

Fauldon's Dream

And the Karier of the Task

By Enoch K. Enns

Published by AuthorHouse 01/13/2017

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

Copyright 2017 Enoch K. Enns. All rights reserved.
Heed These Words

For those who wished rather a sequel, I heed you to not take for granted the significance of the story herein. This is a door to that Grand Hall that bears much weight and meaning in that which is to come. To those that this is the first: welcome. Welcome to the Realm of Euphora and its inhabitants. May your attention be swept into an adventure so refreshing, so imaginative, that you rediscover the youth of your mind and the creativity it retains.

I could not have done this without you, Alaina—my wife and greatest companion. Your support was unwavering as you corrected far more mistakes than I would like to admit in my perfectly flawed writing. And to you, Abram—my son—I am joyed to raise you in a household filled with imagination and adventure. May you come to love these stories as I have loved reading them to you. May you renew my youthful mind and laugh and join in an endless adventure of the mind's limitless imagination. For I publish this for you to enjoy.

For you to read one day.

And to you, my reader, I solemnly welcome your eyes and mind to read further, deeper, and in the richness of that which is to unfold before you and within your very mind.

FAULDON'S DREAM AND THE KARIER OF THE TASK

SCENE I:

He was just an ordinary man—why should I have chosen anyone else? To be simply answered: it's because the simple man is the one who often brings about the biggest and greatest changes. And so he walked, hands in his coat pockets, eyes set forward through the bustling city crowds, on towards a small stand-alone booth of hope, his mind and heart progressing more swiftly than his anxiety and tired body could meet. Etched upon the wood paneling read deliverance to any city tramp: HILTON'S WORKS & HIRE. For work in such times was packed and the economy was complicated to say the least. Most would hold a job if only for a single task in a single day and have to resort to scurrying about for another job. All that to say, the life of a city tramp hinged upon a day-to-day existence—a never ending pit of seeking.

So seeing a "works and hire" would most obviously spur excitement and crowds as many would rush the opportunity to land a career job. In light of such, I should have admired more the timing of the choice being as there was no line awaiting him, for he now stepped into the booth—a small trickle of nervousness touching his spine. Before him a single desk resided, behind which sat a stout man in suit, hat, and tie. He took the cold steel chair in front of him, straightening his coat as he did. A sense of desperatecy to the occasion held him at the edge of his full potential, but that could have mattered less to me. Every man gets desperate. It's what he does in it that should be of consideration. He was a respectable man.

"What is your name?" the man asked.

"Mr Fauldon," answered he all in attempt at dodging the frog in his throat.

"Are you a respectable man?" sir Hilton, the interviewer, asked (for that was what the name Mr Fauldon could make out from the tag clipped upon his left).

"Why, yes, I do strive to be, sir Hilton," replied Mr Fauldon, utilizing the awareness and hoping for the best.

The man showed a smile and leaned his arms upon the desk. "Good," he said, "and it is good that you can read, though I'd hope you wouldn't try anything too bold."

"By no means whatsoever!" Mr Fauldon alarmed. "The thought would never have crossed my mind and neither would I ever conceive myself as doing such a thing."

"So, you must be in your mid-thirties?" sir Hilton asked.

"Thirty-four, to be exact," Mr Fauldon said with much dignity and pride, his nervousness starting to rub off.

"Mind me asking what it was your previous occupation might have been?" the man proceeded, flipping out a pen and loose leaf paper from his sleeve.

Mr Fauldon pondered for a moment.

"Never mind that," sir Hilton added. "It's the events at hand that you seek and that make you, not a reminiscence of the past. Now, why should I trust you with this job in comparison to, for say, the man who had come in before you? He too has looked worthy."

"Feats of honor and heroism I may not have to offer," Mr Fauldon answered with much considering, "but I do promise you my utmost effort and care in any and all tasks."

The light flickered above him as the ground quivered to the tiniest and most insignificant earthquake to a city too distracted to notice. For the city's structures were built tall, brave, and proud and able to withstand such accustomed occurrences. He sat there waiting for it to putter out and when it finally did he returned his gaze from the ceiling to the man in hat and suit. A whole new look had come across the man's face as if he had just remembered something of greater interest to him. That man, folding up his loose leaf paper and putting away his pen, abruptly stood and pushed back his chair, not a single occurrence to his mind that he still was giving an interview, or that Mr Fauldon still sat in his cold steel chair waiting.

It was only a matter of moments before the man left the booth—Mr Fauldon utterly confused at the events. Not only that, but the man had exited through a rear door (there had only been one when he'd entered). To his surprise, having turned around to see if his own door was still there, he found it not! Queer—the look on his face. The kind that reminds you of a man who has struck such an un-knowing-ality of his surroundings that he is suddenly unaware of his own existence and perception of what had been reality to him.

He could only ponder for so long before his curiosity took the better of him (and I could quite agreeably agree.) Straightening his coat once again, he stood and proceeded to the rear door. I would be content enough to say he simply wanted out of that small booth now—though indeed he did want the job. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle like any other ordinary man would in any other ordinary circumstance (which dealt with opening doors, that is). Also like any other ordinary man, he stepped through it—the slightest bit of disappointment crossing his mind to a much anticipated interview, seeming at abrupt end.

There he stood utterly dazed.

Before him was a world he'd never seen (one of more splendor than he could even possibly dream of—and I say "dream" because that was the look on his face). Colors filled the skies with streaks of vivid hues, and streams of silky wateriness flowed freely and independently high above him. Plants and shrubs and trees alike were of quite overly-peculiar shapes and in-proportional sizes. It was all nearly too much for him to take in (and much of it he didn't).

Behind him, the once familiar booth now turned to earth and crumbled down upon itself. To make matters even more abnormal, a gigantic cloud tree sprang forth from the ground and began raining down upon the rubble—turning it to mud and flowing hence forth down the opposite side of that hill.

He stood dumbfounded looking at a slender man who had suddenly appeared as he always did in a bright suit—as if to find some certainty he hadn't gone mad. He found no certainty of any sorts. Instead, the man lifted his head upright in utmost satisfaction, saying, "Shall we carry on then?"

"Carry on?" Mr Fauldon exclaimed, "I just saw a man walk through that door naught but moments before. Sir Hilton was his name. Have you seen him?"

The stranger seemed astounded at the preposterous thought of yet another person. "Sir Hilton you say? Never heard of him. Now, if you please, Mr Fauldon, might we progress?" He (the strange man in suit, of course) motioned with his body down the winding hill.

"And who might you be that I'd follow ever so blindly?" Mr Fauldon asked, not moving an inch.

"You may call me sir Knowington, dear sir. Now honestly, if you don't mind, shall we continue with delay of pointless conversation or jolly well got on our way?"

He had no choice but to follow (or rather he had simply not thought of anything else more reasonable to do). And who might blame him? He'd long since lost sight of reason as he knew it, and so they proceeded through the all-too-queer land of some totally different reality. He was led down from the hill—the cloud tree still raining its mist and growing larger, and the pile of once familiar rubble now a puddle of mud that ran down and began gathering further on at the foot of the slope and began forming a pond of memories and reflection.

"Well, hello there!" came a distant and filled voice (as if drunk yet retaining some sense of awareness and intellect). And there, in but a blink of unawareness, now resided a table covered in white cloth with a bearded man in blue tux—obviously over-worn and under-washed—and hat sitting behind it (the first impression of course being a gambler of sorts). But that would have been an understatement and quite unfairly a far-fetched conclusion. Upon reaching the table closer, Mr Fauldon could make out several cards spread neatly over it. On each card was a symbol—a simple one of no foreseeable purpose, or so I have come to know.

"Oh, not now!" said sir Knowington in a discontented voice. "Mr Fauldon has no time for such games and business."

"But alas!" the man intruded, "Might I not, in the least, introduce myself?"

"He might as well," Mr Fauldon replied. "Not like nothing else is new...."

"That's the spirit! Welcome to Serve Per Card's Place—where the deal is and always will be! And just for giving of your time, I shall deal you your first card on me!" The man spoke with such enthusiasm in his work as he drew a single card from his white-spaced deck that he'd flung from his sleeve. The card fell face-up with the symbol showing.

"Hm," he mumbled, scratching his beard, "the 'Inquisitor'. It seems your life will be filled with questions I'm afraid."

"Oh, well what good that is to my situation..." Mr Fauldon sarcastically remarked.

"Don't ask me!" the man said, "Ask the card! Or can you not read?"

"I can to read," Mr Fauldon pronounced, "and I need not a card to tell me what to do."

"It hasn't told you anything yet," the dealer laughed. "You haven't asked it anything!"

"Foolish this is," said Mr Fauldon, handing him his card, "Here, have your card back."

"Hmm, very well then. Perhaps another?" the dealer asked, a childish look of anxiety awaiting a positive response (for that's all he seemed to do with his life—drawing cards).

"Mr Fauldon seems to have had enough, let him be," sir Knowington said.

"Ah, well too-ta-loo! But here, I'll at least give you another card free for just having met!" The man's huge smile was accompanied by a firm open hand.

But before Mr Fauldon could reach out for it, the man had jerked his hand away, quickly adding, "Never mind that one! Would have hated for you to have Misfortune. Here, have this one—it was mine, but I give it to you!"

His face lit up as Mr Fauldon took it. "It's blank?" he said.

An even bolder smile stretched across the man's face. "For now, yes," he answered, "it is."

"Very well now!" burst in sir Knowington (who felt as though the whole conversation had been too long already). "Shall we?"

"Where is it you're going?" the dealer asked.

"To Chestleton," replied he, and the both of them were off—Serve Per Card's Place disappearing behind the curve of the road.

SCENE II, Part I:

It was rather shortly thereafter (having passed all sorts of exotic plants and shrubbery and trees) that they came to stand atop a ledge which was overlooking Chestlewood Forest. And of all the bizarre things Mr Fauldon had seen, it was to his relief to finally see some 'ordinary' looking trees (though one would not necessarily say a tinted orange oak of yellowish-green leaves was all that normal). Enormous great oaks showed the very outskirts—boasting of their strength in age and beauty. And as they moved deeper in, the rays of light glistening off the thick moss, the trees seemed to grow younger and less compact. Soon enough, the forest had opened somewhat up to a pasture of sorts (bright and majestic trees of different kinds now showing). In the middle of it all—and still a little ways off—lay tiny structures of a small town.

"And what might this place be?" asked Mr Fauldon.

"This, Mr Fauldon, is Chestlewood—a small little town we Calnor are very fond of." Sir Knowington spoke this with much confidence, straightening his shoulders and putting on his best act. "Shall we?" he said for the fifth time.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Mr Fauldon burst uncontrollably. "You say it as if I knew where we were going, but I have not the slightest clue! I don't even know anything!"

The last statement gave sir Knowington a queer face (as though he'd never thought of the awkward position Mr Fauldon presently was in). And so he disregarded it, saying, "Oh, don't cause such fright to yourself. You must have only lost your recollection momentarily. Now, let us keep on, this is not the place yet."

"Then why are we even here? And where is this CHESTLETON anyway?" Mr Fauldon asked.

"Beyond Chestlewood, of course," replied he reluctantly. "Why do you ask so many questions?" Sir Knowington chuckled to himself and let it go—putting aside his next line for another time. "Let us proceed," he simply said.

Upon a closer look at the small town, Mr Fauldon could define clearly the many buildings protruding from the ground in all-which-ways (a sight by which even the 'Leaning Tower' would be considered standing straight). All the structures were made of wood—most two floors high with an attic topping them off along the chimneys. Their windows and frames were often over-bulked as if pride were found in the thicker wood. Small scattered stone paths made up where most walked. It felt as though, when passing between buildings, they would fall on oneself at any moment, and yet they looked to have surpassed greatly the effects of time and wear.

"Quite the place you got, but no one's here," Mr Fauldon said, scoping the deserted-ness in all directions.

"Of course not!" sir Knowington replied, "They're all at Chestleton—"

"Why, good evening!" came a shrill voice which sent a quiver down Mr Fauldon's spine—and sir Knowington didn't like it either (but more from the side that no one was 'supposed' to be there).

"And what would you be doing here, madam Shrewg?" he more so inquired rather demandingly.

"Oh, just making sure I wasn't missing out on anything," said the old beldam.

"Anything worth missing definitely isn't here I assure you, ma'am," sir Knowington replied harshly.

"So who's the fellow?" she asked.

"Not now, please," said he before Mr Fauldon could even raise a lip (nonetheless his tongue). "We have been trying to reach Chestleton ourselves all day it seems, and we both could use without any more delays."

The beldam took a good, long look at the newcomer—her grey, old, fringed hair showing almost as though clear to the light's complexion. With a crooked smile she spoke, "He looks as though he could use a rest! Come now, come by my place, and I'll give you some good 'ole stew!"

"We really have no time to be meddling in other's affairs, I heed you," sir Knowington said, giving over the choice to Mr Fauldon (who was utterly lost in his senses).

"Yes, I think I could use something to eat," said Mr Fauldon, not remembering the last time he'd eaten a decent meal.

"Ah, good, good!" the old lady rejoiced, bounding up the path to the right with surprising youthfulness. Mr Fauldon followed behind—a slight heat to his chest (maybe it was his exhaustion or maybe his hunger, he did not know).

Not only did she live in a corner cottage, but they had to pretty much back-track all the way to the front of the town to get there. The widowed old woman spoke proudly of her shrubs and heterogeneous plants (in particular the ruby bush—not to be mistaken for the ruby thorn weed).

"This is it!" she announced, bouncing (as if it were) through her old, creaky shack door.

"Careful, my friend," said sir Knowington, "This is prime time to make acquaintance—you for sure don't want her on your 'non-friendly' side."

"Come in! Come in!" beckoned the beldam, removing a large stew from the smoldering fireplace.

"You were expecting us?" Mr Fauldon asked astoundedly.

"Of course not! Who would want to visit poor old me?" she replied (besides, she would probably have eaten the whole thing herself had they not shown up).

"Oh, hush now," sir Knowington spoke, sitting himself calmly at one of the three stools. (Interestingly enough was it that she had but three sit-able stools, three eat-from-able bowls, and three usable spoons at the time. There was, of course, other miscellaneous furniture and artifacts, though all seeming near their death to crippling age.) "You know we can't stay long less the Lighthouse go around three turns, there is no need to fill us with extravagant tales of self-pity."

"Why, is that not up to you but to my new guest?" answered she all awhile serving them. "My dear, do you wish to hear a tale of old? I shall tell it to you now if you so choose."

"By all means," Mr Fauldon agreed, "I should do well with stories of this foreign land, for it is still but an awakening dream to me."

Both of them—the beldam and the ever-so-persistent-accompanyist—stared with blank faces at his remark.

"Ah, but surely you shouldst soon wake to this reality," said sir Knowington, more so to reassure himself of his decision.

"But an ever so strange reality this is to me—nothing like the one of which I thought to have known," Mr Fauldon said.

"Indeed, reality in of itself is strange—regardless how unfitting such a word be. But you shall come to it all the same in due time. Now please, do eat since you ever so gullibly complied to this unnecessary deviation from our task."

"Oh, quiet your temper, Wisum!" the old beldam cracked, rapping her spoon across the rim of sir Knowington's bowl. "Now, where was I? Oh, I recall! It was fourteen hundred eighty six turns ago," she began (the equivalence, of course, to fourteen hundred eighty six days for us, though one turn not actually being anything like a day.. go figure):

"For there he stood, teeth in glisten,

A heart of purest reason—a mind

Filled with good intent, and a

Sword from which evil he did

Vanquish, its edge of top awaiting

To pry at life; its edge of bottom

To be filled with glutton. And so

He held forth true judgment,

Careful not to be overcome by

His lusting weapon—"

She began stirring the pot of stew; her eyes were wide with the absorption of the tale. He hadn't noticed it before, but now he could make out faint figures in the vapor that steadily arose. In them, fish (bearing much resemblance to that of sharks, only with a feather-scale-like complexion) were swimming about a single form protruding from the center of the stew. She proceeded with the words of which he did not care to hear, his mind as a whole trying to simply grasp the moving shapes in the stew.

