The events at the hole had left Beetleshell feeling rather unfulfilled. She had been keen to take back some of the strange foods that had spilled out of the treel to offer to her insects, to see what might have happened. Though she did love every tiny specimen under her care, they reproduced so quickly that surely she could spare a few towards an experiment. Their quality of life was far better than anything else they'd find in the swamp -- she had extensively cultivated her gardens around the cypress tree she called home, sparing no effort to make sure they were an ideal habitat -- so it seemed an agreeable sort of arrangement: she would potentially sacrifice a few, her population wouldn't suffer, and perhaps some improvements would or could be made.
And then the Motherfather, in the guise of a kin -- something she had never expected to see and still wasn't entirely sure had even been real -- had wiped the hole clean, erasing it as though it had never existed. Everything that had been flung out of it had disappeared, as well. She had found her way back home to her tree, lost in thought, with Bleeder flying overhead. There was likely no way to replicate whatever had been flung up out of the hole. It was a total loss. And that was a pity.
There had been the scent of tar about the hole, unusual to find in the swamp at any time. Several days later the smell of tar wafted past her nose as she walked through an unfamiliar part of the swamp, the sun beating down hot and clear overhead. This time her wasp had not chosen to accompany her, so there was no sudden whirring of wings to signify its displeasure. She took the opportunity to follow her nose, walking through a copse of weak looking saplings, following the scent to its strongest point.
Baneful wrote:
