Visitors 101 Our most distant cousins have been visiting us for millennia. It is only in relatively recent history since the invention of the camera that their surprisingly friendly visitations have been documented on film. Previously humans relied on written accounts or artistic depictions, some of which we hope to show you should they be released to us soon. However this evidence, when it occasionally surfaces is quickly confiscated or ridiculed and labelled as a hoax, so amazingly these visits remain merely a myth until this day. In dusty boxes hidden in shady museums and secure facilities these pictures are mostly hidden away indefinitely until someone discovers them and is brave enough to leak them onto the internet and into public consciousness. Here is our first batch of pictorial documentation of these visitors throughout the ages. Visitor 065 - c1900s Arctura the Zunarian from Ixion Compact It was one of those nights in Ballyvaughan when the moon leaned too close, and the stars whispered things best not repeated. Seamus, who had lived his fifteen years in a cottage that crouched like a conspirator at the edge of a bog, was out for a stroll that was more aimless than usual. The peat-laden air clung to him like a damp cloak, and his boots squelched as if the ground itself wished to argue his passage. It was then, as he neared the moss-covered gatepost, that he saw her. The feline - if such a term could encompass the creature -sat atop the post, backlit by a moon that seemed unnaturally large. Her form shimmered in hues Seamus had no names for, and her eyes - two liquid orbs of refracted starlight - fixed on him with the clarity of a scholar examining a particularly dense text. “Seamus O’Shea, you’ve the look of a man unburdened by understanding,” she purred, her voice lilting and disarmingly melodic. “But not to worry, for tonight, ignorance becomes a kind of currency.” Seamus, being no stranger to peculiarities - having once argued philosophy with a fishmonger’s parrot - merely tilted his head. “You’ve the advantage of me, miss,” he said cautiously. “That I do,” replied the cat, now grooming a paw with a precision that seemed almost mathematical. “My name is Arctura, traveller of the Heliosphere and humble emissary of the Ixion Compact. I’ve come to teach you languages, Seamus. Yours, mine, and the ones in between.” By way of demonstration, Arctura uttered a series of sounds that seemed to rearrange the air itself. Trees leaned closer, the bog sighed in approval, and Seamus suddenly recalled a childhood memory of falling into a barrel of cider - except it wasn’t his memory at all. The experience was as baffling as it was exhilarating. The lessons began immediately. Over the course of weeks, Arctura unfolded her world to Seamus in conversations that turned the mundane inside out. She taught him how to shape vowels that resonated with the fabric of space-time and verbs that bent the will of nearby frogs. She spoke of her people’s rituals - their lunar dances that rewrote gravity for a night, their fasting during the new moon to commune with a substance they called Luminax. The Luminax, she explained, was a strange material capable of peculiar feats: it could turn shadow into light, mend broken hearts (literal and metaphorical), and render objects invisible to the cynical. “It’s both everything and nothing, a riddle in atomic form,” she said, her tail swishing with emphasis. “And it’s the reason I’m here.” Seamus learned to weave words into lattices of meaning that defied logic, and in return, he shared stories of Ballyvaughan: the pub that brewed beer so thick it could double as mortar, the priest who once exorcised a bicycle, and the endless turf wars between rival families of sheep. It was on the night of a full moon, as Arctura performed a complex dance that seemed to blur her outline, that she revealed the crux of her mission. “Seamus,” she said, her voice tinged with uncharacteristic gravity, “Luminax exists here, in this very bog. But it’s entangled with your world’s most confounding element: belief. Without belief, it’s inert. But with the right belief...” She didn’t finish the sentence, for Seamus had already begun to imagine. He pictured fields of golden Luminax swaying under the Irish sun, bringing an end to the village’s endless feuds and uniting man and sheep alike in harmony. He saw a world where words had power beyond reckoning, where every utterance could heal or build. And as he pictured it, the bog began to glow faintly, as if touched by the embers of a long-forgotten fire. Arctura’s eyes gleamed with approval. “You’re beginning to understand,” she said. By the time she left - vanishing into the mist with a promise to return - Seamus was no longer the same young man. He carried with him not just the weight of new knowledge but the dizzying lightness of possibility. And in the glow of the bog, he swore he could hear faint laughter, as if the world itself had just remembered a very good joke.