3/18/2026, 11:31 PM
Screw this! A snake told him his world was gone, or that he was unable to go back to it. That couldn't be true—he wouldn't let it be true! He must have taken a wrong turn, that's all. Maybe when Kwetau was investigating some possible plants for collection? Yeah, that's sensible. One of those might have drugged him up! He could've been out of his mind for a while; all he had to do was retrace his steps and find his way back to the traveler's path.
None of this stuff looked right, regardless. He headed north from the place he'd met the snake. Then, when the scent of water became prevalent, he followed that. After a day or so of roaming east, the sound of flowing water caught in his ears. That must have been the Wallows! Invigorated, Kwetau began to rush along. The Wallows were an important place within the Forgelands of his birth; there would be many people camped there, bathing or drinking or whatever else, and he knew he could find a messenger there to take word back to his master—!
On and on he went, charging along the bank when he found the edge of the water. He hurried, all but tripping over himself, until the sound of the falls became so deafening that he couldn't even feel his heart thundering in his chest. The Wallows never looked like this. It had always been a swath of wetland in the middle of the dry, not this descending staircase of water on water on water. As Kwetau stared down at the scene before him, complete with rising mist and the roar of the water, he had to conclude that he had been wrong.
Out of sheer desperation he begins to carve symbols in to the wall beside himself: shapes that meant nothing except in the Forgelands, cut with claw or the sideways swipe of his tooth, followed by the spitting of mud from his tongue. Shapes and sigils meant for travelers; although the earth here was soft, and chunks fell out as he worked.
None of this stuff looked right, regardless. He headed north from the place he'd met the snake. Then, when the scent of water became prevalent, he followed that. After a day or so of roaming east, the sound of flowing water caught in his ears. That must have been the Wallows! Invigorated, Kwetau began to rush along. The Wallows were an important place within the Forgelands of his birth; there would be many people camped there, bathing or drinking or whatever else, and he knew he could find a messenger there to take word back to his master—!
On and on he went, charging along the bank when he found the edge of the water. He hurried, all but tripping over himself, until the sound of the falls became so deafening that he couldn't even feel his heart thundering in his chest. The Wallows never looked like this. It had always been a swath of wetland in the middle of the dry, not this descending staircase of water on water on water. As Kwetau stared down at the scene before him, complete with rising mist and the roar of the water, he had to conclude that he had been wrong.
No. No. I just have to keep going!He told himself. As he plunged down a ledge, then around a bend and further still along the rim of the falls, he went to duck around an overhang of stone and crouched there, despondent. The dog kicked a stone and listened to it clatter, falling away in to the wilderness beyond, where it might have been picked up by the water and drawn away. Then, another, and another—until he was too frustrated and too damp to bother moving.
Out of sheer desperation he begins to carve symbols in to the wall beside himself: shapes that meant nothing except in the Forgelands, cut with claw or the sideways swipe of his tooth, followed by the spitting of mud from his tongue. Shapes and sigils meant for travelers; although the earth here was soft, and chunks fell out as he worked.