The tale proceeded as so:

"The figure standing amidst the fish looked down

upon another form—which knelt so low so as to have

its head touch its toes. The figure looked

shamefully upon the wretched form, stepping

forth with a heavy foot—his great sword (of some

vegetable of sorts) dragging behind him. Kneeling

down himself, the two were now head to head.

"Sword behind him in one hand, the figure

lifted the weeping form with his other—so as

to remain on his knees instead. The form, once

in tears, was now rejoicing—though in an instant,

all the fish scattered. From behind them, another

form arose, taking up the sword and striking the

first..."

Mr Fauldon was nudged back to his senses, looking dazzledly at his surroundings (much like a child returning from a fairy-land tale). "What was that for?" he inquired disappointedly to sir Knowington (who had been the one responsible for breaking his concentration).

"It is late," he replied as if it were good enough an excuse.

"But what happened? Who was that assailant? Why did he kill the first?" came Mr Fauldon's stampede of questions, the interest of a child burning in his eyes.

"Why, did you not hear anything I said?" remarked the beldam, taking up his empty bowl (he hadn't the slightest recollection of ever finishing it) as well as sir Knowington's, and placing them into the empty pot of stew.

"You have finished eating and are undoubtedly refreshed now, so we might as well, if you please, continue on our way," said you-know-who.

"Oh, have patience already!" cried the beldam, turning back to Mr Fauldon with a smile. "The 'words' you missed go as such:

"Though wielding he the sword of

Judgment, death he never sought. And,

Looking deep into the eyes of the

One guilty of crime, he forgave—

Taking it upon himself and giving a second

Chance, knowing it a worthy action. But

This act, in the hunger of the sword,

Found discontent within itself, and

The sword called upon its own judge,

Who, being as corrupt and yielding to intent, wielded the

Sword and took the innocent life in

Place of the one forgiven."

"Oh my, what an act of heroism he did!" Mr Fauldon exclaimed.

"Yes, indeed," said sir Knowington, glancing toward the beldam and addressing her, "Now, if you'll excuse us, we best be on our way."

She smiled at them both with her crooked teeth and wrinkled skin, "And thus you shall! It was a pleasure bearing company!"

"Thank you, ma'am," Mr Fauldon gratified, "the pleasure was mine."

"Hm, well, for your time I now grant you the rear door," she said, pointing (with a freckled hand) to a door in the back. "It should make light this delay."

"Ah, in that case I myself am grateful!" sir Knowington replied, leading Mr Fauldon to the door. "Now, shall we be off?" he asked, and they proceeded through.

SCENE II, Part II:

To say the scenery was still a shock to him would not have been the half of it, for it had completely changed. Mr Fauldon himself couldn't even find the door through which they had just used (and what was with all these appearing and disappearing doors anyway?). Before them, tall limb-and-leafless trees stood having an orangish-brown appearance (similar to that of a totem pole, only having more 'natural-like' carvings). And along the single winding path leading further on and up were the strangest of red grasses (mixed with purple pick-a-dillies).

"What is this place that nothing is as it should be?" Mr Fauldon asked, all awhile he suddenly realized that the streaks of silky wateriness above him were actually genuine streams of water flowing independently of the gravity that held most of everything else. (And another fact of reality: these 'torrents of water' replaced the need of the gloomy, sad, and depressing aura that clouds brought. Instead, whenever the Beasts of Rayne that swam through them like turtle-whales strayed too closely to the currents' edge, their fins would scathe it, causing a break in concentrated flow and sending forth trickles of descending water—what you call rain. And there you have it, yet another phenomenon.)

He needn't have asked again, for sir Knowington knew well the face that showed—though for him it was hard to grasp why so, being as it was always as such to him. "You ask far too many questions to be productive, you know," he said with an onward look.

And so they walked past the algae turtles and yawning mushrooms with faces, coming up to two large bronze gates that were supported by massive boulders which stretched like walls around either side and back. To their left lay a hidden staircase (which wasn't so seemingly hidden, for sir Knowington quickly ascended them). Reaching the top, Mr Fauldon could finally catch a glimpse of the magnificent, marble city of Chestleton.

"Here inlays the pride and proud of all Calnor," said he with satisfaction.

"Calnor? You keep saying that. What exactly are they?" Mr Fauldon asked.

The statement terrified the man (if one could say his response held any such sense of personal involvement, rather just dazzlement at the stupidity of new-comers). "Why, I myself am one!" he pronounced, just as quickly shrugging it off with ignorance. "Now, please follow me to the Hall."

As they descended the city streets, Mr Fauldon could hear his name being called out from behind. "Why, hello there, traveler!" It was Serve Per Card (though how so he had not the slightest reasonable clue). "How fanciful for you to show on such an occasion!"

Even Mr Fauldon could tell that the man intended more business—having already motioned toward his table and deck of cards. "I have another special offer for you, if you spare the time... and I see you are still with the guide!"

"Could your inconvenience be of even more inconvenient timing," commented sir Knowington, hoping to have simply brushed by, but the man had grabbed hold of Mr Fauldon's sleeve.

"It is you I ask of," he reiterated. "Have you used that card yet?"

"What card?" Mr Fauldon asked—and it suddenly struck him. "Oh! I had completely forgotten...."

He drew forth the blank card.

"Ah, there you have it. Go ahead; make a request!" the gambler intrigued.

"Now?" Mr Fauldon asked, not wanting to do so.

"Yes, 'now'. I want to see you use it—after all, what is a gift that has never been opened? Shall it then but go to waste?"

He paused for a moment. Of all the hundreds of millions of questions to ask, he was finding it hard to think of even just one. "Uh... how do I use it?" asked he.

"Just ask a question. It's as simple as that! You need not quote fancy riddles or perform pointless ritual, just ask, ask, ask!"

Mr Fauldon looked back to the card. "What is Sir Knowington's real name?" he asked it (having not the slightest idea as to why that question in particular had arisen above the other and more reasonable ones).

The card shuttered briefly before glowing a tinted white. Words then began to etch themselves upon its surface when—and rather suddenly so—a firm hand took grip of it and covered the writing. He looked up at the card dealer who spoke sternly but with smile. "Within reason, of course. Show Mr Fauldon his heart," he demanded instead.

The card once again lit up, only this time its edges turned into that of autumn colors.

"Well?" the gambler anxiously spoke, "What is it?"

"It's a picture... of a girl—a beautiful one," Mr Fauldon replied (a familiar and yet completely unknown feeling overtaking him).

"Ah, very beautiful indeed," complemented the dealer, "You'd do great to treasure that face—it'll bring more than just light and strength to you if done so wisely."

"Why? What must I do? And who might this girl even be? Do I know her—"

"Tush tush tush! Slow down! ...Maybe revealing to you the Inquisitor wasn't such a good idea. You need to learn patience and temperance, my dearest client."

It was at this time that sir Knowington stepped into the conversation. "You'll know soon enough," he said.

"And why not now?" Mr Fauldon probed.

"Exactly, not now. Or at least yet," sir Knowington restated, turning back to the dealer, "For we must be on our way. To the Hall shall we go then?"

"Well, here!" the dealer exclaimed, desperate to deal business with Mr Fauldon if only for one last time. "I return to you the card you returned to me as a parting gift. All you must do is ask it should questions arise. Remember that, my inquiring friend, that the card may serve you well."

And they were off—Mr Fauldon once again finding himself with nothing better to do than to follow the 'guide'. Such a queer place full of questions unanswered. Who could choosingly live in such a bizarre world? It was as if everything had lost its sense of reality and the norm.

Thus so, he was led into the most magnificent hall he had ever seen. The palace structure itself towered above the proud city of marble and marvel, though compared nothing so spectacular as the Hall of which to it led. Massive pillars arched overhead and extravagant stones formed the walls between them. Streaks of green and yellow flowed across the floor and ceiling like veins giving of life, warmth, and comfort. A deep blue velvet carpet held the middle, running from door to door (that is, from where they had entered and all the way to a glorious elevated throne of indescribable, petrified wood, the palace door just behind it).

"Welcome," came a deep, reverberating voice of a man seated on the throne. He wore the most genuine of red cloth, complemented by his purple robe and golden spectacles. His face was set, jaws firm, and he bore the longest sideburns Mr Fauldon had ever seen. All in all, he looked as though he was once a man not to be reckoned with, the kind that may have been looked upon as a hero. "And who might this one be?" he spoke already-knowingly.

"This is he," replied sir Knowington (standing more postured than he had previously been, if that were ever possible).

"Would you be ever so confident in this one as well?" the man asked.

"It is so," answered sir Knowington.

"Yet he looks weary and unfit for any task," the man further added.

"But he is all the more prepared in heart," said sir Knowington.

Keyno (for that was what the bearded man went by) looked prolongingly at Mr Fauldon, a hand lifting to scratch at his rough face. "What is your name, traveler?" he asked.

"Mr Fauldon," replied he, straightening out his throat (for it seemed frogs loved his throat as of late).

"And are you true to your word, Mr Fauldon? For it is one's word alone by which he stands—whether that be in confidence or shame."

"Why, yes," Mr Fauldon confirmed, "I am a man to my word, less fate say otherwise."

"As often it does," Keyno spoke, a glance back at sir Knowington with the raising of a brow. "And would you be willing to bear this task as its sole carrier—being it your fate?"

"Yes—" came the ever so unpredictable word of Mr Fauldon (not at all knowing how it had come out so). He swallowed down his regret and tried to hold true, regardless of the fact he had no clue as to what he had just agreed to.

A satisfied look took to Keyno's face as he leaned back. "He looks somewhat dazed as of still yet. Have you acquainted him with all the unfamiliarities?" he said to sir Knowington, who also showed signs of relief.

"No, my lord. He seems to be yet awakening to all that surrounds him," he answered.

"Ah, well then, you shall accompany him as his guide and guardian. Now bring forth his coat," demanded the Calnorian lord, and Mr Fauldon's old, withered coat was removed from him. With it off, he could feel the waves of cool breeze lurking through the Hall and shuddered.

"You needn't wear that anymore," Keyno added, nodding to the side, "but one of mine." And there appeared, hanging on a stand, a new clean coat of a red leather (that of the Korgath hide).

"Bear it well," Keyno proceeded, "and never take it off so long as you're here. For it will be what all shall know and recognize you by. And that you shall hence forth be known as Karier of the Task. Journey you now and seek out sir Grievous, from whom you shall receive further instruction."

Mr Fauldon took the coat and placed it on (and I can guarantee never before had he fell so in love with a perfectly fitting coat).

"Go now, Mr Fauldon. And may you be guided well in the presence of sir Knowington," Keyno said, slumping back into his majestic chair to soon be consumed by swaying thoughts.

SCENE III:

The radiance of the sky infiltrated every crevice of creation before them. Mr Fauldon stood dazedly upon the cliff's edge overlooking the vast terrain of odd-shaped tulip trees and illuminated rose-flowers. It seemed that the landscape was content with the soil about it—neither striving to compete nor overcome by feeble things. And so his sights turned to the horizon. "What is that way?" he asked of sir Knowington, flinging his arm far to the right and toward an all-too-distant wall that towered above and behind everything else—the coney hills, the viney plains, the crusted cliffs, and even the three-palm elms of enormous-tude.

Sir Knowington's head jolted back as though it were a preposterous question of near insult. "Of all things to ask, you turn swenward and wonder what lies behind the unseen? How is it that your kind's curiosity outdoes your sense and does so ever consistently? That, my friend, is the Wiliswall."

"I never knew of a Wiliswall," said Mr Fauldon.

"Not a Wiliswall. The Wiliswall. There is only one Wiliswall," answered sir Knowington. "To confuse that you might as well say you are just a Fauldon—and by doing such, remove any significance of being original. Now, if you don't mind, shall we proceed swenward?"

"You should respect my asking a little more," said Mr Fauldon as he arranged his composure within his newfound coat. "After all, I'm not the one whose name is 'know-a-ton'. And swenward? What on earth is that?"

"This is not Earth, Mr Fauldon," sir Knowington said, "so there is no 'on earth' here. Here, there is no north, south, east, or west."

"But how then do you have any sense of direction?" Mr Fauldon asked, altogether dumbfounded. "Where is the sun in this place?"

Sir Knowington took a breath in his bewilderment of Mr Fauldon's lack of understanding. "The 'sun' you ask for is that lighthouse." He pointed to the right before adjusting his spectacles. Sure enough, there stood, beside a large mountain of preposterous proportions, a lighthouse unlike any he had seen before. Its supports, like clockwork, wound their way up to the light. It was at that moment Mr Fauldon remembered the beldam's reference to rotations as time.

"So... like a clock?" he inquired of sir Knowington.

The man shrugged to the simplicity of Mr Fauldon's assumption. "A little more, I would have to say. In fact, it ties into our very conversation on how we're wasting time asking such demeanor questions."

"So which way is that lighthouse?"

"That would be swenward."

"So we are headed to the lighthouse."

"No, you just asked which way the lighthouse was. We are headed to where you shall receive further instruction upon your task."

"And where is that?"

Sir Knowington brushed aside the embarrassment of the childlike questions (after all, Mr Fauldon's name was far from resembling 'knowing-a-ton'). "That would be there," he implied, physically pointing his hand for the sake of not confusing Mr Fauldon more. And to his hand Mr Fauldon looked, following it down across the oakriss valley and collection of trees and jagged-jutting mountain ledges. It was a canyon of winding forests and plateaus and just beyond them (before the crest that led into gloominess craters) lay a settlement of sorts.

"You see that there?" sir Knowington asked, "That is known as the city of Mauhg, also the place of dwelling of Sir Grevious, to whom you seek the furtherance of your task."

And just at that moment there came a man up the hill toward them. His clothes were loose garments of green and brown linen and resembled much of those who traveled without rest. "Hello there!" he cried out, a thin-bodied voice that was fitting to his clean-shaven face. He continued so: "I was but sitting down yonder and heard the mentioning of the city of Mauhg. I wonder if I might perhaps accompany you. For I have been in need of crossing the river Floweth for several turns now and would appreciate the assistance of ones with know-how."

"And so shall you learn—the both of you," said sir Knowington, "for there is a bridge now further swen of it to which we shall journey."

The traveler was overjoyed and turned with anxiety toward Mr Fauldon, "Ah! And you must be the new Karier! Bless my ankles, I surely thought I would never accompany such a privilegee. I am Nomad—at your service. Well, at least I like to be called Nomad. My actual name is Nomadicus in full and Nom by calling. I am not from these parts, rather the far lands of Distontay. It has been my dream to settle down and raise up a town."

"Quite the endeavor you have," sir Knowington added, not in the least bit caring. "Shall we be on our way now? There is some footing to be done yet before reaching Costle Bridge."

"Right! Then off we go!" Nomad charged (only in a matter which allowed sir Knowington to lead, for he knew not the way).

And so they strode down the hills swen of Chestleton and toward the Hygh Pass cliffs. Mr Fauldon could not keep count of how diverse his surroundings were in the least. The stone palms wove themselves about every slope of dune grass; lilies of fruit sprouted the edges of their winding path and they ducked beneath clovers the size of small trees. Petrastone wood was more than abundant about them in those hills as they neared the outskirts of Chestlewoods and to the sound of the river Floweth.

Nomad was perfect company to Mr Fauldon and just as admiring of the plethora of life and terrain—only he seemed to know of it all, or at least the traveler claimed (though Mr Fauldon could have sworn he saw the man always glancing at encyclopedias stashed all about his person). The man was full of energy and admiration—something sir Knowington seemed to lack altogether. Yet the guide led them on and at good pace despite the many inquiries Mr Fauldon wished to make and Nomad's seemingly prompt reading.

"Look! There!" Nomad had quickly proclaimed. Mr Fauldon froze in step and sight, for just a little ahead and on up the slope poised a faerydeer (but that did not stop Nomad from swishing through his papers to find its description). "It's a faerydeer!" he exclaimed. "They are said to appear when the bonedilies are near bloom and are renowned for the pollen they sweat."

Nomad's expression seemed confused, as was Mr Fauldon's. Such a weird trait to be known for one's sweat. But Nomad kept reading: "Their sweat is essential to nature's pollination and integration of kinds, allowing species of plant to travel vast expanses and find home next to the bonedilies for protection."

"Bonedilies?" Mr Fauldon inquired. "What are bonedilies?"

