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Not being one for words, The Witnessed Day simply let the lesser being’s hum linger in the air, before sitting back down. It was, after all, easier than standing. His own hum faded away, and he was content to fill his head with another’s noise. His eyes shut, but he did not drift near the realm of rest. He studied the noise of the hum, silently, and to himself, trying to find its place in the greater scheme of his own being. Lucky, as it called itself, was not a threat at present. Still, a careful eye would have to be placed upon the creature. For its moods to swing so suddenly was something which did not sit well with The Witnessed Day. Still, at present, there was no harm.

The beads hanging from his antlers clacked, and his eyes wandered to “Dotsies”. An especially careful eye would have to be placed on that one. He would have to dream himself more eyes when he got a chance, for he had already had to dedicate half of his eyes to this task, and he needed them to observe the rest of the environment around him. Two was barely enough to see the colors properly, and he just knew he needed more to — Ah, the logic of a daydream. The Witnessed Day had as many eyes as he needed for the sake of metaphor, and he didn’t need to use them for such a purpose. But still, one could never be too safe. More eyes would be dreamed.

Nebula Shaman did not usually take friends, as they were supposed to be symbolic of the temporary trying to find a foothold in permanence. Still, rejecting this friendship may cause strife further down the line. The Witnessed Day considered these both, straining his tired mind as he did so. He had already left the creature in silence for a longer-than-usual amount of time, and The Witnessed Day wondered at what impression that may leave. If only these lesser creatures had lifespans comparable to his, then perhaps he would not feel so uncomfortable with silence hanging in the air.

Nebula Shaman see friendship as a Positive Symbolic that should be avoided, much in the same way as adding a toxin to your bloodstream should be. However, they do not have any quarrels with alliances, nor do they see reason to reject a temporary state of being. Such contradictory ideals warrant a closer examination, but The Witnessed Day did not feel he had the time to go as in-depth as he would like.

[color=fff200]“An acquaintanceship shall have to do for now. A friend cannot be taken until names are exchanged.”[/color]

In The Witnessed Day’s mind, he viewed names – true names – as a sort of currency of power. It was trading secrets – secrets held power, offered glimpses of reality untamed, and could hurt the holder. Names, he thought, were things that should be kept secret. So long as a true name was held close to one’s most sacred self, it was a threat. Friends should not be threats. Of course, not everyone knew their true name. Or, perhaps, only a few people had one. The Witnessed Day had never studied it much beyond shaping his own.

What, exactly, was a “Programmer”? The Nebula Shaman did not have the word as part of his normal vocabulary, having long ago assigned it within his mind as “archaic language”. If a thing was programmed, it was inferior. This was truth. Only by smashing the predestined code inherent in one’s internal being could one truly grow. Only by embracing the absurd, the irrational, and swearing off the logic it was created with – either by a living “Programmer” or by the rather orderly forces of “chaotic” nature – could one determine, for itself, what it was intended to be. He had half a mind to ask the creature — to ask Lucky, what it had meant. But he did not want to be compared to such an insufferable concept again, and so he decided he would ask later, when it was worth the energy to expel such a thought. 

He reflected on his thoughts, digesting them so that he might regurgitate something of value when he next dreamed. His eyes shut, and he turned his hum toward the sky, so that he might mimic the song of the feathered nebulae. He searched his thoughts for memories of Dozing, only to find vague remembrances which were just as likely to be daydreams he had just come up with as they were to be actual memories. He did not turn his head toward Lucky, a sign of respect from where he was from, but he figured that it might not come across as well intentioned as it was.

[color=fff200]“Your kind values words, the Nebula Shaman do not.”[/color]

The “color” of the thought carried with it the connotation that no offense was meant, and that if remembered, the two would get along as best as cultural boundaries would allow.

Half-awake, wholly un-asleep, and clinging desperately to what fleeting rest he could, The Witnessed Day found half of his being spiraling into a melancholic daydream filled with half-voices singing the Old Words of the Nebula Shaman farewell rituals.

	“[i]Heln morn,
	Res ahn.
	Beas lev,
	Retu olo.
	Heln morn,
	Morn o ahn.[/i]”

A tired mind does not go out of its way to censor itself. The Witnessed Day laid his back into the grass once more.