[ And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? He’s so certain, so dead-set in his own conclusions that he can’t entertain the possibility of another story. One where people still grow.
He’s moved fast. It’s plain from the trail that Amon wasted no time after their reintroduction; the path trails from hall to kitchens (a polite man requesting aniseed oil, one servant reports), to storerooms (a soggy Equalist uniform folded neatly on the shelf where basic clothing should sit, a length of wire gone from its hank), and out the wide Bailey into the Greenwood beyond.
There’s no way keep ahead of Naga, not moving on foot, and it’s not far into the forest that his tracks disappear, the scent moving away from the path and up into the high canopy beyond. Scuffed bark and a torn vine show his route up the first wide trunk, and from above, branches rustle and push out of place to find him moving South again, backtracking his land-bound steps. Though he’s careful to keep from breaching the sky above, it’s slow going, and it’s not long before he has to stop to rest.
His ears are still ringing, his insides feel battered, and spirits if he can figure out why.
It’s in the cradle of a huge, mossy bough that he waits, watching a little rock golem trundle below. He’s never seen anything like it, and for an instant, a reminder of old wonder pushes through any more urgent plans.
Amon doesn’t stop to look or to listen behind him: any pursuers will find their approach unusually absent of notice or impediment. There’s something about the forest that feels almost — peaceful — a notion he distrusts, but one which he can’t seem to keep consciously ahead of. Against his better judgment, he's almost starting to relax.
Shit. Someone get him a daquiri and shutter-shades. ]
no subject
He’s moved fast. It’s plain from the trail that Amon wasted no time after their reintroduction; the path trails from hall to kitchens (a polite man requesting aniseed oil, one servant reports), to storerooms (a soggy Equalist uniform folded neatly on the shelf where basic clothing should sit, a length of wire gone from its hank), and out the wide Bailey into the Greenwood beyond.
There’s no way keep ahead of Naga, not moving on foot, and it’s not far into the forest that his tracks disappear, the scent moving away from the path and up into the high canopy beyond. Scuffed bark and a torn vine show his route up the first wide trunk, and from above, branches rustle and push out of place to find him moving South again, backtracking his land-bound steps. Though he’s careful to keep from breaching the sky above, it’s slow going, and it’s not long before he has to stop to rest.
His ears are still ringing, his insides feel battered, and spirits if he can figure out why.
It’s in the cradle of a huge, mossy bough that he waits, watching a little rock golem trundle below. He’s never seen anything like it, and for an instant, a reminder of old wonder pushes through any more urgent plans.
Amon doesn’t stop to look or to listen behind him: any pursuers will find their approach unusually absent of notice or impediment. There’s something about the forest that feels almost — peaceful — a notion he distrusts, but one which he can’t seem to keep consciously ahead of. Against his better judgment, he's almost starting to relax.
Shit. Someone get him a daquiri and shutter-shades. ]