A Knight Must Blog

Hello! This is a blog for the Kirby fanfiction A Knight Must Be and it's associated AU! It is run by me, the author, chesgray. :) But you may call me Gray! You may also feel free to ask me questions about the fic and AU! Submitting things is also welcome! I will reblog any fanart on this blog, and will probably also use this to drop lore snippets I won't get to touching upon in the story proper for roughly ten desquillion words or so.

If you aren't familiar with the fic, here is a link!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41395443/chapters/103807245

I'd be delighted if you read it, and if you have, and had a good time, I am also delighted by that. :) Please be good to yourself and drink water. A Knight must be hydrated.

Trigger Warnings

Every Star Warrior did, of course. Even the most sour of her species got at least a little smile on their face surrounded by stars, twinkling their light and love out against the endless void of space. She'd never met a Star Warrior that didn't see a distant nebula glowing against the endless dark of the universe, and didn't grin a little grin, knowing new stars were growing bright and strong. Every Star Warrior loved space. And every Star Warrior loved gunning it through space in their own paw-crafted vehicle, engines humming with a sound wholly unique to their void-craft. A Star Warrior hadn't been born that didn't love space travel.

Not every Star Warrior loved flying through space on a void-cycle, though. Something about getting pelted with rocks at high speeds being annoying, or something.

I really need to actually post on here regularly. My understanding is a blog is much like a plant - it requires regular watering to grow. I suppose I'm treating my actual fanfic like a cactus, then? Ah...

...I know not many are following this blog, but to those that are, would you like it if I periodically posted excerpts from my work-in-progress on the next update? I took a bit of a break in the middle of the year - meaning I only really picked at it - but I'm plugging at it now. Getting there.

I kind of want to, when there's perhaps more people to respond to a poll, run a poll to decide what the species of the point-of-view character for the short stories actually is. A Bronto Burt, trying to maintain a ship with it's fucking mouth? A Knuckle Joe, taking time between maintenance to shadowbox in the dim light of the engine as it hums?

A Smirror? Ain't gonna magic your way out of that ship, you wizard-hatted fuck.

Could be fun to do down the line. I wanna do more with this blog. Writing is a lovely grind, but it's also a grind.

You have the fuel to burn through the void, until you find a safer location to dip into Other Dimensional space. You know the safe paths – safe as they can be, anyway. The Other Dimension is a plane where space and time warp, a strange reflection of the universe of matter, where void-borne creatures riding astral streams would feast upon your rickety box of a ship for it's scant reserves of energy. Where half-formed imitations of life in the true universe play out unpredictable, half-mad variations of a living being's actions, it's choices...

...it is a strange, dangerous place. But the distances between points in the material universe can made much, much shorter if one knows which of those astral streams to ride. Pick the right path, and a journey of days, weeks, or more in the universe of matter can be made in hours at most.

If you pick the right path. If you know where to fly.

There are myriad languages in the diaspora of Gamble Galaxy, though the common tongue is the one most often spoken. In the grand scheme of the universe, the version of common spoken in Gamble Galaxy might be considered Gamble Common, the galaxy's own distinct dialect with it's own quirks distinguishing it from the common of other galaxies. But in the modern Gamble Galaxy, cut off from contact with the wider universe, it is simply thought of as common.

The Nobility of Gamble speak a more formal version of Gamble Common, mostly distinguished by strict pronunciation and loan-words from older, far more distinguished tongues, included as both opportunities to signal one's education, and barriers to entry for the lower classes.

Many races have their own tongues – sometimes variants of Common, sometimes entirely unique languages all their own, with vocalizations better-suited to different speaking organs, or different methods of communication. Verbal common is still considered the universal language however, and the majority of species that still draw breath in Gamble Galaxy can at least speak it on a basic level. Those that cannot speak, often translate the words and structures of Gamble Common into whatever method of communication they do utilize. This allows for some rough approximation of a universal language amongst the myriad of species that call the stars of Gamble Galaxy their homes, should the parties involved know how to translate one form of communication to another.

A Knight Must Be and the content on this blog will feature children in distress and also children in danger. It also absolutely discusses child death in it's narrative, if you go by the idea that the Waddle Dees in KMB are children. I hope what I've described makes it clear that describing them as children, as we know it, is ah...not totally accurate? Not exactly? But, definetely close enough that I feel warnings are apt and appropriate. So now that it's coming up,

(This also goes for Kirby and Meta in the main fic, of course. And I will update the introductory post with at least some trigger warnings...I think these are the really big ones? I'll update as more becomes relevant to the blog. And I do take requests. Seems polite to do.)

