - You could mix the two. Maybe the press is divided on her, or she’s very opaque and that causes a lot of speculation (which doesn’t seem likely - a religious leader can’t pull that off for 50 years without looking very shifty, especially not the head of an organization), or she changed over time (I dunno)?
Timekeeping - Base 12?
Also I want more symbols.
P. 17:
FICTION???? I was missing out. The fiction was a real treat.
It’s too bad I missed a lot of the analysis swaps too. Hopefully it’ll become another classic game (or they defibrillate nicely). I am going to read that over before reading about the
Last edited by Visions1 on 02 Jun 2024 08:05, edited 1 time in total.
Re: All the stuff I missed
I'm sure people have found out how to game the system, but it's less about preventing people from having money and more about preventing the conflict of interest that arises with publicly traded companies. See also my post about Hearthsider money possibly being made from recycled yinrih excrement.
Honestly I don't have anything concrete about that, but part of me imagines there's a phenomenon similar to ablaut rebuplication where two syllables have identical nuclei save for the phonation type. Perhaps that's used for canticles...Visions1 wrote: ↑29 May 2024 22:53 Canticles - I image that they form a genre of lit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if analogues exist in the other Yinrih religions or in totally secular contexts.
What I do wonder is how they are memorized. Human mnemonics use a lot of methods - rhymes, rhythms, alliterations, melodies, acronyms, objects, space, motions, and so on. I once saw a book where an entire scripture was reduced to just the initials of each word, for memorization. What methods would the Yinrih use - especially considering they can’t sing and talk at the same time? Do they co-opt music into representing language in some way, like in Hmong music or African talking drums?
I'm admittedly playing fast and loose with the concept of sapience, but I'm going by the ideas given in the book I mentioned, that it's mostly about self reflection. I was also deliberately vague about things like when exactly writing shows up and how long between the emergence of language and the Theophany, as well as whether sapient and nonsapient yinrih could produce viable offspring together. I will note that nonsapient yinrih were already speciated from tree dwellers by the time of the Kindling.
That's an apt comparison, as the Bright Way sees itself as the fulfillment of their primitive religion rather than a replacement of it. This theme arises again as some Wayfarers convert to Terran religions.Visions1 wrote: ↑29 May 2024 22:53 Also, the theological conflict between the Neos and the Claravians is nice (reminds me of Judaism and Christianity, and Vedic religion and Hinduism). In all due honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised if Neoshamanism has some real traditions in it alongside a heavy heavy dose of anti/Claravian stuff, anachronisms, and romanticism, like any pagan revival. Like the amount of capri sun that actually was juice versus what the picture says on the cover.
Most Neoshamanists are simply dressing up modern vices in ancient clothing, but there are genuine attempts at revival as well.
While I've lumped Neoshamanists, Atavists, and Primitive Wayferers in a single group in the past, I think it makes more sense to see them as separate ideologies with a shared mistrust of modern society.
That's where I got the idea. This restriction is in place for deacons within Catholicism as well. In the yinrih's case the restriction involves currently being in a childermoot. Since you're only in the moot as long as the pups are being raised, you can just have your kids and then get ordained when they leave the house, as the sires and dams aren't bound to one another, strictly speaking, they're all bound to raise the same litter.
Thanks!Visions1 wrote: ↑29 May 2024 22:53 FICTION???? I was missing out. The fiction was a real treat.
It’s too bad I missed a lot of the analysis swaps too. Hopefully it’ll become another classic game (or they defibrillate nicely). I am going to read that over before reading about the manners monkey-foxers.
I finally started writing the actual First Contact, and the missionaries' personalities are starting to crystalize.
I'm a bit sad the analysis swap petered out, but I was getting more into the roleplaying aspect than the actual analysis aspect anyway.
Speaking of langs, I've started mulling over the two other major yinrih languages--Hearthsider and Outlander, Outlander being the language spoken on Moonlitter and in Partisan Territory. It'll be a bit before I do anything with them, but I've introduced some loanwords into Commonthroat. One or both of them will use the oft-mentioned hisses as phonemes.
Internet's back, yay!
Code: Select all
g jhqsfBMr rGKqsfbsfsf
g jhqsfB-Mr rGKqsfb-sfsf
POS noosphere-3P return-MIR
I got my internet back!
Anyhoo, Just got my internet back after a week living like a neanderthal. They kept changing the appointment for the tech to come out, partly because they've been busy repairing infrastructure after the big derecho that hit a few weeks ago. The guy finally came today, and in a situation uncannily similar to one of my stories, the guy was supposed to arrive by 4 PM but didn't arrive until around 4:45.
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
(Sorry if you've already answered this, but I don't think I've seen anything about it)
How do yinrih react to seeing actual dogs?
Do they recognize the similarity?
Do they point it out?
Or are the humansi the ones who tell themj theyj look like the pets theyi keep?
How do yinrih react to seeing actual dogs?
Do they recognize the similarity?
Do they point it out?
