The Sentinels moving in reverse with no way out

The femme couldn't help but feel her mouth salivate as the pale woman divulged the posthumous story of the forest that lay in ashes beneath their feet; her story. It was better than she had expected, and spoken quite poetically. Indie found herself drawn to the story, to the white woman beside her, even though the story arc was one she had experienced time and time again in the lyrics and lines of the stories she preformed. A land — once grand — now defeated by an unsuspected enemy. The beauty of it all, of every story that boasted the same framework, was in the subtle details: the names of the characters and their individual characteristics, the setting and scene, the emotions it inspired in its performers as well as its audience. 

It was captivating.

In addition, Indie couldn’t help but appreciate the novelty of being handed an answer that she so eagerly sought from the silent remains of the once grand forest, nurtured and commanded by the coastal airs. But once again, Indie saw that where she was enthused, her cohort found extreme sadness. The vaudevillian kept her facial features composed, demure, and arranged herself into a receptive posture that post of empathy — and it wasn’t feigned.

”And now, they are gone.” Indie concluded. Indie hadn’t known the story, hadn’t yet heard its ending, but the evidence was all around them. Her molten gaze met Aria’s own. ”But you have survived.” It was spoken as a statement, but its purpose was that on an inquiry. With that statement, perhaps the woman would expand upon her own experience of the forest — how she, the last vestige of a pack lost, came to sit here in the soot and the ash with her. But first…

”Does Taltos’ right hand have a name?”