Chapter Text
The fortuity doctrine preludes coverage for a claim where the evidence establishes that: (1) at the time the policy was issued, the insured reasonably foresaw the loss or damage it sustained; and (2) the insured failed to take action, knowing that such inaction might predictably result in loss or damage (.)
Catra travels north.
There is nowhere in particular she wants to go. But wandering aimlessly feels worse than any poor decision could be. In the end, a chain of complex considerations are overridden by one singular impulse.
Namely, fuck Glimmer. She can take her advice and shove it.
It goes well for some time. The temperature stays moderate and the region north of the Fright Zone is mostly flat, so travel isn’t difficult. She finds she can hike reliably through the daylight hours after just a few days of adjustment. Days pass where she does nothing but walk until she is too exhausted to think and sleep until the sun is high in the sky.
Everything feels new: the birds and deer in the morning, the miles of tall trees yielding gradually to scrubby brushland, the shifting texture and volume of the clouds. Catra realizes she has never had the chance to simply exist in nature before. It’s pleasant, peaceful.
It would feel like a nice trip, if she wasn’t so friggin bored. Never in her life has she lacked a purpose, or schedule. Every hour of the day, every activity, every goal, all of it was determined by the dictates of the Horde. She had resented it, but never imagined it’s total and complete absence.
Her life is purposeless. Valueless.
And she has too much time to think, she realizes with a scowl. There is only so much of the day she wants to spend considering her life and her choices and… that-person-she-isn’t-thinking-about.
Catra delivers a savage kick to a rock as she passes, watching in fly into a tree with a thunk.
But it isn’t just annoying topics she has to avoid.
There are mountains looming in the distance. Snow capped mountains.
She ignores them stubbornly. Catra decides the key to her journey will be to not think about the Horde, or Adora, or where she is going. She is one woman against the world, pitting her skills against whatever Etheria can throw at her.
Etheria can throw pretty hard, as it turns out. By her the second week in the north, her luck turns for the worse. Fumbling with her pack to retrieve lunch, she realizes her fingers are clumsy with chill. Rubbing at her hands and forearms grants only a few minutes reprieve, despite the exertion of hiking.
A cold snap. It’s early in the year for it, but not unusual.
She sets up camp with all the speed recent experience has given her. The day before, she had lounged, enjoying dinner and making a small fire. But that evening she ate quickly and went to bed early, wrapping herself in her sleeping bag in the desperate hope of sleeping through the worst of the cold.
Wishful thinking, as it turns out.
Catra wakes in the early hours to the shrill howl of the wind. Her feet throb with cold and she can barely feel her nose. She curls into the fetal position and wraps an her arm around her thighs, swearing colorfully.
Quite the fucking survivalist, aren’t you? Add this to your list of stellar fucking life choices.
Any way she shifts gives only temporary reprieve. Bunching up the sleeping bag around her feet turns frightening numbness to fiery prickling, and eventually one whole leg goes numb after lying on her side for too long. There is nothing for it. Sleeping is impossible in this cold.
She's left shivering futilely and listening to the wind, exhausted but unable to fall asleep.
Fuck Glimmer. She repeats to herself, for extra emphasis. And fuck the Horde, too.
Lying in the dark, the weight of her thoughts becomes a tangible pressure against her chest. She wants to be sick, wants to be somewhere else. Thoughts beat against the inside of her head, with no space for denial or distraction.
She wants to go back.
Already.
Just the draw of material comforts is enough. She just wants to go home.
How pathetic, she thinks, detached and wretched.
She wants to go back so badly. Eventually the words are rolling around in her head, a senseless poem repeating itself again and again: you are weak and pathetic and sad. Not worth keeping, not for Hordak or Shadow Weaver or Adora or anyone else, and it doesn’t look like that’ll be changing.
She hasn’t even made it a full month on her own, and she is already crumbling.
But even self-loathing gets dull, in the end. Her mind wears itself out to the muted whistle of the wind, until her thoughts feel as numb as the rest of her.
Eventually, all she feels is the cold.
But, she thinks idly, why not imagine herself elsewhere?
Catra considers the last time she has been thoroughly warm and comfortable. At first she imagines her room back in the Fright Zone. Familiar, orderly, temperature controlled, not perfect happiness but obviously her standards had needed adjustment. Even the idea of a mattress with blankets and a pillow is nostalgic.