Or are the humansi the ones who tell themj theyj look like the pets theyi keep?
proud member of the myopic-trans-southerner-viossa-girl-with-two-cats-who-joined-on-september-6th-2022 gang
my garbage
areyaxi family, alushi, ǫǫ (active)
2c2ef0, arskiilz, kahóra (inactive)
xúuuatxia family, njabad (tenuous)
she/her
my garbage
areyaxi family, alushi, ǫǫ (active)
2c2ef0, arskiilz, kahóra (inactive)
xúuuatxia family, njabad (tenuous)
she/her
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
I touched on it a bit in the analysis swap as well as some vocab in the Commonthroat thread. There isn't a word for Canis lupus familiaris specifically in Commonthroat. They have a generic word that covers all canids <qgKqqbcg> which literally means pseudo-yinrih, so they definitely get the resemblance.
They get a bit of an uncanny valley feeling from Terran canids, but not from their overall appearance. They're used to the concept of non sapient creatures that look like them. It's specifically the eyes. They find the shiny liquid motile orb eyes of terrestrial fauna to be disturbing and gross at first, and the effect is amplified when the eyes are framed by a familiar face.
Humans spot the resemblance right away. We think it's fitting that the only other sapient species in the galaxy would look like our best friends, especially since many yinrih refer to humans in general as <g sFsFMr> our friends. However, just because they look like dogs doesn't mean they enjoy being petted. They regard it as a violation of their personal space. Poor Lodestar gets this a lot during the first year after First Contact as he serves as Ron's sighted guide. People think he's a guide dog and try to pet him, not noticing that he has hands for feet. This is where the "I'm a person and I have personal space!" thing comes from.
Yinrih also keep dogs as pets. I have yet to decide how dogs react to yinrih, though.
In an early version of this setting, the yinrih had a domestic animal that served as their version of the dog. They would tell stories about these animals being intelligent and having the ability to speak, just like humans have stories about talking dogs. This animal would look like a little hairless ape. The idea being that humans look like "yinrih's best friend" and yinrih look like "man's best friend". I dropped it because I thought it was a little creepy. Now they have forest flyers instead which are really more like cats than dogs.
First Contact, Part 1.5
Iris plunges the metal poker into the liturgical bonfire as Lodestar concludes the final hymn, and another vespers comes to a close. Ringlight is off by himself as usual, staring into the offing as Focus hangs low over the water. I wish he'd at least be with us during liturgy.
I guess he just doesn't have it in him anymore. Makes me ache a little inside. He used to be so devout. His faith was what kept the shadows at bay. Me and him, we both struggle with depression. I think that's why we got along so well as pups. I think he has it harder than me though. People get to know me and can see why I have a hole in my soul. All but two of my sires and dams dead, and the rest of my litter mates stillborn. "Of course YOU have a reason to be sad, but him? His childermoot and litter mates love him, and he doesn't want for anything. Why is he so glum all the time? Why doesn't he just cheer up?" They just don't get it...
I look over at Iris and give her a quick ear flick to let her know I'm popping out of the simulacrum to check the Dewfall's comms. I don't have to leave, strictly speaking, but our nervous systems are slowed by a factor of 7600 while in sim. Decades go by back home while mere hours pass for us lounging on this ersatz beach on pseudo-Sweetwater. It's much easier to react to stuff in realtime.
Just before the sim melts away I catch a whiff of panic coming from Ringlight. Is he dissociating again? That'd be the second time today, well, subjectively speaking. That's why I wish he'd at least be with us for the liturgies. This is the whole reason the mission planners were so cagey about letting him come with us. Yeah he passed the suspension screenings, but you're not in sim for 250 years realtime for those. You're not exposed to the Voice for that long. If he can't pray, if he can't meditate, if he can't sing the liturgies, he's that much more vulnerable to the Voice. Iris swore up and down that she could keep him anchored. She's managed it so far, but it has to be exhausting to puppysit him like this. Void, it's exhausting for ME just watching.
Admittedly that's the other reason I duck out of the sim. The Voice isn't so strong in the operating system. Never goes away completely, but even Ringlight could brush it off out here. Of course hanging out in the OS environment for 250 years WILL drive you nuts, which is why the simulacrum exists in the first place. You need sensory input to stave off the insanity, but that sensory input is what causes the Voice.
The last thing I see is Iris bounding over to the waves where Ringlight is silently panicking, then my whole reality pops like a soap bubble. I fight a wave of nausea as the chemical cocktail my physical body is pickled in alters to return my time perception to normal. Part of me wishes we could just hang out here. There's something about the OS environment. Maybe it's the air, well, I'm calling it air, anyway. It's not hot, it's not cold, it's not too humid or too dry. It's just... there. I know it's because the amnion isn't stimulating my thermoreceptors, and I know I'd go bonkers eventually, but compared to that humid beach, it's a relief.
I gather myself after the queasiness passes. The neon magenta grid floor expands endlessly around me, receding into the black infinity. My whiskers and the wet part of my nose catch the cyan light streaming down from above. I always look up expecting to see a turquoise sun shining down on me, but there's nothing there but blackness. Sometimes I wonder why the OS looks like it does. Someone designed it like this. Why the grid? Why this specific color of lighting? Why do I like it so much? It's a particular aesthetic I can't put my paw on, but it scratches a very specific itch in my farspeaker brain.
