Whispers and murmers.  Of murder.  

And an Initiate.  
Again.  

I've heard it before and still I bristle.  As the larl seething eratically through the strange forest bristles with Taluna arrows.  Instinctively away from their benefactresses.
Circles.  

Disoriented.  No path back to the mountain.  All trees and thicket.  Rivers and lake.   Hunters and huntresses.  And arrows.  
 

An occsional incline.  No refuge.  No mountain.  Why did I leave it?  Why? 

 
A plethora of reasons.  Logic.  Dialectics. Unhelpful to my bristling.  Inadequate.  Precipitate.

Irony become conflict, conflict become, . . .  this shit.

I am become dangerous.  As the larl.  Bristling with arrows.