But then her mind drifts back further. What is the warmest she’s ever been?
The question occurs to her in a jolt, and the answer flows behind it slow and unyielding as a river.
Part of her wants to deny it, but the pull of the memory is irresistible: curled up next to Adora, years before.
She had fallen asleep with her head tucked against Adora’s lower back, their legs almost tangled together. The sheets had come askew, enough to half cover her apart from one sprawled arm. It had been an accident. Catra had woken in the middle of the night, bothered Adora, they had talked about nothing in particular. Nothing about the memory should have been exceptional. But it burned inside her like fire.
All at once she wants terribly to show up to… wherever the fuck Adora is and sink into her bed like nothing ever happened, to feel that warm again. Her fists clench so hard she almost slices into her palm with her claws.
By the time morning comes she is wrung out and exhausted.
She makes it one more day traveling north, then gives up and turns around.
She thinks of maps she has seen, during the Horde’s educational units. Her memory is foggy at best. Not for the first time, she regrets missing Force Captain Orientation. The ocean is to the west, she knows. And why not go see the ocean? Her food has started to run low, and fish sounds appealing.
At first she travels due south, eager to leave behind the cold nights. But gradually she turns herself more toward the coast. Every day she adjusts course; a bit further west, a bit less south.
Soon she is a good deal warmer. The birds change, too. She hadn’t realized they were different, before. Now their song in the morning means something to her. She has started to recognize the sounds, high chirps from tiny things with bright yellow wings, deeper shrieking calls from large black ones.
Part of her still wants to go back, even though she isn’t freezing anymore.
The only thing that stops her is imagining having to kowtow to Hordak. She can’t stand the thought of looking at Hordak’s arrogant face, pretending nothing happened. Waiting to be tossed some half assed explanation. But the idea of his explanation sticks in her mind, niggling like a loose tooth. She already knows it: he knew Adora wouldn’t do it. Adora doesn’t have the guts.
She ignores all the other reasons Adora wouldn’t have done it. They don’t matter, anyhow. Hordak doesn’t realize it, but he could have threatened anyone. He could have threatened fucking Kyle and Adora would have walked out. Because she’s a fucking moron. And shouldn’t she respect the fact that Hordak was smart enough to play the rebels? Being strong, being on the winning side, isn’t that what she decided was important? Proving to Adora that she picked the wrong team?
What the hell is she doing, wandering around the wilderness with nothing to do?
Out of nowhere, what Glimmer said to her chimes aggravatingly in the back of her head: “I assume even you have too much dignity to crawl back to the Horde”.
Fuck Glimmer, too much dignity. Maybe I don’t, she mumbles inwardly.
Who needs dignity, who needs self-respect? Part of her stumbles over that last phrase. Self-respect? Did I ever have that in the first place? What was it she had she told Adora? ‘Duh the Horde is manipulating us, who cares’, an elegant and examined opinion by your truly.
She had laughed, thinking that Adora was too oblivious to notice the Horde was evil. But, what, she knew and didn’t care? Part of her wonders, now, if that was worse.
The only difference now is that the Horde has finally sunk low enough to betray her.
It didn’t matter enough to her that Adora left, or Shadow Weaver treated her like garbage. But she’s only a bargaining chip to Hordak and that’s the line? That’s rock bottom?
The truth almost drops her, there in the middle of the woods, slinking through the barriers she has been holding against it.
You turned on the only person who loves you for an evil dictator who would have traded your life away for some tech in a basement.
And, following close behind: Clearly, that was what I deserved.
She slams a fist against a tree, feeling her eyes burn. She refuses to cry about this. Even in the middle of a forest where no one could see anyway. Stubbornly, she keeps walking. She determines to look at the sky, think about something else, maybe insult Glimmer some more.
But the distraction she finds ahead is better.
A road. She is finally close enough to the ocean that some routes between villages and inland ports are be cropping up. Catra resolves to take it, all the way to the sea.
It feels like she has a destination, for the first time in ages.
The sun and the change in circumstances cheer her, and she decides to go as far as she can before dinner.
The scenery passes by quickly, and she makes good time. Almost too good, she realizes, when she spots a figure in the distance.
She has caught up with someone, another traveler on the road.
