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The beings around him are distracting enough that Shep has trouble concentrating on what Carry is saying. Fur, scales, extra limbs, unfamiliar shapes, and things he can’t easily classify pull at his attention from every direction.

"Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it. Shakespeare, right? Never read it myself. I always preferred getting lost in novels."

He tries to focus on Carry, but discomfort keeps tightening in his chest. He was raised to believe that creatures like these were dangerous, and too many experiences have taught him how easily that belief can turn into fear. The more rational part of him insists that a person should be judged by their actions, not their appearance or what they are. Surrounded by so many beings his upbringing taught him to distrust, though, holding on to that principle is harder than he wants to admit.

He focuses instead on the storyteller, trying to ignore the mental struggle and let the story wash over him. Almost immediately, other thoughts take its place. oO(How long have I had these talents? I don’t feel any different. Does this make me a d-bee too? Or just a monster?)Oo Another thought intrudes, one that has bothered him since the night of the walking dead. He almost killed Nova. Was that the monster inside him that did that?

His wondering thoughts are finally interrupted by Carry resting her head on his shoulder and relaxing. A feeling like she's melting over him and comfortable. Then abrupt applause interrupts the cozy moment as the narrator finishes his rendition of a Shakespearean review. The old man stands, wraps his book in a clean cloth and puts it into a waterproof bag as the reptile waddles past him and stands on the mini stage.

The reptile let's out an awful screech, then holds up it's short clawed front talons and clicks some electronic device hanging from a necklace, "Oh! That's better!" It says in an odd accent that overpowers the shrill screeches, "Sorry for that. I forgot to activate my speech translator. Where was I?" Whilst opening a canvas sack and pulling out an old, weathered, leather-bound book with pages about to crumble. He carefully opens it. "Who hear has read any of Jules Vern's works?"

Shep perks up a little, temporarily distracted from his internal monologue. Jules Verne had been one of the kids’ favorite authors, and he only wished the library had carried more of his work. The few books they did have listed other adventurous titles on their opening pages, giving him hope that someday he might find other good stories.

The children especially loved Journey to the Center of the Earth. When he read it to the younger ones, he would compress the opening chapters into a more exciting tale rather than dwell on the drier passages about mineralogy and runic studies. He made sure the older children understood that those details helped build the psychology of the characters, allowing them to feel the story more deeply.

In hindsight, he sometimes wondered if he had been unnaturally good at knowing when to change his approach to keep his audience engaged. oO(Was that my ability manifesting itself even back then?)Oo he wonders.

"Jules Verne is someone I’ve read a few books from," he whispers to Carry. "Journey to the Center of the Earth, Around the World in Eighty Days, and In Search of the Castaways." Her closeness makes his internal struggle more complicated, especially after their recent connection. He enjoys the warmth and closeness of a woman, something he hasn’t felt in ages, but she’s... she’s not normal. oO(But then again, neither am I.)Oo

"I used to read them at the library to the local kids. They always loved Journey to the Center of the Earth, especially."

As if on queue, the lizard begins, "Today, I'm reviewing 'The Journey to the Center of the Earth.' Fascinating book based on scientific facts that may be askew to the author, but the story is truly a marvel of astounding ingenuity. Mr. Vern's characters are colorful and my favorite characters were Hans and Gertrude.

"The part I didn't much care for was when they started killing the dinosaurs. I feel like our kind are misunderstood," the lizard glances through the crowd, "But in total, it's a story of science, adventure, romance and intrigue as they venture of into the impossible depths of Earth. This book was written before the cataclysm and I would have loved to meet Mr. Vern to inquire on how he came about this story and to trade secret knowledge of the world."

The bi-pedal lizard finally goes into the premise of the story on how the plumb bob, made of Icelandic peridotite, started the whole adventure in a land known as Scotland.

"Oh, you should give me your version of the review," her youthful smile breaches into Shep's feelings. He can sense her comfort, as though she's spent years in fear and finally feels safe.

Eventually, the lizard's book review finishes, "Thank you everyone. My name is Karak't and I hope to find more stories to review or even read here," as he slaps his leather-bound book closed and walks back over to a stone ledge to rest against. Shep notices supplies near the outcropping, including a rather large cannon that looks designed to be strapped to the poor reptile. There's also a backpack with a rail gun strapped to it. Karak't hoists up the cannon and successfully stuffs it into the large pack with difficulty. Then dons the backpack like a child getting ready for a long walk to school.

A regular looking elderly lady walks to the mini-stage and asks, "Does anyone else have a good book to review?"

Shep looks around expectantly and when no one else speaks up, he asks Carry "What do you think? Want to hear a tale?" [OOC: Assuming he gets an affirmative response.] He extricates himself from Carry and asks the woman on the stage. "May I give a book review? I don't have the book with me, but I've read many."

He walks up onto the stage and faces the crowd, pausing for a moment as he considers which of the many books he’s read might speak most deeply to this unusual crowd. After a few heartbeats, he settles on a title. He lifts his head, brushing his peppered gray hair back from his face.

