When Alpha Sagittarii fell from the sky, it landed quite gently on the edge of the rainforests of what would come to be known as Antarctica. It landed with a skid, scorching flora and scarring the rich soil for a mile before coming to rest on the beach. The fallen star lay quietly, simply processing the feel of liquid oxidane (and wasn’t that unique!) lapping against scorched and healing skin as it surged and receded according to the pull of the small planet’s lone satellite. Alpha Sagittarii closed luminous, blazing eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the curious feeling of nitrogen and oxygen expanding new made lungs. It did not need to breathe, of course. Alpha Sagittarii was a blue B8V hydrogen-fusing dwarf star; the very air and water were it’s energy source. Yet it pleased it to take on this form, to encase itself in carbon and be bound by this planet’s weak gravity and spin.

The life of a star could be so tiring, an endless battle against gravity that could only end in death or singularity. Alpha Sagittarii longed for more, and so it stood slowly and gazed intently at the choppy waves of the ocean. It glanced down at the lovely brown legs it had fashioned for itself. It was nothing to change them, just the rearrangement of a few things on the quantum level, an easy task for such a long lived star, and then it was diving into the sea, deeper and deeper until the only trace of Alpha Sagittarii left were two neon blue pinpricks of light, the quick flash of a sleek blue tail, and a haunting, exuberant laugh that could sometimes be heard bubbling up from the darkest parts of the ocean floor.

The seas are full of such creatures.