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Chrysalis can't help herself. She knows it never works out, knows that the sight of her nodes sends most people running for the hills, but she still can't resist getting closer. Especially when the person she spots stands out against the usual denizens of the Cognitive Realm.
Chrysalis is an experienced worldhopper, and she can usually tell if others she encounters know the dangers of the place, or if they've fallen in by happenstance. She also prides herself on identifying what Physical Realm-space people hail from, although in this case, it's not difficult: the woman she spots is travelling with two Rosharan Cryptics, their large spiral-patterned heads shifting and crawling.
Maybe, Chrysalis foolishly thinks, the acceptance of Cryptics as travelling companions will make her own eccentricities less odd in the eyes of this Rosharan human. Plus, Roshar was home to many of her people. Not known to most humans, but a Worldhopper with two Cryptic friends did not strike her as typical.
Chrysalis has been spying on this woman with a few of her occular nodes, spread out across the surrounding area. Now she decides to correct her own course so that their paths will meet. Even if nothing comes of it, she silently wishes for connection. She has no false assumptions that any person will treat her like a person, no matter what company they keep, but… she's lonely. A chance to allievate that, no matter how slim, is worth the possible humiliation.
(People seem think that if you're a person made up of multitudes of bugs, you don't get lonely. But it's not like Chrysalis can talk to herself and feel the comfort of another person. She can build and breed a lot of things, but companionship isn't one of them.)
When Chrysalis crosses paths with the strangers, the woman greets her first. "Hello! You wouldn't happen to want to kill me, would you?"
Chrysalis almost laughs at the frankness of it. The two Cryptics buzz loudly; clearly they're protective of her. Chrysalis raises her arms, reassures the travellers that she isn't here to hurt anyone. She's just passing through.
From a distance, Chrysalis looks human. The tattoos across her dark skin hide the places where her seams are. But she is still learning, and she can't always cover up who she is. She doesn't hope for much; just a few hours of pleasantries, until she feels crowded out and has to leave again.
The woman is Shallan, her companions are Pattern and Testament. They were locked out of Roshar's physical realm and have no certain destination. Shallan might be married, but she talks around it; talks like she doesn't know if she still is. But still, she seems to be trying to put a positive spin on things.
"There's certainly been plenty to add to my sketchbook out here," Shallan says.
Chrysalis asks to look at her sketches, and Shallan happily obliges. For a while, they're able to settle into something resembling calm, because Shallan is enthusiastic and Chrysalis is a willing listener. It's not a fruitless excercise for Chrysalis, either; she gets to have this companionship, this connection, and it staves off the loneliness for a little bit longer.
When Shallan finally does notice Chrysalis' nodes (it's not long; she's observant), she masks her disgust well. It's still, of course, disgust, but she plays it off as fascination. "What is it? What are you?" she asks, prodding at a hordeling.
Chrysalis dodges the questions. But Shallan isn't deterred. She brings out her sketchbook and starts drawing.
"What does this one do? What does this one do?"
The question echoes in the space between them. Chrysalis tries to answer. Some of her hordelings see, others smell, others process and store information. There are endless purposes, endless posibilities. Chrysalis isn't always sure she knows all of their intricate functions, though she is aware she's made up of them. Does Shallan know what her intestines and her lungs and her liver do, in intricate detail? Really, is it so odd to be made of constituent parts?
Chrysalis doesn't really voice any of her concerns, though. She knows that it's useless. Shallan doesn't seem to notice her own insensitivities, either; as if drawing Chrysalis is a replacement for seeing her as human. As if being the subject of art, of curiosity, can substitute for warmth.
Shallan's study of Chrysalis' hordelings is clinical, almost. She stares, prods, asks invasive questions, and does not once stop to consider how Chrysalis might feel about this operation.
"Beautiful…" Shallan whispers, under her breath, as she looks at the irridescent wings of a hordeling. Chrysalis wishes she could pretend that was directed at her.
It is odd, because Shallan isn't cruel. She is clearly bright and charasmatic, funny and sweet to her spren companions; it's just that Chrysalis doesn't pass the threshold for that kindness. Shallan is beautiful when she focuses on her drawings, ink smudging her fingertips, brow furrowed, eyes not once looking up. In certain lights, Chrysalis can imagine that she's drawing her out of respect, admiration, love.
But of course, the truth is revealed in the contents of Shallan's pages. Each an individual node, not one drawing of Chrysalis as she is. The whole woman — made up of constituent parts, yes, but still her own whole. That's what Shallan seems blind to.
It doesn't hurt Chrysalis much to steal away one night, trading this patch of indistinct Cognitive land for another. She thinks she will miss Shallan's laugh and Shallan's eyes, but she will not miss the way Shallan looked at her, like an animal to be dissected.