Diamantes don’t have a concept of friendship.
To some, this is a ridiculous thing to assert — mantes are a social species. How could they function without this fundamental stitch in the interpersonal fabric? Indeed, at a coarse level, the skepticism is vindicated. If a “friend” is simply some bug you like, whose company you seek out and enjoy, who helps and supports you, then of course mantes have friends.
Still, no bug save the mantes have a true concept of spinegripping, as a verb, as a quality, as a state of being. Sure, the notion of holding something so tightly you break it is universal, a trivial corollary of physics.
But what other species has raptorial forelegs? an innate anatomy for striking prey and holding it piercingly steady, adapted as all things at intelligence command are for tool use. And this — the question of whether something is fit to hold within the precise, careful grasp of tarsi or the sharp, crushing grip of raptorials — that is something a mantes considers each and every time they pick something up.
Thus, to spinegrip a thing is a natural, primitive action. Other bugs can take analogous and similar actions, but not innately.
A chorus-roach without a choir of friends is grievously alone; to them, companionship is as necessary as a sense of safety. And a diamantis has social needs, too, but viewed head-on, in terms of what the mantis gets and gives, and “friend” is far from the best word for the dynamic.
Mantid social bonds fall into three categories. Besides the courtship of two bugs anxious for sex, a mantis seeks not friends, but rivals and admirers.
Each mantis has a defining ravin; the prey they hunt, the game they play, the pursuit they seek above all else. This passion animates life. While it is not the only thing they care about, it’s the first thing you’d ask for if you wanted to understand their identity. Imagine it like gender: you are a hunter, a player, a crafter, a dancer.
A mantis craves recognition; after they descend into the liminal focus of the hunt and emerge victorious, with pride overflowing they must sing and dance and be known. And this is what the admirer gives them. It’s not friendship — it’s not reciprocal. And this is what makes it meaningful.
The archetypal ideal of this relationship is that mantis simply seizes their prize and presents it to their admirer — offering nothing except one’s own glory, the admirer cannot help but be exulted.
And yet, what glory is there in being second best? Mantes do have reciprocal relationships — the mutual antagonism of two who share a ravin, and thus compete for the recognition of admirers.
Now, mantes love to fight and quarrel, and many bugs half-understand this, and presume mantes are all innately warlike and hostile. “To a mantis,” some say, “you either kneel in worshipful obedience, or you are their enemy.”
But, like with tarsigrasp and spinegrip, this is a nuance mantid language is far more equipped to portray. Only the most eusocial kinds would struggle to recognize that rivalry is a spectrum, but a mantis views even snarling tempers with a fond crescent-curled palp.
After all — why would two fighters be enemies, if it’s only through competition that they give their admirers something to witness at all?
“Mantes don’t have friends” is no entomological conclusion, it’s a chest-thumping declaration, a proud distinction drawn against other kinds. What good is a friend, when it takes a rival to truly encourage you to strive and excel? When achieving is obviously what it means to be fulfilled and happy?
Even if it’s someone you can’t stand being in the same room as without breaking into an argument — even then, that simply gives everyone else something to watch at a safe distance with snacks.
Of course, these two types of relationships are neither exhaustive nor exclusion. You can admire a mantis who shares your ravin. If they recognize you in turn, what better word for them than mentor; otherwise, they are an idol.
But if three or more mantes share a ravin, what comes into consideration is strategy.
Another tricky-to-translate notion is ally. To a mantes, this word has a very particular connotation: every ally is, to some extent, an ally of convenience. “The enemy of my enemy…” is so intuitive it needs no idiom. Two rivals may work together against a shared opposition. This may at times resemble friendship, but it only lasts as long as they both fail; and what familiarity is forged will when the dust settles make the ensuing rivalry all the deeper.
Admiration (poetically, valor) is considered purest when it isn’t reciprocal, but inevitable is the situation of two mantes being complements. They do not share a ravin, and thus there is little tension between them. Moreover, their pursuits actively complement each other — like a fletcher and an archer. They admire each other, and in working together, they yield something more admirable still.
Of course, only in naive theory would not sharing a ravin lead to mantes getting along — mantes will compete at the slightest opportunity. A cross-rival is a completion on unlike terms, as if to prove which ravin is superior. Because no matter how the disparate the pursuits, popularity is a shared language.
But what of the admirers? Mantes as a rule have ravins, so logistically each mantis at different times must give and receive valor. It can be as simple as impressed looks and spoken condemnation, but appreciation is its own art. Why else would complements be so common? A hunter brings down vigorous, elusive game, and a dance-poet limns the hunt with entrancing song.
