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Moist Talkers

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I know you've heard the rumors about the Moist Talkers. It isn't at all what you think.

Canada was sinking long before any of us got to calling ourselves moist, and I tell you, the pride of half-water humdrum is deep within our bones. When the ocean rolled up our flank and the Great Lakes poured forth endless water from deep down dark, you'd think we'd be running scared, but the first person who saw those rushing depths come shallow went diving, first thing. She walked out with water in her mouth and a new language that just made sense. Now, maybe you don't see what we saw in those frothy waves. We all came from water. It's our creator and our creation.

When we took our first steps into the wet, it was like looking back at the genesis of Blaseball, long before this first season came round; it was like the water flooded into our ears and told us what whispers the old gods left behind. Rushing currents screamed at us, and we submerged our bodies and souls to hear what verse they had to recite. We got a perspective on the history that nobody else does. We learned the language and called our Blaseball team the Moist Talkers, making sure we sprayed our collective understanding everywhere we go. Those waters run deeper and thicker than any blood in the Bloodhouse, any magma in Hades, any Los Angeles salsa. It's part of us now.

When we walked out of the moist, hand-in-hand, we saw how the land was incomplete and decided to join together water and earth. We let the lakes, dams, and rivers overflow to form Sunken Halifax, and saw some provinces be covered under miles of water. Our collective reality became the truth, and the old gods of Blaseball misted frothy glee between our teeth. Now we see the fish and kelp as we cross to our day to days, cheer with sharks when we see Eugenia Garbage fire off another homer, and let the current carry us to where Billy Blean Deities want us to go next.

We plunge our heads into the collective salivation of the Gleek Arena every home game to hear the spectators roar in our language. We roll the Receptacle out and sacrifice a fan to our united waters every halftime and feel the water ripple with excitement at our feet. We look out at the sunken hills of Halifax and call it home, with its mossy concrete forests and new constructed waterways. You can look down at ancient ritual and old-hat tradition as long as you want, but the old gods of Blaseball see what we do and we know they're pleased. We hear it in the waters; we say it when we spray it.