[treasure] Treasure trove treasure trove yes yes

content warning: loneliness, isolation, weird religious themes?

        In this sort of environment, it would never stick out. White metal, white snow. Stark trees cutting shadows sharper than a knife's edge. It's a miracle I ever noticed it. I'll always believe that- it was a miracle. I found my cold and glorious saviour among the snowdrifts of my wintery home.

      I think one notable thing about me is how easy it is for me to unnerve other symps. I'd decided at a young age- my scales fiery bright, my eyes always cast downward- that I wasn't meant for friendships. Or relationships. I'd exist in huge groups almost constantly, and yet I wasn't ever really.... there. Not in the same way as the others I'd see.

      In the cold north, symps tend to cluster together far more than in other climates, I think. There's warmth in groups. The endless night can't scare you much if there's always a roaring fire and roaring laughter to get you through it. My town- my family- they were always so close. Tails and talks and jokes tangled together so tightly I could never pass through.

      Which is why I'd started taking long walks in place of long talks. (...not as if i was ever one for talking in the first place, though.) I liked trying to find little hints and cracks of beauty in the endless expanses of white and pine trees and white and pine trees and white... and pine trees. Perhaps that's why I noticed it? 

That's not really important, though. What's important is that I noticed it. I found it.

      It was God.

      And who knew God would be cold to the touch? 

      It was metal. I was a near stranger to metal at the time. The most I'd see of it were metal fastenings keeping wooden planks secured, or a fish hook for casting through a hole in the ice. We'd often use obsidian shards to cut through fish and fruit, so knives weren't even a commodity in my villiage.

      This plate was so gleaming and white, I think it could burn a hole right through the sun. I'd been living with the brightness of that sun reflecting off snow my whole life, but this absolute vision of freezing metal felt different. Like it gave off its own light. 

      Doesn't metal rust over time? Corrode with the weather? There was no reason for me to have found this perfection of beauty. No reason for how pristinely preserved I'd find not just the metal, but the runes carved on the underneath. (Those of which were written in a language I couldn't read -one I'd never even seen before.)

I could run my fingerpads over its surface and there wouldn't be a bump to catch or stratch to feel.

The only explaination that's ever held weight to me- then and now- is that some alien God had deposited this treasure right into my lap. A piece of heaven, sent just for me. 

      I became obsessed. Of course I did- how could I rid my mind of that? Its cold surface was such a glorious contrast to the warmth I'd feel seeping from others, never given to be soaked up by me.

      And this coldness was meant for me. Much more than anything ever has been before, what with how large a family I had. Given gifts here were much more meant for an us than a me. Individuality lost in the endless climb of assimilation. I understand why my family is the way they are- working always in tandem is probably why we've survived the cold this long. But... you can lose yourself to that. Especially when there is no you that fits into that group.

      Something I'd always been obsessed with were snakes. I've never seen one for myself, only ever seen the curling art of them, brushed onto a page or carved into a spine. I'd listen close as older bappies would whisper about giant water snakes- They live in the warm oceans and eat bappies who swim too deep- the ones that lurk in the stony cave rivers can grow so big, you can't tell a falling stalagmite from a huge fang biting down on you-

      And I couldn't help imagining myself as the snake.

      The tentacled biotes that grew along my scalp and spine would twitch just how I thought the tip of those snake's tails would.

       It wouldn't matter if I'd lurk around the edges of groups, hardly ever speaking. I was a quiet and sneaking snake. It didn't matter if I'd be forgotten from games or conversations. A snake couldn't run or jump along anyway. It just looked through its slitted gaze and lay to drink in what warmth it could, unseen and unheard. I'd think of this and twitch my tentacles along with the snake in my heart. The other bappies would glance over, stare just long enough for their eyes to widen, then stutter out the rest of their tales. More brave exlorers and stupid travelers lost to the depths of whatever horrific water system they'd thought of this time around.

      The metal in front of me twisted so smoothly, I couldn't help but think of those snakes from my bappyhood imagination. The text scattered along the edges of the back was round, foreign, and yet so familiar- its pattern was just how I'd imagine a snake's scales. Only just different from the scales along my own legs- different, and yet so similar.

      Like family.