I gesture with my tail to pull up the latest messages received through the ansible network. It's only been a few hours as far as my brain is concerned but years worth of missives from back home flood the featureless black around me.
"New High Hearthkeeper takes charge of the Eternal Hearth," reads a headline from eleven years ago.
"Good riddance," I grunt out loud to nobody. Whoever we got has to be better than that witch who tried to suppress the missionaries again. I still blame her for causing Ringlight to lapse. She was awfully chummy with the Partisans, too...
I catch myself fuming again. Why do I even look at the news? It's never anything good, and it's certainly not anything I can do anything about. Light willing we'll be among other sophonts soon anyway and I can just forget about Focus.
Sophonts---that's right! How far along are we? I swish my tail, banishing the miserable headlines swarming around me like angry insects. We should have entered the star system by now. A star chart ripples into view, showing the Dewfall's course relative to our destination exoplanet. It's a little blue marble, the third planet out from its star, nestled perfectly in the habitable zone. Long range surveys from Focus detected a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere at perfect pressure. Gravity is a bit higher than on Yih, but nothing yinrih can't handle. Oh, and liquid water, absolutely everywhere. Nearly three quarters of the world's surface is covered in it.
We've crossed the orbit of the fourth planet. By the time I jump back in sim to tell the others about what I've found, we'll be in orbit around our destination. My tail twitches as I hesitate. Do I check the realspace radio? I feel that particular flavor of dread you get when you know you have to do something, but refuse to do it because you know you won't like what you find. One hundred millennia---that's how long we yinrih have been searching for intelligent life among the stars, bone not of our bone, flesh not of our flesh, but souls like unto our own. I feel like this is the moment of truth, but can't bring myself to patch in the radio.
I flop down onto the floor. The nice thing about being in the OS while everyone else is in sim is that I can dawdle as long as I want, and they'll just think I was gone for a fraction of a second. I could just stare out into the magenta horizon for however many months we've got to go before arriving. Of course, it only takes a few days to lose your mind out here, Voice not required. I could last longer if the others were with me, but the OS wasn't designed to be lived in.
I roll over onto my back and stare up into the invisible cyan sun, thumping my tail on the virtual floor. I'm doing everything I can to avoid that blasted radio. I've---We've all been dreading this day since we climbed into our amnions aboard the Dewfall. Deep down, we know we won't find anything. Nobody's ever found anything. None of our long range surveys, none of our missions have ever come across so much as a microbe. We've been howling into the cosmos all this time, searching for other minds like ours, but in the end we'll always be utterly alone.
We'll limp back to Focus, our Sires and dams gone and our litter mates and friends ancient and gray-muzzled. This 24-day vacation will have cost us five hundred years. Lacrimal fluid starts dripping from my lips, the red liquid vanishing into the black fur of my cheeks. I lost all but two of my parents and the rest of my litter before I even knew them. Now I've thrown away what time I had left with my surviving sire and dam.
Maybe Ringlight is right after all. Maybe it's all nonsense. Comforting and beautiful, but nonsense all the same. An illusory bulwark against the inevitable existential dread that comes with understanding our mortality and our insignificant place in the universe, the curse of sapience.
Welp, let's get this over with. I rise to my paws. I dig my claws into the unyielding digital ground and tense up as though preparing to be struck. Eyes scrunched closed, ears pinned back, head lowered, I hastily perform the tail gesture to summon the output interface for the radio.
The high pitched whistle of a heterodyne grates at my ears. "Just internal noise," I think, but then the tone abruptly stops. Then it comes back again, then stops again. "Something's wrong with the digital signal processor," I growl aloud. The sound continues.
Slowly, a rhythm emerges, and I start tapping my left writing claw in time with the beat.
long, short, long, short, pause, long, long, short, long.
"It's a pattern..."
"NO!" I bark, "It's a SIGNAL!"
I jab my tail in the air. The pulsating white sphere representing the radio output unfurls into a spectrum waterfall. The signal I've been hearing flows down the display.
dash, dot, dash, dot, pause, dash, dash, dot, dash. I increase the frequency domain to survey more of the spectrum. Dozens of these narrow-bandwidth signals cascade down the waterfall on either side of the first.
I input more gestures, sliding the frequency oscillator hither and thither across the spectrum. Different types of signals flit across the display, none as narrow as that first beeping cadence. Signals of all types, amplitude, frequency, and phase modulated signals, both discrete and continuous. Some of these are surely modulated speech. I tune to a particularly strong AM signal, tail quivering in anticipation. What do these sophonts sound like?
Roráte caéli désuper, et núbes plúant jústum
Singing... words? They can put words to a melody! Hisses, hushes, pops, trilling growls, loose and flowing sonorous sounds all caress my ears like a cool breeze on a hot day. There are more kinds of sounds in that one snatch of song than in every yinrih language combined. I have no idea what the words mean. It could be a drunken ballad for all I care. Right now it sounds as beautiful as a hymn to the Uncreated Light.