It was then he caught sir Knowington's gaze just off to the left of their path. Sure enough, there resided a bonedily as it stretched itself to the veins above. It was naught but ten feet tall and bore membranes of boney substance (resembling that of a venus fly trap in composure, also taking notice to the travelers passing by it—that being sir Knowington, Nomad, and Mr Fauldon). In a sudden jolt did the bonedily sweep toward them. Mr Fauldon had but enough time to spread himself upon the ground as it chased Nomad to the opposing ledge. It was then that the faerydeer leapt in. Mr Fauldon could not put into words the magnificence he saw as the faerydeer swayed the bonedily away from Nomad and soon had it postured back to the sky above. The pollen brushed against the stem of the bonedily until, in soothing submission, it became still again.

"Well, then," sir Knowington remarked, "have we had enough excitement to continue moving?"

Nomad, still slightly shaken, was back upon his feet, seemingly fueled by the adrenaline. "Yes!" he agreed, "That truly was exhilarating! My second encounter with a bonedily now successful!"

"Second?" Mr Fauldon asked, brushing off his shoulders and knees. "Then what of the first?"

"Oh, no need to go in depth there," said Nomad, "Only that I am now in good company."

"And also in sight of Costle Bridge," sir Knowington added.

Much to Mr Fauldon's relief, there resided just on down the last slope a glimmer of the waters of river Floweth. The humming sound now came to him in full as though a breeze were swirling above their way. He was reminded of the warmth and comfort of his coat which bore no stain from his recent visitation with the ground. Any bits of dirt or moist seemed to roll right off it, though his shoes spoke otherwise.

"Who would have thought I was so close to it this whole time!" Nomad announced, not in the least ashamed as they proceeded down the slope and to the river bank.

The bridge was flat and stretched boldly over the rush of current. It was only that he now stood next to its swarming roar that Mr Fauldon realized the river was actually, indeed, one continuous swarm of thistle bees. He knew them to be thistle bees for Nomad had yet again dove into the wonders of his encyclopedia (which Mr Fauldon was becoming more and more grateful for—after all, it wasn't like sir Knowington cared to answer all his questions). Then he remembered the card. Pulling it from beneath his coat, Mr Fauldon held out the card. "What of these thistle bees?" he asked, "Why do they flow in stream?"

The card began to gleam and shake as the hum of the thistle bees began to ripple words upon its surface, and he read: "From where they flow the most fruitful grow, and to where they speed, a border between greens."

"A border between greens?" Nomad reiterated.

"Yes," sir Knowington said, "Much as the saying 'the grass is greener on the other side', so does the river Floweth keep all that is within the greener side. But let us instead cross this bridge, shall we?"

Mr Fauldon would never have guessed the bridge to be made of honey cone. Not the sort of honey cone that seeped of only honey, rather one that teemed with thistle bees joining in the rush. They were not so small up close as they emerged from their cones to join their brothers (in fact, Mr Fauldon could have swarmed he saw one as large as a soup bowl!).

Upon reaching the other side, sir Knowington turned to Nomad saying, "It is here I must ask a favor of you."

"Aw, yes! Anything to the all-knowing Knowington who has helped me in my travel across the river Floweth."

"There is business I must tend to for the moment," said sir Knowington. "If you would, lead my friend here to the threshold of the Protruding Tower and there I shall meet you."

Nomad's body bowed in agreeance as the guide in bright suit vanished in a purple dust. "Truly a guide to be zealous for," Nomad remarked, turning back to Mr Fauldon. "I am honored to assist you to Mauhg, sir Karier of the Task."

"This task," Mr Fauldon asked, "what exactly is it? I agreed to it but only because I felt convicted to when in all actuality I know nothing about it."

The traveler smiled as they continued down the path, answering Mr Fauldon over his shoulder, "I noticed the card you drew at the bridge. Perhaps you'd do better asking it than me."

And so Mr Fauldon had to yet again resort to the card he neither approved of nor necessarily condemned anymore. "What is the task I carry?" he asked of it.

The words whispered across the smooth surface. "Journey to sir Grevious, from whom you shall receive further instruction," he read. "But that does not answer my question..."

"Exactly," Nomad answered him. "That is why you must seek out this sir Grevious first. Maybe then you will learn more of that which you swore oath to."

Mr Fauldon was beginning to regret agreeing to such a task. Especially now that he was beginning to realize he knew nothing of it. And where was this 'sir Knowington' now? Where did he have to go that was so important? Hadn't the great Keyno himself told the guide to remain with him? Not that he needed a guide for the sake of security, though he was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed again by his surroundings. Perhaps he felt uneasy because sir Knowington had been the only consistent figure thus far. But now he had Nomad.

And Nomad had gained quite the distance before him by now. "Wait, Nomad!" Mr Fauldon shouted. But the cliffs of Hygh Pass rose steep and bent harsh and soon he lost sight of the traveler. "Traveler!" he yelled again, now feeling as a child in a room all too enclosed and dark. About him towered hollow roots of cliffs long unswept. Like web did rock climb the walls. Upon closer look, Mr Fauldon could notice the tiny insects climbing out of the path's belly and on upward (much like rhino beetles, only without wings or hard shells). He suddenly felt guilty of stepping upon them with his every move, and so he stopped, only to notice more and more of them—his gaze following one in particular that moved against the flow of the rest. This one also seemed to grow in size until it was a proud three foot to Mr Fauldon's petrified form and not but five feet from where he stood.

"You... seem... loooosssst," the insect croaked, its look unwavering. "Tell me, booooooy... why don't you find a plaaaaace heeeere.... wiiiith ussss...."

"Who... what are you?" Mr Fauldon asked, his eyes now getting heavy to keep open and his focus becoming ablur.

The insect replied: "I... am Rhaeeeee... I always am seeeeeking the company of the lossssst."

He could no longer move. Not that he wanted to, either. He felt as though content with just standing there even though his body grew weary of it. He did nothing to the inching insect as its lungs rattled their luring tunes—only now the insect's attention was upon something else.

"What's thisssss?" it asked, drawn to the small card that illuminated from beneath Mr Fauldon's coat—all while he was still unaware. The insect drew closer to the emerging card (as though a magic trick) that came to levitate between the insect and Mr Fauldon. Slowly did the Henser rise until it had also caught the attention of Mr Fauldon's numb eyes. The two gazed wondrously into the radiance of mystitude.

"What isssss this?!" the insect demanded, somehow caught in the same trance it had lured Mr Fauldon into. "Where did you get thissssss!" it hissed out at him, its lens starting to dry out. A whiff of dust began spurring about Mr Fauldon, his very fibers beginning to shake, as the insect realized its prey was escaping its clutches.

"Noooooo! I will not let you!" the insect roared as it tore its gaze from the illumination and lashed its limbs at its prey—but Mr Fauldon was not there, instead appearing upon the ledge above the insect, dazed himself as to how he got there. "What isssss this?!" the insect croaked, but before it could lunge again, it was met with a sudden-appearing force. The force was that of a staff.

The staff of Nomad.

"No, say I!" Nomad cried as the insect was beat to the ground. "This man, you shall leave be!"

Mr Fauldon rushed to his senses, seeing Nomad clobber the insect to the dirt. Relief swept over him as did exhaustion, and he tumbled back down the ledge. Nomad came to him and braced him—the insect already vanished into hundreds of rhino beetles continuing up the slopes.

"Are you alright?" Nomad asked of Mr Fauldon.

"Yes, whatever did just occur, it seems I am alright," Mr Fauldon answered. "To where did you go? I lost sight of you amidst the twists and turns of these paths. Had it not been for your impeccable timing and this card, I may have just failed the great king." Mr Fauldon looked back upon the blank card that had just saved him and then to Nomad.

"Come," said Nomad, "let us get on from this place before the next turn."

SCENE IV:

And journey they did all about the curves and turns of the winding Hygh Pass, tracing back over the path Nomad had uncovered during his strange un-presence. The traveler went on and on about the odd peculiars he had discovered almost as though discovering them again for the first time (his head in constant paring with his encyclopedias, as usual). Be it the rectangular Otis rocks, the bizarre flares of vines that behaved as limbs of an octopus, or the queer eeriness of a gargling croaker (the likes of which were shared by gloating throated frogs).

"And look at this!" he would say, pointing to an overturned plant with scales of dust. Or "look at that!" while pointing to a daisy whose pedals were outstretched on threads of hair. If one trait were prominently noted amidst all the bizarritude Mr Fauldon had beheld in that pass, it would be the prosperity and near boastfulness of a depravity of hydration—for they both, despite Nomad's enthusiasm, grew wearier each step.

But blessed was the damp soil and laden grass to which they now clang. Mr Fauldon found his acquaintance sprawled about the ground in praise of the moistness. "Why is it you lick the grass?" Mr Fauldon asked, a little taken aback by the strange behavior.

The traveler looked up at him, realizing how weird it might have looked to Mr Fauldon. "Why," he answered, "it is the dew! Here, try some." At that, the traveler reached into his linen clothes and withdrew a small cloth with which he proceeded to brush across the surface of the ground. Mr Fauldon gazed in wonder as he saw the damp cloth now struggling to retain any more dampness. It was then that Nomad handed it to him. "It's dew soil," said Nomad with a smirk.

Mr Fauldon took it and clamped his fists that the liquid might trickle down his hands and between his wrinkled lips and dry tongue. It tasted like sugarwater with a dash of honey in it (something quite overwhelming when one is just starving the second before).

"How is this possible?" Mr Fauldon asked.

"Why, you are looking at the downspout of Waterryse Mountain," said Nomad. "It is in the heart of Waterryse Mountain that the thistle bees have their cone haven, and as their aroma is caught adrift by the rising waters, the scent and taste befalls the mountain's slopes, descending even to where we are now."

"I am altogether still oblivious to the order by which this place functions. Waterryse? Thistle bees again? Where is this Waterryse Mountain?" asked Mr Fauldon.

"It is just swen of us," Nomad answered him, pointing to their right and up. Sure enough, in the distance and behind some purple trees, Mr Fauldon made out the mountain (though it was faint from the misty haze of the ascending waterfalls).

"I would much like to visit there," said Mr Fauldon.

"All in time, my friend," Nomad replied, "but first you must wait here for sir Knowington, for we have reached the threshold of Mauhg and the dwelling of sir Grevious."

Mr Fauldon turned back to see (as though he'd been blind to it at first) the rising cliff and the ominous protruding tower. "We are here already? I thought it would be at least one day's travel," said Mr Fauldon.

"Ah, but you were with the great traveler!" Nomad laughed. "Alas, it has been an honor to accompany you. Truly, I am grateful to have met the Karier of the Task! I bid you well as I continue to Mauhg."

"Farewell," Mr Fauldon bid in return. He'd almost grown fond of the obnoxious traveler and his plethora of books. For a nomad he was quite the informed—something not to be taken for granted considering how un-informative this sir 'Know-a-ton' cared to be.

Which begged the question once more: Where was sir Knowington? Mr Fauldon took out the card of Inquiry once more and held it in his arms. Seeing no one about him, the temptation was great. He wanted dearly to ask what sir Knowington's true name was. It was in moments as such that one felt almost a wave of excitement to do what one was asked not to in secretude. And so the guilty grin stretched across his face as he began to convince himself of it more—only to be interrupted by the exposure of the protruding tower above him. He seemed closer now to it than he was before, even though he hadn't moved. Likewise, he hadn't noticed before the ladder scaling the ledge to its trapdoor.

And just like that, the card was back in his pocket as he climbed the ladder.

With a creak did the latch lift to an interior unexpected. The floors were somehow stone-laden and about the old furniture were bags of thin, web-ridden cloths. Only the bookcases were left untouched by the cloth-like material, and upon each shelf were no more than two or three books (all of which seemed to have been petrified, but who reads anyway?).

"So... you come at last," came a voice mysterious. "I was beginning to wonder if you ever would. After all, I am still just as able."

Mr Fauldon heard the screeching of steps from a figure in an off-green suit that had seen too much dust. The man's hefty boots crest the wood and even the stone (which sounded just like wood even though indeed it was not—or at least didn't look like it). The man caught glimpse of Mr Fauldon's bewilderment and made comment: "You should see the master room upon the floor above. From there, I can look straight down, even to the outside of this place. Yet, nothing sees up."

"That is beside the point—" came sir Knowington's voice from behind a wooden beam on the far side of the room. Both the host and Mr Fauldon were caught off-guard as to how he got there (not that it mattered for they expected no less from the man).

"Why, if it isn't my old acquaintance. Who would fancy seeing you ensuring the Karier keep his task?" spoke the figure to whom Mr Fauldon had watched descend the stairs.

"You know all too well why it must be him, Mr Grevious," answered sir Knowington. "You would do well to inform him the best you can—even if only for lord Keyno's sake."

Grevious' face grew a slight taint to sir Knowington's words, but he shrugged it off quick enough and refocused himself upon Mr Fauldon. "Ah, yes," he said, "after all, it is all about the new Karier of the Task. What is your name, sir 'chosen-one'?"

"Mr Fauldon."

"And did you knowingly accept this 'task' as its sole new karier?"

"Yes, I did," Mr Fauldon answered him (even though he himself was confused as to why he'd agreed to such a task that he knew nothing about). "What, might I ask, exactly is this task? What am I carrying?"

"Ha!" Grevious laughed, reaching out to grab a glass from the table (his hand seeming to ignore the physics that there was a cloth-like material covering the cup and simply picked it up). "Such naivety these days! Then again, I was once the same...."

"Enough mourning," sir Knowington added in. "Tell him why he is here."

Grevious walked over to one of the book shelves, grabbing the nearest petrified book (yes, actually petrified. A book, made of paper, made of wood, becoming petrified). Holding it over the glass, he began shaking it until the ink of its words trickled out and into the glass. He looked to sir Knowington as though scoffing at his methods, then turned to Mr Fauldon and handed him the glass. "Why should I tell what the book had contained best..."

And as the words slid down Mr Fauldon's throat, his mind began to swirl as a voice filled him from within. He felt like tumbling to the ground but instead looked wildly at the spinning objects about him. The table, the chairs, the cloth, the utensils—all the objects of the room were lifted into the gentle whirlwind that was in his mind. To its current did the scene unfold and a voice spoke out to him:

"A Violstone so blue, so filled with red in fainted hue;

A stone which's veins of essence grow a smoldering sense of fortitude.

It has long since brought the rifts of herald near,

Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.

Placed in the Lighthouse, the stone foretells of that which is to remain,

Though the weight of its task adds to it strain—

Such strain that causes a need for it to rise up again.

Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,

Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.

But caution to the one who carries

For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.

Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take,

And the longer the stone without dwell shall be

The more unstable all that is held is becoming."

Before him (that being Mr Fauldon—or, rather, his mind), unfeld the most peculiar of scenes. A spooned figure fell upon the table's surface, engulfed by white streams until naught but a sugar cube rested before it. Wielding the cube, the spoon progressed the many chairs that came its way until a fork stood in its path. The two fought over the cube till finally the spoon overcame. Dreary and worn, the spoon approached the last chair and, climbing it, was able to place the cube within the small tea cup. And as it did, the vision erupted to the intruding figure of Grevious as he broke the silk of illusion within Mr Fauldon's mind.

It took a moment for Mr Fauldon to realize it was over now and that indeed Mr Grevious had stepped nearer to him (all while sir Knowington watched closely).

"You see," Grevious smirked, "that cube is the Violstone and you are that spoon. It is you who must carry it all the way up to the Lighthouse."

"So all I must do is bring a stone to the Lighthouse? I was brought all the way into this place of disbelief believing my only purpose is to carry a rock?"

Grevious chuckled, "Yes, you could say that. I would do it for you, but it seems I am not as liked as before."

"What do you mean? You were once the Karier?"

"Where is the stone?" sir Knowington bud in (clearly not much in favor of hearing sir Grevious' story, whatever it be).

Grevious paced back about the table with his mind in deep contemplation. The man reached out towards the table so as to straighten the slanted spoon. Mr Fauldon recognized all its contents to be that which had engulfed his vision. Grevious adjusted the small tea cup that it might reflect the distant shimmering ray coming in through the glass panes facing the Lighthouse. Then he scooted in one of the lonely chairs until it accompanied the other about the small dining table.

