Cnidaria

There were no seasons to speak of, not anymore. Just the yellow-sulfur sky and a faint bright spot. The fragile flotsam-cities frayed at the edges as they drifted, accumulating new rafts even as others worked up the courage to flee. In the end, they grew, just as their masters. Bit by bit, stretching out passive tentacles to ensnare the unwary, structure without form, more empty than full.

They danced in the secret heart of the city, danced in circles and chanted the name of their god. Beneath the poisoned seas, something shifted, rose, bulging at the surface of the water…