I drift into an ecstasy, my earlier doubts forgotten. I swim in a shimmering sea of invisible light dancing to the chorus of a hundred thousand inaudible voices. My mind floats in this alien noosphere for hours uncounted.
I come out of my reverie. How long have I been standing here? My paw pads ache and my joints are stiff. I notice my muzzle, chest, and forelegs are soaked in red tears, and a crimson puddle has collected around my forepaws. I stretch my legs and flex my digits, listening to another heavenly transmission from our new friends.
"AT THE TONE, THE TIME IS: TWELVE HOURS, THIRTY THREE MINUTES, COORDINATED UNIVERSAL TIME---" *BEEEEEEEEEEP*
I heave a contented sigh. "Music to my ears..."
I guess he just doesn't have it in him anymore. Makes me ache a little inside. He used to be so devout. His faith was what kept the shadows at bay. Me and him, we both struggle with depression. I think that's why we got along so well as pups. I think he has it harder than me though. People get to know me and can see why I have a hole in my soul. All but two of my sires and dams dead, and the rest of my litter mates stillborn. "Of course YOU have a reason to be sad, but him? His childermoot and litter mates love him, and he doesn't want for anything. Why is he so glum all the time? Why doesn't he just cheer up?" They just don't get it...
I look over at Iris and give her a quick ear flick to let her know I'm popping out of the simulacrum to check the Dewfall's comms. I don't have to leave, strictly speaking, but our nervous systems are slowed by a factor of 7600 while in sim. Decades go by back home while mere hours pass for us lounging on this ersatz beach on pseudo-Sweetwater. It's much easier to react to stuff in realtime.
Just before the sim melts away I catch a whiff of panic coming from Ringlight. Is he dissociating again? That'd be the second time today, well, subjectively speaking. That's why I wish he'd at least be with us for the liturgies. This is the whole reason the mission planners were so cagey about letting him come with us. Yeah he passed the suspension screenings, but you're not in sim for 250 years realtime for those. You're not exposed to the Voice for that long. If he can't pray, if he can't meditate, if he can't sing the liturgies, he's that much more vulnerable to the Voice. Iris swore up and down that she could keep him anchored. She's managed it so far, but it has to be exhausting to puppysit him like this. Void, it's exhausting for ME just watching.
Admittedly that's the other reason I duck out of the sim. The Voice isn't so strong in the operating system. Never goes away completely, but even Ringlight could brush it off out here. Of course hanging out in the OS environment for 250 years WILL drive you nuts, which is why the simulacrum exists in the first place. You need sensory input to stave off the insanity, but that sensory input is what causes the Voice.
The last thing I see is Iris bounding over to the waves where Ringlight is silently panicking, then my whole reality pops like a soap bubble. I fight a wave of nausea as the chemical cocktail my physical body is pickled in alters to return my time perception to normal. Part of me wishes we could just hang out here. There's something about the OS environment. Maybe it's the air, well, I'm calling it air, anyway. It's not hot, it's not cold, it's not too humid or too dry. It's just... there. I know it's because the amnion isn't stimulating my thermoreceptors, and I know I'd go bonkers eventually, but compared to that humid beach, it's a relief.
I gather myself after the queasiness passes. The neon magenta grid floor expands endlessly around me, receding into the black infinity. My whiskers and the wet part of my nose catch the cyan light streaming down from above. I always look up expecting to see a turquoise sun shining down on me, but there's nothing there but blackness. Sometimes I wonder why the OS looks like it does. Someone designed it like this. Why the grid? Why this specific color of lighting? Why do I like it so much? It's a particular aesthetic I can't put my paw on, but it scratches a very specific itch in my farspeaker brain.
I gesture with my tail to pull up the latest messages received through the ansible network. It's only been a few hours as far as my brain is concerned but years worth of missives from back home flood the featureless black around me.
"New High Hearthkeeper takes charge of the Eternal Hearth," reads a headline from eleven years ago.
"Good riddance," I grunt out loud to nobody. Whoever we got has to be better than that witch who tried to suppress the missionaries again. I still blame her for causing Ringlight to lapse. She was awfully chummy with the Partisans, too...
I catch myself fuming again. Why do I even look at the news? It's never anything good, and it's certainly not anything I can do anything about. Light willing we'll be among other sophonts soon anyway and I can just forget about Focus.
Sophonts---that's right! How far along are we? I swish my tail, banishing the miserable headlines swarming around me like angry insects. We should have entered the star system by now. A star chart ripples into view, showing the Dewfall's course relative to our destination exoplanet. It's a little blue marble, the third planet out from its star, nestled perfectly in the habitable zone. Long range surveys from Focus detected a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere at perfect pressure. Gravity is a bit higher than on Yih, but nothing yinrih can't handle. Oh, and liquid water, absolutely everywhere. Nearly three quarters of the world's surface is covered in it.
