Trithemius awoke suddenly with a grave sense of something wrong. He looked around him, through the bubble tent he had erected, at the toxic forest he had passed into the day before. Nothing seemed amiss. He looked around him in the tent and saw the little leather breathing hood he had fashioned for the child, laying on the ground. He had pulled it off when they made camp but kept it pinned to the infants clothing. Now the child was missing.
It took only a minute to catch sight of her, outside the tent. She lay on the ground not far away, unprotected from the maisma. She was giggling and cooing, reaching little hands up to swipe ineffectually at the glowing spores that rained down gently from the trees. The picture was almost idyllic. He realized that it was the giggling, muffled by the tent, which had awakened him.
He sees the track in the soil and ground fungus where she had crawled, or at least dragged herself out of the tent.
Sitting calmly, six feet or so away, Thinker sits, watching the child play.