At last did he draw up the fork which had somehow fallen to a seat and held it in admiration of its silver reflecting, placing it nearside the spoon.

"It resides at Obliviouseh," he finally answered, "just beyond the Crookstath Crossing." Looking up, he caught eye of sir Knowington with a smile. "Not that I've been following it or anything...."

"That is all for now, sir Grevious," said sir Knowington. "We will be on our way."

"The Porhtree is up, by the way," Grevious added, "if you would like to use it."

"The Porhtree?" Mr Fauldon inquired, still just as eager to know more about this Grevious and why he seemed to be so disliked.

"That would be much appreciated," sir Knowington remarked to Grevious' offer. "This way, my good sir. Shall we continue?"

"But—"

"We will have time to discuss on our way," sir Knowington interjected, knowing all too well Mr Fauldon's attentions to ask more questions.

"It is like a tunnel," Grevious answered for the 'know-it-all'. "The roots of a Porhtree are deep and vast, and where they sprout, the tree is the same. It is by such trees, when they do decide to sprout at random times, that one can travel between identical Porhtrees, just like the one atop my house."

"You have a tree on top of your house?" Mr Fauldon asked.

"Why, yes! Who doesn't?" Grevious laughed (though everyone knows having such a thing is by no means ordinary; in fact, it is rather weird). "Come, I will take you to it."

Thus, they were led up the creakity steps from which Grevious had first appeared and through a narrow winding hall with tight-knit doors, all labeled for convenience: the Room of Hospitality, the Room of Hostility, the Room of Reflection, and the Room of Retirement. Finally, they came to the end of the hall, at least two more flights above the first, and Mr Fauldon saw with his own eyes the floor that knew no bottom and yet a bottom did it have.

Grevious smirked in pride to Mr Fauldon's admiration. "You see!" he exclaimed. "Isn't it something?? You can see all the way down and yet not moments before were you looking at the ceiling!"

"Truly..." Mr Fauldon gasped for words, still caught in wonder.

"Here it is," Grevious pointed. To his direction was noted a small door upon which was the label: This Way To The Porhtree.

Before he could take in everything, Mr Fauldon found himself standing atop the Protruding Tower and seeing the Porhtree, like a giant spore mushroom, poising a proud ten feet above them. Its veins pulsed a dark blue as though it were alive and breathing and having a heart.

"What now?" Mr Fauldon asked, seeing no door upon the Porhtree.

"Why, this is where you climb in," Grevious replied.

"Climb in?"

"Yes, you climb in between the veins of its outer membrane."

Sir Knowington stepped right up to it, though Mr Fauldon was hesitant. "Come now," sir Knowington urged. And so he cautiously did—inching himself ever slowly toward the odd idea of pushing through a living mushroom's membrane.

His hand shook and trembled as it stretched out to the sporey membrane. The Porhtree seemed to react to his touch, almost as if aiding him in pushing through. It felt like pushing through a harp's strings, but only that they stretched about one's body as though one pressing though a large crowd of moving people (yes, the thin threads of the Porhtree's exoskeleton were in constant motion, bending and warping as though Mr Fauldon were a part of their terrain).

And so he was entranced, slipping through a funnel of indescribable color and array. Not even color. It was more like flashes and beams of light. He could feel no form and yet his form slid continuously on.

He felt calmed.

He felt relaxed.

He felt as though he could watch the same flickers for the rest of eternity to come.

And he felt out of the world, apart from everything. So the feeling grew—more separation until it bred into anxiety for it to end. From pleasure and ease to tension and disease, he was now more than ready to reach the end.

Thus he emerged ever quickly—his form slipping through the veins once more and stumbling upon solid ground, though vision ablur and mind out of focus. It took Mr Fauldon a moment to gather himself, only to see sir Knowington on ahead of him at the ledge of a grand abyssal canyon.

His sight and sense returning to him, Mr Fauldon edged himself closer to the overlook—a gasp in awe of the granditude ahead of him.

SCENE V:

The view was enormous to scale. Along the entirety of the mainland's ridge were streams of water falling upward and creating a mist that seemed to touch the silky veins of wateriness which still etched themselves about the sky.

"Beyond this," sir Knowington said, his gaze still cast over the expanse of abyss, "lie the lands of Distontay. The springs that arise here are what separates the mainland of Euphora from its extension. They are continuously dividing us as the great City of Ebony stretches further and further away."

Mr Fauldon held his hand against the glow of ember that radiated from the land beyond. He could almost see through his hand in the same fascination one has when they are young and shining a flashlight through their palm.

"This city," Mr Fauldon asked, "is it to where we tread?"

"Yes," answered the great guide (never before had Mr Fauldon seen the man so caught up in thought, for something must have been deeply pressing upon the 'know-it-all's mind). "Shall we continue?" he said to Mr Fauldon.

"How will we get there? How are we to reach that crooked, narrow, deathly-looking path so inconveniently placed amidst gloom and shards of flame and deso—"

"Are you coming or not, dear sir," sir Knowington interrupted (for he knew the intent of Mr Fauldon's elaboration and wished not to delay).

But sudden nausea filled Mr Fauldon's senses as he looked down the steep slopes to which a path etched onward. "I must be honest with you," he said to sir Knowington, taking his first step and coughing to the frog in his throat. "I am terribly not in favor of the direction this task seems to be headed. Might I just catch a flying walrus..."

"They are whale turtle, Mr Fauldon, not flying walruses. Have you not still the gift Serve Per Card handed you? Ask your card something. Let it keep you entertained, so long as you watch your step."

Mr Fauldon was shaking. For the strangest reason, he felt cold at the core of his body, even though his exposed hands and face felt the warmth of the glow across the abyss. "Why do I feel cold beneath this coat, yet warm to touch?" he asked to sir Knowington.

The man reluctantly replied: "It is the Korgath hide—known to counter-react to its surroundings so as to find a balance for its host."

"But the chill is rather cold to me," exclaimed Mr Fauldon as he tucked his hands inside his coat, feeling then how hot they actually were (which now it made sense to him: the coat was but accounting for how hot this exposure actually was amidst the ember). He decided it better to leave his hands uncovered, else his head burn up in flame.

As his hands slid out from the coat, so did the card of ponderance. "Tell me more of this place," he said, wondering if such a statement were close enough to the broad stroke of questions he wished to ask. Sure enough, the card shook loose of his grip and fluttered before him as though getting a better glimpse of what was about. It then quickly gathered form until it resembled that of an ancient monk (one without staff, but his large head made up for it).

It spoke to him: "This is Rys' Springs—the great ascending waterfalls of Euphora that separate the mainland from the Crookstath Crossing which leads to the desolate and firing lands beyond Obliviouseh, the City of Ebony."

"Why are the lands separated?" Mr Fauldon asked, not sure himself where the questions came from, only that they seemed to keep coming like a river with no beginning and seemingly no end.

"They separate that which conflicts. Much as the thistle bees form the great river Floweth in order to preserve, so is the work of Rys' Springs, keeping the mainland from the smoldering of Obliviouseh and that which is beyond."

"But I know a man from Distontay, and he is a man of great regard. Nomad is his name. How could such a man of great intent be as cruel as the lands of which you speak?"

"I do not speak," the answering monk answered, "I only answer your inquiries." (And yes, he knew he had just spoke). "Besides, when did I say the lands of Distontay were cruel?"

"You said they were smoldering," Mr Fauldon remarked. "Where I come from, that usually means something has been laid waste to."

The monk looked plainly. In fact, Mr Fauldon wouldn't put it past the man if he hadn't heard anything Mr Fauldon had just said. Despite being lifelike, it was still but an illumination of the card. "What is your name?" Mr Fauldon asked to the levitating monk (oh yeah, was it failed to be mentioned that the figure hovered over the abyss?).

"I am Inquiry, the answer to your question and a question to be answered."

"Ouch!" Mr Fauldon exclaimed, noticing a pain to his shin as his footing collided with a protruding ridge. He would've fallen had a firm hand not gripped his shoulder just in time. Somehow, at some point, and by some means, sir Knowington had closed the distance and braced him (and some distance it had been of at least ten or more feet).

"We are here," he said to Mr Fauldon as they drew near to a plateau that spanned right and left. To their right did the path cut between the towering cliff-sides and into shadows unseen. To their left did it wrap about small craters of smoldering embers and lead to the Crookstath Crossing. The illuminating monk was no longer present but replaced by a figure poised off in the distance to their left, too far at the moment for Mr Fauldon to tell much else.

But sir Knowington knew (seriously, he had to...). "Stay close, Mr Fauldon, and whatever you do, do not take off that coat."

Upon coming closer, Mr Fauldon could make out the ravaged thief. The crooked man's intention was fully upon Mr Fauldon, but did nothing, seeing who his guide was. "Well, well, well, if it is not the babysitter himself come to make easy the Task of a man."

He glared at sir Knowington, but still looked with zeal at Mr Fauldon's coat. "Such a nice coat you have there," the man grinned.

"And you will have nothing of it either," said sir Knowington. "Now let us pass, you have no right to tax this crossing, for you do it only in your own name, Ravage. Leave us without dispute."

Ravage (for that was indeed his name) crossed his arms so as to show his preposterous figure of strength (even though he was, indeed, a man of smaller size). "Had not word spread," he said to sir Knowington, "I would do otherwise. That being on account of this nuisance sheltered beneath your wing." Ravage turned back toward Mr Fauldon with just as crooked a smile as the path that lay behind him. "Mind yourself. The second you're alone, I will strike."

The ravaged thief vanished from sight (for it seemed a lot of people could do that here). Sir Knowington looked back at Mr Fauldon with the slightest hint of seriousness in expression. "It is here you will be put to the test, Mr Fauldon. For two may not cross the bridge too closely else the whole framework fall into the abyss. I will go on ahead to show you the way, but you must follow in my steps exactly."

Mr Fauldon gazed out onto the path. It was not your ordinary rope and wood that spanned the distance, rather a special stone wood from further swen and a vine of coiled metals, which were just slightly more flexible than the strongest of cables. The platforms between which the bridges stretched were seemingly floating freely of ground (hence the 'crooked' crossing, as they would sway up-down and side-to-side to the drafts swirling about and beneath them like floating islands).

From where he stood, it seemed the path never had an end as it pressed ever ongoingly over the abyss. Mr Fauldon was hard at work remembering to which stone wood planks the ever-knowing Knowington had stepped upon and those he had avoided.

As they reached the first platform, Mr Fauldon finally had time to take notice of the many other levitating plates with all assortments of hosts. The platforms were all over the place, revolving (as if to say) about the main islands that the bridge connected. These smaller plates were as though tiny ecosystems in and of themselves—some bearing but one plant, others a tree, and still others life. For one bore a small crater of glowing ember and what looked to be a mud totem with a creature much as a golem patting it down. The creature took quick notice of Mr Fauldon as well, its empty eye sockets beginning to glimmer.

"What is that?" Mr Fauldon asked of sir Knowington, who had already started the next span of bridge.

The guide looked back distastefully. "You should be watching my steps, Mr Fauldon, not asking questions. But for the sake of informing, that is an embermud golem—a creature lacking intellect but wielding a devastating power and it especially despises being intruded upon, as is the case with you staring at it."

"But I have never seen one before!" Mr Fauldon exclaimed, ever so intrigued by their mystery and uniqueness.

"Best you not have to encounter one..." sir Knowington mumbled, freezing in his steps. For behind him and just before Mr Fauldon, had an embermud thudded onto the bridge, the golem's crevices and joints beginning to radiate an orange heat and slowly leak of putrid tar. Sir Knowington was more concerned with a second embermud approaching from whence they'd come, and Mr Fauldon soon noted as well.

"Uh, the weight, sir Knowington. What of this bridge again?" he asked with a stuttering voice.

Sir Knowington stretched out his hand toward them. "You will not continue in this manner, else I will be the one you'll be dealing with," he proclaimed.

Though thick in the head, the embermud most definitely understood the guide's words and were torn in their interest of Mr Fauldon.

"They're not stopping, Mr. Fancy Man," Mr Fauldon remarked as the bridge creaked to the added weight of the second embermud.

"You will cease!" sir Knowington exclaimed one last time.

It was the embermud that had first appeared who lost its temper—a crackle of sparks spewing from its every joint and mouth until a substance as lava began to seep. It turned viciously at sir Knowington, a blast of fire hurled in his direction. Even just the backlash of its heat was enough to singe Mr Fauldon's hair.

And so the fireballs trailed toward the guide—an abrupt end as a field of blue hexes formed a sphere. The bridge shook as the second golem began its charge and sir Knowington leapt upward in a manner and speed Mr Fauldon thought impossible. The man of great mystery flew above the first embermud, a gust of razor wind catching the creature until it compressed into a tiny marble-sized glow and darted back behind Mr Fauldon—who now knew sir Knowington's intent.

The man now poised upon the platform they'd just left, a golem before him and a golem behind him—both no longer upon the bridge (and he intended to keep it that way). But Mr Fauldon could not watch for his eyes were the driest they had ever been amidst the flames that shot and spiraled all about the guide's hexes of blue. Mr Fauldon knew but to press forward to the next platform, trying all he could to fight his own battle against the bitter chills of his core in contrast to the burning heat of his hands, face, and feet.

Truly the Korgath skin was beginning to take its toll on him. Mr Fauldon folded over, shuddering to the cold within, tormented with every urge to take off the coat if only just for a moment. He leaned heavily upon the ropes, pulling himself along them, but with each motion did he feel the singed hands.

The planks beneath him quaked as a force shook the supports to which he clang, a ricochet of flame swirling toward him. He tucked in closely to his coat, clinging with all his might to one side of the bridge—the fireblast scorching everything to his right (the vine of coiled metals melting as it passed). Sure enough, the right side frame of the bridge snapped, and Mr Fauldon lost his footing.

Still gripping for his life to the coil that remained.

The next thing he knew, a torrent of wind had swept him up and onto the next platform. His body crashed against the rough terrain, with a jab to his back. Had it not been for his coat, surely his skin would have been pierced. How was is that a man such as sir Knowington still knew of Mr Fauldon's predicament even while combatting embermud? Truly the man was far more than met the eye.

Mr Fauldon ached to turn himself over that he might stand.

"I warned you," the voice spoke before him. It was the ravaged thief again, standing ready and with the largest of grins. "Your coat is mine!" he yelled, dashing in the blink of an eye toward Mr Fauldon.

Mr Fauldon drew up his weight and arm just in time, his forearm catching the brunt of Ravage's blow as his figure slid backwards and to the platform's edge.

Ravage regathered and stood not but ten feet from him now, crouching as if to strike again.

Only this time, light lit the distance between them as Mr Fauldon's back arched and palms stretched out. The radiance filtered from beneath his coat so brightly that Ravage was but a shadow in its midst.

Mr Fauldon heard the man's screams, but could do nothing in the moment, only catching a glimpse of the face so familiar in the light.

It was the girl's face again. The very card Serve Per Card had given him blank. It was the same card that had saved him in Hygh Pass (it beckoned to question Mr Fauldon if it were even, in fact, a card anymore).

The light subsided, and Mr Fauldon collapsed his face to the ground. The ravaged thief lay upon the far side of the platform. "I can't see!" he bellowed, squirming about the ground for direction, for his vision had been blinded.

And there beside Mr Fauldon appeared sir Knowington as composed as he always had been, not a sweat upon his skin.

But Mr Fauldon's consciousness was wavering, and he began to doze.

SCENE VI, Part I:

He came to as they walked beneath the shadow cast by the great City of Ebony—Obliviouseh. His body was weak and in need of hydration, but at least he no longer fought the bitter cold and smoldering heat of Crookstath Crossing. Mr Fauldon also had most of his weight leaning upon the guide who took note of his coming to.

"Awake I see," spoke sir Knowington, easing off the support until Mr Fauldon came to stand on his own strength. "It seems that card cares more deeply for you than you do for her."

Mr Fauldon looked down upon the blank card that still resided in his hand. "Yes, I reckon it has become a consistent saving figure to me. Why is it, do you think?"

Sir Knowington's attention was back ahead. "That is beyond me. Let us turn our attention to this city. The Warden here is the one through whom we should seek the whereabouts of that stone. Let us continue."