After all, few would dare fell a tree in these times. The discovery of a living tree on a planet would be worth far more than either's corpse. The Noble Families would pay the last of Gamble Galaxy's riches for the mere location of a tree. Fewer of the Houses still had enough to harvest fruits and wood. It's been years since you've seen wood paneling in the design of even the finest of ships, the most decedant of homes. Most of the Waddle Dee you've met think wood is a myth – an old building material only imitated in look at most, when the frivolities of appearance are even considered at all. You can't blame them. For a time, you may have thought much the same.

But not now. Not with this transmission. Now, displayed on the humming glow of a boxy screen...

Once, Freerocks were exactly what the name implies they were – independent settlements, built on, and sometimes inside of planetoids drifting freely in the void. In better times, they would welcome any and all to their ports, so long as they didn't make trouble of themselves. They were Freerocks, after all – they could take in whomever they chose to, and usually did so, as a free rock taking in all comers had a variety of species whose often unique needs all had to be met. This meant a Freerock had need of a variety of goods and services, and so they traded readily with any passing merchant ships, and typically with no questions asked about where the goods might have come from, or how they might have arrived at their port. This is a tradition they've retained into the modern day, however, in most cases the merchants will offer their own ships up as part of the trade. A new approach, but a sensible enough one under the circumstances.

There isn't really anywhere else to go now, after all.

The star dim in Gamble Galaxy. They gutter and fade and die early deaths, cooling into iron spheres as if living out their life cycles in fast-motion. Planetary ecosystems collapse, ravaged beyond repair under the influence of Gods that did not care for such frivolities as the long-term survival of life in the universe. Light and life exist as ragged scraps, the tapestry of existence torn asunder, leaving massive voids filled with cold iron stars and barren, dead worlds.

The Freerocks, though, have an advantage in these times – their ecosystems are maintained by sapient digits driven by the absolute need to survive, and through them scraps of life cling on in the dying galaxy. Even as world after world collapses from the ravages of a time of endless desire and unstoppable bloodshed, on the Freerocks, crops are still grown in hydroponic farms. Growbeds still shelter plants from a vast array of worlds, scraps of ecosystems now lost to time and apocalyptic madness. The Freerocks are bastions of food and shelter for the desperate remnants of Gamble Galaxy, traveling the long voids between fading stars. They are oases of hope amidst a universe that is dying.

The Noble Estates hate them.

Or, to be more specific, the Nobility that own the Estates hate them – and in their minds, there is no true distinction between their Noble selves and the holdings that are their family birthright. Estates have a long and storied history as gathering places for the elite of the galaxies – for rich merchants, for dignitaries of distant Stars, and for anyone who could afford the exorbitant luxuries the Estate could offer to a guest. In times long past, Noble Estates prided themselves on the riches they could offer in excess, a vast mix of planetary resorts, luxury liner-bases, and roaming fleets of starships that were as much works of art in a set as they were examples of excellence in practical craftsmanship. Whatever form they took, the Estates of the past were bastions of luxury, propping up their family names with excess. They would have little reason to even think of the Freerocks outside of perhaps a distasteful source of very much discreet trades.

But in the modern landscape of the galaxies, the once-grand Noble Fleets have been reduced to scrap by bandit attacks, luxury liners have been long hollowed out by scavengers, and planetary Estates now serve the same purpose as a modern Freerock. These Estates' carefully managed and maintained agriculture make them bastions of life, clinging to a sustainable existence even as planetside ecosystems collapse from vast holes carved through their foundations, and stars gutter and fade into early deaths.

In modern times, the Estates see themselves as being in competition with the Freerocks, and they absolutely hate the idea of that.

Not because being an oases of life amidst a galaxy of dying stars is beneath the Noble Estates, of course. Quite the opposite – nothing bolsters the spirit of the anti-gravital Noble Peoples more than being the last brave bastions of life in this ragged and torn tapestry of stars! Guiding the desperate, the needy masses of the universe through this time of darkness? Why it should fall upon the most Noble races to lead! Who else could guide the peoples of the galaxies into a new, better age? It must fall to the Noble Families to lead, in these desperate times.

...and if they can put the needy masses to work in the meantime? Why, all the better.

