3V feels the necessity of this being important with a sensation like her bones trying painlessly to push their way out through her skin. It’s as if the importance this mountain, this view demands has made itself suddenly known inside of her and everything else is being displaced, like tipping a fridge into a bathtub. Because if this isn’t important, then the effort of bringing all this up here was wasted, and (even more importantly) 3V herself would have proven herself to have no ability to appreciate something that generation after generation was moved by, would have let a world of virtual mountains and skyscrapers and designed-not-emergent environments cauterize her sensitivity to a really, really big rock.

So she walks back and forth, rocks on her heels, and tries her very absolute hardest to let this feeling have some time to breathe for her. To follow that slight stirring of meaning, scrambling and scrabbling after it, hand outstretched. Metaphorically. Mostly her hands are in the pockets of her Nice Coat. Sunglasses and a faux-fur ruff are unusual accruements for a modern shaman-heroine, but she’d like to think she makes them work.

The hike’s part of it. An inextricable part of it. You’ve got to have a journey, says the motorcycle-psychopomp of Aevum. (Aevum! Aevum! Aevum whose soul is electricity and banks, whose poverty is the specter of genius! That’s a grisly connection to be making, isn’t it? And honestly not the most accurate one. Molech’s not the city, but an idea. An egregore, and not the kind you farm midgame.) That’s part of the weight and necessity for meaning to be found here, because the journey adds its own hunger to it.

Ah, but this is all so pretentious, isn’t it? Like her high school poetry journal, all tarot and gods and glass cities on the moons of Jupiter, just far enough away that she could make the argument they’re not seen because the telescopes look right through them. Before she got big into a different sort of consolidated legendarium. Anyway, that’s why the thought of writing poetry about this flits through her for just a moment before being dismissed with a shrug.

She skirts the poem instead, and stares into the vast world stretching out above, and don’t you worry, she’ll go knock and get herself let in soon enough. It’s really up to her host whether she, used to her isolation and yet yearning for a connection, is interested in coming outside and interrupting Vesna trying to let this moment breathe her breaths, or trusts her well enough to wait until 3V’s felt it pass and gets itchy to move on. Meditation’s nothing if there’s not constant motion and meaning-creation to let the animal mind chase until everything becomes a white heat.