Zamani melted among the colorful herbs of the floater forest and solidified beside his smooth black table. He pulled his hand across the cool surface and sighed. The large black rock that had become his table was like nothing else in his kingdom. What a hardship it had been to bring it from the heart of the forest! What a hardship it had been to raise it from the forest floor to his home! But it was well worth the trouble, he thought. As far as he knew, there was no rock like it among the Shee. Upon this table, he had eaten sumptuous meals. Upon its cool black surface, he had fashioned objects, spun vestments, cut straps, and waxed pots. This morn, he would gather supplies upon it for his first day at school.

The initial pick being too large, and after careful consideration, his table now held only the necessary items. Upon the cool stone slab lay his reed flute, and his ruby handled knife was off to one side. On the opposing end lay his food. Large chunks of shroom commanded an ample collection that included carish, chelt, jerky made from the pestiferous bizrock, pots filled with sweet, and bags filled with tasters.

Vestments lay neatly in the center of the table. For Xarhn, the even last, he had fashioned a gown from the large flower that grew at the heart of the forest. It was white, but not very, with umber ribs that ran its length. He had cut holes for her arms and removed one rib to use as a waistband. For himself, Zamani had picked his very best: a blue quill cap dyed red from the juice of the berribit, his best silk trousers dyed dark brown with the bark of the nhola, and shroomskin boots beaten soft. He was particularly proud of his boots. He had sewn them to fit over the foot and extend past the ankle by half a hand. He had attached slats to the bottoms with sticky sap and had cut them to the shape of each foot.

Around his waist, Zamani would stretch a broad shroom belt. It would be held in place with a large round stay cut from the bark of a nhola. The light brown belt and dark brown stay would cover his flat belly, as well as anchor the mantle. The mantle, of course, would accent his attire. It had taken four middays to complete the work, more time than he spent on his boots.

Zamani was sure all eyes would turn to his mantle, for unlike that of the Shee, his draped over the shoulders and down the back. Neither was it stiff, but free-flowing. Fluffy, red-dyed floater filaments adorned the outer side of a blackened flap he'd cut from a large, old shroom. He had beaten the flap until it was supple. At the neck and shoulders were attached Bizrock wings. These crossed over to form a black and red breastplate. When the breastplate hooked around the belt stay, the whole magnificent contraption held in place.

His chores complete, Zamani nibbled at jerky waiting for his next great plan to present itself. It came quickly. There was still time before his meeting, time enough, in fact, to master the one jump he had so far failed to accomplish. It called to him; it mocked him with bitter laughter. It was just a small nhola on the inner edge of the floater forest, but it tasked him greatly, and he would not be at ease in his kingdom until it was mastered.

The Big Dew lay between the smaller nholas and the floater forest. The smaller nholas bore fewer vines on them, and being spaced wider than the taller nholas in the center, they presented a greater challenge. Zamani had to leap with all his might to cross the nholas near the Big Dew. He had mastered all but one, and it vexed him.

Time after time, that one small nhola had thwarted his most determined efforts. This morn offered no change. Try as he would, Zamani could manage no more than to slip and fall into the succulent undergrowth below. The forest rang with howls of rage.

“Arrrgh!” he bellowed, “You will not defy me!”

He stood up and determined to make one last try. This time for sure, he assured himself. He climbed to the top, positioned himself at the edge, and cleared his mind for the jump. The other nholas were there, awaiting their king. He tensed and jumped. The young nhola reeled as he exploded upward and outward. He arced across the void, chest pounding, fingers reaching. He caught the edge, his body slammed the side, and his toes sought purchase. His handhold failed him, his toes slipped, and once again the void seized him in its iron grip. It turned him head down and hurled him dirtward.

In the wild mesh of the floater forest floor, Zamani lay in a spongy tangle, exhaling defeat. He told himself that he would return; he would master the jump - just not this morn. Lifting his wearied flesh from the ground, he made for the refreshment of Big Dew. Small to medium shrooms grew along the path, and he sprang easily from one to the next, adding distance to his stride. Then, fetching up on the low branch of a scruffy zeeda bush, he swung out to land, sure-footed, where the dew began to lift.

Big Dew was the largest dew ball in all of Phar Sheeth, and it belonged to Zamani alone. Where it came from was anyone's guess. Why it did not dry up each midday as the dew was known to do, again, was anyone's guess. Voals gathered dew, and oft it was that Zamani drank from those small orbs, but no dew was as sweet or as cool as this. He drew up a small portion in one hand, letting it roll about freely in his palm. Then deftly, he tossed it high and caught it in his mouth. There was an odd rankness to it this morn, but still, it was cool.

