You watch the pretty princess look at you with something akin to kindness and you can't help but want to thrash her even more. Maybe you were never meant for the herd life. You don't seen to find getting along with others an easy task. Maybe it's just the drugs, you're still rather high. Whatever it is, you don't take her sugar coated gift and tear it open with greedy hands. You don't need the approval of others to justify your existence. She doesn't like you. You have even more how much she wants to play her feminine wiles, try to coo and coax her way into everyone's heart. Had you the presence of mind, you might have sneered at her. Instead, your lips remain even. It wouldn't do to play poorly at the game you're trying.

Looking back to the sand weaver, you listen to him speak. Why did you find me, he asks. You raise a metaphorical eyebrow and wonder if he's handicapped. It would be better for you all if he were. And for a moment, you allow yourself to get lost in the way the sands play into one other, twist and turn and crash and pile up and then fall down again. Even if he is not crazy, he may yet make a good medic. He soothes your savage beast... until the pretty princess speaks again. a fine warrior you are, plaguebearer, she begins and you cock your head at the name she's given you. At least you have something in common. But then she carries on and throws your whole cover. What a dumb wench, you think to yourself and roll your eyes in dissatisfaction.

But then she speaks to the sand weaver and so the time is not now to bash her brains in. Another time. It will come. You hate her, you're sure of that. Seeker in the realm of the phantoms, she calls herself and you almost gag over the sickening sweetness of her words. This is the worst kind of politics- the kind were the females flaunt their sent and silky voices and twist the ears of men until the stallions have no choice but to follow. You refuse to be taken in by her, refuse to play her game. “Not that we could've missed you with your... affliction,” you add to the end, your voice gruff but trying to contain the fury that threatens to well up underneath. You have nothing against his sand weaving, but you won't pretend that it makes him stealthy.

Otherwise, you have little to add. The pretty princess... no, the phantom seeker, has betrayed any thought of a plan that you had and so you're left trying to work through your brain to find a new one. Unconsciously, you work against yourself. Your large head swings around and inserts itself into your shoulder back, withdrawing one of the few remaining vines and chewing on it contemplatively while the phantom seeker continues to bake her cake in the mind of the sand weaver. Obviously you couldn't stand the waiting anymore, the driving need for the plants in your life. At least it'll help your temper a little bit. Maybe.

we all look for ways to make the pain go away