She was asleep when they found her. Or, more accurately, dormant. Her guardian stone was still active. Had there been any real possibility that the pink-skinned humans with their measly two arms could have removed her from her cradle, the guardian would have awakened her.
So, yes, to their perception she was asleep. Asleep and hungry – why did intruders always make her feel hungry?
But the two-arms were no different than any who had come before, or any who would come after. They didn’t run in fear from her visage, her six arms and bladed weapons. No. They… persisted.
But she was protected. It was part of the deal.
She was protected. They persisted.
And they were punished.
Those who tried to pry her weapons from her hands had their own skin split open in the process. Those who attempted to remove her headdress found themselves blind, and in blinding pain. Those who had the gall – the unmitigated gall! – to use chisels and something called a ‘crow bar’ (though according to her guardian it did not bear any resemblance to a crow) to remove the armored carapace that protected her soft parts and her legs, had been forced to crawl from her chamber on their hands, dragging their useless legs behind them.
None of their injuries were permanent, of course. Harming creatures who were weaker than you was unethical, or at least tacky.
And in truth, there were a few pink-skins who visited her resting place to try and understand her people and her culture.
Of course, they got it completely wrong.
They referred to her as ‘Kâli,’ who was apparently a goddess in one of the two-arms’ cultures. (Had she been awake, flattery would have gotten them everywhere – what woman didn’t appreciate being referred to as a being to be worshipped? Maybe not always, but, you know, as a change of pace.)
But she was not Kâli.
And she was not deserving of worship.
And this resting place, this cradle, was not the chamber of beloved royalty.
Rather, it was a prison cell. Here, under the guardian’s care, her body remained death-still, but her mind… Her mind was hooked into the Great Collective, where it served out a centuries long sentence as an accountant.
A tax accountant.
Her crime was symbolized in the weapons she held in her tertiary hands: a stylized knife and fork.
She hadn’t meant to devour her mate on their wedding night. But he’d smelled so good, and she’d been so hungry, too nervous to eat before the ceremony, and too busy during.
But, the elders had chastised her, cannibalism had been outlawed centuries before, and even then, it had only been permitted to the victors in war. Not, despite her protests, to the winners of Pawns and Leaders.
“How much longer?” She asked the guardian in charge of her case.
“Five hundred more years.”
“Home stretch,” she quipped, and returned to her work.
She wondered what would happen to those two-armed pink-skinned adventurers when she and her fellow inmates were released.
She also wondered if they were worth eating. She was just so hungry.