With a joyous leap back, he landed atop the giant dew ball, arcing arms and legs to allow his heat to be taken by the thick fluid. Movement on the Big Dew was always pleasurable; it was altogether different from walking or climbing. He took his time. Refreshed and thoroughly at ease, he slid lazily off to take a seat beneath the zeeda bush. The moment was comfortable and pleasant; without a thought for the day, Zamani could have taken root and become a flowering vine. That was the feeling – as if he might embrace his forest. He often felt that way. He eyed the light reflected from the Big Dew; the glistening made him strangely calm. It glittered and it glimmered as it rose and fell in the early light.

Rose and fell?

That wasn’t right. In all of his seasons, Zamani had never seen such a thing. Something new was afoot. He could only wait and watch to see what happened next. He stood upon his feet and trained all his attention on the heaving fluid.

A strange, pale creature broke the surface and pulled itself free of the Big Dew. It had skin like the skin of a shroom, and dew balls rolled from its back as it turned to face him. The eyes were huge black orbs, half out of their sockets; the lids moved upon them in a heavy fashion. A circular thread of yellow laced each pupil, and the creature's mouth was the merest slit with two black holes above it.

The alien beast just sat by the dew, eyeing him. What was it? Did it wish to live in his kingdom? Zamani would have to name it, but what might he call such a thing? Massive hind legs folded beneath it while webbed fingers sought purchase in the dirt. And how big it was, yes, twice his own size! The beast suddenly opened its mouth and thundered.

“Greebit,” said the beast.

Zamani answered, “You have chanced upon my world, white one. How, or from where I know not.”

“Greebit.”

Zamani dismissed the interruption and continued, “You may dwell in my kingdom, but if you annoy me, I shall wear your white skin.”

Zamani faced the beast for a long moment, matching the intensity of its glare with his own, but as he turned to leave, something struck his feet, pulling them from under him. He threw his arms around the zeeda bole with a mighty desperation. His skin flooded with hues of angry defiance as he felt his joints near to snapping.

“Arrrgh! Let go,” he bellowed.

Gripping the bole in one arm, Zamani reached back to thrash the beast, only to discover that it still sat at its original distance. What had him, amazingly, was one extremely long and sticky pink tongue. He groped for a fallen branch, the length of his arm, but found it just out of reach.

“Sonofacoosith!” he yelled, “Release me, or face the brunt of my wrath!”

His fingers strained at the branch, and at last, it fell into his grip. Turning it to immediate use, he beat furiously at the sticky appendage. His precarious hold upon the zeeda slipped until only three desperate fingers held him fast. All the while, he beat harder at the thing that held him, not caring that sometimes his ankle got in the way.

He swore, and cursed, and yelled, “Turn loose, Greebit!”

The tongue, at last, snapped away. Zamani, banging his head against the zeeda bole, scrambled around to its sheltering side. He looked up in time to see the creature's hind legs disappear into the unknown depths of the Big Dew. Gone it was, and none too soon. He straightened and stepped forward. The Big Dew heaved in and out, swallowing small stones. Zamani's chest heaved as well. His breathing could scarce be quieted, and his bony frame reverberated with the painful echoes of his throbbing heart.

“We will meet again, Greebit,” he wheezed, “and you will feel the straight of my blade.”

With the shroomskin cover sealed tightly inside, Zamani felt more at ease. While the comfort of his home could normally ease most ills, this morn, his joints did not cease to ache. His beautiful home, quiet as meditation, could neither still nor mask the ceaseless pounding inside his head. At his cool black table, he rested his head in folded arms and sought his normally calm center.

That beast - it nearly had him for morn meal!

What a strange and wonderful beast it was, yet he could not help but cringe at the thought of how close he had been to becoming a wad of Greebit dung. Any further visits to Big Dew would be in the company of cold iron.

For now, he must return blue. He sat straight and held his breath. That seemed to still his racing heart a bit. He almost didn’t want to go. His adventure among the Shee would demand much from him. He peered into his mica at the bump on his head; he touched it.

Ouch!

He took away the swelling but kept the pain in his head and ankle. He would learn well from them. They would strengthen him to kill the impertinent beast. He pulled his hand across his head and was reminded of its roundness; if he was to fit in, he would need a pait. Looking into the mica, he kneaded his head until the wattle of a pait fell over his right eye, giving him a thoroughly Sith like appearance.

There we are, he thought, and what a handsome pait it is.