Shyan lays back, the soft dirt and rocks crunching under her weight. Her eyes are closed and her skin’s already losing some of its vibrancy.
Fassn, Cang and Abia crouch beside her.
“More poison,” Abia says.
“This damnable concoction. Should not she be immune by now?” Cang asks.
“Quickly, gather the stones,” Fassn says.
“Gather them, like this,” Fassn says, scrabbling for flat stones about Shyan’s form. He lays them out around her perimeter, a Shyan-shaped outline of rocks a few centimeters from her slow-breathing form.
“Great,” Cang says sarcastically. “A quick break to make art.”