Matte Blue Pearl
Pearl does not have a Master.
Well. No. That's not true. Officially, her Master is Blue Diamond herself. That is only a technicality, however. Pearl has only ever seen her Diamond once, and at a great distance. Blue Diamond feels more like a figure, a concept, one too great and too grand for Pearl to truly comprehend.
No. While Blue Diamond may be her owner, what she serves is the Lunar Sea Spire itself.
Pearl knows that there was a time before the Sea Spire. That she emerged on some far away planet and was warped here only after her training and induction. But Pearl's memories of those times are dim, obscured as if by mist. All Pearl has ever truly known is the Spire; its rushing water, its graceful architecture, its long, sloping hallways, its beautifully carved statues, its magnificent views.
Pearl's duties are numerous, and she does them all well. Greet new guests. Accompany them to their chambers. Guide them to wherever they want to go. Answer their questions, if asked. Entertain with holograms, song and dance. When not otherwise occupied, stand at attention in public spaces, in case her service is required.
Her favourite duty, however, is maintenance.
She only gets assigned the duty occasionally, when the Spire is empty enough that the visitors do not actively require her. Then she gets sent down to the tower's very base, to ensure that it is tidy, clean, and well-looked-after.
Down there, water from the waterfall is always spraying up, and from that water comes life. It grows so quickly. It's impressive, actually. Algae, barnacles, crabs— it seems that no sooner has Pearl cleaned it away that it all comes back once more. The barnacles in particular show remarkable tenacity. They hardly seem like organic creatures at all, more like rocks than anything, and they grip onto the surface, refusing to let go. Or, well, not quite refusing; it may take a while, but if Pearl works at them with a scraper, she'll eventually manage to clean them off. It's tough but rewarding work.
Pearl always feels a little bad when she tosses their remains over the side off the balcony, into the wild water below, but she likes to think that maybe they'll be able to regrow down there.
Besides, she could hardly leave them here. She'd be punished for such a mess, foremost. But more than that, it would be such a shame if someone were to come down, and they did not see the base at its best.
Guests rarely come down here. Pearl thinks this a true shame. It's quiet here. Or— no, not quiet. In fact the roar of the waterfall is so loud that it is almost deafening. But it is peaceful. And perhaps you do not get the same glorious views of the seas and the stars as from the top of the tower, but she herself adores watching the constant cascade of water, every shifting, immense and powerful.
It is calming. The Spire's guests need calm, more than ever. Tension is growing. Pearl only hears whispers about it, can only guess what it's about. Gems have become skittish, nervous, constantly looking over their shoulder.
One day a new statue is installed. Carved from delicate blue stone, it depicts a faceless Gem with four arms. A Hybrid Fusion, they call it. Many praise its artistry and elegance, even as others angrily call for its immediate removal. Pearl does what little she can to mediate the situation, and is endlessly relieved when a superior Gem comes to handle the scene, instead sending her down to clean.
Pearl's scraping away the algae and pondering the strange reactions to the statue, when among the dull roar of water, she heads something new. She pauses, straining to catch it.
It sounds like singing.
"Hello?" she asks, but nobody answers.
She follows the sound, and eventually finds its source. It's not a Gem at all.
There is a crevice between a pillar and a wall, and tucked inside is an odd brown bundle. Wondering what it could be, and how it got there in the first place, Pearl stands on her tip-toes and peers inside;
A bird, with three white orbs.
The bird squawks and flaps indignantly when it notices her. Pearl jumps back, more out of shock than fear.
Further back, she studies the creature curiously. She's seen birds flying around, flitting among the water, catching fish, but she's never been so close. It's bigger than she would of thought. Its black beak looks quite sharp. She thinks, though, that she might be able to handle it. A pearl is most certainly not a quartz, but they are stronger still than most organic creatures, and faster, so she could most likely dispose of the bird on her own.
But the thing is so angry and furious. A swipe of its beak would hurt, so Pearl is in no hurry to try.
Besides, it seems a shame to kill it. Perhaps it will simply fly away on its own.
It does not.
Sometime later, Pearl returns to find not just one squawking bird, but five. Two large, three small. Carefully looking into the nest (while dodging flying feathers and talons), she finds the shattered remains of the white orbs. This must be what was inside of them. Tinier birds! How queer!
These ones don't sing nearly as nicely as their parents. And their feathers are very fluffy, their wings oddly small. They are not, Pearl realises, going to fly away.
But she still can't find it in herself to kill them.
"Oh dear," she says. She truly, truly hopes nobody else comes down and finds them, or the mess they make.
She gets on with things. She visits the birds as often as she can, between her other duties. Thankfully, it seems no one else has noticed them. Perhaps it simply is because nobody has had the chance to. Less and less guests are visiting the Spire these days. Those who do are very on edge, easily irritated. Pearl catches more rumours— rumours about dissent, rebellion, war.
Pearl supposes she should be worried, but she just can't feel it within herself to be much bothered. It all seems to far away, so distant. She's certain that whatever is going on will pass.
For now, it gives her more time to visit the birds.
The little ones are not so little any more. They've grown big. They've learned how to fly. Pearl watches them sometimes, soaring and dipping through the mist of the waterfall. Eventually, two of them fly away, and never come back. Pearl wonders where they've gone. What they've seen.
The others have stayed.
Pearl helps them. She delivers things beneath their crevice, things she thinks they might like. That they might find useful. Scraped moss to line their nest. Squiggly water bugs and dead crabs for them to eat. Little trinkets that guests leave behind, and never come back for. The birds like shiny things, she finds. They're very much like Gems, in that respect.
Pearl likes the birds. The birds, perhaps, may even like her back.
She takes things from them, too. Little things. Things they won't miss. Pieces of their eggshells, small and fragile, carefully cleaned and dried. Feathers. The ones they've shed. She likes to run her fingers through them, the texture so soft and strange.
She keeps them inside her gemstone, for safekeeping. And when the birds fly away, far past the horizon, to places Pearl will never see, she holds a piece of them inside her always.