Ah well, this too shall pass. It always (eventually) does.
From To Be Undone, a trouble chapter:
Though none should be able to detect my approach, the sitra does. An expanse of green covers the valley from the stony feet of Kohinoor’s mountains to the shining mere that domes Teerth. It looks like a lawn of lush grass, but it is not. It is the sitra, its skin, or fur, or tentacles, or whatever Udhr intended it to be; and through those myriad green feelers, the sitra senses all who would enter the Holy City.
Even though I am floating through the air, more intangible than smoke, the green ripples and hummocks, and a face swells up like a cresting wave to confront me before I reach the mere.
I halt, out of reach of the waving, questing stalks.
“Who seeks to enter the Holy City?” the sitra asks.