2024-07-06 - like a curtain falling |4.1|

The-One-Who-Is-Now-Rocranth interrupts a muddled half-sleep and immediately, Fog is annoyed. Annoyance is a newer feeling, and one he quietly enjoys. The minds of the others often jostle and vie for more attention from each other, from Mother, from the visitors. Annoyance draws a line, marks a difference between what they say (and shout, and sing, and...) and what he feels about it. It is rather nice to be annoyed, and he is continually finding reasons to bask in that separation.

He would never rush to tell everyone about a name. Really, why come up with something new at all? Fog rather likes thinking of himself as such, and the few lingering images and colours attached to it are comfortable, comforting. Heavy but soft, blanketing and surrounding, so thick as to hide everything important.

But Rocranth is not the only one to name himself, and moment by moment, Fog dwells on the matter more. If he had to pick something else... well, it would not be so bright and brittle as Rocranth's name, or the warm flowing tide of Gwillanth's. Something closer to Shayled's, maybe, smooth with a hard edge at the end. Slowly he pores over the names he knows and the way the minds around him form them, the sound and shape and heft of them. It must be a name that is like Fog in the feeling, even if (though he is not certain why) it has to be different.

At last he twists the disparate pieces together; a soft full sound and an edge, which could be one thing but are another. Knuadth.

A name worth sharing - when he feels like it.