2024-07-06 - [6.7] Thermodynamics, Relativity, Terminal

One thing remains true, through everything: the egg is cool to the touch compared to many of its clutch siblings. It is also still the same shade of flat, navy blue. Five slashes of white mark one side, around midway up, and turn sharply to end in circles. It is still squat, rounded, and less pointy than you might expect from an egg. It is still one of the largest and weightiest on the sands.

Other things have changed. The shell is no longer the smooth, unbroken selection of raised pathways and traces leading to the central white vias on its 'front' it once was. Now there are scratches and bumps, grazes adding more texture where sand has abraded away shell with more force than simply a mother rolling an egg around the sands until she is pleased. Some of the raised pathways and traces it was once known for now simply...end. Some have been chipped away entirely. The navy is now lighter in places, where the light reflects oddly off new texture.

It is battered, but not broken, and Courth is still the same egg he was when he was clutched.

Courth is still a creature that demands structure and answers, as he has always been.

His first response to any new stimuli is to question-question-question, to solve and find answers to the world around him and order it into very neat boxes. The more those boxes overlap, the more frustrated he gets. The more people deviate from what he considers the right and correct path, the more he gets angry. He reaches, grasps, eager to see but ignorant of how his greedy pulling might hurt. Time passes, and Courth feels more and more restrained by the separation of shell and world. Jealousy is his becoming a defining trait.

Static and electricity and sparks - always firing, always rushing. The brush of Courth's mind is a crackling hiss, the forewarning of a storm, and the smell of ozone on the air. It's the dry shuttling of information from one path to another, always moving, always ghosting a touch across whatever surface it can find, but only passing lightly.

The human minds might register the spark, a crackle, or the bottomless rush. The hair on their arms might rise. It won't recognise the clipped tone or hissing drone just yet, words hidden behind whatever veil growing gives. He might not be loud, but Courth's attention is undeniable.