beetleshell
gender | female
inspiration | beetle one | beetle two
edits | long horns and/or back spines (reminiscent of the beetle's legs)
markings | colorist's choice
notes | coloring should be golden-orange/green/blue/purple, like a scarab beetle
her personality |
Dazed, tired, thoughtful, strange, self-absorbed
her self |
As close to truly nocturnal as a kimeti ever gets, Beetleshell sleeps in a large nest under a mangrove tree during the day. At night, they rise to begin their nightly task of finding insects, which they transplant closer to their home. Around Beetleshell's nest is a haphazard garden of undergrowth, messily arranged to provide homes for the insects. Their knowledge of the bugs of the swamp is almost encyclopedic to the point of obsession or simple insanity.
At night, other kimeti often hear Beetleshell speaking to the bugs, or singing to them in a thin, private voice. The kimeti rarely ever speaks to anyone else (which is fine, as most other kimeti regard Beetleshell as crazy); problems that arise because of Beetleshell's own strange nature simply fall away, forgotten or ignored.
her story |
The moon was at its highest point over the swamp when the kimeti who called herself Beetleshell stumbled out of her den underneath the mangrove tree. She hadn't slept well, even during the hottest part of the day -- her dreams had been odd and vague, full of bright splashes of color and laughing voices, and a bolt of lightning coming down from a clear sky. All of the dreams had left her dazed and tired, and her expression was thoughtful as she pushed her way out of the undergrowth that surrounded her home. She had no idea what the dreams meant, but she was certain she did not want to dream them again.
Stumbling along through the choke-vines and berry bushes that surrounded her mangrove tree, she peered carefully into her haphazard garden, looking for the beetles that lived in among the plants. "Come now, little ones," she whispered to them; her voice was thin and private, hoarse with disuse. "I need your gift!" Gathering up the purple beetles one by one in her mouth, trying to ignore the acrid taste of their shells and the tickling of their antennae, she put them carefully in a hollowed out turtle shell within the den.
It was a laborious process, and as many beetles crawled out as remained in the bowl, but eventually the turtle shell was full of darkly glinting poison beetles. The whole den echoed faintly with the sound of their clicking legs and buzzing wings. Beetleshell regarded her odd collection with a crooked little smile, speaking to them again. "I have had odd dreams," she whispered, "Dreams of colors and sounds. Laughing, laughing! A bolt of lightning on a sunny day." Shaking her head to clear it, she frowned thoughtfully, "I think you will have to help me. Yes. I cannot go another day without sleep."
A moment later she picked up one hoof and deliberately placed it in the shell, bearing down with all of her weight; the beetles were crushed and ground against the sides of the shell until they were little more than ichor, pulp and shell fragments. Shaking off her foot, she bent down and began to lap the substance from the shell. It was poison, enough to kill a fully-grown buck in the prime of his life. Taken in small doses, however -- and because Beetleshell had built up a resistance to their poison -- it sent the drinker into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Beetleshell felt her mind beginning to swim, and smiled at the remaining beetle mash. A moment later, the doe smacked her lips, wavered on her feet, and then collapsed in a haphazard tangle of limbs. Her sleep was dark and dreamless.