We've crossed the orbit of the fourth planet. By the time I jump back in sim to tell the others about what I've found, we'll be in orbit around our destination. My tail twitches as I hesitate. Do I check the realspace radio? I feel that particular flavor of dread you get when you know you have to do something, but refuse to do it because you know you won't like what you find. One hundred millennia---that's how long we yinrih have been searching for intelligent life among the stars, bone not of our bone, flesh not of our flesh, but souls like unto our own. I feel like this is the moment of truth, but can't bring myself to patch in the radio.
I flop down onto the floor. The nice thing about being in the OS while everyone else is in sim is that I can dawdle as long as I want, and they'll just think I was gone for a fraction of a second. I could just stare out into the magenta horizon for however many months we've got to go before arriving. Of course, it only takes a few days to lose your mind out here, Voice not required. I could last longer if the others were with me, but the OS wasn't designed to be lived in.
I roll over onto my back and stare up into the invisible cyan sun, thumping my tail on the virtual floor. I'm doing everything I can to avoid that blasted radio. I've---We've all been dreading this day since we climbed into our amnions aboard the Dewfall. Deep down, we know we won't find anything. Nobody's ever found anything. None of our long range surveys, none of our missions have ever come across so much as a microbe. We've been howling into the cosmos all this time, searching for other minds like ours, but in the end we'll always be utterly alone.
We'll limp back to Focus, our Sires and dams gone and our litter mates and friends ancient and gray-muzzled. This 24-day vacation will have cost us five hundred years. Lacrimal fluid starts dripping from my lips, the red liquid vanishing into the black fur of my cheeks. I lost all but two of my parents and the rest of my litter before I even knew them. Now I've thrown away what time I had left with my surviving sire and dam.
Maybe Ringlight is right after all. Maybe it's all nonsense. Comforting and beautiful, but nonsense all the same. An illusory bulwark against the inevitable existential dread that comes with understanding our mortality and our insignificant place in the universe, the curse of sapience.
Welp, let's get this over with. I rise to my paws. I dig my claws into the unyielding digital ground and tense up as though preparing to be struck. Eyes scrunched closed, ears pinned back, head lowered, I hastily perform the tail gesture to summon the output interface for the radio.
The high pitched whistle of a heterodyne grates at my ears. "Just internal noise," I think, but then the tone abruptly stops. Then it comes back again, then stops again. "Something's wrong with the digital signal processor," I growl aloud. The sound continues.
Slowly, a rhythm emerges, and I start tapping my left writing claw in time with the beat.
long, short, long, short, pause, long, long, short, long.
"It's a pattern..."
"NO!" I bark, "It's a SIGNAL!"
I jab my tail in the air. The pulsating white sphere representing the radio output unfurls into a spectrum waterfall. The signal I've been hearing flows down the display.
dash, dot, dash, dot, pause, dash, dash, dot, dash. I increase the frequency domain to survey more of the spectrum. Dozens of these narrow-bandwidth signals cascade down the waterfall on either side of the first.
I input more gestures, sliding the frequency oscillator hither and thither across the spectrum. Different types of signals flit across the display, none as narrow as that first beeping cadence. Signals of all types, amplitude, frequency, and phase modulated signals, both discrete and continuous. Some of these are surely modulated speech. I tune to a particularly strong AM signal, tail quivering in anticipation. What do these sophonts sound like?
Roráte caéli désuper, et núbes plúant jústum Singing... words? They can put words to a melody! Hisses, hushes, pops, trilling growls, loose and flowing sonorous sounds all caress my ears like a cool breeze on a hot day. There are more kinds of sounds in that one snatch of song than in every yinrih language combined. I have no idea what the words mean. It could be a drunken ballad for all I care. Right now it sounds as beautiful as a hymn to the Uncreated Light.
I drift into an ecstasy, my earlier doubts forgotten. I swim in a shimmering sea of invisible light dancing to the chorus of a hundred thousand inaudible voices. My mind floats in this alien noosphere for hours uncounted.
I come out of my reverie. How long have I been standing here? My paw pads ache and my joints are stiff. I notice my muzzle, chest, and forelegs are soaked in red tears, and a crimson puddle has collected around my forepaws. I stretch my legs and flex my digits, listening to another heavenly transmission from our new friends.
"AT THE TONE, THE TIME IS: TWELVE HOURS, THIRTY THREE MINUTES, COORDINATED UNIVERSAL TIME---" *BEEEEEEEEEEP*
I heave a contented sigh. "Music to my ears..."
The Butt Brain
Yinrih have a caudal ganglion, which is a secondary brain located at the base of the tail whose original purpose was to control the tail, but which has evolved secondary functions as a sort of backup for the main brain. Yinrih can withstand head injuries that would render a human dead with no long term consequences as the main brain can rebuild itself from information stored in the caudal ganglion--a very useful feature if you fall on your noggin from a tree on a regular basis.
There's a neurological disorder caused by a partial severing of the connection between the two brains where the tail acts on its own accord.
There's a neurological disorder caused by a partial severing of the connection between the two brains where the tail acts on its own accord.
Visual adornment
While yinrih primarily rely on perfumes to communicate things like social status and rank, visual adornment isn't unheard of.
