#**the irony is that i had a hen and a rooster but they didnt make it thru winter of the first year and now i cant find any roosters

[andreeds]

havent rimposted on here in a while. here's the base of my current save

i have ideology+biotech dlcs and im playing as a custom* race of cave dwellers whose ideology resolves around being cave dwellers. lights bad dark good eclipse is perfect their diet is entirely cave grown fungus with occasional meat from a raider** and everyone who isnt a raxdactyl and/or a caveist is fucking miserable here

[enchaussettes]

The Adventures of Trigs

Once upon a time there was an awfully peaceful trigger that wasn't happy with its current life as the dedicated detonator bellow a colt 45's gun barrel.

At every shot, common thing when tied to the device of choice of a famed gunslinger, it shed a tear fully knowing what it was being forced to do.

One day it had had enough, this mercenary had been crossing the line left and right, getting over zealous on simple search and rescue missions. That day, as its ethically-challenged owner took aim once more at a questionable threat running away from him, the trigger decided it had enough and refused to go along. It dislocated itself from the groove it was sitting in causing the gun to misfire and explode in the man's hand.

with little time for remorse and a heightened sense of self-righteousness, the trigger went flying with many other pieces of shrapnel from the force of the gun's blast. It grazed the victim it had just saved and flew for a couple yards. As its now ex-owner's groans faded in the distance, our little protagonist started to make plans, what would await him in the future?

the last time we left trigs as it now likes to be called, it was flying its way into freedom. It's now been a few years and, well, after a couple odd jobs in more peaceful industries, trigs really thought it had found a meaningful alternative to its latest employment.

What awaited Trigs wasn't very glamorous, seems to have involved a farm and a muddy feeder in which he landed. The farmer found it as a goat was choking... struggling to cough our little friend out. It was hard for Trigs not to think death had followed him there.

Overtime things got better, the farmer put Trigs on a shoelace and gave it to his wife as a surprise for their 30th anniversary, something about "if you are my silver bullet I must be your sterling trigger." Never knew what it meant, puzzled Trigs for a while...

Anyways, she wore it as an earring instead, suffering from mild PTSD, Trigs couldn't take the silence, days are long on the farm and the couple didnt speak much or if they did it was late at night when Trigs was kept safe in a velvety box that made the silence even more unbearable.

One night Trigs decided that once more it had had enough, for better reasons, but that it should find an alternative occupation. That night it wiggled its way out of the box, leaned on it and watched the couple sleep as it ran through its options.

Late in the night, the farmer's wife woke up to a series of eery scratching sounds. Not a superstitious woman she grabbed the rifle and walked towards the source of the noise. She gasped as she watched her coma-shaped earring scratch into her dresser: "Find me a louder job"

Confused she aimed the rifle once more. The irony of the situation didn't escape Trigs, it waited, rocking slowly on its back... She leaned over and asked: "you wrote this?" Trigs rocked once for a brief yes. "Shit man, you scared the shit out of me," she sighed, "No sweat little man, I got just the spot for you."

It's now been two days since its latest appointment, Trigs is overflowing with joy, it knows the job isn't for everyone, actually Trigs iss probably the only one to have ever enjoyed it! In a way it seemed as if life had prepared our little hero for this task, as a trigger, immune and even in search of loud sounds, having been adapted to become the home's top-toilet-flush-handle was perfect. Trigs found immense comfort in the deafening gurgling of the flush and a profound sense of purpose and redemption in casting away its new owner's excrements, and then watch them sit back up and go on with their lives.

Over the coming months and then years, the story of the trigger turned flush handle made the rounds in the nearby village. Just not the way one who might've come to grow fond of Trigs would've liked. Villagers started to think the lady was crazy.

Her husband stood by her but never really got it. He always thought she might've carved the words into the dresser herself during one of her many sleepwalking episodes. Soon he got tired of the gossiping in the village and used the shotgun his wife once pulled on Trigs to surrender to the eternal sleep.

She cried for days knowing full well what had caused his premature departure and her indirect role in the dire turn of events.

Trigs too was shaken, as a retired trigger you always recognize a gunshot, it flushed all night in a state of shock. The next morning the woman came into the bathroom with a wrench and deposed Trigs from its position as top-toilet-flush-handle. She even locked it up in a little box, not much bigger than the last one, fearing it was cursed.

For years Trigs was trapped in the box, bored but peaceful, clinging to the thought that in surrendering its mobility and freedom, its death-ridden days would come to an end. During that time the widow took care of the farm, got back in touch with some friends, and slowly found her way back into the community that had ostracized her.

In the late hours of the night she started playing around with smithing, fashioning simple jewelry for herself and her new friends. Over time her hobby became a lucrative business, she was able to hire an extra pair of hands around the farm, a young dreamer she had been running into at the market. Obsessed with birds and other feathered creatures, he felt trapped at his boarding school and had asked the widow if he could come help her on weekends. The assistance was most welcome as she enjoyed the company and could now spend more time on her craft.

All was now serene on the farm and the violent days were starting to fade in the village's collective memory. The young man was a diligent worker, careful and loving around the hens, strict with the roosters. When at her workstation the widow would sometimes look up and smile seeing him inspect the cages and marveling at the little chicks.

At dusk, they would walk around the estate together and inspect his work together, it really was more of an excuse to exchange and catch up. As they yard passed the yard in which the hens had spent the day, a peculiar pebble on the floor caught her eye, she bent down to grab it but was cut off by her protege who jolted down and threw the pebble in his pocket.

"What is it?"

"Nothing really, it must have fallen out of my pocket."

"Tell me."

Begrudgingly he reached in his side pocket and pulled out a little hand carved piece of wood. He explained it was a wooden beak he had been working on.

"For you?" the widow blurted confused.

"No, no, you remember the rooster we lost to the fox the last month?"

She frowned, she had never believed that story.

"Well there was no fox."

The widow sat down on the side of the cages.

"It was my mistake, I had let the two roosters out at the same time and they got into a really bad fight, I'm not sure what happened but one broke its beak... I was scared you'd kill it if you found out so I took it home, took care of it while it healed but it can't eat on its own anymore... So I started working on a wooden beak that could hopefully help it regain some independence."

The widow smiled, grabbed his hand and thanked him for finally telling her what had happened. Somehow this was an unexpected blessing, ever since she had started smithing she had wanted to bring Trigs out of its box and give it a new life.

Originally she thought she could melt it down and turn it into an earring or a necklace but she wanted it to find a new life and strangely felt uncomfortable melting it down... It seemed the magic of coincidence had just presented her with her answer.

A few days later she presented her budding ornithologist with a shiny sterling Trigs, fitted to the measurement of the wooden prototype.

Trig could not believe it, for the past two night it had watched puzzled as the widow had meticulously been cleaning it, grinding it, transforming it into a beak. It wasn't uncomfortable, if anything it tickled and Trigs was just happy to be out of its cell. But it also had no idea what was going on.

It wasn't until the young man had fitted Trigs on the equally disoriented rooster that things started to make sense. The bird in what appeared to be a rush of excitement started running around pecking at the air. Trigs was delighted, the wind, the speed,  the purpose, it was all there.

The rooster and Trigs turned to the two humans facing them, stared into their eyes and broke out into the most beautiful song a rooster has ever been known to sing.

Trigs knew it had found its true home. No more gun shots, just wake up calls.