You learn very quickly, when all that stands between you and She-who-sees's cold touch is finding your way, always always always trust your Guide.
So when Nuru started freaking out, whipping her legs with his tail and snapping at her ankles when she took a step forward, Ode didn't care that she looked like a superstitious savage when she refused to go any further. The feeling of dread was one thing, but by the Sister's, this was something else.
She had sat, back to the ship, and stroked a hand down Nuru's bristling spine as she waited for her companions voices to fade.
Nuru edged closer to her, and she nudged him with a knee. "Silly," she murmured, "they're just getting something, and then we'll be gone and I'll get paid for doing nothing more than sitting here. I think you're getting soft, my Guide, my Nuru."
Even still, she glanced at the sky. The sun had moved too far. For a simple snatch and split, this was taking too long.
Too long, too long. The unease that pricked at her skin rippled through her belly.
Too long. Viktor thought her ignorant; most of the people-who-do-not-walk did. They saw the walking peoples had no scrolls- most couldn't read and fewer could write more than their name- and they saw ignorance.
The people-who-do-not-walk did not hear the songs. Songs passed down, songs that spoke to the very flesh. The flesh remembers.
The hair on the back of Ode's neck stood out, and she shivered in the heat.
The flesh remembers, and they have taken too long.
Sending curses and prayers to the Sisters, Ode moved fluidly to her feet, and turned to face the beached ship. Nuru hissed, forked tongue flicking in and out of his mouth, increasingly agitated. Ode unsheathed her swords, and very gently nudged the lizard with a foot.
"Stay," she instructed him, in a tone that allowed no argument, and climbed up to the boat.