You watch the sands fall, even as you just speak. He stops them, lets them crash to the ground, and you rumble softly in your disappointment. They were soothing to you. The odd grinding, the soft slithering they created in the air brought calmness to the savage best. But they are gone now and you are left wishing for their return, just like the phantom seeker. If you knew that you and the syrupy sweet mare was thinking the same thing as you.... oh, how disappointed in yourself you would be. And then the little one is speaking again and you are drawn from your thoughts anyways. Turning to her, oh so slowly, you listen. The red-haired maiden. She must mean the glass horn's lesbian lover. You snort but decide to remain quiet for now. You've nothing kind to say to the little bitch as she carries on about the terrible nature of your home and you're certain the phantom seeker can handle this matter better. In fact, she does.

Unsurprisingly, she's far more diplomatic than you are and she begins to lay the little girl to waste. The foal is mocked and then mocked again. This is why children should not be sent to do the work of adults. Recruiting is not for the young. The young should be locked up, should be trained, should be silent unless spoken to. And, despite yourself, you find that you may just like the phantom seeker after all. But its hard to know if its you or the drugs. They swirl in your mind, beginning to take hold, sweeping their long reach around your brain and hugging tightly. They're smothering you, taking you away from this place. Are they making you like the phantom seeker as well? Has her disgusting way of leeching into everything finally taken hold of you too? You're disgusted with yourself. Especially after your original intention.

Luckily, the sand weaver speaks again, breaking you from your thoughts. He is straight and to the point. He is, unlike most others, a man you can get along with, if he leaves you be about your habit. As the drugs drag you farther out of reality you are forced to widen your stance in an attempt to remain upright. Next, your head lowers slightly but otherwise you remain rather normal. No drool yet, no falling over, no wild over-reactions. If you can just keep your shit together for a moment longer you and the phantom seeker will have won this battle.

Watching the seeker move forward, you cannot help but marvel at how well she plays her game. If it is a disgusting habit, at least she does it well. Even you ache to move towards her as she teases the sand weaver, begs him to touch her but does not reach out to him. Thankfully you have the slightest frame of mind to remain where you are standing. She speaks in drops of molasses and even you are caught in her tale of the lands. It is information you did not know, did not especially care to know. War is your task, not information. But if you are good at your job, then she is good at hers. She wins you then, completely, and though you will not chase her like a puppy (for you are not pretty boy), you shall not deign to maul her in the darkness either.

Oaf though you are, you have little to add. Your voice would only due to break the spell and so you simply shift, watching first the weaver, then the seeker and then the child. To the last, you shoot daggers from your eyes. You dare her to break the web that the seeker has woven. You dare her to deny that the sand weaver belongs among the lunatics of your home. You dare her to move against you when you are so much larger than her. And then you snort, ear flicked towards the weaver, awaiting his response. But somewhere in your heart you already know it. You and the phantom seeker have won.

we all look for ways to make the pain go away