“This story is about a human named Tully. Frightened and hunted, he finds himself far from home, deep on the edge of the galaxy.”

Shep draws his harmonica and plays a few soft, uplifting notes.

“He falls into the hands of an underestimated people known as the Hani. They are not the most powerful species in the galaxy, and they have no reason to risk themselves for a stranger. Yet when they see Tully’s fear, they choose compassion.”

Another gentle melody slips from the harmonica.

“But compassion has a cost. Other species—predators, traders, and manipulators—take notice. They wonder what these quiet Hani are doing. What game they’re playing.”

A sharper, more dramatic flourish bursts forth from the harmonica.

“In a galaxy ruled by fear, suspicion, and greed, the Hani break the pattern. Their act of mercy draws scrutiny from every major faction. Suddenly, these people, who were so easy to overlook, become something unexpected: a moral center in a political landscape that has forgotten morality.”

He plays a slow, rising melody, then lets the final note fade.

“The Hani, named Chanur, and Tully's ship becomes a flashpoint, one of the few places where species who normally distrust each other are forced into dialogue. The Hani never meant to change the galaxy. They simply refused to hand a frightened man over to cruelty.”

Shep builds the harmonica’s song slowly toward a final crescendo, then abruptly stops and lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Thus is the tale of The Chanur Saga, by C. J. Cherryh.”

He closes his eyes and bows his head in quiet respect.

Shep looks around expectantly and when no one else speaks up, he asks Carry "What do you think? Want to hear a tale?" He extricates himself from Carry and asks the woman on the stage. "May I give a book review? I don't have the book with me, but I've read many."

He walks up onto the stage and faces the crowd, pausing for a moment as he considers which of the many books he’s read might speak most deeply to this unusual crowd. After a few heartbeats, he settles on a title. He lifts his head, brushing his peppered gray hair back from his face.

“This story is about a human named Tully. Frightened and hunted, he finds himself far from home, deep on the edge of the galaxy.”

Shep draws his harmonica and plays a few soft, uplifting notes.

“He falls into the hands of an underestimated people known as the Hani. They are not the most powerful species in the galaxy, and they have no reason to risk themselves for a stranger. Yet when they see Tully’s fear, they choose compassion.”

Another gentle melody slips from the harmonica.

“But compassion has a cost. Other species—predators, traders, and manipulators—take notice. They wonder what these quiet Hani are doing. What game they’re playing.”

A sharper, more dramatic flourish bursts forth from the harmonica.

“In a galaxy ruled by fear, suspicion, and greed, the Hani break the pattern. Their act of mercy draws scrutiny from every major faction. Suddenly, these people, who were so easy to overlook, become something unexpected: a moral center in a political landscape that has forgotten morality.”

He plays a slow, rising melody, then lets the final note fade.

“The Hani, named Chanur, and Tully's ship becomes a flashpoint, one of the few places where species who normally distrust each other are forced into dialogue. The Hani never meant to change the galaxy. They simply refused to hand a frightened man over to cruelty.”

Shep builds the harmonica’s song slowly toward a final crescendo, then abruptly stops and lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Thus is the tale of The Chanur Saga, by C. J. Cherryh.”

He closes his eyes and bows his head in quiet respect as the crowd begins clapping. Several of the onlookers, including the M.C., Karak't and even Carry all cheer, "Do another!" Carry's smile is wide and her blue toned skin only make her teeth look brighter. Karak't sets his pack and weapons back down. The elderly M.C. just keeps clapping enthusiastically as she nods in agreement.

Shep notices several members of the audience jotting down the title and author into little notepads.

Shep considers the question, then looks around the circle at the fur, scales, extra limbs, and unfamiliar faces. He takes a moment to study the crowd before answering, noting who seems relaxed, who has gone still, and who is watching him rather than the stage.

“I could do one more, I suppose. It’s called The Island of Doctor Moreau, by H. G. Wells. You may have heard of it. My apologies if it hits too close to home, but some times the uncomfortable can drive the mind down a deeper path.”

He pauses, keeping the harmonica loose in one hand.

“It’s about a man who finds himself stranded on an island controlled by a brilliant scientist. The scientist has taken animals and altered them into beings that can walk, speak, think, and follow laws. But he doesn’t call them people. He calls them experiments.” Shep lets his gaze move across the audience again, careful not to linger too long on anyone. He watches their reactions to see if this tale may resonate with their plight without letting it take them too far. He wants them to think, not riot.

“Their creator decides what they are allowed to be. He gives them rules and punishes them when they fail to live up to his idea of humanity. They are expected to act like people, but they are never allowed to forget that someone else believes they are only beasts underneath.” He plays a few low notes of a dramatic melody on the harmonica. He pauses to let the sound fade into silence. “The question at the heart of the story is simple enough. What makes someone a person? Is it the shape of their body? Where they came from? Who made them? Or is it the way they think, the choices they make, and the way they treat others?”

