Vinebound Pursuit

Motion tears through the canopy like a snapped oath—fronds bending, shafts of turquoise light slicing downward. The metallic figure, wrapped in windswept rags, arcs across the frame on a raw jungle vine, its polished limbs catching a numinous gleam where the sun fissures the green vault overhead. Every fiber of posture shouts urgency, the angle of descent promising no second chance. When its improvised robe lashes the air we can almost hear the rustle resolve into a vow. Through the kinetic blur, one speech bubble floats steady: “WHERE VOJTA?” That is no idle query; it’s a field report disguised as riot call, proof that our missing contact still bends the expedition’s trajectory. No confetti softens this, no pageantry apart from that furious swing and the electric light storm around it. Records note: after this frame, no further sightings were logged. Vojta remains an absent axis—spinning theories, anchoring none.