"But I grow even more weary by the second," Mr Fauldon informed, his steps shuddering. "I am in need of rest and food. It seems I have not the knowledge like you do to be self-sustained."

Sir Knowington gave hint to a chuckle, looking back over his shoulder to the Karier that struggled behind him—and to the figure appearing behind him. "Ah, Mercedies," he said to the figure cloaked in layers of gray and brown silk, a face only barely showing beneath the rolls of cloth about the figuress' head.

"What brings you to this city, old friend of Beelstow?" said Mercedies.

"Beelstow?" Mr Fauldon interrupted. "Please explain. There seems to be too many names for me to keep up with."

Mercedies spoke: "So you must be the new Karier—my question stands answered. It looks as though the crossing has been rather eventful for such fresh eyes. Come, we will treat you."

"But how are we to enter a city with no gates, no steps, nor any door? Did they raise up this place facing the wrong direction?" Mr Fauldon asked.

Mercedies came to poise before them both and the massive cliffside that scaled above them. Reaching about the cloths, a small section of brown silk unraveled and fluttered to the soil. "Indeed, you are right about no entry, and there is neither any direction in which the city faces. But come, and I will show you what the City of Ebony holds within its walls."

Mr Fauldon was intrigued by the silk that spread about the ground. It had become hard to see as it blended in with the earth, but he came to stand upon it nonetheless. Despite the awkwardness, there was enough room for just the three of them to stand upon it. The arms of Mercedies rose abruptly and folded down—and just like that, they were engulfed into the ground.

Stone structures rose all about them, steel beams connecting everything in the busy suburbs of Obliviouseh, the great City of Ebony. They had resurfaced in the first-swen district of the city, stepping off the cloth that seemed to Mr Fauldon to be one of the gates into the marvelous city of steel and stone. An industrial revolution that seemed on pause was what came to his mind, as though all the inventions were on the brink of discovery but left unresolved. And so Mercedies withdrew the brown silk and led them down the suburb toward the Warden's Stead.

"Beelstow," said Mercedies, "is the warden of this city who keeps the embers beneath this city beneath this city. Obliviouseh is atop the largest volcano upon the ridge that separates us from the mainland. The lava of its eye is ever flowing and seeking means of eruption from below. Should it ever burst, this city wouldst burn and topple over into the abyss. Beelstow is the only one to wield our silks in such a manner as to contain the volcano's lava we call Lerchah. So as you can imagine, he stays quite busy."

"How did you do that? What we just did to enter here—how?" Mr Fauldon eagerly inquired.

Mercedies gave into the largest of grins. "It is the silks we harvest from the veins carved out for us by Lerchah."

"Such silks will not do the same for you," sir Knowington added in (for he knew full well what Mr Fauldon was thinking—that he wanted the silk as well).

"And why is that?" Mr Fauldon asked.

"Mercedies is a Grounder—a living gate to this great city, a gifted citizen from the soils of Distontay. Only Grounders are able to wield the silk into its elements."

Mr Fauldon saw about him many people, though the way they carried themselves was entirely different from Chestleton. In comparison, it was as though boon-docks to a royal academy. Each and every one of them seemed as though able to mine a mountain on their own. Stout, broad shoulders, thick-soled boots, and forearms strong enough to move large boulders as though for breakfast.

And then the stench came. A quiver and shudder swiveled up Mr Fauldon's nostrils and down his spine. "What is that putrid smell?" he commented.

Even Mercedies had a hand over nose. "That, sir Fauldon, is Nobaph."

Mr Fauldon saw to their right a man approach them—the smell grew hoarser as he drew nearer. "Well, well, well!" the man exclaimed. "If it ain't the Karier himself... Boom!"

"Boom?" Mr Fauldon echoed.

"Ya, boom. What's it to you? I run these parts, so if you're to pass then pay up," the man demanded (obviously in a joking manner, for no one ever paid him).

"Sorry," said Mr Fauldon, a hand still over his nose, "but I haven't any soap."

"Ha! Good one! I'll let cha pass this time—not that you're the Karier or anything."

"Why do they call you Nobaph?" Mr Fauldon asked as they passed the man.

"Isn't it obvious?" sir Knowington answered for the man who had plopped himself at the alleyway's edge and began fiddling with some object stashed into his loose garments. Unlike Mercedies, his clothes were not of silk, nor were they neatly kept at all. Truly the man looked as though no bath would contain him (nor would any shower have enough courage to clean him).

"Don't mind Nobaph," said Mercedies as they passed their fourth forgery. "Nobaph is a shard smith from the Outreach. He came here to escape his obsession and fell into carelessness of life... or upkeeping of himself. At least the two years I've seen him, not once have I seen him rinsed."

"Shouldn't there be a city ordinance to shower at least once a month?" Mr Fauldon remarked, though more so to himself as no one else seemed to have heard him, for they had come at last to the Warden's Stead.

The dark, dark ebony walls made the place stick out from the rest of the city. It seemed to be the only structure in the central district to resemble the grandeur of the outer walls. Mr Fauldon was still dumbfounded as to why the city was so significant and as to whom this 'Beelstow' was.

Mercedies pulled from beneath the gray and brown silk a black material that had been tucked away from sight. Reaching out, Mercedies spread it across the wall and then struck it with knee and fist. The silk traveled in and down—a narrow passage spreading in its wake. "We proceed down," Mercedies pronounced.

Sir Knowington arched his back and cleared his throat. "Well, it seems you are in good hands for the time being," he said, directing his words toward Mr Fauldon. "I will leave you in the protection of Mercedies for now, for yet again I must tend to other matters, though only momentarily. I will meet you outside the city after you have retrieved what we came for."

"Again you leave me?" Mr Fauldon remarked. "For a guide, you seem to like disappearing."

Sir Knowington but looked at him plainly before vanishing into purple dust.

"He does a lot more than many would suspect," Mercedies reassured. "Just the fact that he is able to accompany you as much as he does is a marvel in and of itself—not that you are of any inconvenience. Now, come with me and we shall meet up with Beelstow."

Somehow the light had followed them down enough for them to reach the end of the ebonic tunnel. Mercedies grabbed the black silk from the wall, and the passage quickly enclosed itself, leaving them to a faint but ominous red glow.

"This way," Mercedies said, leading on and through the cavern a little more. It was like being in a cave long since carved by waters of magnificent scale. Cisterns and columns of the darkest stone showered the terrain underneath the city. Mercedies led him through as though knowing every step. They passed over crevices of cracked stone and through jagged passageways carved from the bowls of Lerchah. The volcano seemed a wonder of its own, showing off its beauty and complexity.

They came into yet another pocket of the underbelly, this time the red glare was vibrant and active. Mr Fauldon stopped behind Mercedies, who motioned his attention to their far left. Off in the distant flames arose a boulder unlike any Mr Fauldon had seen (though it was not called a boulder, for Mercedies addressed it otherwise).

"This can't be good," Mercedies mumbled as the stone golem rose in smoldering shards from the flow of lava. "Stay behind me, Karier, and keep your coat up. If this lava touches you, especially if it is green, you will never be the same—and I mean it for the worse."

Sure enough, Mr Fauldon could see the liquid seeping through the cracks of the great golem turning a faint green tone. He stepped back and drew up his coat—and also the card of Inquiry, for he knew nothing of the golem that threatened their passage. "What creature is this before me?" he asked loudly (for the heat seemed to make a sound that filled the place).

The card's edges lit, and it bled the words: "Few tread safely by the great Orwick troll. Such smoldering flames does it produce, those green able to dismember the conscience. Though massive and powerful, the Orwick trolls are known to burn out if outside their streams too long, though often they reside in the path's way, keeping its intruders either trapped from escape or prohibited from entry."

Looking up again, Mr Fauldon felt the swift breeze of Mercedies unfeathering two silks of gray—her hands weaving them about the air as through keeping them afloat (he'd yet again taken for granted that his new guide was a girl). Bravely she wielded the silk before her as the great Orwick slammed a crease which ruptured towards them. With a downward swipe did Mercedies bend the silk into a wall of steel between them. The collision shook the ground and echoed from every crevice. Mr Fauldon's body trembled to the obnoxious sound as he buried his ears further into his coat.

The Orwick flung itself like a meteor until it came to their right. Its massive limbs unfolded from the spheric composure until it slid to a halt and roared a bitter disgust at the Grounder warrior.

"You will not blot our pass!" Mercedies yelled out, the steel wall returned to silk form as she charged the stone golem. The Orwick pounded its fists and flung its green smolder across the surface between—Mercedies but leapt upon one of the silks as though it were a surfboard and whipped the second silk across the back of the golem. In a quick turn, she then thrust the silver board from beneath her until the two silver silks stretched about the front and back of the stone golem. Landing upon solid ground, Mercedies then slammed her own fists down—the folds crackled as the Orwick now fought itself within a steel casing.

With a smile, she stood and looked back at Mr Fauldon. "There now, he should simmer out any moment."

Mr Fauldon was speechless, but the trembling did cease, and as the steel walls fell back about Mercedies' form, a petrified golem was revealed, lifeless and still.

But then it broke—a burst of lava soon to envelop them both as the cistern began to collapse under Lerchah's pressure. "To me!" Mercedies called out to Mr Fauldon, and he ran toward her as swiftly he could. But he was not fast enough, for the lava had already descended down upon them.

It was not lava that Mr Fauldon felt hit against his head but rather a cool steel that wrapped about both he and the young Grounder, though it was not Mercedies who had cast it; rather, it was the silk of a man who stood to a bouldering seven feet. Mr Fauldon couldn't tell what was more surprising: being saved by the hair of his neck or how well trained the man's mustache was.

"It is you, Beelstow!" Mercedies praised in relief. "My goodness, what impeccable timing!"

The two laughed (as though, at least to Mr Fauldon, flaunting danger were a daily venture for the people of Distontay).

"Yes, and it seems you two found the pocket I have been waiting to burst for two weeks now. The honor of thanking you is mine!"

Beelstow (quite literally the Braum of Obliviouseh) gave a second look at Mr Fauldon, recognizing the coat which he wore. "Ah! So they finally sent you to me," he laughed, his chest beating like drums despite the heat and scars upon it. A single tattoo stretched from his left shoulder to the right of his waist in which a scene of chariots unfolded. He drew close to Mr Fauldon and gave him the most near-to-death bear-hug welcome he had ever endured. Choking in the man's strength, Mr Fauldon finally touched ground again as Beelstow shook his head. "A true honor!" he remarked again. "Surely, has sir Knowington shown you well?"

Mercedies chuckled at Mr Fauldon's steady recovery of balance. "Well, I do owe him for a few occasions," Mr Fauldon answered the man, remembering his time on the bridge not too long ago. And also his exhaustion.

Beelstow took note quickly. "Let us revive first then. My pit is not too far from here, and there you should find food and replenishment, and there we can discuss."

SCENE VI, Part II:

A bizarre place Beelstow's pit was. Almost perfectly symmetrical apart from the odds and ends littering. A large fire pit took up the center, leaving barely enough room for the Warden to position his massive self against the cavern's wall. Supplies piled one side and cloths the other. A legless tabletop lie beside the silks, seemingly pressing the mined minerals into flat molds from which Beelstow would then fan the flames until a silk was produced.

"You see, the ebony silks we mine come in thin, thin threads and are pressed next to each other until they bind again. It is then that we fan them until they become silk." Beelstow spoke as though the process were his pride, jewel, and joy. He leaned heavily against the plutonic outline of his pit (being as it was but a pocket in the formation Lerchah had fought to enclose). "Have a seat here!" the Warden welcomed, tossing a sack to where Mr Fauldon seated himself.

Despite the bread being hardened, dry, and slightly overdue, Mr Fauldon was relieved to finally have food in him. In the sack he also found a tightly wound skin from which dripped a steady moisture. "What is this?" he asked, for it neither tasted like water or wine.

"That is Obliquor—our city's finest," Beelstow added. "It is the extract of the magma wasp hives further distontay from here. Truly a spectacular refreshment. It seeps slowly so as to replenish slower. It does no man good to guzzle—except on extremely rare conditions such as feasts or when thirsty." The Warden broke into laughter, as did Mercedies.

Mr Fauldon held the skin to his face, wringing his hands about it in a manner that the droplets might collect more swiftly upon his dried lips. The liquid was refreshing indeed. He felt its course as it made its way down his throat and into his stomach. The cramping was easing and Mr Fauldon could finally feel the exhaustion coming over him. He looked drearily at the Warden and Grounder in his company. He felt a wave of numbness to his pains.

It was the Obliquor, for it had reached his blood. He thought himself about to drift into a deep rest, but his senses quickly began returning to him. A new sharpness arose in his awareness.

"What happened?" he asked, amazed at the energy swelling up within him (for he knew he needed sleep, but it now felt as though his body had just forgotten).

The Warden chuckled once more, "That would be the refresher kicking in. We of Distontay oft not have the time to rest and recoup; thus, we grow fonder of the Obliquor, for it rejuvenates and awakens. I give that skin to you. Keep it should you need it along your journey ahead. Which leads me to our discussion—to your purpose."

Mr Fauldon perked up, remembering now the reason for which he'd come. "Yes, the Violstone... do you have it?"

"Ha, I would not be so eager to accept, young Karier. They are birthed from deep within the rock where the Veins of Essence converge unknowingly. This one was late, and as such, will need a bit more watching. I know not what goes on beyond this, only that these stones are temperamental. I heed you: tread carefully and speak sparingly of it. For many know you are the Karier and seek already the coat you bear of Korgath skin, how much more so once they know you carry this gem?"

The Warden's face bore a serious expression—his mustache straightened and chest tensed as he drew out a folded cloth. "This... is the Violstone. Keep in mind: you are the Karier, but more importantly you are the carrier of this stone's task. You have heard of the task?"

"If by task you mean the journey to the Lighthouse, then yes," Mr Fauldon answered. "I was brought to Sir Grevious' homestead to be sent here to now carry out the task of getting to the Lighthouse."

Beelstow shook his head to the shallowness (knowing it not to be Mr Fauldon's fault, but definitely a fault he bore). "First off, your task is less to carry and more so to care for. Realize this, Mr Fauldon: the stone is alive. It is what brinks realities—some even say it is of Nim. But it is also absolutely essential to the balance of things. As the book said:

"A Violstone so blue, filled with red in fainted hue;

A stone wherein veins of essence grow a smoldering sense of fortitude.

It has long since brought the rifts of herald near,

Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.

Placed in the Lighthouse, the stone foretells of that which is to remain,

Though the weight of its task adds to it strain—

Such strain that causes a need for it to rise up again.

Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,

Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.

But caution to the one who carries,

For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.

Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take,

And the longer the stone without dwell shall be

The more unstable all that is held is becoming."

"You see," the Warden continued, his weight and position adjusting to the crackling of flame, "the Violstone maintains the balance of realms beyond our control and keeps reality as we know it from colliding with that which we do not know. But as the words made clear, much strain is placed upon these stones. It is you, the Karier, who must care for it, else it slip into the realms from which it came. This of which a certain Karier of past did not do too well."

Beelstow took in a deep breath, brushed his mustache, and took another chunk of bread to his massive jaws. It had been quite some time since he had spoken so much in one breath, but the man seemed more than willing to make his point. "All that to say, I know nothing of these realms or the essence, only that when the stone does grow weak, the grounds tremble."

"But why the Lighthouse?" Mr Fauldon asked.

"Since when has it ever done good to hide a light underneath a bush? As I said, I know not much more than what is. I only know how things are, not why. Promise me, though, that you will see to it that the stone reaches its dwelling with strength to maintain. You are its caretaker as well as its Karier. But more important is its task than yours—both being inseparable."

At this time, Beelstow handed the cloth and stone gently to Mr Fauldon's shaking palms. A mutual still set over the area as for a moment a bond formed (be it the briefest in actuality but longest to Mr Fauldon) a bond formed. He felt far more passionate to perform his task than the doubtfulness that had once occupied him. It was as though his whole life he'd dreamed of doing this one task, yet only recently had he been thrown into a reality so different, so new to him, that he still felt an overwhelming sense of fascination and mystery. He no longer had to wander the streets of—

The moment was done just as a clock would strike from one turn to another. Trembling, he took in the cloth and stone. Humbled, he drew it nearer. Overwhelmed, he tucked it close to his chest and beneath the unwavering shelter of Korgath skin.

