To see things as they are, wait for the turn of light.
By night, Marrowdell posted sentries. Massive toads lined the road. Their eyes were perfect disks of moonlight, like so many silver coins tossed in his path.
They weren’t toads. Or rather they were something else as well. Like the road, silvered by moonlight also had an amber hue, and the sky, which was mostly dark and star-filled but was also shot through with vivid colours for which he needed names. When he looked closely, the toads’ loose folds of skin became coats of fine mail and their warts, rich gems. No idle gauds, he judged those, but medals of some kind. Accomplished toads.
He hoped for their favourable opinion.