His fingers tighten slightly around the harmonica. “The people on the island are feared because they are different. Some of them are dangerous, but so is their creator. The story does not pretend that every altered creature is innocent, or that every human is cruel. It asks us to look more carefully than that.”

He lowers the harmonica and studies the listeners, paying particular attention to anyone who seems offended, frightened, or suddenly too interested.

“If the only thing separating a person from a monster is someone else’s decision, then perhaps the real danger is not the creature being judged. Perhaps it is the person who believes he has the right to make that judgment.”

Shep lets the final words hang in the lantern-lit air, then raises the harmonica to his lips. He plays “Shenandoah” softly, keeping the melody slow and gentle, giving the crowd time to breathe and allowing the story’s sharper edges to soften. The haunting notes spin off into the night like small flower petals floating on a gentle breeze.

Shep considers the question, then looks around the circle at the fur, scales, extra limbs, and unfamiliar faces. He takes a moment to study the crowd before answering, noting who seems relaxed, who has gone still, and who is watching him rather than the stage.

“I could do one more, I suppose. It’s called The Island of Doctor Moreau, by H. G. Wells. You may have heard of it. My apologies if it hits too close to home, but some times the uncomfortable can drive the mind down a deeper path.”

He pauses, keeping the harmonica loose in one hand.

“It’s about a man who finds himself stranded on an island controlled by a brilliant scientist. The scientist has taken animals and altered them into beings that can walk, speak, think, and follow laws. But he doesn’t call them people. He calls them experiments.” Shep lets his gaze move across the audience again, careful not to linger too long on anyone. He watches their reactions to see if this tale may resonate with their plight without letting it take them too far. He wants them to think, not riot.

“Their creator decides what they are allowed to be. He gives them rules and punishes them when they fail to live up to his idea of humanity. They are expected to act like people, but they are never allowed to forget that someone else believes they are only beasts underneath.” He plays a few low notes of a dramatic melody on the harmonica. He pauses to let the sound fade into silence. “The question at the heart of the story is simple enough. What makes someone a person? Is it the shape of their body? Where they came from? Who made them? Or is it the way they think, the choices they make, and the way they treat others?”

Someone from the audience bellows out, "Exactly!"

His fingers tighten slightly around the harmonica. “The people on the island are feared because they are different. Some of them are dangerous, but so is their creator. The story does not pretend that every altered creature is innocent, or that every human is cruel. It asks us to look more carefully than that.”

He lowers the harmonica and studies the listeners, he sees all of them engrossed in the story. Some have shed tears, some are eager to hear more... Some are angry, including Karak't, who seems to nod at the final statement. Carry seems to watch Shep in amorous adoration.

“If the only thing separating a person from a monster is someone else’s decision, then perhaps the real danger is not the creature being judged. Perhaps it is the person who believes he has the right to make that judgment.”

"Preach it, brother!" An elderly looking scaled man pumps his fist in the air.

Shep lets the final words hang in the lantern-lit air, then raises the harmonica to his lips. He plays “Shenandoah” softly, keeping the melody slow and gentle, giving the crowd time to breathe and allowing the story’s sharper edges to soften. The haunting notes spin off into the night like small flower petals floating on a gentle breeze.

The elderly woman stands and walks over to Shep as his music's final echo seems to fade into the mountainside. "Are you here to continue our late shepherd's work? We've been waiting so long!" They titled him by name. The woman looks completely human, so it's possible that she's more like him. As he looks around the audience, he's noticed that they look more like a congregation than a book club. Although, in old times, Christianity was competing for the largest book club in the known world.

Carry walks up to the stage as well and hugs him tightly, then whispers, "I knew it. You're a good man!"

OOC: I shortened it up quite a bit.

OOC: Now I'm interested in the longer version.

Shep briefly returns Carry's embrace, but he is distracted by the turn of events. "I'm afraid you may have me confused with someone else," he says to the woman. "My intent with those stories was simply to give these people hope." He gestures with his arms, as if to encompass the entire crowd. "I'm a simple man trying to make sense of an oftentimes brutal world. I'm no leader... or shepherd."

Shep briefly returns Carry's embrace, but he is distracted by the turn of events. "I'm afraid you may have me confused with someone else," he says to the woman. "My intent with those stories was simply to give these people hope." He gestures with his arms, as if to encompass the entire crowd. "I'm a simple man trying to make sense of an oftentimes brutal world. I'm no leader... or shepherd."

Many of the audience slide out of their seats and kneel; some on one knee, others on both, praying... Carry steps away and bows, "But your name is Shepherd. It makes total sense! Hope is what we all need in these dark times! We need someone to tell us it's going to be alright. And you just did that. Won't you stay?"

The old woman nods, "It's been awful for years for our kind. We've been oppressed, beaten, killed, robbed and degraded in public while everyone turns a blind eye to us."

Karak't, while he hasn't kneeled, or maybe he can't, seems to nod without a word.