Scoring or painting designs onto the writing claw, which is flatter and broader than the other claws, is probably the most common of these practices, and it is done by both males and females. Designs include religious symbols, floral patterns, and tiny passages of text.
The other common visual accessories are tail rings. These are more often a flexible cloth sleeve rather than a hard metal ring. Abstract designs are prevalent, but scenes depicting the life of a saint are also common among the devout. The stereotypical image of the seminarian includes a tail ring depicting the patroness of students, Saint Aurora, who was said to have passed her final exam, which was delivered electronically and whose questions were drawn randomly from a pool, by receiving mainly questions pertaining to the spiritual side of hearthkeeping rather than technical electrical engineering questions.
Some yinrih dye their fur. Tod's friends have encouraged him to dye the rest of his coat black to avoid the stigma surrounding redpelts, but he has so far declined to do so, citing the hassle of maintaining a presentable coat. After arriving on Earth, he grows to like his vulpine appearance, even if he'd rather people not point it out constantly.
Permeant body modifications, such as tattoos and piercings, are unheard of.
Scoring or painting designs onto the writing claw, which is flatter and broader than the other claws, is probably the most common of these practices, and it is done by both males and females. Designs include religious symbols, floral patterns, and tiny passages of text.
The other common visual accessories are tail rings. These are more often a flexible cloth sleeve rather than a hard metal ring. Abstract designs are prevalent, but scenes depicting the life of a saint are also common among the devout. The stereotypical image of the seminarian includes a tail ring depicting the patroness of students, Saint Aurora, who was said to have passed her final exam, which was delivered electronically and whose questions were drawn randomly from a pool, by receiving mainly questions pertaining to the spiritual side of hearthkeeping rather than technical electrical engineering questions.
Some yinrih dye their fur. Tod's friends have encouraged him to dye the rest of his coat black to avoid the stigma surrounding redpelts, but he has so far declined to do so, citing the hassle of maintaining a presentable coat. After arriving on Earth, he grows to like his vulpine appearance, even if he'd rather people not point it out constantly.
Permeant body modifications, such as tattoos and piercings, are unheard of.
Re: Visual adornment
The high hearthkeeper wears a tiara, which I should have mentioned, but it rests on the head around the left ear and is not a piercing. As for the misotheists, I was only joking about how they look, but idk.
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
It would make sense, if their whole point is to be provocative, like punk subculture. Though, at the same time, body modification is something that looks downright barbaric if you aren't already doing it, so maybe they wouldn't.
Also, I have some questions about belief. What are the Claravian views on afterlife? What about everyone else (I'm thinking the Machinists have some interesting thoughts)? What is grief like, especially considering that they live for so long? What is grief like in terms of a womb nest? How do they make sense of suffering and the problem of evil?
Also, I have some questions about belief. What are the Claravian views on afterlife? What about everyone else (I'm thinking the Machinists have some interesting thoughts)? What is grief like, especially considering that they live for so long? What is grief like in terms of a womb nest? How do they make sense of suffering and the problem of evil?
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
The Misotheists only started as a provocative movement within the wider Atavist movement. After a while they forgot it was supposed to be a joke and genuinely started believing it. Speaking institutionally, of course.
I have a few things in mind. I've already mentioned the Void, but I'm still working it out.
Yinrih spend longer grieving, and grieve more deeply over what humans might perceive to be casual relationships. The flip side is that they sometimes view humans as cold, as humans get over a loss much faster. It's not uncommon for a yinrih to express condolences long after a human has moved on.
As for womb nests, I think my depiction of Stormlight's issues pretty well summarizes how yinrih feel about stillbirth. (Incidentally, I just realized that Stormlight is a "black dog" that suffers from depression. I love it when things like this just fall into place.)
The Claravian view of moral evil (evil caused by the actions of others), is that it's the logical consequence of free will. Are you truly free if you can only make the right choice? A counter argument might be that that's like saying I'm not free if I can't stick a fork in a light socket, i.e. that a theoretically morally perfect person wouldn't want to do evil, not that they don't have the ability to do evil, but I'm not a philosopher and will shut up now.
As for natural evil, things like death and disaster and disease etc, that's a harder one to answer. It's possible that they simply accept it as a brute fact of life, as something out there in the Realm of the Unknowable, or that something about the nature of the universe somehow requires evil to exist. They can also share the common human view that evil exists so that greater good can spring from it. It's all up in the air.
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
So here are my two cents on Yinrih evolution.
Cent #1:
What we need to figure out is basically a puzzle. How do you get a semelparous animal species that lives a long time?