And truth be told, they need to put the masses to work. The Estates and Freerocks now both face the same problem in the modern galaxies as bastions of life. Station populations swell well beyond capacity, as more and more ships limp into their ports, tired crews slumping into the embrace of somewhere – somewhere that still has life. That still has hope. Freerock, Estate, most don't truly care at this point – either is somewhere they can have some faint hope of survival, at least for a time.

And so, both Freerock and Estate end up looking very much the same – overcrowded collections of rock and metal, hastily added to as more and more people try to cram themselves into less and less space. The Noble Families are loathe to acknowledge the truth – that in the dying Gamble Galaxy, there is little difference left between their grand Estates and the Freerocks, as both work towards the same goal – housing the desperate diaspora of the universe, as the various species that remain cling to what food and shelter these bastions of life can provide. In the face of the extinction of all life, there is little room left for trivial distinctions.

Except...

The Noble Estates still insist, on having certain luxuries. Not for all, of course – there is precious little of these treasures to go around, now. But even at the end of life in the galaxies, the Noble Families ensure they still have fresh, soft breads. Aged cheeses. The finest wines they can still manage to produce. On rare occasion, they even house a former dignitary, a merchant-fleet captain, or just someone that can offer some proof of a status that they once held, still having a bearing of dignified manner and grace. And in so doing, the Noble Families relive a faded echo of the glory days enjoyed by their ancestors, housing those who were once (perhaps) elites, in what remains of the concept of luxury in a dying universe.

They make sure to show their guests the parks, of course. Places where the last trees in the galaxies are sheltered, scraps of green and brown in enclosures where a physical and emotional ecosystem are carefully maintained to allow the trees to grow in largely horizontal paths – there is only so much room for a tree to grow upwards, on an enclosed station. They would not survive in the void. They would not survive in the open air that is left.

So the last trees in the universe grow to fill the confines of enclosures, in self-contained stations. They are at best an echo of forests past – groves of a handful of trees at most, growing into strange shapes in cramped confines. But all the same, these groves are the crown jewels of any self-respecting Noble family – such are their resources and influence, that they can maintain a room where you can enter and see greenery, or redery, or any color they managed to shepherd at the end of all things. The Freerocks do not bother with maintaining these places – they are far too space and resource-intensive to justify. Their focus is on simple survival, but a Noble family can welcome you to a place where grass passes beneath you as you float, where you can close your eyes and feel an artificial wind and recorded birdcalls, and pretend, for a time, that life still thrives. This is the domain of the Noble Estates – tiny scraps of beauty in a universe fading into empty blackness. The last places in the universe where you could see a tree, where you could reach down and feel the grass pass under your digits. The last places in all the universe where you could experience some momentary echo of what once was life.

...well, they were the last places.

“Hello! Ranger North here with a second trans-mission!”

The same Waddle Dee, with the same dulled green beret. Oddly, as he waves, he seems...different. His skin is brighter in color, his eyes are sparkling.

“I didn't get eaten! I haven't actually seen a predator since I got here! I haven't seen any other life outside of the native flora and fauna, yet! It's really strange, actually? I keep um, looking behind me...expecting to be hunted by something. You know the feeling, right? You're venturing through the wilderness, on guard for an attack! A predator could be lurking anywhere, and you're really small and tasty! That's where I got these scars, actually? Ah....oh...”

The Waddle Dee moves to pat his side, but looks down – to smooth skin. There's no scar, and the fact of it makes him stumble in his presentation.

“...about that...I've always had two big scars, up here and down here, where a Galbel tried to eat me once! The big guy wrapped his claws around me, and roared really loud, and it was really, really, really scary!”

The Waddle Dee pats the side of his head, and his cheek as he speaks. He has the brittle upbeat enthusiasm of a Waddle Dee that's learned to waddle right past their trauma – which is most of them that survive out in the void, these days. But Ranger North has a strange exuberance, it seems almost...genuine? It doesn't have the same forced quality you expect from a Waddle Dee. He seems...

“...but, you can kinda see I think? They're gone now. They itched a little, and now it's like I never had them! See?”

Ranger North presses his cheek into the monitor, obscuring the viewscreen for a moment, revealing a smooth, un-scarred cheek.

“See? Smooth as a newpop!”

The Waddle Dee pulls away, and shakes his head in the negative – which basically means shaking his entire body.

“But I'm not a newpop! I'm a seasoned Ranger Dee! Though...I think a newpop would be okay, here? You might, um, you...you might be wondering if I ate, viewers! Have I been marching on an empty stomach!? Has my heart-star been burning a hole in my tummy!?”

The Waddle Dee leans forward with a wink.

