He rode a dendron out to the Frontal Lobes. The track was wild and thought wind buffeted him mercilessly clear to the Optic Chiasma. Blue sparks snapped around him as he negotiated the unique terrain. Rounding a particularly treacherous wad of plaquengew, the dendron panicked and bucked him off. He was aboot before the bloom was off the day.
“Great Azalea,” he muttered as he fumbled for his goomkit. Sparks crackled and snapped around him, but his hands were steady. He was worried about the dendron and hoped it would find its way home okay.
He’d known that they were heading into a storm. Storms were always in the Frontal Lobes and only increased at the Chiasma. There was too much routine activity to ignore and it was an iffy proposition at best to hope that a dendron would be able to handle the extra volumes of current.
Finally, the charged goomkit in his hand, he began the careful walk up the Chiasma, hoping he could hold his ground. He was headed for The Pit and wondered if he was up to the task. The goomkit reading was good, so he relaxed his shoulders and moved up the pulsing path.