The grelm never ate or drank. Like a tree, it drew sustenance from the wetland soil, the fog and the rain. Warmed by the sun, it took pleasure in the light of the moon. A thousand years it had spent in the lowlands that extended into the bay. The bay whose waters continued to advance year by year, gobbling more and more of the land. It knew nothing of climate change, only that in recent times  unsettling feelings had begun troubling it. Uncertainty crept into its mind about the choice it had made in settling here when the interstellar craft it piloted had crashed so long ago. Too late now to move, with its roots—figuratively and literally, sunk too deeply in the place. It wondered at the visitors who came with tools and instruments—measuring water depth and more. Had they come to help—to provide some salvation? The grelm could not communicate directly with them, but thought they felt its presence. What their intentions were or purpose being here remained a mystery to the mute grelm. Perhaps a strong burst of life force, before the retreating land drained what strength remained in its body, could bridge the gap between the minds of humans and grelm.