“Nope! This Ranger has been eating...like royalty!”

Ranger North reaches off-screen, pulling forward the last thing you would've expected him to have – a partially eaten block of cheese.

“Behold! The dinner of the noble families! It's...cheese! Real cheese! I didn't find any milk or anything – no nruffs or grizzos to milk here! And I think they'd just kill me anyway...anyway! This cheese just...appeared, viewer! Lemme show you!”

The Waddle Dee sets the cheese down into what appears to be a cast-iron cooking pan, before picking up the tablet and causing the view to wobble awkwardly, giving a brief glimpse of what looks like trees, off in the distance. Is it a grove? It's hard to tell, but it looks too big. There can't be that many trees in one place, surely...?

“Okay!”

The tablet is set down in front of a closed flower – a thick green stem rises from three leaves near the ground, the petals spiral up to a central point.

“So I found it....ummm...here. I'll, just show you.”

The Waddle Dee proceeds to reach out with both nubs, grasping the flower around the stem and shaking vigorously, causing the petals to unfurl with a pop, something large and tan bursting out of the petals and off-screen.

“Wah! ...aheh! Oh boy, viewer, lemme tell ya...the first time that happened? I thought I was dead for sure! Thought I'd let my guard down, and was gonna get eaten by a hungry flower! But!”

The Waddle Dee waddles off-screen, bringing back into view a second impossible item -

“...it's bread? It's too...not klack-klack bread, or camp-ash bread....”

You watch as the Waddle Dee examines the loaf of bread – thick and deep brown, round and large enough that Ranger North needs to spread his nubs wide to hold it.

“...hold on a sec.”

North runs off-screen, the tablet soon being lifted and carried back over to the pan, which now holds the loaf of bread that the flower spit out.

“Good thing my trusty iron pan is a trick pan, viewer! Watch.”

The Waddle Dee slides the handle outward from the pan itself, and now you have good reason to believe this is a well-traveled Dee – a Waddle Dee's pocket-space can only hold a single item, but a clever Waddle Dee might figure out a way to combine two items into one. This one has managed to acquire an iron pan with a knife nestled into the handle.

“Ta-daaa! A good Ranger always has a knife, folks! Now, let's cut into this thing and see if it bursts into lethal spores!” Ranger North says it with a giggle, and it's clear he's only half-serious – you've never seen a Waddle Dee so at-ease, much less in an uncharted environment. Regardless, when he cuts into the loaf of bread, it only gives token resistance, and doesn't burst into a plume of lethal spores. Rather, it reveals it's pillowy interior...if you didn't know any better, you'd say that was...

“...white bread? It's like...viewer, you seeing this?” Ranger North holds the cut bread up to the tablet, giving a high-definition view of the crumb – white and pillowy, the bread of nobility. Most would go their whole lives never eating this kind of bread, much less the cheese competing with it for space in the Ranger's pan now.

“...I can't believe it. White bread, like the nobility eats...I don't remember hearing anything about them having flowers like this...”

The Waddle Dee simply stares down at the impossible bounty that nearly doesn't fit in his cast iron pan. He stares for long moments, in simple disbelief. You can hardly blame him. Barely contained in his pan is a larger meal than most will ever see in their lives.

“...well everybody, I think I'm gonna end this trans-mish-un here and, um...eat this food. If I can fit it all in me! Ah...I don't have a backpack to store it in....um....but there's more flowers, do they...all...have food like this?”

You can see Ranger North lean back, casting his gaze about the field – there are more flowers, petals furled, waiting to be coaxed open. Do they all contain such a bounty? It isn't possible. There have to be at least a dozen – probably more.

“I...I was gonna show you the trees, viewer, but, um...um...”

The Waddle Dee turns back to face the camera, looking to be in a small amount of shock.

“I can't waste this food. I'll...send another trans-mission soon! I gotta show you the trees! They're – oh, Great Dee – there's so much! Popstar is....it's really amazing! Come here if you can! I don't know where it is but it's – it's! Um! It's better than the rumors said it was! Somehow! Ah...okay! R...Ranger North! Signing off for now! Next time – trees! The Waddle Dee gives a bouncing, sitting salute, eyes sparkling at the impossible meal before him, before the transmission ends. Perhaps that is a mercy – the hydroponic farm on-board your own vessel only houses the most meager of potatoes, the hardiest of reeds. The barest of wheat to make the most stubborn of flours – nothing like the meal that Ranger North sat down to in that transmission. That is the fare of most of Gamble Galaxy – most of the universe at large, if the other Galaxies haven't outright starved yet. In Gamble Galaxy, you took your chances and made the most of things. It wasn't surprising that that Ranger Dee was so willing to risk death cutting open that loaf of bread, or shaking a mystery flower open in the first place. But...

