Lune sat alone at the edge of camp, away from the firelight and idle chatter. The glow of the flames barely reached her where she knelt beside a half-spread bedroll, one knee drawn up, a thick, weatherworn tome balanced across her lap. Her gloved hand moved with careful precision, pen scratching softly against parchment as she jotted notes into the margins—observations about residual echoforms, fluctuations in memory constructs, or perhaps another theory on the Paintress and her effect on the dreaming world.