They are too far ahead to have seen her yet, she knows. She could sit and wait for them to get further ahead. But she would probably just catch up again before the day is out. Catra knows she is faster by far than any merchant or villager traveling the area. Eventually she decides to overtake him, and hope he isn’t a Horde soldier in disguise. Or worse, chatty.
But when the figure does finally spot her, he only waves placidly. He’s an older fellow, beard speckled with gray, an oversized pack balanced across his shoulders. Transporting some type of goods, she assumes.
When she reaches a few arms lengths of him, he stops and turns.
“Where are you traveling to, young lady?” he asks with another friendly wave.
She frowns. Of course, she couldn't get lucky and run into a solitary, private woodlanders could she.
“I’m not really going anywhere,” she answers curtly. She doesn’t have a better answer, anyhow.
He raises an eyebrow skeptically, but the gesture is softened by a chipper, mischievous grin.
Is he assuming she’s running away from a local village? Or on some secret errand? Well, that’s better than thinking she is a former Horde soldier.
Hesitantly, she inclines her head. “I’m leaving somewhere.”
He nods solemnly. “Aye, sometimes you’ve got to go, isn’t that right?”
Catra looks at him. All the things she's been thinking about still hover close to the surface, and what does she have to lose? She wants answers, and it’s not like she’ll ever see this guy again anyway.
“You mind if I ask you something?” she asks.
“Of course not,” he replies, walking down the path.
“How do you escape from something, something that’s too big to fight?” she asks at last, struggling to word the question. She can't mention the Horde, but that seems general enough.
The man scratches his head. “You get so far away it can't find you again, I suppose.”
She reaches a real village three days later.
It’s the first time she’s ever been somewhere like this. People are sitting outside small thatched houses, chatting with their neighbors. Kids run around, pushing their friends into the dirt and laughing. No one pays her any mind.
She is looking for a market, of some kind. Her food has been running low for days. Not that she has any money. She is going to need to improvise.
The idea of stealing sticks in her craw, for some reason. She didn’t mind being a villain, but a thief is too far. It feels common, low, in a way that being in the Horde hadn’t.
Catra has to laugh at herself. So, blow up a village and that’s fine. But steal some of their stuff and it’s uncomfortable? It’s an strange distinction to make.
The oddness of it prods at her. Is it that she has to choose to steal, in a way she never really chose to fight for the Horde? There is an element of decision that has never existed, before. She received orders, she carried them out, she didn’t spend a bunch of time considering whether it had been the ‘right thing’ to do, except from a tactical perspective.
Her mind lurches from that line of thought with a startling screech. She wasn’t some poor manipulated sod. She knew what the Horde was. She chose. She fucking chose. She wasn’t some abused, controlled kid. She wasn’t.
She fucking chose, so she better start acting like it.
She scans the stalls, thoughts racing. What will make this easier? Getting a good variety of food would be best. But she needs to find someone to target who isn’t as attentive as the others. Getting out without attracting any scrutiny would be best.
One of the proprietors is heavyset, older man. He doesn’t look like he’ll be giving much chase, even if he does catch her. And he has a good variety of fish and cheese for sale, boxes piled high forming the edges of his stall. She could do worse.
She wanders to the side of the display, pretending to peruse idly.
The man gives her a bit of an odd look, bushy grey eyebrows twitching. He grins a little.
Catra’s heart pounds almost audibly in her chest. Was he looking at her? Her hands tremble. Shit. She can’t tell.
But then the man turns, waving cheerfully at a woman walking up on his other side. He shifts his whole body pointedly, reaching an arm out to her.
“Madamina, good to see you!” he shouts merrily, his back to Catra and the rest of the stall.
The middle aged woman clasps his hand in greeting, replying but too quietly for Catra to hear over her own anxiety.
Before they can look back, Catra brushes some fish and cheese into a bag she holds at waist level. Her hands shake, and she can barely restrain herself from sprinting out of the market. The only thing that stop her is the knowledge of how obtrusive it would look.
She turns off the main road of the village, angling for a quiet exit. If she’s lucky, she’ll be able to slip out with no one the wiser.
She nearly makes it, too. A small, antlered boy of maybe 8 or 9 runs up to her just as she reaches the outskirts of the town. He has a bag in his hands, and he holds it out to her.
“Come on! You dropped this,” he says, practically dancing from foot to foot.
Catra knows quite well she hasn't dropped anything since she set foot in the village, and that even if she has certainly no one should know to return it to her.
