Dear Crystal,

The moon hangs like a glistening sickle, poised to reap the stars and light up your name in my heart. The wind blows warm and eager, like the breath of a child whispering his greatest secrets into the ear of his love, and thusly reminds me of my warm love for you.

The people of this dessert are so intimately primitive, but at the same time far more advanced in the ways of magic. Far more so than we are in the ways of science it seems. They have adopted many strange cultures cultivating a number of the queerest of physical changes. At the age of 24 cycles of the moon they pierce a young warriors fingertips to the bone, and by hanging a collective range of weights manage the lengthen the bone structure over time. The end result is great thin but surprisingly agile fingers, and an overall length from proximal wrist to distal fingertips of roughly a third of a meter! These digits seem fantastically able to perform the task of gripping the dangerous and poisonous desert arthropods and reptiles. You will often see them strutting about, over turning rocks, seizing a great black scorpion sporting a three inch tail and a frightening looking stinger. The abominable fellows never seem to notice, just break open the harsh carapace and into their gourmet treats.

The leader of the group is one of the most surprising of all the Wanakiki tribe men. She sits a hut of unassuming stature, wearing naught but a grin, and daily receiving the seed of the villages most fertile males. Despite all the attempts she claims no heirs, for darling, she is barren, but all Wakanini believe that a child born of the barren queen will restore the light of the moon, making night as bright as day, and the stars will spill from the heavens restoring joy, peace, and love from the sky, Banishing hate, war and famine. At least this is the interpretation i got from a full day of arm waving and hand signs from the elegant queen, in between the visits of her consorts.

She is not the only one, however clothed in such unusual apparel. Most strut about, unabashed and dignified, proudly displaying their bodies with their long fingers silently swaying beside them. They move in utter silence, signing to each other with remarkable quickness in a language not understood by anyone not born a Wakanini. The females occasionally wear coconut halves, tied beneath the heel, in an odd mockery of high heels. Clumsily making rounds to gain the attention of the seemingly uninterested males. Perhaps they merely feign disinterest to promote such amusing antics?

For eight moons and a day have I live amongst the Wakanini, and have already attained a treasure trove of information, along with an actual treasure or two. I had a rendezvous with the queen yesterday. A very nonphysical one I assure you for she has made it clear to me that she only goes for her own gray skinned kind, with a surprisingly understandable series of gestures of her great waving hands. She greeted me with a grin, and spread wide her great hands in a gesture of welcome. Then rising from her seat she removed a sheep skin from beneath her bottom and pulled out the loveliest of shells from a hidden compartment. Then she lifted it high above her bare form, without the least sign of bashfulness, and began to hum. I could hear the hum resonate throughout the shell, echoing back as the most beautiful song Id ever heard since that first night I heard you sing “Que Santa Maria” in a long ago passed winter. I could swear the words to her song were in perfect English, or perhaps of a much more universal language. Perhaps the very language of our hearts. But I swear to you I heard words. I even made a few out.

Though our love may grow,

none shall ever know

the story of...

the story

But as soon as it started, she wrapped it in a spare bag of cat fur and the singing ceased. Then she stretched out her arms and offered her precious conch. Speechless and embarrassed enough for the two of us, I bowed and accepted. And not I send it to you with this letter, to let you know that your heart is the only treasure I ever wanted.

Your sweetest lover,

Alexander Elijah Von Wixby

P.S. Keep the shell from jealous eyes, eagle's cries, and water's rise.