...it seems on Popstar, the odds are in your favor. You adjust your course, along with the new transmission. Still far away.

So, imagine: one moment you don't exist, and the next moment, you do, falling through the air, down to the ground. You're light enough that the fall doesn't hurt you, and you land on your feet, which you already know how to use, just like you know how to use the rest of you. You're fluent in a language called Wanya, and can muddle through simple equivalents of the local language of whatever region you've commenced your existence in – but that, combined with the voice equivalent to a five-year-old child coming out of your mouth, means you'll be seen much as a child by the typically much, much larger folk around you.

That's okay. You're new anyway, and the universe by and large has accepted the child labor that you represent. The universe doesn't have much choice really – you're there to work. From the moment your simple orange feet touched the ground, you knew two things down to your very soul: that there was work to do here, and that you were here to get it done. That surety of purpose, that certainty in your life, is your inheritance. That certainty is your very birthright.

Well, pop-right, anyway. You popped! That's what everyone calls it, including the other Waddle Dee that popped in along with you. Apparently it's very rare for a Waddle Dee to pop in alone. Almost unheard of, really. Good thing you didn't pop alone! There's lots to do, and it's rare one Waddle Dee alone is enough to get the job done.

So you get to work, along with your fellows, with enough inherent knowledge of the task, context, and area to get the work done, and it's simple, but it's yours to do. You get to live a life of surety and productivity, surrounded by others that look just like you, and sound just like you, and none of you are going to grow for the vast majority of you lives. You'll always sound like a child, to others you'll always look like a child, and it will always be that way. You will never, ever get to grow up.

But...that doesn't mean you don't grow. On the contrary! You're going to grow a lot.

Over time, every Waddle Dee inevitably picks up skills, knowledge, and experiences. They discover preferences, and personal tastes. Over time, you become more distinct from your fellow Waddle Dee, even if you do all look identical to each other – you naturally perform certain tasks more than the other Waddle Dee, and certain things come more easily and naturally to you than the others. You're totally different! Maybe, for example, you pick up a wrench one day, and realize it's a really, really neat tool. Or maybe you pick up a bucket, and something about that simple, straightforward object speaks to your soul. Small things, simple things, but in the life of a Waddle Dee, small, simple things take on great significance. After all, maybe nobody else in your group really understands a wrench.

They're like...clubs, right?

No, dummy! You use the teeth to turn screws and stuff!

Huh? It has...teeth?

They don't get it at all, but you do. You're a Wrench Dee now. You learn everything there is to know about wrenches and how to use them, and when the group needs someone to use this weird club-thing that isn't a club? You're the Dee they turn to. Not anydee else.

Or, perhaps you learn to use that bucket in ways the others didn't imagine – didja know it could be a stool if you turn it upside down? Or you can use it to carry this? And this is exactly how much a single Waddle Dee can carry in a bucket this size – your bucket. You're a Bucket Dee, and in a universe absolutely full of buckets, the one you carry around is yours, and yours alone.

This is the life of a Waddle Dee – they specialize, they focus. On the small, often the functional – but sometimes the administrative or artistic. Not all work is manual labor, after all. And while their worlds and focuses are simple and small, they're not limited by what they do for the whole of their lives. Often they'll grow, and expand their trades, bringing experience and insight into new avenues of work as the circumstances around them inevitably change. The Wrench Dee discovers other tools, and becomes a Tool Dee who knows what all the tools are used for, and when best to use them. They take that knowledge, and become a Blacksmith Dee, or a Mechanic Dee. Maybe, with enough time, even both.

The Bucket Dee? Perhaps they took that simple knowledge and became a Forager Dee, learning to gather the optimal amount of forage into their bucket, better at gathering up hauls of forage better than anydee! Perhaps they take that knowledge, spending more and more time afield, and learn about the natural world, becoming a Ranger Dee. These advanced roles rely on layer upon layer of thorough knowledge and understanding, and those newly-popped Waddle Dee might well look on these veteran Dees with stars in their eyes. They know so much more than how to hold a wrench, or how to use a bucket.