Protesting seems worse, though.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the bag in a stilted motion.
Then she takes off down the road like the whole town is chasing her.
When she calms enough to stop for rest the sun has just begun to set. It isn’t until she swings her backpack to the ground that she realizes she hasn’t looked into her mysterious gift bag. She unties the clasps gingerly, looking inside.
She finds a couple apples, some gruesome looking but nicely preserved dried fish, and a note.
Catra pulls it out, with no small amount of apprehension.
Enjoy the fish! I paid one of the local boys to follow you
out of town and give this to you. I was a hungry kid once,
too. Come back if you pass through and need more supplies!
Maurice the Fish Man
She stares at the note, puzzled. What the fuck, random fish market man. A part of her is actually angry, she realizes with surprise. At him, for being presumptuous enough to relate to her? At random kindness like that existing at all?
Catra had never fully considered what life would be like, for people who just lived normal lives. People outside the Horde. People who didn’t need to compete for survival, if they didn’t choose to. Who had lives, goals, successes and failures that existed separate from the dictates of any higher authority. Maurice the fish man could do whatever he wanted.
So he gave her some fish.
She narrows her eyes at the bag, feeling suspicious and unsettled.
Whatever.
On impulse, Catra shows away on a ship heading further south.
She’s been enjoying the heat, and has heard rumors about dense jungle filled with dangerous beasts and mysterious treasures. And it’s not like she has anywhere better to be.
Sailing is just as much of a delight as always, for all that she has to hide away below deck until night time. Her only comfort is the fact that she’ll be slipping off as soon as they get close to land again, hopefully only a few days journey. From what she has heard, the ship will sail through a narrow strait that will leave her at the tip of the wilderness.
Long hours of boredom hiding aboard the ship have given her even more time to think. But she feels peculiarly less depressed. Something about the future has taken on the air of possibility. Catra realizes that who she would like to be, what she would like to do, all those things are in her own hands. Adventurer or farmer, kind or cruel, live her life alone or go back to the Horde, all of it is open to her.
Besides, she’s smart. Her plans were miles better than anything anyone else in the Horde came up with. She’s strong enough to have survived this long on her own. And it's interesting to consider: what would she be, if she could choose whatever she wanted?
It feels odd, to be almost content in these circumstances. She has lost everything. Her home, her position, every possession she ever owned, every person who cared about her. She is miserably lonely and pointedly irrelevant to the world at large and any person in particular.
It’s horrible. But it isn’t… fatal.
And having survived it, knowing that she is strong enough to bear it? Knowing no matter what happens, even if whatever she does falls apart, that this is the worst case scenario? It’s freeing, somehow. Short of death, nothing will stop her again.
The jungle is miserably buggy, damp, and filled with some of the most interesting things Catra has ever seen.
Twisting, warped trees soaring so high in the sky she cannot even see the top. Bizarre colorful birds soar below the canopies of colossal, ancient trees. Tremendous snakes hang from thick branches, flicking their tongues at her languidly. None of it is like anything she has ever experienced.
It is as opposite the Fright Zone as a place as could possibly be.
It drizzles for hours every day. She can’t keep her tent or her clothes dry, otherwise it would be a paradise. Fruit and small game are so abundant, she doesn’t even worry about food anymore. Predators trouble her occasionally, but months on the road have honed her senses to razor precision. Even the hint of rustling in the brush or hissing from above makes her jolt awake, claws at the ready. Nothing has come close to injuring her for ages.
For ease of navigation, she traces the branch of a river down through the valley. Following the smaller tributaries back to the source, she eventually discovers the main body of the great river. It is wide and wild, all dangerous rapids and depths. She knows better than to set foot in it. But traveling near it is fun.
She goes on like this for days, wandering the jungle, enjoying plenty and beauty.
But eventually, she stumbles upon something wholly different.
In the trees above her head she hears the rustling and pitter patter of movement. Her ears twitch with focus, alert for predators. But as the unknown being moves, she detects a hint of something unusual.
Intelligence.
There is a pattern to the travel of this intruder. They start and pause, and Catra can feel them listening to her in turn.
Eventually curiosity gets the better of her. She hasn’t spoken to another person in ages. At worst, she will embarrass herself in front of a monkey or leopard.
“Hey!” she shouts. “I know you’re here.”
She looks intently at the area of the trees she last heard sound from.
