Alien grass, or hairy skeins exuded from animal scalp, or yarny threads crafted by Dofun weavers. My dear Padulweis, you are the only bosom friend that could weave with me on this moon or the next. Whatever the make, a glass case in the gallery to protect the organic matter of this mask from the chiggering dermestids and ravenous mites that seek to eat the cosmos into dust and casings. And a warm orange lamp, for the warm fibres of the mask. Or is it a cold light that we need instead, Padulweis? Optics never were my strength. Necessary also - a plaque beneath the case to explain the Dofun, who will explain nothing to the rest of us about the skeins, or the horn-mounds tied with dark threads. Primitive superstitions from primitive thinking - that is as much explanation as I need, Padulweis. As if eldritch lunar ghul tremble at colored string. The feeding tube, coated in some milky residue, speaks for itself. Remember the violence of the Dofun septs. Every freighter they find, they dismantle and burn. Conflagration. Inferno. Boiling flesh and scorched goods and twisted metals and the wail of stranded drifters. Ward the freight.