He understood what the Warden meant. The stone rest in Mr Fauldon's hands yet felt alive. Beelstow's grin grew unashamed. The man clamped his fists together in celebration, and reached out to one of the silks beside him. "Here," he spoke to Mercedies, "take this silk of ebony and return to the city of Obliviouseh. Have Nobaph make him a sash for that stone so that he may carry it securely and in good confidence, for his hands are sweaty."

The two laughed, though Mr Fauldon couldn't blame them. The sheer measure of which he felt obliged definitely brought a quiver to his touch.

"Then go we shall. May the Lerchah yield to your strength," Mercedies said to the Warden, bidding him well. Lifting the cloth, she flung it about herself and Mr Fauldon, and again they were enveloped into a tunnel of black until they appeared back in the great City of Ebony.

SCENE VII:

Amazing it is how quickly the nose may adapt to the most putrid of things. They were back upon the stone-and-brick streets of the brink-of-industry city, scouring the twists and turns of steel and mortar until they came to the source of that indisputable smell (not that the man was alone, only had little competition as the king of it).

"So ya couldn't skedaddle without a stop by and a buy-bye from me, huh?" Nobaph chortled at their sight. He was glad to help Mr Fauldon in light of his past 'master-trade' and spoke highly of his previous obsession with it (though ensuring them he was over it, like a child outgrowing their favorite toy). Nonetheless, he boasted of the many shards that had once dwelled in his midst and their beauty and power contained. Deep in the forests were they sought—special shards that grew ingrained in trees a thousand years old. The most magnificent and difficult game of hide-and-seek, that only a few could find the hidden jewels within the bark of the great trees. But such smiths were naught only unmatched in the search of those shards, nor just in the crafting of their mysteries and wonder, but also in the workmanship of special sashes into which the shards were carried. Such sashes were unlike any other carryon, for they resisted the constant jabbing, the persistent stabbing, and continuous rattling.

Withdrawing cloths and skins from his stowaways, he slapped them down and flipped them here and rolled them there until, sure enough (and quite bizarrely), there appeared a perfectly fitted, flawlessly woven, unmatched sash into which Mr Fauldon effortlessly slid the stone—still wrapped in its own cloth.

"Why did you give up your trade, good sir?" Mr Fauldon inquired of the man who then looked remorsefully beyond the clasps of Distontay.

"It is the fields of Outreach," Nobaph's words trailed, "that taint the mind. Our forests draw apart as crevices spread, craters grow, and abyssal veins stretch ever onward and through. The roots of our trees lack the nourishment they once had and turn to feed off the smoldering abyss—poisoning the shards once vibrant and full. Empty they now are, and empty I had become until I could bear it no longer. So I fled, for my addiction to them was then being fed by the abyss that haunted the Outlands of Outreach.

"Gathering what else I could with value, I came to Distontay and to the City of Ebony where I found hope of new birth as a smith of steel. But such trade bores me as it requires not the skill of a shard smith, and I have lost interest. I purchased my corner-smith but forged in it only webs of abandonment. What you see now is a man who has lost his fuel. I have no purpose neither here nor back in my homeland in the Outreach."

Mr Fauldon held an expression of utmost sincerity, for he knew all too well what it felt like to wander about aimlessly. "But look," he said to the downtrodden Nobaph, "do you see this?" And he waved the sash before the man's eyes. "I have never seen something so spectacular! It fits perfectly and feels as though it could resist a thousand lions' claws! Surely you have not given up on this?"

The man stared differently at the workmanship before him (almost as though finally coming to, like a freight-train of "oh...").

"I must side with Mr Fauldon here," Mercedies added, "and also must side with the time—thank you for your craft. Let him now be on his way."

Nobaph shook himself back to reality, catching them both before they had turned to leave. His eyes shone a new life (despite the same deathly smell). "I thank you," he said to Mr Fauldon. "And I look forward to hearing how it serves you, Karier," he also smiled. It seemed as though the man had a new hope born within him.

Swiftly were they back outside the city before Mr Fauldon could take in all Oblivouseh had to offer. Stepping off the brown silk, he looked back to Mercedies who remained. "You do not come?" he asked.

Mercedies' expression was hidden behind the folds of cloth and silk. "No," she said (though not mentioning why, for she cared not to inform Mr Fauldon that Grounders were incapable of crossing bridges).

"Thank you for all you have done," Mr Fauldon commended.

"Thank you for what you are about to do. Best you go now, else you keep that sir Knowington waiting. Surely, he is to meet you upon the other side of this crossing."

And sure enough, Mr Fauldon turned back to that dreaded crossing he'd nearly forgotten about entirely. Crookstath Crossing.

Just as winding, just as crooked.

He did not wish to cross it alone, but Mercedies had gone back into the soil and sir Knowington was still gone from sight. The Violstone glowed comfortingly from beneath its folds of safety, and Mr Fauldon took it a sign and pressed forward, unsure of his ability to manage but willing to do so regardless—just as Beelstow had told him.

Back upon the stone-wood planks and coiled metal vines he went, following them as they rose upward, bent to the left and swayed a little to the right and then back again. The floating platforms made work of the mainway, somehow never colliding with each other. It was almost a whole ecosystem of revolving chaos. And just like before, Mr Fauldon found himself gazing in wonder at the many different islands and the environments upon them.

He watched as one larger than the rest rose to his right, a small pond from which fell trickles of the purest waters. The blue overflow was in heavy contrast with the lush, green grass that seemed to sing to the orange fan-a-flowers that covered the small hill there (they were like paper fans that turn in the wind, only these turned as a stimulus to the waters at their feet). Adjacent of the pond were fruit-leaf petals of the most alluring aroma.

Such an aroma that gave pause to Mr Fauldon's steps as the island now drifted close to the planks and ascended above him—only for him to feel the cold touch as the water from its pond refreshed his face and eyes. But the gravity of the mass began steeping the crossing, acting as a pivot against Mr Fauldon, who quickly found it urgent to proceed to the next platform.

It was there he happened upon an unexpected familiarity.

"Ravage," Mr Fauldon gasped, caught off guard by the man's presence (which resided against the far peg of the next crossing). The ravaged thief looked pitied, full of insecurity, and yet almost more at peace than he had ever been before.

"Why is it you rest where I must pass by? Were you not finished last time?" Mr Fauldon asked, not moving an inch closer.

The man sneered. "I do not know why I waited for you. Maybe it is because you blinded me."

"Blinded you? You mean to say that Ravage the Thief can no longer see what to steal?"

The man took no sentiment to Mr Fauldon's stab. "I guess it is only expected that I wait, for to go on my own I would risk falling to my end."

"Have you not fallen enough already?" inquired Mr Fauldon. "Stealing from those that have, those who do not and those who have little? What made you so?"

The man looked stern, as though far more conversation was occurring within than without. He would have lifted his head, but it bid him no better sight; thus, he spoke with head down: "I honestly, Mr Fauldon, just want to reach the other side of this bridge. Could... could you help me across?"

Mr Fauldon felt a tremble in his knees. "Carry you?" he echoed, less to the man and more to himself; afterall, he was the Karier of the Task. He looked with pity at the ravaged thief, fists clasping tight and lungs filling. "I never knew you as a thief," he said, "only as a desperate man before. Fate has it that you were blinded, and I shall carry you across."

A big gulp coincided with his step as he braced the man just as sir Knowington had braced him. He knew not what had overcome him, only that it felt weird—though he knew to keep the sash on the opposite side of his chest and beneath his coat just in case.

"Tell me what islands you see," the ravaged thief requested of Mr Fauldon.

Mr Fauldon did not wish to talk but nor did he like the thought of bearing the silence atop the unease he already felt. Thus, he gleamed about so as to find a distraction for himself. "There crosses an island with a single palm and a creature at sleep in its shade. There also comes two smaller platforms, one of salty rock with insects scuttling about it as though in a circle with no end and the second of dried earth beneath and muddy slough above—"

A firm hand gripped Mr Fauldon's shoulder, and he stopped. Ravage whispered as though they were to keep completely still, saying, "And what next? Does it bear a small crater?"

"Why, yes it does," Mr Fauldon answered.

"And does that crater have a totem?" Ravaged asked further.

"Yes," Mr Fauldon replied, starting to recognize the scene unfolding before him. "It looks exactly as the one before, only..."

Ravage knew exactly what. "There are no golems upon it," he said to finish Mr Fauldon's thought.

Mr Fauldon nearly found himself in panic (especially since it seemed those embermud gave even sir Knowington a run for his knowledge).

"Tread slowly," Ravage cautioned. "And do not look for them, for they are not thieves—they will not attack less provoked, though they will seek means of getting provoked for the sake of attacking."

And so Mr Fauldon steadily progressed, one hand upon the coils of the bridge and another wrapped about the thief to support him. He began to think about what plans of action were in store should the embermud indeed attack and what he might do being as he was now responsible for himself and the thief.

"Why me?" Mr Fauldon asked again. "Why wait for me? I'm sure many others have crossed that bridge, seeing as you made a living from it."

"I made no living," Ravage answered, "I only sought recognition and in that pursuit became blinded. I allowed my pride ahead of me, and I lost sight of what I truly desired."

"And what is that?" asked Mr Fauldon.

"I can't remember," the thief reiterated. "I just can't remember."

Finally, they reached the next joint of Crookstath Crossing. Mr Fauldon was beginning to notice something that had at first escaped him. He was not feeling the harsh contrast of hot and cold that he had the time before. Granted, the heat rising from the abyss still brought sweat to his brow, but at least he was not in a constant struggle against fever and torment. He noticed the same of Ravage, who sat with naught but a loose garment from his waist on down. His tattoos showed scars no man should bear alone. His scalp had become accustomed to the exposure and his skin toned because of it.

"So tell me this then: why did you agree to carry me?" the ravaged thief asked of Mr Fauldon. "Why help me cross this knowing I had just tried stealing from you?"

One would expect to insert puffy words of self-exaltation in such situations, and Mr Faulon could not say the thought hadn't crossed his own mind. But what he had to say was different and neither did he know how the words came, only that he spoke: "That is not who you are."

The man raised his head—his pale, blinded eyes gazing emptily yet straight into those of Mr Fauldon. The two caught the moment of silence as speaking a thousand turns.

It was then that the ravaged thief stood on his own volition. "Well, Mr Fauldon," he said, "that is enough for me. You best continue on your part, for mine is here."

The ground shook for the briefest moment. Mr Fauldon caught himself and turned around to see the embermud golem naught but twenty paces from them, a malicious glare towards him.

"Quick!" Mr Fauldon said to the thief, "We must go swiftly if we are to—"

The man had already taken his first step, and it was without the support Mr Fauldon had previously given him—his words reverberated in Mr Fauldon's mind.

"Go," he said once more, a slight breeze catching his arms as they stretched outward. Truly a seasoned warrior in his past days. Truly a man once with great honor.

Truly a man in search of redemption.

"I will keep them here," he said to Mr Fauldon. "Though I have lost sight, my will shall see it to a close. This is my end that yours might begin. Do not look back, my friend, for both our sakes."

Speechless, Mr Fauldon made for the next crossing. He wished so much to stand with the ravaged thief but knew better to respect the man's request.

The man's dying wish and the once-ravaged thief's redeeming end.

For a man should not be known by his wrongs or what he has not done; rather, more honoring is it to look into a man and see that which he could be and to nurture him into becoming that. If he has strayed, to lead him back to his path; if he has stumbled, to grant him the staff that he might support himself; if he is hopeless, to share with him the encouragement to find hope.

Hence, Mr Fauldon broke into a run as the flames overtook. He knew not what occurred, for he honored the thief's request (knowing it would also make it far more difficult if the man were to know Mr Fauldon was watching his closing act). Thus, as the single tear escaped his eye, so did it reflect the red flare rushing up from behind him. Mr Fauldon was in full sprint (at least, considering he was on a bridge which limits one's ability to sprint). Amidst the black puffs of smoke engulfing the island behind, a single embermud emerged in one great leap—its flame in pursuit from behind and itself from above. Mr Fauldon had nowhere else to go but forward, less he be scorched or crushed.

"Mr Fauldon," came the voice—his deliverance. As the blaze drew closer, Mr Fauldon gave all he could to reach sir Knowington's outstretched and unwavering hand.

The moment their grasps met, the two shattered into a million hexicubes and were warped to the ledge above—out of the embermud's sight and the fireball's grave. But of course sir Knowington retained his full composure whilst Mr Fauldon crashed into the ground, head spinning and vision ablur.

SCENE VIII, Part I:

Dizzy, tired, and in remorse, Mr Fauldon lifted his gaze to the guide, who just so happened to peer back down and over the ridge to where the heaps of smoke rose. Fighting the urge to express his bruised innards, Mr Fauldon came to his feet. The two stood before each other in an awkward silence (more so on Mr Fauldon's side, seeing as sir Knowington knew no embarrassment, for little did he do wrong). "How is it you appear after a man has given his life for me? Could you not have spared him the sacrifice?" Mr Fauldon pleaded to the man in bright suit.

Try as he may, Mr Fauldon simply could not muster up enough guilt with which to blame the man. After all, the once-ravaged thief had willingly chosen his path, though the weight of it seemed to rest upon Mr Fauldon's shoulders.

"I, too, crossed him on that path," said sir Knowington, "and he refused my help. Instead, the man did as he saw fit to redeem himself. You can choose to lament it or give him the respect for it. Either way, I see it a strong end—one that no man should be tormented over. Though it would be in vain if we but stood here for the rest of time as the Lighthouse fades."

"The Lighthouse fades?" inquired Mr Fauldon, his task returning to the forefront of his mind.

"Yes," sir Knowington answered him, "the old stone withers, and soon the Overlap will become more relevant."

"What do you mean by this Overlap?" Mr Fauldon inquired further.

"Let us be on our way first. Besides, you still have the gift of Inquiry given to you, have you not? It is best we keep moving."

He had forgotten that card again, though it was far more convenient to simply ask sir Knownington than to use it, or at least so he reasoned. With how many questions he had, you'd think it would never leave his hand. But he had noticed the past few uses had left him with the faintest of nausea.

Pulling it out nonetheless he asked as to the meaning of the Overlap. The card trembled and delayed as though worn out from the heat of the abyss, which Mr Fauldon had now crossed twofold. Finally, to him it replied the words he had heard before: "The longer the stone without dwell shall be the more unstable all that is held is becoming."

The words upon its surface smudged against the breeze the came up from the Rys' Springs. "Why is it smudged?" Mr Fauldon asked.

At this point in time, sir Knowington had passed on ahead and stood next to the familiar Porhtree. Mr Fauldon had nearly forgotten about such a mechanism. He couldn't decide whether he dreaded or looked forward to using it again, only that it still boggled his mind.

"Most cards, Mr Fauldon, expire. With how many questions you have, I would add that I am surprised yours still hasn't."

"Expire? What do you mean?"

The man smiled, motioning the all-inquiring Mr Fauldon toward the Porhtree. "We really should be moving. The longer you keep that Violstone, the harder things will get for the people here. It is best for everyone that you fulfill your task."

"As Beelstow said also," Mr Faulon thought to add, "and he too made clear the importance of my task."

"Good, then off you go. Only this time, be sure you kick to the left when the light turns pink. Do not forget to kick to the left."

He was through before he could think to stop and ask, with naught but the thought of kicking to the left in light of pink. Piercing that membrane once more, Mr Fauldon was overwhelmed yet again by the bizarre-atude of things indescribable. The feeling at first sweet then bitter, just like candy that is ever so rich but, after a while, makes one sick if consumed too quickly.

The colors and hues swirled about, above, around, and through—touching and bending, crossing and joining, turning and twisting. From blue to orange to gray to green.

To the flicker of pink.

Pink!

Mr Fauldon struggled to make sense of the state he was in. Neither able to move nor able to think clearly, he found he couldn't control his feet. In fact, he couldn't see his feet at all—nor any of himself for that matter. It was all abstract, and he was one with everything about him. If he were to reach to the left, the rainbows would sway that way; if he were to reach to the right, the same would occur.

