Book 1 Chapter 3: The Dream Cabin

Motley drifted into sleep, and the cacophony of Dustfall vanished, replaced by a profound, echoing silence. He opened his eyes to find himself standing in a place utterly unlike the sterile medical room: an ancient wooden cabin, its timbers dark with age, smelling faintly of pine resin and cold stone. It felt as if it had been hewn directly from the earth and trees by colossal hands. He turned, his gaze immediately drawn to a single, small glass window set into one of the rough-hewn walls. Through its thick pane, he could discern the oppressive darkness of a pine forest, its colossal trees laden with a thick, pristine layer of snow. It was forever snowing here, a silent, relentless fall that piled upon an already impenetrable blanket of white, obscuring any sign of ground, path, or life beneath its crushing purity.

The cabin's interior was a testament to raw, masterful craftsmanship. Every surface was wood: the floor, wide planks worn smooth by untold years; the ceiling, a heavy crisscross of dark beams; the simple, sturdy table in the centre. Though Motley knew nothing of carpentry, it was obvious that the timber used was the very same, unyielding pine that stood sentinel outside, as if the cabin itself was an extension of the frigid forest.

His gaze swept the room, drawn to a tall, narrow bookshelf built directly into the wall, its shelves thick and robust. To his surprise, only a single book rested upon it, its spine facing outwards. A curious pull, like an invisible string, drew him towards it. He reached out and, with a tentative finger, traced the title carved into the leather spine: Tash Everground. A prickle of unease, then fascination, ran through him. He lifted the book, its weight unexpectedly heavy, and turned to the first page.

As his eyes scanned the opening words, the world around him snapped. He was no longer in the cabin. Instead, he saw Tash, her face etched with raw fear, her eyes wide, locked onto him. He felt the primal surge within himself, the coiled readiness to strike, the terrifying, almost animalistic instinct he hadn't even known he possessed. The vision, brief and startling, vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him reeling in the cabin once more. He staggered back, dropping the book, his breath caught in his throat, profoundly shaken by the sheer, undeniable force of Tash's terror. It had been like living her nightmare, not just observing it.

"Interesting, isn't it?" The voice was a high-pitched yet undeniably powerful whisper, resonant and utterly alien, as if spoken from across a vast, empty chasm. It grated against the natural order of the silent cabin, its presence a sin on nature itself. Motley spun around, searching.

A skull sat perched atop a chair near the crackling fireplace. The chair was made of tan leather with a pitch-black wooden frame, its sleek, modern lines looking utterly unnatural in the rustic, hand-hewn wooden interior of the cabin, as if it didn't belong. The skull itself was ancient, bone-white, with a prominent crack above where its right ear would be, mirroring the gash on Motley's own head. Across from it, another identical, empty tan leather chair stood waiting, its black frame a stark contrast to the cabin's warm wood.

"Please, take a seat, little spark," the skull rasped, its empty eye sockets seeming to bore into him.

Motley, still reeling from the vision, found himself obeying, sinking into the opposing chair. The skull continued, its voice unnervingly clear. "This place... this is your refuge. Your own personal library. A self-house, forged by the protective reaction of your mind and the nascent power of your gift. It is where you begin to understand." It paused. "And that book... a testament to a connection. Your gift, the Chronos Eye, showed you a fragment of her past, a moment she experienced because of you. Its unique power, this ability to access the past from direct interactions... it is your path to self-discovery."

The sheer volume of information slammed into Motley's already fractured mind. Gift? Self-house? Chronos Eye? Each word was a foreign concept, utterly alien to his blank slate of memory. His head began to pound, not from pain, but from the dizzying rush of incomprehensible knowledge. "Wait!" he blurted out, holding up a hand, his voice strained. "Please. Pause. I... I don't understand any of this. Is this... are we inside my head?" He looked around the stark, silent cabin, then back at the skull, his eyes wide with a desperate, bewildered plea.

The skull's voice filled the cabin with a dry, rattling chuckle, a sound that felt both ancient and mocking. "Yes, little spark. This humble abode is indeed built within the labyrinth of your mind. A reflex, a desperate creation of your psyche triggered by the trauma that claimed your past, then reinforced by the nascent power stirring within you. A place where you might find a semblance of sanity amidst the chaos."