Most semelparous species have short adulthoods in terms of years. Mayflies and salmon may live a few years as kids, cicadas even 17, but one they reproduce, it's game over. And flies drop like, well, flies. Mind you, some bugs will breed multiple times over the course of a year-long lifespan
Marsupials, meanwhile, though not all semelparous, live relatively short lives compared to other mammals. Whenever I look at marsupials, it seems like they got the short end of the genetic stick. A raccoon can live up to five years in the wild; a virginia opossum can live only half that. When there are no predators, their lifespan increases within perhaps a few centuries, due to genetics (mind you, tassie devils live to 5, like raccoons); in captivity, an average opossum is going to die maybe a year later than in the wild. A raccoon, meanwhile, will about double its lifespan in captivity. It seems to me that semelparity was an evolutionary sink for some marsupials, such as some dasyurids - you can't go up, so there's nowhere to go but down. One really good shot instead of three middling ones. Opossums grew more teats or something and have two years of thirteen young each.
Meanwhile, in plants, we find both models. We find annuals or biennials, and then we find monocarpic monster plants with giant in the name that reproduce like once every 100 years (or more normal ones that take 10-20 years; silverswords sometimes take 50). All this is in addition to other facts about plants - no need for intelligence or animal-level complexity, the ability to reproduce asexually, the ability to live on sunlight, and so on.
Here's a quote from Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semelpari ... teroparity) that might shed some light for us:
Another quote for dasyurids (same link):
Here's cent number two:
What could trigger such longevity? Here're my thoughts.
Firstly, where did the Yinrih reproductive method come from? It reminds me of frog's eggs or fish eggs, but with a womb-casing over them. I'm going to (with your permission) refer to the clade that produces these as neoranaeova.
Pan-Amniota on earth solved this problem by making skin-like shells. Neoranaeovids solve the problem amphibians have by producing eggs whose outer shells harden into a protective skin. Unlike say snake eggs which are individual embryos in pre-made shells, the spawn are laid soft like frogspawn and the outer surface eventually solidifies into a single skin over the entire clutch.
Fast forward however long you like, and you have womb nests (Exovoviviparans). You could also mod this into other forms, such as live birth.
At some point, semelparity (or at least fewer chances to lay) might be evolved, which would go nicely along with the evolution of fewer, larger eggs in a moot. This would drive evolution in one of two ways: either shorter-lived animals, or much, much longer-lived ones.
Intelligence and social skills would be cultivated genetically (they already are mostly, but this would increase it). Longer lived ones would be brainier, in order to better raise and plan their families.
Put them in a location without any major predators, and maybe during a climate event, and they will be skewed to longer life and more resilience in order to survive the environment.
Now you have your pseudovulpines, ready to evolve like primates.
There are a fair deal of holes in this, but it can be worked with.
Finally, what would motivate pre-Yinrih species to reproduce if not libido? I would suggest they simply get broody, and the high from having children is itself really good. People also experience this high, but in lesser amounts than Yinrih. Conversely, the grief from losing a womb nest or child is worse.
Edit: I just realized this system would make eusocial animals and huge mobs really popular. So about those swarming weasels - you could do that.
Cent #1:
What we need to figure out is basically a puzzle. How do you get a semelparous animal species that lives a long time?
Most semelparous species have short adulthoods in terms of years. Mayflies and salmon may live a few years as kids, cicadas even 17, but one they reproduce, it's game over. And flies drop like, well, flies. Mind you, some bugs will breed multiple times over the course of a year-long lifespan
Marsupials, meanwhile, though not all semelparous, live relatively short lives compared to other mammals. Whenever I look at marsupials, it seems like they got the short end of the genetic stick. A raccoon can live up to five years in the wild; a virginia opossum can live only half that. When there are no predators, their lifespan increases within perhaps a few centuries, due to genetics (mind you, tassie devils live to 5, like raccoons); in captivity, an average opossum is going to die maybe a year later than in the wild. A raccoon, meanwhile, will about double its lifespan in captivity. It seems to me that semelparity was an evolutionary sink for some marsupials, such as some dasyurids - you can't go up, so there's nowhere to go but down. One really good shot instead of three middling ones. Opossums grew more teats or something and have two years of thirteen young each.
Meanwhile, in plants, we find both models. We find annuals or biennials, and then we find monocarpic monster plants with giant in the name that reproduce like once every 100 years (or more normal ones that take 10-20 years; silverswords sometimes take 50). All this is in addition to other facts about plants - no need for intelligence or animal-level complexity, the ability to reproduce asexually, the ability to live on sunlight, and so on.
Here's a quote from Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semelpari ... teroparity) that might shed some light for us:
Spoiler:
Spoiler:
Here's cent number two:
What could trigger such longevity? Here're my thoughts.
Firstly, where did the Yinrih reproductive method come from? It reminds me of frog's eggs or fish eggs, but with a womb-casing over them. I'm going to (with your permission) refer to the clade that produces these as neoranaeova.
Pan-Amniota on earth solved this problem by making skin-like shells. Neoranaeovids solve the problem amphibians have by producing eggs whose outer shells harden into a protective skin. Unlike say snake eggs which are individual embryos in pre-made shells, the spawn are laid soft like frogspawn and the outer surface eventually solidifies into a single skin over the entire clutch.
Fast forward however long you like, and you have womb nests (Exovoviviparans). You could also mod this into other forms, such as live birth.
At some point, semelparity (or at least fewer chances to lay) might be evolved, which would go nicely along with the evolution of fewer, larger eggs in a moot. This would drive evolution in one of two ways: either shorter-lived animals, or much, much longer-lived ones.
