Griff turned. Surf crashing against her gnarled feet, he saw an old woman approach. Bent over, either due to age or the assortment of garments draped about her body, he couldn't tell. His expression changed as she drew closer--calm frustration. A storm of anger bubbled within him. More strangers approached by the second. With each successive traveler, his quest would surely be compromised. This mote no longer [i]his[/i]. At the very least, it was another set of ears that could see through his transparent claim to the dog.

[i]'Why? Why did I say such a thing?'[/i]

[quote][i]"Alright, alright! Get my cane, you worms! Y' like horses in a field 'bout to get whipped, starin' 'stead of runnin'! You want the damn mutt? Act like it! We'll pull 'em out! I said get my cane! Hurry up!"[/i][/quote]

The woman squawked with an air of someone who wasn't accustomed to being ignored, gesticulating with a bejeweled hand towards the clattering dervish above the mote.

Griff's eyes darted around. [i]'Her cane?'[/i] It was dark. Did she have it on her person? He'd reach for it. They could draw the dog out of its orbit, and he could wrangle the whole group to run back to Laku, return the pup to its "rightful owner." He could steal away again, retrace his route, and reach the Mote even later in the night. 

A pathetic little howl brought Griff to his senses. A blinding blue glow from the mote reminded him of his true quarry. His eyes went wide, and then were forced closed as the monolith seemed to scream soundlessly in front of them. The air was thick with waves of something Griff could not hope to describe. 

Blinded, he heard more commotion. Footsteps, tumbling. Dirt was kicked up near his face. Instead of flinching, Griff growled in agitation. He forgot about the cane, forgot about anyone who was near him. Forgot about any feigned diplomacy. The mote was reacting to [i]something[/i], and his time idling on a course of action was drawing to a close. 

"Back off!" He growled to the group of strangers. "Before you ruin everything!!"

His hands darted for the pouch on his waist. He deftly snatched the blunted pick and his carving knife. With a lack of foresight that would have shocked him in a sounder mind, Griff lunged forward and attempted to pierce into the mote's jagged face.