Motley stared. "Power?" he whispered, the word feeling strange on his tongue, like a foreign object.

"Indeed, power," the skull confirmed, its voice now laced with a hint of grandiosity. "It is the natural progression, little spark, for those whose desires burn bright enough, whose skills achieve mastery. It manifests when one dedicates their essence to a craft, a profession, pushing the boundaries of what is known. Or, in moments of dire necessity, of life-and-death struggle, when the very will to survive can twist the threads of existence. Your gift, the Chronos Eye, is of this latter kind. Born from a moment of profound need, it allows you to glimpse fragments of the past, to see the connections woven into the great web of time, specifically those moments involving you."

Motley's gaze drifted to the bookshelf. "Why is there only one book on the shelf?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

The skull's voice seemed to chuckle, a dry, rattling sound. "Ah, that, little spark, depends entirely on you. On the path you take from here." Motley looks back at the skull, in utter confusion.

As in response to Motley’s confusion, a smooth, dark steel blade and a rough, fist-sized rock shimmered into existence on the small wooden table beside his chair. "Pick them up, little spark," the skull commanded. "Strike the rock with the knife."

Motley hesitated, then, compelled by the voice's authority, he reached out. The steel was cold, familiar in a way he couldn't explain. He brought the blade down, a dull thunk echoing in the silent room as it struck the rock. A single, tiny spark flew from the impact point, shimmering in the air for barely a sliver of a second before vanishing.

"How long was the spark bright for?" the skull's voice inquired, dripping with dry amusement.

"Barely a second," Motley replied, a frown deepening on his face.

"Precisely," the skull rasped, and somehow, Motley felt it grinning at him in the shadowy cabin. "That, little spark, is pretty much your existence to me." The casual cruelty of the statement hit him like a physical blow.

"Now," the skull continued, its voice returning to its unnerving clarity, "stand up and turn to your left."

Motley obeyed, turning away from the fireplace and into the deeper, shadowed corners of the cabin. The darkness here was absolute, impenetrable. He squinted, trying to discern any detail, and thought he saw the faintest outline of a pile of dry hay that he swore hadn't been there moments ago.

"Strike the rock again," the skull commanded.

Motley raised the blade, the cold steel a familiar weight in his hand once more. He brought it down. Another single, tiny spark flew from the rock, a brief, desperate glimmer. This time, just before it blinked out of existence, it arced through the air and struck the dark, unseen hay. With a sudden whoosh, the hay exploded into a dangerous, blinding inferno, instantly devouring the darkness and casting the entire cabin in a terrifying, flickering orange glow. The heat was immense, the flames roaring towards the wooden ceiling.

The skull's voice filled the cabin, no longer just a whisper, but a high-pitched, uncontrollable cackle of pure, unbridled laughter. The sound seemed to tear at the very fabric of the dream. White light erupted, consuming his vision, and Motley awoke.

Motley jolted awake, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. The blinding inferno of the dream cabin vanished, replaced by the familiar, sterile glow of the coiled ceiling lamp. He was back in Tash's makeshift medical room, the soft bed beneath him. The acrid tang of smoke still seemed to cling to his nostrils, and the skull's high-pitched, mocking laughter resonated in his ears, chilling him to the bone even though he knew it was gone.

He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat plastered his black hair to his forehead, and his muscles, still weak, screamed in protest. A dream? But it felt so real. Too real. The warmth of the fire, the chilling presence of the skull, the sharp tang of steel and rock, and that terrifying flash of hay erupting into a blaze – every detail was seared into his mind with the clarity of true memory. And the voice… little spark. The condescending pet name echoed, a fresh wound to his fragile sense of self.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the afterimages. Was this a new side effect of the gash on his head? Or something more? A shiver, unrelated to the cool room, ran down his spine. The skull had said it was his ‘self-house,’ forged by his mind and his ‘gift.’ His gift. His Chronos Eye. The power that allowed him to see. He looked down at his trembling hands, the faint tingling sensation still lingering, as if the spark and the inferno were just a breath away from reappearing. The knowledge, sudden and overwhelming, was too much.

