The Nalinaks were squat, sturdy, green-skinned beings—somewhere between amphibian, reptile, and bowling pin. They weren't “majestic,” and they weren’t trying to be. They were just… *real*.
They defecated in plants. They made love in the grass. They grew their homes by whispering light into groves. They lived without asking permission—because they trusted the moment more than the blueprint.
They weren’t primitive. They had tech. They had messaging systems and civic infrastructure. But bureaucracy? Not in the everyday. You didn’t file a permit to grow a structure. You found a spot that “felt right,” and you started growing.
Most things about them were like that. Their sacredness wasn’t ritualistic—it was responsive. If something resonated, it was good. If it fed life, it was worthwhile. If it didn’t, you moved on.
And then... they fell. Quietly. Brutally. Because they weren’t built for war. Because they didn’t think anything would come *for them.*
Some say they were turned into something else. Others say they reincarnated—broken, scattered, memory-wiped. Maybe you're one of them.
Whatever the truth, this record stands. Simple. Blunt. Glowing.
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