But how was one to move their feet if they did not have any?

And so he quickly thought of imagining himself drawing his own foot. With great effort and speed did he see his foot unravel from its cloak.

His right foot.

But what of his left?!

"Oh, come now!" he urged himself, never before imagining he could sketch a foot so quickly. Swiftly did it uncover—first the thigh, then knee and shin, and lastly a mechanical boot about his foot.

"Now kick!" he shouted, a stout kick to his left at the last utterance of pink utterance.

His course veered to the right, and a new wave of feeling swarmed his senses entirely. It was as though being trapped inside the stomach of a whale only to finally burst through.

And burst through he did as Mr Fauldon's vision came to his descent upon fertile soil. His face slid across the mossy terrain while mud filled the crevices. He spat and spit and brushed his mouth with a sleeve so as to remove the distasteful taste.

He'd thought he had seen it all.

He'd thought very little else could still surprise him.

He'd thought wrong.

Trees laden with the lushest of grasses caressed the scene (yes, for they were grass trees—their bark of red fescue grass, and where leaves ordinarily would be, there was instead sprouts of monkey grass). Mr Fauldon stood in what seemed to be the only meadow amidst the forest so vast. He could see the orange setting against the blue veins in the star-lit sky (though they were not stars, for everyone knows that they were actually glowing starfish that had bloomed outside the watery-veins through which the turtle-whales swam).

About the trees, both loosely and tightly, were vines entangling the whole forest together. There appeared a small, hunched mushroom goblin, looking to be at least two centuries old. Sir Knowington cleared his throat so as to approach the creature casually.

"Ah, Aerold," he said to the lady mushroom goblin, "what good news it is to see you here."

The Shrooblin (as they were called), groaned at the sight of them. Her speech was drawn out and cracked, her many bracelets always scathing the ground. "For all that is moss in these woods, why come now?"

"You know why we are here," sir Knowington answered her, his stance alert and unfaltering. "We need your guidance to the Foothills of Variley."

"Psch," the Shrooblin choked back as though not obligated to do anything. "All he is to me is a coat of Korgath skin. You're his guide, why not lead him yourself?"

Mr Fauldon hadn't seen sir Knowington look so sternly before as the man simply answered: "Lead us, Aerold."

The Shrooblin shuddered to the command but yielded to the reputable Calnorian's request. Outstretching both her hands, she wove the trees side to side until a path formed between them (almost as though the vines that bound them were under her control).

And where no path once was, they now proceeded on one and through the great forest that was known as Darsel Woods.

"If I may ask... what are you?" Mr Fauldon dared to intrude as they weaved through the trees of grass.

"Hmph... not one of the clueless likes of you for sure," she was answered.

"She is a Shrooblin," sir Knowington remarked for the grouch. "They look over nature and grant passages to those in need. Their sole purpose is to prevent one from destroying the other simply for the sake of passing. That being said, it usually takes them a century or two to win the favor of any given place. Aerold looks after the Darsel Woods, being responsible for leading the many travelers that seek to reach the other side. It just so happens she despises company... or any interaction for that matter."

"Then why take up the job?" Mr Fauldon asked.

This time the grouchy Shrooblin cut back in: "Because I had no choice. A rival sibling swore upon our lineage as though it was some game, and I was sworn into it as a result and completely against my will. I've hated this job ever since."

"Well there definitely doesn't seem to be a lack of that," Mr Fauldon mumbled, amazed at the grudge Aerold seemed to hold against her sibling (and who wouldn't if they had to live as long as Shrooblins live?). "So who is this sibling that swore you into such a labor?"

The grouch rolled her old, withered-and-wrinkled eyes, ignoring the kindness of response.

It was then they came upon the outskirts of the forest and to the foothills of Variley Hills.

"There, as you asked," said the grouch to sir Knowington.

"Not quite," he replied, "for Threshold is his destination. Lead him at least to the outer rim of these hills that he may reach Threshold safely."

Aerold grumbled, "Why not just take him yourself? You know I have better things to do."

"You know fully why," sir Knowington replied, his words ending any further debate.

Though Mr Fauldon was still unknowing as to why, he agreed with the Shrooblin: "Why can't you? Must the 'guide' leave yet again?"

"You have done well to keep on track, good sir," sir Knowington said to him, a smile almost caressing his face. "I believe you are soon to bloom, and my nudging every step will only delay that. I know what you are capable of, but you have yet to accept that you know such things as well." The bright suited man turned his attention back to the old grouch. "Besides, Aerold here will be more than willing to assist the Karier to Threshold, the town belonging to the Lighthouse and its upkeep. Across these hills and just a little further swen and we shall meet again."

"But why must you keep disappearing?" Mr Fauldon asked of the man.

Sir Knowington gazed back at him (like a philosopher would to a novice of his trade, for Mr Fauldon knew little outside that which he saw). "Soon," he told Mr Fauldon, "you will know. There is plenty more going on here than meets the eye, and yours are but opening. Far better to tell you when you would understand than confuse you with what you once knew. But shall we all get moving? Surely, we would have already met up again if not for all this chatter."

SCENE VIII, Part II:

Mr Fauldon wasn't too fond of the Shrooblin that led him. Not that he was trying to be judgmental of the obvious age and grudge, but Aerold's attitude was beginning to drag him down as well. Every time he would have another question, the grouchy old lady shroom would pretend one of her bracelets got tangled or had fallen to the ground. However, that did not stop his admiration of the hills through which they roamed. For who isn't captivated by hills of mushrooms themselves and stones resembling spores? The hills seemed alive in some sense or another (for they were indeed actually various species of mushroom, from crimini to portabella to the occasional boletus satanas—all large enough to walk on, that is).

Mr Fauldon learned quickly to watch Aerold's every move, for though she despised his company, she knew exactly where to step so as to avoid the puffs of dust and spores. Having experienced a few already, Mr Fauldon couldn't risk any more of the nausea that followed. He struggled to keep pace, his coat being the only reason he had not inhaled too much already.

And where he trudged along, he could not get over the ominous thud that pursued each step. It was as though every other step was a thud (the same feeling one gets when hiking and one boot happens to become the world's greatest mud magnet). So he looked down to his feet and stood amazed.

He had a mechanical boot!

Only upon his left foot, mind you. Now that he thought about it, he remembered sketching it while journeying in the Porhtree. But what good is a one mechanical boot to a man? After all, he had no idea what its purpose was nor what exactly it was meant to do other than simply be a boot.

"I should ask you," the old, withered voice of the Shrooblin echoed to his ears, "have you ever heard of the Croak King?"

"The Croak King?" he asked, still unable to have a good sight of her (after all, she was 'shroom-like' amidst hills of shrooms).

"Yes, yes—the Croak King. It is said he once dwelled in the hill atop where the Lighthouse now resides. Many sought to claim him as prize, but the Croak King overcame all his adversaries yet was forced to flee to a place not far from here."

"Then I would think it best we not close that distance. I mean, if we are not to agitate him..." Mr Fauldon remarked, finally catching up to the Shrooblin upon that large hill.

"Well," the Shrooblin continued, "it is also said he has been asleep for nearly a half century."

"My, my!" Mr Fauldon exclaimed. "How could that possibly be? I do believe nothing could sleep for that long of a time. What kind of person has a stomach that large so as to last half a century? That is rather absurd!"

He caught Aerold's large grin as the grouch motioned him further up the hillside. "Why, I do believe that's his lair just yonder."

Mr Fauldon felt the sudden stench pierce his unprepared nostrils (almost as though simmering his nose hair). "That reeks of death!" he choked, both hands pushing his coat firmly above his face. "Surely this smell alone would be enough to keep any adversary away!"

"Quick," said Aerold, "our destination is just beyond that ridge. Let us cut through here and be there two turns ahead of time. Besides, who is to say he is even still alive or, in the least, will notice us from such a deep sleep?"

Mr Fauldon looked blankly at the Shrooblin. "Have you gone mad?" he said. "Or think me a fool? There is no way I would draw any closer to such a potent odor, let alone a rumored Croak King. Who do you take me as?"

"A Karier in need of time," Aerold answered, sliding back down the hill swiftly and between a crevice only to return with weeds outstretched to Mr Fauldon. "Take these and hold them to your face. They will obscure the stench enough for you to not faint."

Mr Fauldon took the weeds as some kind of filter and held them close to his nose (which seemed to work well enough, for he was soon following the Shrooblin down the slope and into the small valley surrounded by several hills. The lair was massive and dark, rising a good twenty feet into the thick air—a moss unlike any Mr Fauldon had seen growing about the edges of the cave's mouth. It was undeniably of the ground and not just another mushroom, for traces of cold stone etched out along its sides and down the back. Just before the pit, insects bore feast the slew of deathly aroma. Mr Fauldon found it hard to focus on where Aerold's steps had been made, for the mud from the pit seemed to seep into the grooves. In naught but a few seconds gaze at the lair's grotesque, Mr Fauldon found his footing slip.

Sure enough, it was his mechanical boot that had given, and his body could not account for the toppled weight. He hit with a flop as his body sprawled about the thick, clay-like muck. As slick as it was, he soon found himself nearly incapable of gaining grip and slipped yet again—only this time his eyes locked on the small object that had somehow slid out of its sash.

The Violstone.

Stretching out his hands and legs, he began sprawling toward it. One elbow in front of the other, the bear crawl drew him steadily nearer to the stone.

But another figure appeared before him, kneeling down and picking it up (for at this point, part of the cloth had unfolded as it was raised to the intruder's face).

"Grevious?" Mr Fauldon was in shock.

The man chuckled deeply as though his life goal had just been accomplished. "Ha!" he announced, "I finally have it yet again!"

It was then that the folds of cloth fully fell from the stone's sides, and in the sight of its luminous veins did the ground shake violently. To Mr Fauldon's dismay, it was not an earthquake, for the waves of odorous sound reverberated from within the lair. The mud slurred, and even Grevious stumbled backward against the edge of a rising hill.

It was the loudest and longest of croaks Mr Fauldon had ever heard (and it smelled like the innards of a stomach trapped for half a century at least).

Mr Fauldon knew not where Aerold had gone off to, only that the rumored Croak King had indeed awoken from slumber. The ground trembled again as though to a leap of ten tons. A second tremble and he found himself quivering in the gloominous shadow of a ten-ton pixie bullfrog (being as it had the features and enormous scale of the pixie but the muscle and unmeasurable croak of a bullfrog, for it was the king of croaks after all).

In but one lash had the Croak King whipped out its tongue so as to quake the whole pit, which Mr Fauldon now saw to be a dormant venus fly trap (though, in their case, not for flies). Grevious was desperately seeking a means to climb the steep and escape. Mr Fauldon had just gotten his first solid footing before the muck began drawing near the Croak King's feet.

But one left foot was all he needed. In a single push did his mechanical boot spring him a good twelve feet and to the ledge from which he could climb (after which it burst, for the power within its spring brought end to its mechanicalness). But, for Mr Fauldon, the ledge's top was met by a devious rival. They both reached the top with little breath left. Grevious bent low, his back arched in soreness; Mr Fauldon took up the opportunity to grab hold of the cloth and stone. The two struggled between its rays—a collage of purple and deep red—until finally Mr Fauldon broke loose sir Grevious' hold upon the cloth, the act caused him to stumble down the opposing slope.

Grevious took the fall as well, only landing slightly more off in the distance—a smile on his face and a shimmer in his eyes.

It was then Mr Fauldon noticed the cloth was empty within his hands.

"Finally!" Grevious triumphed, holding the stone out and above him (much as a child would do after pulling the sword in the stone). The atmosphere itself shuddered and rippled as a line in time and space lifted and pulled both Grevious and the stone within and out of sight and realm.

The stone was gone!

Dumbfounded, Mr Fauldon could only gasp momentarily as the ground trembled once more to the giant leap of the Croak King now poised upon the hill's ledge from whence Mr Fauldon had fallen.

It seemed to be looking straight at him, even though its eyes were partially crooked and solid black. Without his mechanical boot, Mr Fauldon knew he would not be able to escape any tongue lashing. He was a stranded fly to a half-century-old, starved pixie bullfrog.

The hills shook to the deep and powerful sound of the waking Croak King. Tilting its head, it became still as if for Mr Fauldon to make the first move.

As though daring him to move.

Mr Fauldon was petrified, but he felt a tingle reaching up his leg nonetheless. His nerves were jittery, and he could tell he wouldn't be able to maintain his position much longer. How was it that Grevious was not the one left to face this beast? Or Aerold who had deceived him all along? And where was this 'sir Knowington' who was supposed to protect him?

His ankle twitched.

Never had he seen through the eyes of a terrified fly before—but it felt as such as he looked inescapably at the long, twisting tongue that whipped out in less than a blink of an eye. It cared not for the skip of the heartbeat, for in that moment it sought to end Mr Fauldon.

It was the most peculiar of things to just barely see as one's eyes are in the process of closing. I mean seriously: imagine your eyes caught on their way to blink, and just in that moment something appears before you—only it was before Mr Fauldon.

Between him and the Croak.

A knight in hardened armor like those from fairy tales of heroic protectors. The knight, with sword wielded skillfully in both hands, clashed with the beast's great tongue, sending it back from whence it came. In a second leap, the knight had dashed to the left and up the hill to where the Croak King resided—slicing with his sword like a razor knife through butter.

And through thin air.

For the Croak King had also leapt, only it rose a good twice its height into the air and crashed atop the hill opposing the knight's. Outraged, it lashed out its tongue toward the knight who squatted low, rolled, and dashed in a blinding ray across the distance between them. In a flash, the knight reappeared just above the Croak's head, sword emanating a firery red—Mr Fauldon instantly recognizing the familiarity.

It was the knight from Shrewg's tale that time before! From all the way back then, the knight was real!

Mr Fauldon could not help the smile of relief and awe as the great knight slew the Croak King even before its last croak. Landing on bended knee, the knight heaved heavily upon his blade as it dug into the terrain.

"You truly are careless," the knight's voice came to him.

Not to Mr Fauldon, rather to the man standing just behind him.

"Sir Knowington!?" Mr Fauldon exclaimed as he turned to see the Calnorian. "WHERE ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN?!"

"I must admit," sir Knowington said, "I was not expecting Aerold to do you this way. I apologize for leaving you in her hands. Especially since she led you to the one danger that could have ended you in these hills."

Mr Fauldon felt a wave of shame cross over him. Not in the sense that he had just escaped death by being saved again, rather he spoke: "Well, you see..."

Sir Knowington's eyes widened for the first time to disbelief as Mr Fauldon held out the empty cloth. "Just before the beast awoke, I was ambushed by Grevious. He took the stone."

The knight stood from his position, looking on up to the horizon. "You know what this means, great guide of time and my friend," he spoke again to sir Knowington (almost as though completely disregarding Mr Fauldon was even present). "You cannot avoid it much longer. Its use is inevitable. You will have to awaken it if you wish to regain what was lost."

"Enough nonsense," said sir Knowington. "I know what must be done, though it is out of place to do."

"That is entirely up to you," said the knight, glancing over his shoulder and through the slits in his helmet. Withdrawing the great sword, the knight swirled it about him until he was overtaken by its currents and was swept from sight.

It was rare to see sir Knowington so troubled as he looked at the slain Croak King. "Well, Mr Fauldon, it seems we have no other choice than to do as the knight said. We must journey to the Gate."

"But wait," Mr Fauldon interjected. "did you not hear me? Grevious took the stone and vanished. How am I to be the Karier of the Task that is lost to me?"

"Not lost," sir Knowington answered, "but out of this realm."

Mr Fauldon's puzzled expression hid nothing of his utter confusion. Here he was trying to state his total failure and yet the 'know-it-all' seemed not to care.

The man raised his hand toward the Lighthouse just beyond the turn of a few more hills. "That is where we are headed."

"Is that where the Gate is?" asked Mr Faulon.

"No, but it is in the path to the Gate. I will explain more about that when we draw near. As for now, just know that by the same realms the stone protects, so has Grevious used."

"Realms? You mean to tell me of realms now? What do you mean?" It was too many questions even for Mr Fauldon to understand the answers to (not that sir Knowington was going to answer them yet anyway, for Mr Fauldon was still all too overwhelmed to grasp it all).