Motley forced himself to breathe deeply, focusing on the cool air entering his lungs, counting each slow exhale. He scanned the room, recognising the plain walls, the wooden stool, and the comforting bulk of the bookcase. He was in Dustfall, in Tash’s care. This was real. The dream was separate, yet its lessons resonated with a chilling clarity.

He processed the skull's words: "This is your refuge... your own personal library... a self-house." And the explanation of his power: the Chronos Eye, an ability to glimpse the past, to see connections. He thought back to Tash, the sudden influx of information about her, her age, her race, her hidden power. And then the terrifying glimpse of her fear.

A new realisation, sharp and undeniable, began to form. This wasn't just a random curse or a debilitating side effect of his trauma. This was a tool. A unique lens through which to view the world. He was a blank slate, but the Chronos Eye could fill in the blanks, piece by piece. It could show him not just who people were, but what they had done, and how it connected to him. It could help him understand this bewildering new reality, untangle the complex web of secrets, and, most importantly, discover who he actually was. The path was terrifying, unknown, but for the first time since waking on the battlefield, he saw a way forward.

He was alone. There was no one else here to question, no one to see into. His hands, still faintly tingling, felt useless without a direct interaction. He tried to mentally recall the sensation, the sudden surge of data. It was like trying to grasp smoke. The skull had said his power grew with use, with ‘new people and people from his past.’ That meant he needed a target, a living connection.

As he calmed, faint, distant voices began to filter through the left wall, a low murmur of multiple conversations. Underlying the chatter was a persistent hiss and rhythmic chug – the unmistakable sound of steam machinery at work. The curiosity was immediate, a powerful pull. He couldn't just lie there, a blank page in an unknown book. He had to know.

With a surge of determination, Motley pushed himself up from the soft bed. The sudden rush of movement made his head incredibly dizzy, his vision blurring. A sharp pain from his gash flared, threatening to steal consciousness from him, but he grit his teeth and held on. After a few agonising seconds of standing still, the dizziness and pain slowly receded, leaving him shaky but alert. Driven by a desire he didn't fully understand, amplified by the stark emptiness of the room and the crushing anonymity of the city outside, he moved closer to the left wall. He pressed his ear against the rough plaster, straining to decipher the muffled sounds from beyond.

A low hiss of steam escaped The Copper Cactus's signature coffee machine as Tash expertly pulled a shot, the rich aroma of roasted beans filling the air. Her movements were fluid, practised, a testament to years spent behind the gleaming counter. To her left, along the long, polished bench, sat her four regulars, their familiar forms occupying the worn stools opposite her workstation. These were the daily merchants from Dustfall's bustling main strip: Elara, whose voice carried over the din even when discussing the subtle nuances of her textiles; Joric, the gruff but fair metal-smith; Kael, with his perpetually flour-dusted clothes from the bakery; and Lyra, whose brightly coloured ceramics always seemed to catch the morning light. Their friendly rivalry, a daily ritual, was already in full swing.

"Three more sales than you had yesterday, Joric!" Elara boasted, her voice carrying across the quiet cafe. "My new silk scarves are flying off the rack!"

Joric grumbled good-naturedly into his mug. "Only because Kael's bread-rolls were a little heavy this morning, giving my customers less energy to haggle."

Tash smiled faintly, listening to their familiar banter as she prepared Kael's usual strong brew. Their lighthearted competition was a comforting backdrop to her morning.

Beyond the merchants, the rest of the cafe lay mostly empty, save for the large wooden table closest to the front door. Three figures sat there, their uniforms the standard dusty brown of the Faph city guard. These were the local patrols, familiar faces to Tash and her regulars, known for their pleasant demeanour and firm but fair enforcement of Dustfall's laws. The fourth chair at their table, however, remained conspicuously empty.

