A bastion, ramshackle in its fortifications, thunders through the cosmos, implacable in its path. Barrelling aside other wayfarers, assured in its mission. A marketplace, refineries built upon habitats, built upon stores and warehouses, harvesting, refining, and pricing goods along the way, keeping its place as a relevance through the interstellar convoy. A factory, changing and growing and rebuilding and paring away at itself, changing its form as easily as water, expanding to fill its surroundings.
This is how Garpheron Vurlyth has always been, and this is how he'll remain. A tidal wave, confident in his own strength, and fluid enough to find his own place wherever the tide should take him. Always pushing forward, never losing steam.
The emigration convoy has halted about a small star; Cyris B, home to one habitable planet, and a dozen balls of dirt or gas. It's not the living situation that interest them, however, it's the hungry void that lies nearby.
The ever-fluid mechanical form permutes itself, in a miracle of combinatorics, taking his place around the black hole. Garpheron Vurlyth; bastion of the community. Not the most agreeable fellow, but he pulls through in the end.
Garpheron awakes. The people move on, they always do. A new community, a new set of politics. A new verbal arena. It's less challenging than it used to be, Garpheron's seen it all before. He wants this, she wants that, they want them both to stop fighting. She's in the right, but he has a point. They should get off the side-lines. The ever-shifting form of Garpheron gives his judgement, yet they still argue, ungrateful as they are.
Garpheron awakes. He's not sure what the occasion is, but a new government has formed on this alien world, rivalling that of old Hetherovon. Funny how things come full circle. Garpheron returns to sleep.
Garpheron awakes. Flooding in the southern continent. The Omni-planet sends its aid, and Garpheron returns to sleep.
Garpheron awakes.
Garpheron returns to sleep.
Garpheron awakes.
Garpheron returns to sleep.
Garpheron awakes. It's been over 32,000 years. He looks over his work, these colonies that have lived their lives while he slept. Still squabbling, and arguing, and asking his aid.
It's not changed all that much, come to think of it. All those people, all their troubles, you can never stop everyone's worries. You can't solve all problems in one fell swoop.
But perhaps, just perhaps, there's some comfort in being the one they turn to, when they need you. Perhaps all they need is a rock, something to build upon, to support them. Perhaps there is a peace in that.