> Let's go to our tent and get some rest.
>You crawl into your tent.
>Sleep comes fitfully; you'd really rather be resting on a proper bed, but this sleeping bag is good enough. You sort of drift in and out for awhile, sometimes you can hear Georgia and Archer talking softly. At one point, you are sure you hear something like water splashing softly, but given that Archer isn't raising an alarm, your sore and half asleep mind doesn't really rouse enough to worry about. While trying to fall asleep, your mind drifts back to what happened with your Wall spell. By all rights, that should have been impossible. You don't just cast a spell and get a wholly different one. What happened? Why did it happen? You have no ready answers.
>All around you is traffic, moving slower and slower. You smile as you stand between the lines on the road, cars passing as if they were merely strolling. Smog fills the air, blotting out the sun. You watch as individual wisps move in a gradual dance, pushed by strong winds too slow to feel. There is a light, a flame, charging across the the highway. It does not stop, it does not slow. You watch as it vaults over a car, landing atop another and pushing forward, not losing any of its momentum. The flame burns with exuberance, coming from nowhere and destined for nowhere. It simply exists, exulting in this fact, uncaring of part or present. It does not slow, it does not halt. It burns and burns, and will continue until there is naught left to burn. The cars have come to a standstill, the birds barely inch across the sky, the flam leaps from another car and grabs onto the edge of an overpass, flowing up onto it. Do you hate it? Envy it? You cannot answer.
>The red-haired woman in green kneels over her partner. The smaller, dark-haired woman's body is riddled with wounds. Her blood seeps into into the ground, staining nourishing the roots of a yew tree. Each moment it moves more and more slowly, you cannot exult in this. They speak, their words are too low, too slow to hear. Perhaps they aren't to heard by either. "It's not so bad," the dark-haired woman utters, her voice haggard and weak. Then the other reaches down, her hand moving with the speed of an icicle forming, and closes the wounded one's eyes. There may be others, but in permanent sense, you understand she will always be alone in some sense. The sun is rising, lighting the eastern sky with rays of slow-moving pain.
>You awaken, sore and hungry. It is not quite dark.
>_