it has been some time since we have last taken notice of little ovid, who is not so little any longer. in all that time one might think he would grow knowledgable of the caves and their secrets, or strong in the way of magic, or rich in the number, variety, and potency of friendships established; none of these things happened to transpire for the moose child.

emergence equated to loneliness.

there were times he watched as events unfolded, terrified beyond his wits. there were other moments where he thought to take part - the study of the caves seemed a thrilling adventure - but no, he chose to turn the other way. as calamities befell those around him he retreated, letting nature (natural or supernatural) take its course.

and so we find the boy - the man, now - here, striding liesurely through polaris. he has seen the luminous mushrooms before, many times. with his great height he must bow his massive crown beneath stonework as he passes, sometimes. the hum of the spire - with its electrode glow fluctuating in his periphery - does not even warrant a glance.

he has seen it all, by now.