A moment later, the jingle of the front door announced a new arrival. Zeb Hipgrave entered, his presence immediately commanding the room. Unlike the casual, slightly rumpled look of the other guards, Zeb's uniform was immaculate. It was the same practical sandy-brown as his men's, but his was pristine, every crease sharp, every buckle gleaming. A thin gold trim traced the edges of his sleeves and circled the high collar, marking him as the Captain of the Guard. Despite the heat that would soon bake Dustfall, he wore a thin, black long-sleeved undershirt, his fitted pants tucked into polished, high boots. His head was perfectly bald, clean-shaven, emphasising the thick, dark brows that overshadowed his eyes. Those eyes were startling: a piercing, unblinking grey that seemed to constantly search, to dissect, to find the smallest detail out of place. He offered Tash a brief, almost imperceptible nod – his version of a greeting – before striding directly to the empty chair and taking his seat among his men. The air in the cafe, though still punctuated by the merchants' banter, now carried a subtle undertone of coiled tension.

"The usual today, Zebby?" Tash asked, her voice light, a hint of teasing in her tone.

Zeb's cheeks instantly flushed, a stark contrast against his clean-shaven, bald head. His guard companions at the table all let out soft chuckles, their gazes darting between their Captain and the counter.

"For the hundredth time, Tash, please," Zeb grumbled, his voice low, a mix of exasperation and genuine embarrassment. "Don't use my childhood name like that in front of your guests."

Tash simply responded, "Whatever you say, Zeb," as she already began preparing his usual coffee order, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Zeb turned from the counter, his flushed face tightening into a stern mask as he looked down at his chuckling guard companions. His voice dropped to a soft, almost menacing murmur. "As for you three, I think we'll have a longer training session after work today."

The chuckles instantly died, replaced by stiff nods. "Yes, Captain!" they chorused, though a quick, shared glance among them revealed lingering, suppressed smiles.

Zeb then walked over to the far wall near Tash's workstation, leaning against it with his arms crossed, his piercing gaze sweeping over the cafe. "Heard you were out on the battlefield after the skirmish, Tash. A bit beyond your usual morning stroll, wasn't it?" He lowered his voice, almost to a murmur, though his eyes never left her. "Bringing in strays from the rubble for your… healing?" The last phrase was barely audible, a clear sign that Tash's hidden trauma room and her past habit of treating unusual cases were known to him, if not to the public.

Tash kept her hands busy, wiping down the counter with brisk, efficient strokes. "Just doing what I can, Zebby. Lot of people out there who needed help." She didn't offer details; her response was short and clipped.

Zeb pushed off the wall. "Notice anything unusual about the Solarian forces this time?" He asked, his voice returning to its normal volume. "They seemed... thinner than usual."

Tash handed him his freshly brewed coffee, a rich, dark liquid steaming in the tin mug. "Thanks," Zeb mumbled, taking a quick sip. Tash thought for a moment, picturing the vast, brutal expanse of the battlefield. "Didn't notice, no," she replied, her gaze distant. "You should go ask Hugo. He'd probably buy that information from you."

Zeb rolled his eyes, a flicker of exasperation crossing his face. The cafe settled into a quiet hum, punctuated only by the soft hiss of the coffee machine as Tash cleaned up the empty mugs left by the now departing merchants. Zeb watched her, slowly sipping his coffee. The usual morning bustle had faded, leaving the cafe strangely silent.

"Did you bring back any Solarians?" Zeb asked, his voice low but stern, his gaze unwavering.

Tash didn't flinch at Zeb's question. There was no way he knew about Motley already. "I help whoever I can," she responded, her voice steady, unwavering as she finally turned to face him.

Zeb took a long sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving hers. "I really like that about you, Tash," he said, his voice softer now. "There should be more people like you out in the world, doing whatever they can to help others." He paused, and then, his voice dropped, gaining a dangerous edge as he seemed to grow bigger, towering over her. "But, don't you dare bring the enemy into my walls. Don't let the enemy take advantage of your kind heart, then turn around and fucking backstab you for Chronos' sake."

Tash did not waver at his sudden demand and outburst. She looked down at the mug in his hand and simply asked, "Are you finished?"

Zeb was speechless for a few seconds, his eyes darting to his mug, then back to her. He sighed. "I'm just looking out for the city... and for you."

Tash gently took the mug from him, turned, and started to wash it up. Without looking back at Zeb, she said, "I do appreciate that, the city does need you. But..." She glanced back at him, her hazel eyes meeting his. "We've tried that in the past. You know how that ends."

