Bitterroot Valley and in this infinite space, dear, i can hardly feel time

longer has he lingered in the glacier than he intended originally to -- first accidentally and then, once the initial obsession over his space-time with ronnie begins to fade, to break the addiction before it forms. of course he has no intention of staying away from the enchanter and his dangerous offerings, but he wants to be clear and sound of  mind (ha!) before he commits. 

samothes steals away from the glacier and curves a wide path around the taiga, his pulse quickening with every step. what if he never finds him again? he'd resign himself to being a good boy, finally, maybe. he'd continue on this humdrum existence, always twisting from stimulation to stimulation, packs as they merge and form and break and revitalize, never once touching real earth. ugh! what a fool he is -- and what are the odds he'll find ronnie again, anyway? better he should have given up and followed samaantine and let her kill him off once and for all.

-- only then there is a familiar scent and then a familiar form -- for a moment the messeda thinks he's found @Acheron's death bed, but no, there is the slow and steady rise of breath in that tantalizing ribcage. "napping, are we?" samothes tries with false cheer, mostly to be an ass, as he comes to stand directly over his witchdoctor. like before he is offering his own body both as dare and bribe -- easy enough to strike him down, but will he?

he's all but lost track of time, the way it bends and folds around him like slow-falling sap, like thick lethargic poison. there is no sense of self or world in this place, no swarms of thought like wasps burrowing through his skull to leave their vile spawn. the earth dips slowly beneath him, splits and swallows him, and he's suffocating —
ah, gregory. he takes a breath, motionless for several beats, then lifts his head just barely to take in the sight of him. "restless, are we," he responds lazily, words slurred, enjoying their little game of greetings. he yawns, shifts. "such a pretty little bird, hopping about with your broken wing. you should know better than to consort with snakes."