> "I have an idea, but I guess I have to see him in action first."
> There's nothing else to do...
> "I guess I'll go to sleep early, so we can pack up and go before light."
> Let Archer have the phone back - show her the battery indicator and make sure she knows not to let it run out.
>Archer nods. "I guess we can't figure out all of them at a glance. But if you think you have something to go on, that's better than nothing."
>There is little else to do. Camping sure is boring if you aren't into woodcraft!
>You show Archer how to make sure she doesn't run out your battery and let her have the phone. Then you try to get some sleep.
>Leaves twirl on the wind. With each moment, their motion slows, no less graceful and no less beautiful. This is good, it is as it should be. Their motion, the wind, the shaking of the trees, it all comes to an asymptotic slowness. never quite coming to a stop, but slowly inching across the sky. This is the correct way of things, bringing a sense of contentment. Forest stretches in every direction, living and vibrant. Birdsong and insect hums fill the air, each note coming a bit later than the last. You smile. It is good.
>Someone runs through the forest, their steps dulled as if moving through water. That is good. She is a young child and a mature woman, pushing the boundaries of her world. Each step takes her further into the unknown, and she rejoices. Each step is slower than the last, an you rejoice. Her youthful enthusiasm runs wild with each new sight. Her developed sensibilities take in each new bit of information, trying to derive more knowledge from it. There is no longer a forest, simply a world of myriad combinations, numerous potential recipes and reactions. Somewhere out there is the next step toward the end of the journey. To the east, glowing like the faintest of sunsets, there is pain.
>Brown and red leaves twist through the air, drifting downward. With each moment, their descent slows. This is in accordance with the world. A woman in browns dashes through them, each step bringing a crackle of of smashed leaves. A woolen cloak flutters out behind her, the hood pulled up. Each note of of her footsteps comes slower than the last. Her run is displeasing in its speed, but it too is slowing. You can hear others chasing her, but she is not worried or frightened. They are doing precisely what she wants. Their angry shouts becomes cries of dismay, and she stops. The world is not still, but almost. It is perfect. To the east, glowing like the faintest of sunsets, there is pain.
>Wakefulness comes slowly to you, accompanied by achiness. This sleeping bag is not nearly as soft as you had hoped...
>_