"HERE PERHAPS IT AIN'T QUIET," He says, touching the forest. "Or here. WHERE ALL THE CITY BE." He touches the hives on the other side. He touches the shore, the indigo figure on it. "Not here." He pulls his fingers away and the indigo from his palm drips in splatters on the painted ground around the figure. "NOT WITHOUT THEM MYSTICS."
It might ruin everything, but for a minute he doesn't care. He picks more colors to dot like splatters around the figure.
"Beautiful, yes," He agrees. "BUT WITHOUT THEM WHISPERS, WITHOUT THE GREATER? It is quiet." And he says that last word just the same.
"THE BEASTS? Probably. PLANTS. Maybe." It's hard to associate those noises with anything but the inevitable strife, the roar of the beast, the rustle of the plants around them.
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It might ruin everything, but for a minute he doesn't care. He picks more colors to dot like splatters around the figure.
"Beautiful, yes," He agrees. "BUT WITHOUT THEM WHISPERS, WITHOUT THE GREATER? It is quiet." And he says that last word just the same.
"THE BEASTS? Probably. PLANTS. Maybe." It's hard to associate those noises with anything but the inevitable strife, the roar of the beast, the rustle of the plants around them.