For that matter, he doesn't know what's night and what's day any more. Proscutt must have really been hitting the absinthe that day, thought Cryss sadly, not that he knows what Atoll feeds him any more. Its mouth had been a twisted mass of multilayered fangs, its face was an eyeless earless sphere of grey flesh, and the rest of the body looked like it had been assembled from discarded parts of a thousand failed sculptures. First there had been the rude awakening in the early morning as one of Atoll's warbeasts attacked them in their sleep. As he shimmied down the trunk of the ancient oak, his head swam with memories of the day.
There was no sign of Atoll's Sentinel, and he could finally get some sleep. Cryss sighed and climbed down from the tree.
