They were godfearing people those bookah. Those shrieking natives of the jungle. There was no love in the relationship. Drojjenny tells me that they had one scroll said to have been written by the druids that was passed around in strict rotation. It was stolen by a skritt, two years before this part of the jungle was abandoned altogether. In the interim, I wonder, did they assign their baseless theories to the falling water, marking the flora holding to the rock with a superimposed significance; that they could actually walk through these theories and inhabit its contradictions?

We are not like the charr, you and I; we feel no particular need to reclaim old ground. There’s nothing to be seen if we did. No dementia-infuriated asura vaporizing labs in the rock; no discarded data vessels laid out in the geodesic formations for the taking. No firefly energies burning or the shrieking humans in our way. The bones of the savant are no longer laid out for the taking: I have stolen them away to the center of this province where the lab energies all run to black and there we can light each other’s faces by their strange luminescence.

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