
The observation deck really wasn’t all that much—just a stretch of reinforced glass and a scattering of consoles, most of which didn’t even work anymore, not that anyone would admit it. But to Rivum, it was the closest thing the blasted ship had to a sanctuary. When the hum of the engines grew too obnoxious or the clamor of voices in the corridors rose up, he could just slip away and come here. From this vantage point, the void seemed infinite, the stars scattered like spilled grains of light across a velvet backdrop. Just an endless, quiet expanse. Rivum loved the silence of it. He’d sit in the corner and watch for hours as asteroids drifted by or as a far-off star blinked into view. The observation deck made him feel small, but not in a bad way or the way the other occupants made him feel. It made him feel.. content with himself.
Nurya's most prized object was a little figure, carved from a sort of dark wood, or something with an organic resilience, no bigger than her own paw. The details were simple but purposeful: a long tail curling around its base, ears perked as if listening, and eyes that seemed to hold a stare. Her mother had crafted it when Nurya was small, or at least smaller then she was now, shaping it with steady claws and a steadier smile. She had said it was meant to be a guardian, a piece of herself for Nurya to carry wherever she went, a reminder of the warmth and guidance of her mother.
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