After a moment, a mysterious figure leans out from behind a tree trunk, up very very high. They are too far away for her to make out any details, but the person visibly motions towards her before leaping to the branch of the closest tree. Navigating smoothly, they move from tree to tree but without hesitation.
Catra follows from the ground, curious but wary. Who the heck lives out here? And why hasn’t she seen any sign of them before?
The answer turns out to be that they live high in the trees. Now that she is watching someone take the path, she can see small bits of purposeful construction. A board here, a rope there, all forming a path.
Eventually the person stops, waiting on a small platform.
Catra reaches the base of the tree. Looking closer, she can see places where the bark has worn away from the scuffs of feet and hands. They mean for her to climb.
Well, why not. She navigates up carefully. It isn’t too difficult, the tree clearly chosen for this purpose. There is almost always a reachable branch within arms length. By the time she reaches the path, she is panting more from the height than the climb.
When she pulls herself up to the level of a crude, hanging bridge the person she has followed is gone. But this is clearly the entrance to somewhere.
She walks across the concealed bridge carefully, feeling it sag under her feet. Jeez, people really live up here? This seems like a good way to take a long fall.
It spans a good stretch of land, passing over a smaller offshoot of the river, then opening out onto what is obviously a small village. Guards flank the end of the bridge, looking intently down at her.
Catra has to gather her nerve before continuing. They showed her how to get here! And if they try to attack her, they will get a nasty surprise, she thinks darkly.
Her suspicious thoughts are cut off abruptly as soon as she is close enough to see what the guards look like.
Slanted pupils. Bright, colored sclera. And, perched on top of their heads, sloping catlike ears.
She freezes.
Heart beating wildly, she notes smaller details. Fingertips ending in sharp, curved claws. The hint of a tail curving out from their lower back.
These people are like her.
She resumes walking, slow and measured. The guards don’t speak to her as she passes, just nod at her with an odd curiosity in their eyes.
She marches down down the bridge, starting to feel peeved. You can’t just invite people to your village and then leave them to wander around, clueless. But as she reaches the central tangle of paths and bridges, she spots the person she saw in the trees.
It’s a tall man with short dark hair that shoots out in every direction. His eyes are yellow and sharp. The clothing he wears is simple and sparse, tough looking leather over thin cloth all dyed dark green.
Even as she approaches, the man barely responds. He gives her a slow, deliberate nod and turns, clearly expecting her to keep trailing after him.
“Who are you people?” she asks, getting impatient.
“Shouldn’t you know, wandering around our jungle?” he returns, mysterious smirk on his face.
Catra glares at him, annoyed. She isn’t used to dealing with other people anymore. She feels like there was supposed to be some sort of greeting in there, but it certainly should have come from him, right? This is definitely weird.
“Come share a meal with us,” he says finally, then sets off in another direction.
Catra is getting sick of following this guy. She trails after him through a tangle of pathways threading through the trees, connecting up with huts of varying sizes. People really live up here. People who are… staring at her.
The awareness of it comes on gradually. But once she enters what is clearly some kind of communal eating area, it is undeniable. Whenever she looks up, someone is staring at her. Not just ‘staring off to the side pretending they were looking at something else’ staring. Staring right at her face. Its fucking creepy Who are these people? What on earth do they want with her?
Are they cannibals? Are they going to eat her?
Wouldn’t that just figure. Adora’s mystic heritage was an ageless, magical sword. Hers would be a jungle full of crazy cannibals.
A blonde woman with a bushy, striped tail carries a tray towards them. She lifts off several plates, setting them in front of her and the man from earlier with practiced ease.
Then, she is left sitting alone across from the man from earlier. Everyone else in the hut seems to be keeping a respectful distance, despite the fact that they are obviously all listening in. Not very subtle, jeez.
At least the food looks good, a nice spread of seared meat and mixed vegetables.
“What’s your name, child?” the man finally asks, looking at her.
“None of your business,” she takes a bite of food, chewing and ignoring him. As if former Horde commanders can hand out their personal details.
His sharp yellow eyes seem to consider her carefully. “We are a known to outsiders as the Magicats. But we call ourselves the Panthera.”
Catra just nods. She doesn’t know what to say, or how to feel. She has never had a word for what she is. Part of her just assumed she was alone. Her blood is racing in her veins, but the curiosity she feels is weighed down by fear and tension.