A soft chuckle escaped Zeb. "Yeah... sorry." He looked towards the front door, where his guard companions were already heading out. The last one to leave, a young, eager-looking recruit, called back, "We're going to start our rounds, Captain! See you at Bumble Tavern for lunch?" Zeb simply gave a curt nod, his gaze already distant.

The cafe became quiet, the only sounds the soft clinking of mugs as Tash continued cleaning. Zeb, still leaning against the wall, fell silent, his thoughts miles away. Slowly, his hand moved to the collar of his uniform, and he pulled out a thin, gold chain necklace, at the end of which hung a small, plain gold pendant shaped into a star.

"It's in a few days, right?" Zeb's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, breaking the silence. "Your mum's anniversary."

Tash looked up, her movements stilling. Her eyes softened as she noticed the pendant in his hand, his gaze fixed on it. A sombre smile touched her lips. She walked over, stopping beside him. "You still wear it," she murmured, her voice laced with surprise and a touch of warmth.

Tash looked at the small golden star, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Even though I was her child, she always loved you more; you were her star."

Zeb laughed softly, a genuine, unburdened sound. "Well, we spent a lot of time together. She being the only doctor in Dustfall, and me... I was a problem child."

Tash, still looking at the pendant, shook her head. "You still are."

Zeb didn't respond to the cheeky remark. Instead, he chuckled again, a far-off look in his eyes. "Remember that time when... I think we were, what, seven or nine years old? We snuck out of the city and to the small herd of camels..."

"Flock of camels," Tash corrected instantly, her voice firm.

Zeb looked down at her, a questioning eyebrow raised. "That can't be right, a flock?"

Tash shrugged. "That's what I've read."

Zeb shook his head, a fond smile on his face. "Anyway, we played this game to see who could get the closest to the camels before they noticed."

"You were so cocky," Tash continued, a rare, soft laugh escaping her, "you believed you could sneak up and touch a camel without it knowing."

"The fucker kicked my chest so hard I thought I was going to die," Zeb said, his laughter growing, a raw, unrestrained sound of pure memory.

Tash's smile faded slightly, replaced by a serious expression. "I thought you did."

Zeb looked down at her, his laughter subsiding. He saw the genuine concern that still lingered from that childhood memory. "Even though we're the same age," he said, his voice quiet, "you always seemed older to me." 

Tash laughed. “Only because someone had to grow up and become the voice of reason”. He smiled down at Tash, staring into her beautiful hazel eyes, her soft smile. Zeb suddenly broke from the spell. A soft chuckle escaped Zeb. "Yeah... sorry." He looked towards the front door, the conversation with Tash, the memories, the weight of his duty—it all felt too heavy, too complex. He needed to get away, to reset. But he couldn't just walk away from her. He looked down at Tash, a flicker of something raw and confused in his piercing eyes. She had seen him as a friend, a peer, and now... he was just a guard. The ease with which they had just shared a moment was jarringly replaced by the crushing reality of his role. He suddenly felt awkward, clumsy in his skin. He glanced at the front door. "Time for me to start my rounds," he mumbled, the words feeling forced. "I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked, his voice holding a hint of desperate hope.

Tash's brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and concern. His quick exit, the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, it was unlike him. "I will be here," Tash replied, her voice low, but before she could say anything more, Zeb was already gone, the door jingling softly behind him, leaving her alone in the quiet cafe, wondering what had just happened.

Motley leaned against the left wall, the rough plaster cool against his ear. The faint sounds of the cafe, once a muffled hum, had sharpened into distinct voices. He'd overheard it all: Tash's familiar banter, Zeb's stern pronouncements, and the Captain's subtle, loaded questions. Enemy. The word reverberated in his mind, cold and sharp. He was an outsider, a foe from a distant land, concealed within the very heart of the city Zeb patrolled. The soft comfort of the bed, the sterile calm of the room, shattered. He no longer felt safe. A new, unwelcome feeling bubbled up – a corrosive mix of guilt and fear. What would happen to Tash, this kind stranger who had saved him, if Zeb ever discovered she was harbouring a Solarian soldier, an enemy in her own home?

A soft knock startled him, then the door slowly creaked open. Tash stepped into the room. Her apron, the last he saw, was covered in blood, now stained from coffee grains. She held a steaming mug of coffee, its aroma a stark contrast to the fear now churning in his gut. Her eyes, usually so stoic, widened in surprise when she saw her critically injured patient standing up, out of bed, and leaning against the wall.

