The cry of seabirds. The delicate, permeating scent of Temple blood. The laughter of children. The shouts of merchants and hawkers. The roar of approaching spacecraft. The distant, haunting howls of the Eidolon. Cetus.
Not much ruffles an Ostron. It is as if they have made peace with whatever will be. The closeness of the Unum provides a kind of comfort, offworlders suppose. Or perhaps some of the sanguine knowingness of the enigmatic Quills has rubbed off on them.