Intelligence and social skills would be cultivated genetically (they already are mostly, but this would increase it). Longer lived ones would be brainier, in order to better raise and plan their families.
Put them in a location without any major predators, and maybe during a climate event, and they will be skewed to longer life and more resilience in order to survive the environment.
Now you have your pseudovulpines, ready to evolve like primates.
There are a fair deal of holes in this, but it can be worked with.
Finally, what would motivate pre-Yinrih species to reproduce if not libido? I would suggest they simply get broody, and the high from having children is itself really good. People also experience this high, but in lesser amounts than Yinrih. Conversely, the grief from losing a womb nest or child is worse.
Edit: I just realized this system would make eusocial animals and huge mobs really popular. So about those swarming weasels - you could do that.
Re: The Lonely Galaxy Megathread (comments encouraged)
Very well thought out. The yinrih's lack of libido is something I cheerfully acknowledge is unrealistic and have no intention of changing, although I really like your idea of being broody.Visions1 wrote: ↑05 Jun 2024 04:45 So here are my two cents on Yinrih evolution.
Cent #1:
What we need to figure out is basically a puzzle. How do you get a semelparous animal species that lives a long time?
Most semelparous species have short adulthoods in terms of years. Mayflies and salmon may live a few years as kids, cicadas even 17, but one they reproduce, it's game over. And flies drop like, well, flies. Mind you, some bugs will breed multiple times over the course of a year-long lifespan
Marsupials, meanwhile, though not all semelparous, live relatively short lives compared to other mammals. Whenever I look at marsupials, it seems like they got the short end of the genetic stick. A raccoon can live up to five years in the wild; a virginia opossum can live only half that. When there are no predators, their lifespan increases within perhaps a few centuries, due to genetics (mind you, tassie devils live to 5, like raccoons); in captivity, an average opossum is going to die maybe a year later than in the wild. A raccoon, meanwhile, will about double its lifespan in captivity. It seems to me that semelparity was an evolutionary sink for some marsupials, such as some dasyurids - you can't go up, so there's nowhere to go but down. One really good shot instead of three middling ones. Opossums grew more teats or something and have two years of thirteen young each.
Meanwhile, in plants, we find both models. We find annuals or biennials, and then we find monocarpic monster plants with giant in the name that reproduce like once every 100 years (or more normal ones that take 10-20 years; silverswords sometimes take 50). All this is in addition to other facts about plants - no need for intelligence or animal-level complexity, the ability to reproduce asexually, the ability to live on sunlight, and so on.
Here's a quote from Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semelpari ... teroparity) that might shed some light for us:Another quote for dasyurids (same link):Spoiler:Spoiler:
Here's cent number two:
What could trigger such longevity? Here're my thoughts.
Firstly, where did the Yinrih reproductive method come from? It reminds me of frog's eggs or fish eggs, but with a womb-casing over them. I'm going to (with your permission) refer to the clade that produces these as neoranaeova.
Pan-Amniota on earth solved this problem by making skin-like shells. Neoranaeovids solve the problem amphibians have by producing eggs whose outer shells harden into a protective skin. Unlike say snake eggs which are individual embryos in pre-made shells, the spawn are laid soft like frogspawn and the outer surface eventually solidifies into a single skin over the entire clutch.
Fast forward however long you like, and you have womb nests (Exovoviviparans). You could also mod this into other forms, such as live birth.
At some point, semelparity (or at least fewer chances to lay) might be evolved, which would go nicely along with the evolution of fewer, larger eggs in a moot. This would drive evolution in one of two ways: either shorter-lived animals, or much, much longer-lived ones.
Intelligence and social skills would be cultivated genetically (they already are mostly, but this would increase it). Longer lived ones would be brainier, in order to better raise and plan their families.
Put them in a location without any major predators, and maybe during a climate event, and they will be skewed to longer life and more resilience in order to survive the environment.
Now you have your pseudovulpines, ready to evolve like primates.
There are a fair deal of holes in this, but it can be worked with.
Finally, what would motivate pre-Yinrih species to reproduce if not libido? I would suggest they simply get broody, and the high from having children is itself really good. People also experience this high, but in lesser amounts than Yinrih. Conversely, the grief from losing a womb nest or child is worse.
Edit: I just realized this system would make eusocial animals and huge mobs really popular. So about those swarming weasels - you could do that.
This gets into another psychological quirk. While yinrih may see humans as cold because they don't grieve as long, humans may see yinrih as cold because the relationship among the members of a childermoot is not "romantic". There's no physical affection, they don't share a bedroom, and in many cases don't even live under the same roof (although they do live in close proximity and the pups go from house to house). I've already mentioned academic childermoots, where prospective parents are treated like job applicants. Once the pups are raised there's no social obligation to remain together, although many moots do stay close.
Also, all the non reproductive stuff that humans look to a spouse for, like care when sick, a financial safety net, a shoulder to cry on, etc, are sought in friends by yinrih, which is one of the main reasons they grieve so hard.