Lyren had surveyed a large part of the Dementia Knot region lengthwise, widthwise, crosswise, diagonally, obliquely and transversely. She was beginning to realize that she was going in circles, even if the angles of her turns were sometimes sharper because of the few predators she preferred to avoid rather than fight, in order to concentrate on the possible traces of a sign, or the signs of a trace.
The Knot of Dementia, what a beautiful place for such a name... No, the opposite, she thought. What a beautiful name for such a place. Goo everywhere, gingos, a Kitiniere and the kitins that go with it, not to mention the tribe of the worst bark-helmet crackers, no wonder when you live there, it makes you dizzy. They were dickheads whose only thought was to hand her sweets, which she politely refused, claiming she'd already received enough from Zhen to last a year, akep, thank you. But they forgot, and every time she came across a patrol, the same thing happened: "No, I don't want candy, you haven't seen any traces of a helmeted fyrette by any chance, found a sword, anything? Nothing, nothing, nothing around here? And over there? No, I'm not looking for smooth fruit, I'm looking for Trytonists.
Good day, akep. They were too high-strung to understand anything, these homins. Or maybe they were doing it on purpose and enjoying watching her go round and round in circles, hoping she'd slowly come to her senses and accept their drugs.
Nothing in the kitinière either. She'd run and sweated and run some more, fallen into a hole, into mud, into almost buried kitin galleries, but nothing. Not the slightest trace of homins, of a meeting place, of a sword, of the smell of fyros boots. Nothing.
Maybe it was time to return to civilization, the real thing, Thesos first, then Fairhaven, maybe the drakani had been trying to contact her. Maybe she'd missed something.
The Knot of Dementia, what a beautiful place for such a name... No, the opposite, she thought. What a beautiful name for such a place. Goo everywhere, gingos, a Kitiniere and the kitins that go with it, not to mention the tribe of the worst bark-helmet crackers, no wonder when you live there, it makes you dizzy. They were dickheads whose only thought was to hand her sweets, which she politely refused, claiming she'd already received enough from Zhen to last a year, akep, thank you. But they forgot, and every time she came across a patrol, the same thing happened: "No, I don't want candy, you haven't seen any traces of a helmeted fyrette by any chance, found a sword, anything? Nothing, nothing, nothing around here? And over there? No, I'm not looking for smooth fruit, I'm looking for Trytonists.
Good day, akep. They were too high-strung to understand anything, these homins. Or maybe they were doing it on purpose and enjoying watching her go round and round in circles, hoping she'd slowly come to her senses and accept their drugs.
Nothing in the kitinière either. She'd run and sweated and run some more, fallen into a hole, into mud, into almost buried kitin galleries, but nothing. Not the slightest trace of homins, of a meeting place, of a sword, of the smell of fyros boots. Nothing.
Maybe it was time to return to civilization, the real thing, Thesos first, then Fairhaven, maybe the drakani had been trying to contact her. Maybe she'd missed something.