Bearclaw Valley CAULIFLOWER IS TRADITIONAL

He couldn't go back. That much was clear. Not to Ibis, to Lolita, to—he retched—Bhediya—retched again, and stumbled, falling to his knees. He'd wound up at the opening of this oblong valley, the walls rising up above and around him. He was only vaguely aware of markings along the edge.

Pyg's sides heaved, blood-spattered body trembling with fear, anger, exertion. He drove his black nose into the dirt and wished he could disappear, wished he had never come here. Wished for it all to go away.

Except it wouldn't, would it? Rage had come before, though not so acutely as this, and not as blinding, either. His love for Bhediya, his frustration over Bhediya, had fueled something within him he didn't know lie dormant. He was a beast, a monster, a savage. He was a killer, and he couldn't take it back.

And—God!—he wanted to plunge himself into it again. More sex, more struggle, more death. 

But he also wanted to sleep, and felt exhaustion tugging at him after days of restless wandering.

Wandering. (to where?) Waiting. (for what?) Watching. (for whom?)

Tired. Sleep. Blood. Bhediya.