This is the life of a Waddle Dee. Growing, learning. Understanding the world and their place within it more and more and more. Seeing their worlds and lives through the lens of a task, a role, an understanding built on the foundation of knowing they exist to do, to accomplish what only they can with their simple nubs and bodies frozen in perpetual childhood. The life of a Waddle Dee is simple, but from the moment they pop to the moment they burn away, they live with the certainty of knowing their place in the universe, from their first breath, to their last. In bygone eras and better times, to be a Waddle Dee would be a simple, pleasant and utimately satisfying existence.

Hello! Hi! Um...I...

The Waddle Dee seems uncertain for a moment, brow furrowing as his mind works out a presentation on the fly.

Sorry, I...I was so surprised by everything, I had to start recording...everyone needs to see this place! It...

The Waddle Dee takes a breath, before reaching up and adjusting the hat upon his head. It's a green beret, faded with time, but features a distinctive symbol on one side – a leaf, with five leaflets striking out sharply from it's base.

Right! I...am a Ranger Dee! Ranger Dee North of Freerock 13! I ranged across the northern regions of the planetoid, so I'm Ranger North! Or...at least, I was.

The Waddle Dee looks downcast as he explains.

Our um, whole rock got swallowed up by an Other Dimensional portal. It was like a big mouth that just opened up and gulped us down like a potato. It was really windy in the Other Dimension, and I got swept up...I thought I was gonna die, but then I ended up here! And...um...maybe I did die? Um...look.

Two nubs reach out to the sides of the screen, the view shaking as he lifts the screen, standing up and holding it up to an impossible sight – the blue is from the sky, clear and overlooking an ocean of green grass.

Like, this place can't be real, right? There's grass, um...it's everywhere. I've walked for awhile and it hasn't stopped. It's ev-er-y-where.

The screen shakes as the Waddle Dee struggles with the device, which must be a similar size to his own body – when he sets it down, your view of him is close to eye-level, two brown, sparkling eyes staring back at you.

I've never seen this much grass. Never-ever! I didn't think this much grass could even exist! And the air, um...

The Waddle Dee's face scrunches in thought.

...it's really hard to say in Common. It, um...I know only Waddle Dee bother with Wanya, I better speak Common...the air smells. But, but good! Like...you can breath it in, and you don't cough, and the sky is blue, like really blue? It's not orange like the indus...indus...the worlds that make stuff, it's not red like the death-worlds, it's not smoggy or foggy or...it's blue!

The Waddle Dee says it with exuberance and delight. He struggles with Common, as all Waddle Dee do, sounding as childish as his voice suggests he is. Still, he bears the customary hat of a seasoned ranger, and his enthusiasm is understandable. He is on a breathable world, with a clear sky and surrounded by grass. Life. It isn't possible, but the recording is plain to see. The Waddle Dee sits again, his mouth invisible but his eyes crinkle upwards in what is clearly a grin.

I think I know where I am. This must be Popstar – there were rumors of this world, just popping into existence somewhere really far away in the galaxy...if the Other Dimensional portals sent me far enough...maybe I really did land there? It has to be, right!? There's no...

The screen turns, to face an impossibly idyllic grassland. A field rolls across gentle hills like a frozen ocean of green life.

Nowhere like this is real. Nowhere like this exists. But...

The screen jerks as the Waddle Dee maneuvers it back to face him.

...as a Ranger Dee, it's my duty to explore and doc...docu...make sure people know about this place! So I'm gonna look around, and make recordings, and if I don't die, I'll send them into space! My tablet can, um...trans...mit! Trans-mit! Yes, I'll trans-mit more recordings! Unless something kills me, but...

The Waddle Dee frowns for a moment, gaze downcast in disquieted thought.

...I don't...I haven't run into anything that seems dangerous, yet. Weird, right?

The Waddle Dee looks back up to the screen, a sparkle-eyed grin on his face.

But it's true so far! So, um...if I survive, I'll keep trans-mitting! It's my duty as a Ranger Dee to inform others of this new world! So...I'll keep you posted! But for now...

The Waddle Dee straightens up, reaching up with one nub to tip his hat forward with a confident wink.

Ranger North, ending report!

...the screen goes blank. The transmission is over...there isn't much to do now, but repair the interior of your cramped spaceship and tend to your food supply. As you work, however, you can't get the image out of your head – blue skies. You'd only ever heard rumors, of blue skies. Such a thing wasn't supposed to be possible – ridiculous fancy. Yet there it was, on the screen.

Once you're confident your ship isn't going to fall apart around you, you set a course for the vague direction of the transmission. There's nothing but void, in that direction.