Gifts may not be so tightly interdependent. A mantis discovers a new species of fish, and a flower-arranger gifts them a bouquet to congratulate; a player wins a tournament of sworder draughts, and a musician announces that night that their first song is played in honor of that.
Gender roles add a layer to these dynamics — to seek valor is feminine; to give it, masculine. The most valorous acts are those which seem to emerge as if solely from the wellspring of one’s own glory. The more an act is contingent to or dependent on or directed at another, the more the valor comes with a certain sense of caveat or dismissal.
Giving valor implies a certain vulnerability; to truly and earnestly admire is to submit, adopt a position at least beneath or at extreme subsumed by that which you adore. Fitting for a tiercel, but a formel finds a certain slight humiliation in it.
Given all of the relationship dynamics so far described, you may notice an absence, an undescribed possibility — what of two admirers, witnessing and reveling in the fruits of the same ravin?
There’s no nuance or twist to add to this. If two mantes sit together, joined by nothing but a shared delight, can you really say this isn’t friendship? But this is a marginal thing, mere boyish silliness — certainly nothing important, nothing fundamental.
Too easily, when describing mantid psychology, will you paint a picture that looks to be a race of vainglorious hotheads, forever wrestling for attention.
And that oversimplication is not based on nothing. But mantid personalities are no less varied than any other races; they’re just skewed differently.
To give a sketch of the diversity of mentalities possible, here’s a couple of axis on which most mantes are widely distributed.
Foremost is hunting style. When faced with a threat, a mantis will fight, whether now or when they’ve retreated and found advantage. The question is how? Aggressively or reactively? Head-on or from the shadows? Tracking with keen-scenting antennae or waiting with statuesque patience for the perfect time to strike? In short, are they a seeker, or a trapper?
Seekers get restless and hungry. The satisfaction of a pursuit’s success will only last them a short while before they’re looking forward to their next with sharpened forelegs. For the seeker, it also matters that they be seen prowling, pursuing their ravin. They cherish the freedom to pick their target.
Trappers, though, endure and they resist. They may reflect upon their past pursuits while they wait, perhaps keeping trophies, while they wonder what their next prize will be. They hide, whether it’s for stealth or safety, and pride themselves on their defenses, on their tactics. It will pay off; success will come to them and when it does they will pounce.
But there’s a second axis to hunting style. When faced with danger uncertain, how do they learn more and take on what threatens them? Do they plan or improvise, do they prepare until the pursuit is assured by the first step or will they recount a tale of thrills and suspense until the very end?
Planners watch from a safe distance; they learn the lay of the land, study the weakpoints, then train themselves until they’re equipped to face whatever lay ahead. They crave knowing what to expect, and often can’t cope with surprises. Planning for a hunt often feels like a hunt in itself.
Gamblers throw themselves into the thick of things, and adapt. They take risks, but it would be incorrect to think they are cavalier about uncertainty. They learn practically, in the moment — preferably with an escape route. They’ll train too, and may even prepare and plot out a few strategies, but all of it only comes together improvisationally.
These two axes form a quadrant. Plan-seekers set their eyes on a mark and devise schemes to overcome it; gamble-seekers will strike out at whatever opportunity presents itself. Seeker types are common and well-regarded, though their prominence is more a matter of salience bias than statistics.
Plan-trappers lay elaborate defenses against known threats. They study their target until they can manipulate everything right where they need it. Plan-trappers are common, if often less respected. Rarest of all four are gamble-trappers. They are wanderers and scavengers. Charitably, they discover and seize opportunity when it presents itself; insultingly, they expect the world to hand glory to them.
The other defining feature of mantid personalities is how they dance. Mantes are both extroverted (they crave attention and expression), and introverted (socializing quickly exhausts them).
Still, an analogue divide exists, carved more by whom a mantis prefers to target their dancing at. Where and who do they go to, to present their prizes? Do they command attention and attract large crowds, or does private correspondence satisfy them?
Performers care about how many people recognize them. They want to flaunt their glory unto accolades far and wide. If they meet someone new, they’re quick to recount their greatest deeds, boasting and even exaggerating them. They often enjoy the dance as much as the hunt itself.
Confidants, on the other hand, care about who recognizes them. Depth over breadth: the discerning regard of a few familiar, sophisticated admirers means more than a cheering crowd. Indeed, they may feel the exclusion may make it all the more special. Or more often, they’re somewhat embarrassed of their dancing, and much prefer to lose themselves in the flow of the hunt.