“Not many of us live outside the borders of the forest. Your presence here is of interest, enough so that Elder Cloudfoot has requested to speak with you.”
Alright, so some high ranker wants to ask her some questions. She is in their territory. Catra can make sense of that. And to be honest, she’d rather have it over with. She nods to the warrior, finishing her food in a few more bites.
“Alright. Take me to them.”
She is led to a small hut on the outer edges of the little village. Her escort watches as she goes in, but doesn’t follow.
The room is simple and sparsely furnished, but what there is carries an eerie weight. A display of feathers around the skull of a large, fanged mammal hangs on one wall. In a different corner a shrine of candles and shining metal sits on the ground.
There is only one chair, and someone is already sitting in it. An ancient looking old woman, with grey hair and ears, and intelligent green eyes. Even from a sitting position it’s clear that she’s short, much shorter than Catra.
They stare at each other for a long moment.
“Well, isn’t that curious,” the old woman says, drumming sharp fingernails on the arm of her chair.
Catra scowls. She is getting very sick of all this cryptic nonsense. And she refuses to rise to the bait, she’ll fucken die before she answers ‘what’s curious’ to this old bat. She just crosses her arms against her chest.
“Where do you come from, girl?” asks the elder.
“What does it matter? I’m not there anymore, am I?” she answers, circling the truth.
Catra feels a tug, one that’s been growing stronger ever since she came here.
She wonders what she would do if she had truly just wandered here, with no ties to the past. Would she consider staying? Hasn’t she found her people? What else has she been looking for, if not someplace to find understanding, belonging? But the weight of unfinished business presses down on her. She is not free. She might be able to chose, now, but she isn’t free.
The elder seems to know it, to see the doubt in her face.
“Is that so?” she croaks with an eerie grin. “That doesn’t sound like the answer of someone whose history ‘doesn’t matter’.”
Something about the exchange reminds of her the first man she spoke to, after escaping the Horde. It feels like ages ago. She had wondered then, too, how she could ever escape the Horde’s shadow.
She peers at the elder intently. If anyone could give her an answer, perhaps it’s this old lady. Surely she has lived long enough to learn something useful.
“Why don’t you tell me something, then. How does a person escape from their past?” Catra asks.
“You can't escape from anything in life, not forever,” she answers instantly. “But… hmmmmm. Do you mean to ask me, how do you leave something behind?” the corners of the old woman's eyes crinkle with something ancient and laughing.
“Yes,” she nods.
“You have left something behind when it has lost its power over you.”
The truth of it rattles around inside her, like a stone cast into a pit. But the revelation doesn't help her at all. How could the horde ever lose it's iron grasp on her? How could she ever sever those ties?
For the Horde to be powerless over her?
Her ears flick back against her head. “That’s some nonsense there, granny. No wonder they put you in charge of this nut farm.”
“Being an elder does not make me a ruler,” she says, inclining her head. “We have been leaderless for many years.”
“And why is that?” she asks, feigning disinterest. Something about this conversation, something about everyone looking at her; Catra has a bad feeling. Chills shudder down her spine and her stomach clenches with a jolt.
“Our Queen attacked the Horde in retribution for a vile atrocity and never returned.”
“What was it?”
“They killed her child,” the elder answers, soft and unyielding.
Something in Catra sputters and gasps. “And why are you telling me about this? What the fuck do you care, to tell me this?”
The elder looks at her squarely. “Because I’ve only seen eyes like yours once before.”
She can’t do this anymore.
Catra take a step back, turns, and takes off running.
She has to leave as soon as possible. Even as she tenses and shakes, the questions echo in her head in a clatter.
If I asked, would I find out the Horde had attacked this place nineteen years ago? Would I find out that the Queen’s child was a daughter? A daughter with eyes like mine?
She can’t deal with any of this. She doesn’t want to hear it. None of this is for her, none of this is about her, it can’t be. These are not her people, this is not her place, and she isn’t some void for people to deposit their expectations into. She has enough problems of her own.
She buries it deep, the questions and the answers churning like acid in her stomach.
What was the child’s name?
Fuck.
She sprints across the entry bridge, hurtling down the tree too fast to be safe. But she doesn’t care to be safe.
She doesn’t stop until it is too dark to travel.
She doesn’t stop until she has left the jungle behind, and is back across the Growling Sea.