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It’s quiet here at night. After even the latest night mining sessions end, there are always a few hours before the earliest risers will be up ready to get on with the day’s build. In those moments of quiet, untethered to anyone, Chat used to wander the server. They don’t anymore.
Chat is a funny thing. No one quite knows where they came from, can’t connect the dots between the crows and the ferrets and doozers. Whether something that develops naturally from talking into the air, or a being older than DreamXD themself, it’s hard to tell. But the fact remains that, if one spends enough time in this place, the things that listen will find a way to talk back.
Tonight, they’ve gathered at the pond. It’s a nice meeting place, all things considered. It isn’t exactly neutral ground - in the morning, the others will scatter off to follow their usual charge - but at night it’s somewhere Chat can come in its entirety. Ducks float on the water, chattering to ferrets and raccoons that settle in the grass on its edge, with purple spots of light drifting in the breeze all around them. Up in the trees above, crows keep a watchful eye, murmuring among themselves, the odd splash of blue or white within their ranks. The wind brings with it voices, those without a physical form, that spiral around where doozers and clay creatures sit together, having carried the lemons all this way so they could be on time.
It’s a cacophony of shapes and sounds, just the way Chat likes it. But once they are all accounted for, minus those few who never leave the Warden’s side, a blue jay flutters down to perch on a stick jutting out of the water of the pond. All eyes turn to them, the conversation getting hushed but faster, in the way that only Chat can manage.
“Hi, Ghostbur!” they chirp, looking up at the stars. A chorus of greetings moves through them, each repeating the phrase in their own way.
“How are you?” asks a crow.
“Hope you’re okay!” says a particle.
“We miss you!” says a raccoon.
There is no answer. But then again, they didn’t expect one. Just like when someone new to this place speaks into the void, Chat can only hope that he is listening. But hope is enough to keep them coming back.
“Would you like to hear about flowers?” the blue jay asks.
“Flowers!” “I would!” “Hi Ghosbur!” Chat chorus back.
“We can’t hear you,” a crow reminds him. Just in case.
“But we hope you can hear us!” chirps another.
“ Soooo , sit down, get comfy,” the blue jay says. Chat perks up around them, each with their own fact to share, even as a duck with a bright green stripe on its wing tells them to wait. “And let’s start with cornflowers.”
“You can put them in tea!” says a ferret.
“Lavender is for serenity-” says a particle.
“- and poppies mean sleep,” says another.
“Blue orchids mean decadence-” one of the doozers begins, only for a raccoon to cut in with, “That’s a funny word!”
“Yeah! They also mean tenderness.”
“And reliability,” adds a voice on the wind.
“Red tulips are for passion,” chirps a cardinal.
“And yellow ones are for hope,” the blue jay adds.
They continue like this, long into the night. Flowers lead to plants, which lead to stories. The blue jay keeps them on track like only they can, a constant in an ever growing cacophony of sound. They hope he can hear them, they hope he feels loved.
Eventually, the sun will rise, and Chat will scatter. The doozers and their lemons off to the desert, the particles and voices away on the wind toward the snow, words returning to the pages of a book. The pond stays, emptier now, the topic of conversation changed back to whatever this Chat thinks about in the hours between the nightly meeting and their person’s arrival. Each says a goodbye as they go, and the blue jay reminds him of when they will return. They hope that he remembers. They will remind him tomorrow anyway.
Up in the trees, the birds gather, just briefly. Their own sort of ritual. Soon, the crows will be off to look for trinkets, and the magpies and cardinals will return to their perhaps unwilling charge. But for now they sit and talk with the blue jays, fewer in number now but persistent nonetheless.
Somewhere, a sheep wanders.