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Perhaps, at first, the notice seems a false alarm: from a clump of stones and withered yellow grass ahead--one of many such formations littering the otherwise-barren beach--a slinky little black shape emerges, to perch in the sun and groom its ears. This it does with the dainty efficiency of a rat. Sleek enough to gleam blue in the light, the mongoose sits up on his hindlegs, trills a little note to the visitors, and is joined momentarily by a doe emerging from the grass.

Nature seems to have spared her the luxury of soft lines: all angles and hard edges, she shakes salt-stiff hair from her face to eye the stranger, wordlessly at first. Then she indicates, with a sweep of her head--the harsh contours of her skull visible beneath the tight-stretched hide--the cluster of stones and the symbol scored deeply into it. "You are on Tidewalkers land." It is not a threat. Bitterleaf has never seen a reason to threaten nor cause to intimidate innocent wanderers who stray this far south. It is not exactly welcoming, either, but it is hard to imagine that raspy voice being anything but slightly unsettling--if fascinating. "Some would say this was a mistake. This place is unforgiving. But you seem hardy enough, and well-traveled." Come to that, so does she: scars litter her coat and her hooves are cracked and craggy; one horn bears an end worn down as if by much grinding. The mongoose noisily clambers up her leg and onto a shoulder.

Bitterleaf weighs her options. There was a time when her name was no more familiar to a passing stranger than any other, but things have changed. In her attempt to bring like minded people to her tribe, she has, along the way, spread her own name throughout the swamp: some of the wilder rumors have been described her as a witch with unspeakable powers, although most stick to the more realistic (if still slightly inflated) idea that Bitterleaf is merely a determined doe with her eyes on changing the way Kimeti live and a remarkable talent for accruing followers or at least admirers. There is, to be sure, a certain haunting quality about her that might make a deep impression on a certain type of young mind.

She considers these things carefully, expressionlessly, and answers finally: “I live here, as one of the Tidewalkers. Many of our number are gone on patrol. Perhaps, as a traveler, you would appreciate an experienced guide?”

The doe--nameless, for now--turns her head towards the crashing surf, distant enough to be a pleasant murmur; near enough to make it obvious that it goes on for interminable distances. "Follow me," she says, and immediately launches into a little tour guide monologue, clearly much-repeated.

"We do not take to luxuries here, as you may well have heard. It is not a place forgiving to the ignorant or the indolent." As they pass an expanse of flat stone, she indicates it with a swing of her head, salt-crusted mane making a smacking sound against her cheek. "We chip hollows in the stones to collect the rain, so that we don't need to go over and over to the streams. Sometimes it does not work." They are moving, now, towards the surf. "The tide has gone out. I will show you the tidepools. What would you think, Stranger, if you found a meaty, beautiful little creature in one of those pools, partly spider and partly fish, and covered in blue circles that pulse like a heartbeat?"

"You are wiser than your friend. We had eaten similar creatures to no harm, and in fact found them incredibly delicious, but the blue-ringed ones laid my son, who is entirely robust, on his side for days. I thought he'd die. He bears scars to this day." This is utterly expressionless. She clearly takes more interest in the lesson learned for all than the fact that her son may well have met his end here. "We are learning that the more beautiful a thing is, here, the more likely it is to be deadly. That is a wonderful thing, is it not?" This last comes the closest yet to expressing true enthusiasm--in fact, if only Longstride knew, it's the most enthusiastic Bitterleaf has sounded in quite some time.

"I have been to the plains, as well. I did not linger. I find it... unsettling there." This is as close as Bitterleaf comes to being open. Something about the relief of being alone with a stranger is causing her to drop a couple of her stony walls. The mongoose, which has been bouncing along in their wake, scrabbles abruptly away from a sudden lapping wave with an irate chattering, which shakes Bitterleaf out of her half-second reverie.

"There are crocodiles here, too. They make the crocodiles of the swamp look like the smallest caiman. But there are other things to avoid as well. You see the clear thing--like a leaf made of water?" She is indicating gelatinous mass, roundish, with trailing roots, that is floating in the surf. It is smallish--perhaps the size of a filly's hoof--and the doe is keeping a respectful distance. "It is unusual to see them when the tide is out. Perhaps it is dead." As if such a strange thing could possibly be alive.

Bitterleaf observes all this in a detached sort of way. If she is amused, she doesn't betray the fact. "It's dead. They keep their fire after they die for some time. We are not sure how long. Jasper has been conducting experiments." That's... forboding.

"An old hermit living near here gave us quite a bit of advice when we first came. She only came down to the shore occasionally and only when under the influence of the bitterleaf dreams. She told us, and I've no idea how she knew this," she continues, already setting off again without bothering to ask if he's okay--clearly he's a stout, hardy, testosterone-laden thing quite capable of taking care of himself, "that you can piss on it to take the sting out. You'll forgive me for withholding an offer for relief."

"I would show you the hermit cave," rejoins Bitterleaf, not fooled for a second, "but it's knee-deep in hermit s**t." It is exceptionally difficult to tell whether she is being serious. "Were it darker I would show you were the fireflies of the ocean are. As it is," she says, leaping with a certain economic grace over a low-lying bit of driftwood blocking her straight-as-a-falcon's-dive path, "everything here stings. Everything." The implicit warning is clear. "Perhaps you have been more dangerous places than this, though, wanderer." And there the implicit invitation is clear. Something in her stance suggests, however, that a fact would be better than a boast. Whether or not he heeds it might be another story.