Vox arrived—though whether he strolled, hovered, or gently vibrated into existence was anyone’s guess—with the biggest grin arranged across his multitude of teeth. He gave a broad wave to the gathering crowd, each limb (and sub-limb and sub-sub-limb) doing its best to mimic the gesture. If some folks looked vaguely uncomfortable, well, that was probably just the wiggling in their peripheral vision.
Bedecked in what might best be described as “intentional clothing,” Vox made his way toward the tables. The bright pink flamingo hat perched atop Noe ’s head caught his many-eyed interest immediately, and for a moment he contemplated finding a similar piece of headgear to “blend in.” Instead, he set down his own bounty of taco “enhancements” with gusto: a jar of deep-fried sea air that hissed softly when opened, a stack of caramelized laughter (freshly cackled that morning, if the swirling purple glaze was any indication), and an assortment of pickled…somethings. The label read “Pickled Starwhale Dreams,” but it could just as easily have been “Pickled Ghostwhale Regrets.”
“Greetings, my delightful two-legged taste-testers!” Vox declared, flashing his well-practiced smile. “I’ve heard these taco things need fillings, and I’ve brought the best I could salvage—er, acquire.” He flexed a set of cuticles proudly, as though they were proof of his culinary generosity. “Please, sample away! I’m told a dash of cosmic confusion really brightens up the palate.”
With his teeth all properly aligned—he’d checked thrice—Vox slithered a little closer to admire the sizzling meats and cinnamon-sugar shells. His ocular appendages flickered curiously, analyzing every sauce and garnish with childlike wonder. For a moment, he vibrated with pure delight, or perhaps just tried to stand still and failed.
Bedecked in what might best be described as “intentional clothing,” Vox made his way toward the tables. The bright pink flamingo hat perched atop Noe ’s head caught his many-eyed interest immediately, and for a moment he contemplated finding a similar piece of headgear to “blend in.” Instead, he set down his own bounty of taco “enhancements” with gusto: a jar of deep-fried sea air that hissed softly when opened, a stack of caramelized laughter (freshly cackled that morning, if the swirling purple glaze was any indication), and an assortment of pickled…somethings. The label read “Pickled Starwhale Dreams,” but it could just as easily have been “Pickled Ghostwhale Regrets.”
“Greetings, my delightful two-legged taste-testers!” Vox declared, flashing his well-practiced smile. “I’ve heard these taco things need fillings, and I’ve brought the best I could salvage—er, acquire.” He flexed a set of cuticles proudly, as though they were proof of his culinary generosity. “Please, sample away! I’m told a dash of cosmic confusion really brightens up the palate.”
With his teeth all properly aligned—he’d checked thrice—Vox slithered a little closer to admire the sizzling meats and cinnamon-sugar shells. His ocular appendages flickered curiously, analyzing every sauce and garnish with childlike wonder. For a moment, he vibrated with pure delight, or perhaps just tried to stand still and failed.
vox