We’ve so far talked at length about how a mantis goes about pursuing a prize and presenting it, but there’s two side to that coin. How does a mantis admire? Make no mistake, each of the traits discussed so far influence the answer, both in how they fashion gifts, and in what they appreciate about the process.
Seekers are often bored or bewildered by the trapper’s patience and lack of initiative; trappers often scoff at seeker’s flashy wastefulness. Planners admire planners, wanting to know and appreciate all the ingenious details of the plan; gamblers enjoy the mystery and magic of not knowing. Performers might find themselves at home in the energy of a crowd, or perhaps they would feel less threatened in a confidant’s circle; confidants might enjoy the anonymity of the crowd, or be overwhelmed by it.
Taste varies with greater breadth than we can parameterize, but one off the biggest spectra is how open a mantis is to new things. Do they prefer a well-honed mastery of tradition, or the spark of true originality? Does eccentric experimentation disgust or excite them?
Refiners learn everything they can about their ravin, whether by listening to the masters or imitating them. They’re quick to notice when something’s done wrong, especially by their rival, and often show them up by improving exactly where they fail. Even as admirers, they make harsh critics, sometimes constructively, sometimes browbeatingly.
Explorers, meanwhile, see strict improvement as a kind of failure. Not worth remark, certainly not worth the striving. They prize discovery, insight, revelation. Even parlor tricks and gimmicks may be enough to garner their interest. The vision is more important than the execution. It’s one thing to surpass your opponent; it’s another thing to transcend the game entirely.
Earlier, we touched on the point that mantis psychology is different; they process conflict and competition unlike other bugs. A rivalry, even a heated one, isn’t a problem. And yet you must wonder — for a species so incessantly at odds, forever driven to crown winners and losers, is their destiny a certain unmitigable misery? Must one mantis know the sting of defeat for another to know the kiss of victory?
Another thing a mantis comes to understand intuitively is that to win does not mean to win well, and to lose does not mean to lose badly. There is not just honor but joy in a loss that hatches a grander victory — even the loser can appreciate that.
For some mantes, this is not just a begrudging acknowledgment or a consolation prize — it feels right, better even, to be the heel, the jobber, the catalyst that brings out the best. This list began with the assertion that when faced with a threat, a mantis will fight. Thus a truly submissive mantis is a rarity — but there’s something close.
A subdominant is a mantis that competes to lose. This does not mean they lose on purpose; that would be an insult. But consciously or unconsciously, they believe their rival is better, deserves to best them, and so they challenge and encourage them. They aspire to be a worthy opponent and lose to the best their rival can offer, knowing with pride that those heights were reached because of the subdominant.
The counterpart is of course the predominant, someone with something to prove, a burning need to be the best. They have to win recognition; it’s the only thing that makes sense. When they lose, they don’t lose graciously: their rival should be the one kneeling, why aren’t they? How dare they? Maybe they say it or just thinking, but their rival is inferior and deserves to lose. The predominant just has to show that.
A rivalry between a subdominant and a predominant is the most stable configuration, while a rivalry between two subdominants is a quiet and frankly unsatisfying back and forth — but it’s the rivalry between two predominants that’s the stuff of legends, a seething struggle with rancor that will tear apart anything just to get ahead.
This nuance is perhaps the least understood among mantes — every pair of rivals believe theirs is a struggle between two predominants.
Part of the motivation behind this listing is as a tool to come up with mantis characters. This typology isn’t far from one you’d find in an ordinary personality quiz, but the framing and the questions it asks gets you in the right mindset for generating appropriately diamantid characters.
The four major axes here aren’t enough to describe characters — any authentically complex mantis will vary contextually and in detail — but it’s a great starting point. But remember that many mantid are pretty average; it’s best to place a mantis on the 1-3 axes they distinguish themselves than slot into one of sixteen antlionholes.
To recap, the axes are:
- Seeking vs Trapping: do they start their battles, or face what comes?
- Planning vs Gambling: do they maximize control or options?
- Performing vs Confiding: do they have many bonds, loosely held, or few bonds, tightly held?
- Refining vs Exploring: do they cherish perfection or novelty?
I’m not done yet — there’s more to say, more I’ve thought, about how this all impacts mantis culture and relationship to other kinds. But for now, I’m tired. I’ve hunted, and now, I think, I’ve presented my prize. Now admire it.