"Sit," Tash commanded, her voice firm, gesturing to the bed. Her eyes, however, held a flicker of surprise at finding him standing. Motley, still reeling from his eavesdropping, obeyed instantly, sinking onto the soft mattress. Tash pulled the wooden stool closer, positioning it by the bedside. In her hand, she held a steaming mug. "This is for you." She offered it to him. "Do you usually like coffee?"

Motley looked at the mug, then back at her, his brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. He opened his mouth, but the answer simply wasn't there. "I... I don't know," he confessed, the words a strained whisper.

Tash paused, her hand still extended, her expression momentarily confused. Then, a soft, almost disbelieving laugh bubbled from her, a sound so unexpected it stunned Motley. It was a genuine, warm laugh, utterly out of sync with the stoic, unreadable woman he'd perceived. The sudden shift, the genuine amusement in her hazel eyes, brought a spontaneous, hesitant smile to his lips as he took the mug from her.

She watched him take a tentative sip, then shifted, her professional demeanour returning, though a hint of the earlier warmth lingered in her gaze. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice calm. "Any pains? Any new memories?"

Motley answered truthfully, describing the lingering dull ache in his head, the stiffness in his body. He admitted the void in his memory remained, vast and terrifying.

Tash nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her unseen mug. "Good. Your body's mending well. Your mind... that's a different story. But I think it's best if you stay here, at the cafe, until you're fully recovered." Her gaze met his, unwavering. "I suspect that will take anywhere from two to three months."

Motley starred. Two to three months? The sheer audacity of it, the risk to her, made his breath catch. "No," he managed, his voice raspy, a sudden protectiveness surging through him. "That's... that's too dangerous. I'm an outsider. I don't want you to get in trouble." The words tumbled out, raw with the fear he'd overheard from Zeb.

Tash's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her stoic face. Her composure cracked. She studied him, her gaze suddenly sharp, scrutinising. Then, her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped, becoming stern, almost accusatory. "You were overhearing, weren't you?" The sweetness was gone, replaced by a deep, palpable fear. Her shoulders tensed, and for a fleeting moment, Motley saw the very same terror he'd glimpsed in his vision, the one that had paralysed her in the doorway. He was the enemy, the one who brought danger. It clicked.

"It's not like that, I know it looks like I was trying to get intel as the enemy", Motley said, his voice softer, trying to soothe her, to bridge the sudden chasm that had opened between them. "I... I couldn't help it. But I heard enough. About Zeb. About the city. About me being an outsider." His gaze pleaded with her. "I'm lost, Tash. Alone. I don't remember anything. And it's terrifying. All I want... is just a few truths. The smallest details of where I am, who I was. I don't want to put you in danger, but I also... I need to know." His voice trailed off, raw with a loneliness he hadn't fully acknowledged until now.

 He paused, his gaze dropping to his hands, a genuine shame colouring his face. "I know it was wrong to listen. I know I shouldn't have. I just… I don't know anything, and I thought if I could just hear something, anything, it would help." He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, a plea for understanding. "I'm sorry. I really am."

Tash watched him, her fear slowly beginning to recede, replaced by a wave of unexpected tenderness. Motley's raw confession, his admitted vulnerability, touched a part of her she rarely exposed. She hadn't considered his perspective, hadn't thought about how terrifying it must be to wake up a blank slate, surrounded by strangers, only to learn you're an enemy in a hostile city. Her own words echoed in her mind: the harsh medical terms, the detached delivery of his amnesia diagnosis, and the cold, factual statement about his Solarian uniform – her designation of him as ‘the enemy’ on the battlefield. That was my fault, she realised with a pang. She had framed his very existence in hostile terms. He wasn't just in danger; he was alone, and she was the one who had, however unintentionally, underscored that isolation.

Tash snapped out of her thoughts, letting out a long sigh that carried the weight of her sudden realisation. She looked at Motley, her expression softening. "Okay, let's start over," she said, her voice gentle, a stark contrast to her earlier professional tone. She stood up, extending a hand towards him. "Hey, my name is Tash."

Motley just looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.