Lion Head Mesa fatat khadra'

Mouseberry followed, quiet and intrigued. As they came to where Akashingo was, Mouseberry had little time to admire it. There was a scent here that belonged not to The Runners, but The Great One...

Was that so noteworthy? Was this not the way of the cajoling Great One? Her Shangri La, gone too soon... gone before she even could know it. It was her poor fortune. Mouseberry was no good luck charm. Bad luck, it seemed, as her gaze then beheld a body of one that plagued her, them.

She should run, now, and she darted away while Jawahir spoke. An open book, there was no denying the bewilderment upon her features. The Great One picks his teeth with bones of The Runner, when it pleases them, her gaze read. Jawahir had caused her to hesitate, a costly thing, a thing that could mean death.

It was why she had, for all this time, elected to run alone.

Look what happened the moment she did not.

He will not harm you.

They, together, were The Runners... not The Deceivers of Many Names, those smaller, clever red things. Mouseberry did not know whether or not to trust the stranger or not. Fear was what kept her alive for so long. She embraced it, embraced the way it all but brought wings to her legs as she flew away.

Fear was no enemy to her.

Confusion was, the thing that kept her rooted. Uncertainty. Worse than each of those things, hope.

It was a rule, a way of life, that the Runner would never stop; but she was bone-tired, now. Runners... could they not rest?