The representative slithered his way across the bridge that connected the platform to the dome that housed the city of Ofromia. Local time pinned this moment as "somewhere in the middle of the morning, just after brunch", but this landing platform currently sat in the shadow of the giant dome and so was illuminated by bright, artificial lights. Further around the dome, other landing platforms sat in darkness, waiting for their opportunity to welcome visitors or bid farewell to friends. Aside from the dome that loomed over [i]everything[/i], and the shadow it cast, countryside stretched out towards the horizon - woolly, lumbering creatures grazed on yellowing grass, monitored by buzzing drones. Crops grew in other fields, with little green bushes neatly lined in endless rows. 

 There was something wrong, however, with the representative. This shouldn't be considered a slight towards his species, although many didn't consider them [i]particularly[/i] attractive; a flattened out, snake like species that moved low to the ground, only rearing up their front half when it came to communicating, eating, partying or fighting. A single pair of spindly, long arms folded out from their sides, tipped with a pair of unsettlingly long and bony fingers. Few people bothered to comment on their four eyes, or wide mouths filled with teeth, not because they were particularly odd, but because the most striking thing about their faces was the rows upon rows of twitching antennae. They jutted out at almost every angle, waved in the gentle breeze and twitched in response to unknown stimuli. They called themselves [i]Prax Sitharii[/i], but most referred to them as [i]Twitchers[/i]. Usually behind their backs.

 So it wasn't the appearance of this bright orange [i]Prax Slitharii[/i] that was wrong, but rather his choice of clothing, which was about as ill-fitting as one might imagine clothing worn by a snake like creature to be, if not more so. The heavy grey jacket, made out of some local wool-[i]ish[/i] fabric, looked like it ought to be on the back of some high ranking military officer. Judging by the number of sleeves, it [i]ought[/i] to be worn by somebody with at least two pairs of arms. The representative had awkwardly folded his own arms through the upper pair of sleeves, but he lower pair hung loosely and trailed behind him as he slithered forwards, picking up dust and grime and the other assorted bits of dirt that plagued the Outside.

 Coming to a halt before the assembled crew at the bottom of the ramp, he caught his breath, standing as upright as he could manage. With enough clean, fresh air in his lungs, he spread out his long arms in a gesture that was generally considered welcoming in many cultures for many reasons. Cultures that valued physical contact saw the open arms gesture asn invitation to initiate physical contact, some liked seeing the open hands that carried no weapons, while some saw it as a polite act of submission, exposing their tender underbellies to demonstrate that they pose no threat.

 "[color=fff79a][i]Welcome[/i], it's, ah, I'm Maracun, Maracun...[/color]"

 The antennae twitched as green eyes quickly flicked around, taking in his surroundings.

 "[color=fff79a]Maracun Cropman, here to welcome you on behalf of the Zane Heron Estate. Do you need any assistance unloading? I can send for, ah, some people.[/color]"