#aranatha

Aranatha moved like a lost child, ever tremulous, ever diffident. Eyes widening — as they always did whenever she awakened to the outside world — she edged forward. "I couldn't sleep," she said. "Nenanda was asking Clip about all sorts of things, until Desra told him to go away."

Skintick's brows lifted. "Desra? Stalking Clip now, is she? Well, my only surprise is that it's taken this long — not that there was much chance within Kurald Galain."

Nimander asked her, "Did Nenanda manage to get an explanation from Clip about where we are? And how far we still have to go?"

She continued creeping forward. The muted dawn light made her seem a thing of obsidian and silver, her long black hair glistening, her black skin faintly dusted, her silver eyes hinting of iron that never appeared. Like some Goddess of Hope. But one whose only strength lay in an optimism immune to defeat. Immune to all reality, in fact. "We have emerged somewhere south of where we were supposed to. There are, Clip explained, 'layers of resistance'." She shrugged. "I don't understand what that means, but those were his words."