"That means we are to pass through Threshold, the small town into which you were to be accepted—only now you have not the stone," the guide spoke.

"Is there no other way around that place?"

"You once said honesty was your forte," sir Knowington remarked. "It is best to have them know you are in pursuit of fixing the loss rather than simply getting lost in its absence."

SCENE IX:

Across the remaining hills they went, for sir Knowington seemed to know them better than he let on, though who would doubt his direction being as the Lighthouse was viewable in the nearing horizon. Over, between, and around they went until reaching the last overlook. Mr Fauldon could see the small town before the towering Lighthouse.

"Why did you leave me to Aerold's deception?" he thought to ask as they gazed. "It wasn't as though you honestly didn't know that I would be tricked, right?"

Sir Knowington did the sort of nod that one might say a teacher does to a student, having intentionally put them through harm's way that something important may be learned. In this case, Mr Fauldon's lesson was twofold: he learned of the extent to which he must protect the Task from those who seek to deviate it and also that he must recover from his shortcoming and make amends. He did not like the latter, nor was he a fan of the first. Altogether, he felt misled and underprepared for such an obligation as the responsibility of a whole realm.

"Why would Grevious seek after the stone?" inquired Mr Fauldon. "What purpose has he with it, and why such a change in character if indeed he once was a Karier?"

In light of all his questions and in their descent of the last hillside, sir Knowington finally answered: "Grevious carried many Tasks. Like you, he bore a promising beginning and enduring second task. But upon his third stone, it was realized that he was realizing too much. Not that we desire a Karier to be naïve, rather when the knowledge did sink into a further understanding, the interpretation he took was against the very reason a Karier is chosen—to use the stone instead of care for it.

"The stone, as you know by now, is a balance said to be birthed from part of Nim. With enough patience and understanding of it, one might learn the means of its veins by which it gives strength to this realm. That being said, the stone, once its Karier is acquainted enough with it, gives glimpses of things never before seen. It was in these glimpses that Grevious turned mad in the pursuit as he tasted and lusted after other realms. The end of his third Task assured that madness, and he demanded a fourth, but Keyno refused him the Task, finding, instead, a temporary Karier whilst I sought after his replacement."

"And that is when you found me," Mr Fauldon mumbled to himself, drifting into his own mind of thoughtfulness. Grevious must have also been from another realm and taken here. "Then, if I may ask without being thought mad, how many realms are out there? Or is it just two? For I imagine you found Grevious elsewhere less he be from whence you found me."

The questions were ignored entirely as they entered the small town of Threshold. Noticing it closely for the first time, Mr Fauldon took in the city and its entirety. The entire collection of structures and monuments were built upon planks all being about a foot off the ground (they once formed the scaffolding used to build the Lighthouse). By monuments, one would mean the remnants of wooden anchors and mechanical cranes that once lifted many stone slabs. Old frames, beams, and shelves clustered about the multitude of small, wooden houses in which the people dwelt. At least a good twenty homes poised upon those planks, each nearly as old as the Lighthouse itself. The first building, however, was to their left and stood a proud two floors high. A sign hang upon the side bearing the symbol of a lantern atop a sheep. Innless Sheep were its words etched above.

Only in a moment's time had some of the townsfolk gathered in front of Mr Fauldon with pattered expressions as though they already knew he had not the stone. Mr Fauldon tried hiding the shame he felt as he followed behind the great guide. It happened that he saw, from the corner of his eye, a little girl running up to him. Her face bore smudges of dirt and a polka-dotted dress of red and blue fluttered to her childish movements. She was no more than five and rushed towards him as though already knowing him.

Seeing her arms outstretched, Mr Fauldon braced himself as she dug a deep embrace to his legs. Her face buried into his Korgath skin and she looked up to him with a smile. "Don't worry, Mr Mister," she spoke in a child's fumble for pronunciation, "I you'll find it."

A wave of unease swept over him as his own dirty hands ran gently through her soft, blond hair (well, as blond as blond can be with stains of dirt all about). "And what makes you so certain?" he asked her, kneeling down so as to look her eye to eye.

The smile was infatuating.

"Cause I like you!" she exclaimed, suddenly shy and running back to the mother who stood amidst the crowd, blushes of red upon both their cheeks.

And Mr Fauldon smiled greatly with a new appreciation. Standing, he browsed over the faces surrounding him. They townspeople did not seem as disappointed as he'd first thought. Though missing the stone, they still welcomed him.

"Come, Mr Fauldon," said sir Knowington, "the light has reached its turn and you should rest before we journey on."

At that, sir Knowington made his way across the gathered people and into an opposing structure known as the Dyghner's Table. Mr Fauldon found himself admiring the plethora of arrangements in a diner so unique. Tables of wood, some of stone and some of vine, spanned the floor. At the far end there was a large counter that wound as a half-pipe circling inward.

"So the Karier has arrived," said the brewer as he strode from behind his counter to greet Mr Fauldon and the guide. "And where is this stone?"

"An obstacle has arisen before us," sir Knowington interjected, "and we do not yet it. But Mr Fauldon here is weary and hungry, so if you would kindly fill our cups, that would be much appreciated."

The man laughed as his massive hands propped upon the sides of his waist. A gray silked apron clang to his chest and lower torso. It was hard for Mr Fauldon to tell if the man was a smith or brewer (or a bouncer, for the matter of his sheer size).

"Well then, welcome to my table!" the man exclaimed with hands abroad. He knew sir Knowington's intent on not speaking too fondly of the stone while it still lie out of reach. "I am Brewer, the greatest brewer this realm has to offer! At least in fact, that is—ha ha ha!"

Despite the many ears listening in, Mr Fauldon and the "know-it-all" guide sat at the bar as Brewer placed two large pints before them. The pints made a loud thud to the hardwood as foam tipped and turved over the rim. "Have you a Bee's Brew, Karier!" said the overly anxious Brewer, just waiting for Mr Fauldon to try the drink. For they had spoken their fill and it was now time to feast.

Reaching out, Mr Fauldon had to use both hands to comfortably lift the weighty mug. Hesitant yet determined, he took a sip—fighting the anticipation just to reach the sweet liquor hidden within the sugary foam. It was like an expresso, mocha, and triple nectar all in one!

"My dear!" Mr Fauldon exclaimed, shaking his head vibrantly as he swallowed. The sweetness was like seeing candy canes instead of stars about one's head.

Brewer was at it again with the laughter, pounding a large first upon the counter. "Alas! It is some stout stuff, is it not?" he guffawed. "Here, have some water."

Mr Fauldon was relieved to finally have something not encumbering going down his throat.

"So," Brewer began, his back to them as he maneuvered the many oven tops and stoves in final preparations of the meal, "I hear you had quite the venture in Hygh Pass, nearly taken by the rhino beetles before deviously overcoming them in a single move!"

The scene of what actually had happened couldn't help but come back to his mind, as did the card and how it had saved him then as it had again upon the Crookstath Crossing.

He also remembered Nomad and how the traveler had appeared just in the nick of time to thwart off the great insect Rhae.

"Tell me," Brewer went on, "have you seen it all yet? This realm, that is."

Mr Fauldon struggled to return to his senses. Thankfully, sir Knowington was first in speaking for him. "He has seen plenty more than he has had time to process, I am sure, and also needs his rest. It is best he focuses upon eating for now, for he will need his strength for the Task ahead."

Brewer spun around with a large dish in his hand and slid it across the counter towards Mr Fauldon. The steam arose into Mr Fauldon's dreary eyes.

As did the pleasant smell of meat, vegetables, and herbs.

"Where did such ingredients come from?" Mr Fauldon asked, his taste buds going wild over the flavor and richness of the stir fry cooked up for him.

"It's the Shadow Beans that do the trick. The Shadow Bean Hills lay just swen of us and make for remarkable blending and enhancing of flavors. It's almost as if food was never meant to be made without them! I do love me some Shadow Beans."

"Shadow Bean Hills?" inquired Mr Fauldon, a mouth full making it hard to speak.

"Yes, and we shall see them soon enough," said sir Knowington. "Eat up, my friend, and then you shall get some rest whilst the Lighthouse casts is shade, for we have not much longer."

The massive candlelit chandeliers suddenly shook, as did Mr Fauldon's fork whilst he wiped his face of spice. The tremble silenced everyone as a few ran outside to see.

But not Brewer, nor sir Knowington, for they knew what is was.

"What was that?" Mr Fauldon asked, slightly concerned by the atmosphere left behind.

"That," Brewer replied, "was the sound of the nearing Overlap, my naïve Karier. We are in need of that stone."

Mr Fauldon knew the Calnorian to have mentioned it just the same, thus the burden of his Task was thrust back upon him.

"Kish!" Brewer called out. The same little girl from before came running back in and stood before them, her hands bent behind her in sight of Mr Fauldon (about as innocent as affection gets at such an age, for she knew no stranger and loved everyone). Brewer leaned over the counter with a smile and playful tone. "Would you like to lead Mr Fauldon to Sairi's stead that he might rest?"

"Sairi?" said Mr Fauldon. "Who is that?"

"Yep, yep!" the little Kish answered. "Come with me, Mr Mister!"

They were out the door (a belly too full for Mr Fauldon to keep up), and down the planks until they came to a structure just off center of the town. Kish ran on ahead of him and opened the door without a single knock. "Mommy!" she said disappearing behind it. Mr Fauldon could hear the mumbling of conversation as he drew near himself.

"Hello?" he said while peering about the door's frame. There stood the same lady to whom the little child had ran when he had first entered the town. "Oh... you're Sairi."

"Yes," she said, "this is my stead, but you may rest here. Brewer said I could stay at the inn."

Mr Fauldon looked around and saw that there was no bed, for no beds did the people of Threshold have, being as their days were not like those we are used to. Each turn of the Lighthouse was different from those of hours and seconds. It seemed the whole function of life was different in such a place, as people only "rested" when rest was needed. Mr Fauldon was reminded of Beelstow and the people of Obliviouseh and how they but drank Obliquor to stay away.

That was right! He'd almost forgotten he still had some!

"Make yourself at ease. You are welcome to anything here," Sairi said to him as she stepped by. "I will try to keep Kish from disturbing you, as she is used to doors always being open." With a smile did they depart and Mr Fauldon eased shut the door to the small dwelling. The wooden chairs and table took up the area immediately behind him. Behind them, shelves and bookcases clang to the wall. Ornaments filled their spaces, as did many plates, bowls, cups, and utensils. It was almost as though one's dwelling was a place of constant visitation. When Sairi had said "doors always open" she truly meant it, for even the chairs looked worn in from countless guests—a lifestyle quite welcoming and intertwined.

Pulling himself up a chair, he entertained the thought of how enticing a bit was rest would actually be, for it seemed like he hadn't slept for the longest time. And, gently seating his tattered self, he began to imagine all that was still before him.

How he was still to recover the stolen stone.

How he still had no idea where Grevious had gone, nor how sir Knowington expected to find the man.

He was altogether unsure of what lie ahead, only that for the sake of his own integrity, he was to do all he that could to finish the Task given to him. Even if the only true encouragement he had found was in the admiration of a child.

The encouragement from an innocent and believing embrace.

Yes, he would rest for now and save the Obliquor for when he awoke, that he might regain his strength where the lack of sleep would otherwise hold it captive.

SCENE X, Part I:

An orange sickle-feather perched upon the square window pane, through which light of the most peculiar shade shone. Mr Fauldon stirred to the bird's pecking as it knocked against the colorful mosaic. He hadn't noticed it before for the shadow cast over the town felt as close to night as he'd come to know.

So he stood and stretched out his hands and legs, bending backward then forward then sideward before unfolding the sack of Oblique within his coat.

He also saw the sash made for him in such craftsmanship he'd never seen before. He wondered as to what would come of Nobaph since his enlightenment. Also of Beelstow and whether the man would ever overcome Lerchah. He wondered of Nomad and if the traveler had found what he sought in Mauhg.

The knocking came again. He saw the sickle-feather flutter off in an instant—the door to the dwelling bursting open.

"Hey, Mr Mister!" came Kish's childish voice as she beamed to the sight of him being awake. "Knowy told me to wake you," she added with a blush, turning then to escape her shyness.

Mr Fauldon watched as sir Knowington stepped through the doorway in her absence. "Shall we proceed?" the man said (as though it definitely had not been said before).

"Yes, I do believe the Obliquor has settled in," Mr Fauldon replied, feeling his senses jitter to the rejuvenation. "And to where are we headed, oh 'mysterious' one?"

"Through the Shadow Bean Hills, Mr Fauldon, and to the Wiliswall."

"The Wiliswall?" Mr Fauldon could not believe his ears. Ever since he'd first seen and second asked, it had always been an aspiration to venture beyond to that which was held secret on the other side. "But why the Wiliswall?"

"Come, we best bid the townsfolk farewell and be on our way."

"Hold on, hasty sir, how is it you know to where he went?" Mr Fauldon asked.

Sir Knowington held an expression of one who simply always knew (as though it had slipped his mind that Mr Fauldon knew not). "I will tell you more as we get moving. Delay is the twin of procrastination, and we have a task to do."

Most of the townsfolk were already scattered about the old planks, greeting, mingling, and fiddling about the days of old and what they might do to ready themselves for Mr Fauldon's return. Some even speculated about the disaster coming should the Overlap continue. Already did the sky look more bleak, even with the plethora of hues, shades, and veins that flowed like vines about a lattice. For a moment, Mr Fauldon couldn't help but to look into the sky—seeing the splendor and taking it in again. It felt like he'd almost forgot how bizarre every feat of this imaginative realm was.

How real it felt. How lively it felt.

How real it was.

"It draws nigh," Brewer said amidst the crowd gathered. "We need that stone, if you don't mind, sir Karier. We look forward to welcoming you back."

Sir Knowington wasn't one for prolonged farewells, as he already had nudged Mr Fauldon that they continue swen. Glancing back over his shoulder, Mr Fauldon almost caught a glimmer of discomfort coming from the people in Threshold.

"Why is that?" he turned to sir Knowington.

"Mister!" came the little voice he cherished as Kish ran out from the crowd and leapt into his embrace once more. "Don't worry, I believe in you," she said, pushing away and running back to her mother.

Sir Knowington showed a smile to the little girl's gesture. "It's because," he then replied to Mr Fauldon, "they are already suffering. The Lighthouse gives light and growth to the fields they grow, and with it as such... well, the less light there is, the more critters there are. And as builders of the great Lighthouse, they know all too well what the Overlap is capable of doing, which is why its best we hurry along."

The urgency was becoming more and more real to him. One might ask then why he was given a night to sleep, but it mustn't be forgotten the realm they are in—nights hardly existed. Rather, just when the turn of the light was blotted by the plate rotating about it, there in lay only a brief moment of darker shadow. So in reality, Mr Fauldon had not slept long at all—only rested. Had it not been for the Obliquor given to him by Beelstow, surely he would be incapable of the journey ahead. For in every crevice of his body, exhaustion sought to seep in and lay hold of his conscious.

And so did the presence of the small town steadily grow fainting behind them with new terrain befalling Mr Fauldon's gaze. He looked forward to the many hills laden with moss and speckles of humps (resembling much of potato farms in the regions of a more known world but less known places). The mounds sprouted the hills as though warts and to each clang vines woven in pair and bearing many seeds of brown and black. According to Brewer (whom he'd actually spoken a great deal to), the brown seed was a sweet nectar that could be cooked and savored, but the black seed (or rather the Black Shadow Bean, as they called them) was far more tart and, if cooked, would poison flavor and dry up any seasoning. It was, however, said to him to be good for the wound, as it dried out the exposed skin and soaked up what toxins there may be.

All this only adding to the intrigue that a whole town might build up for itself a reputation just off a simple bean. Though, to the townspeople, it was no simple bean.

The aroma held thick in the air as though a coffee-bean farm whilst the two pressed through and over and around the hills. Mr Fauldon admired the many paths formed by the small trickling trails of mucky water—if it were water at all. Upon closer look, he noticed it to be the same soil as what made the hills, only softer and more saturated, making it slip and fold over itself until forming miniature flows. It seemed as though the means of self-sustained irrigation.

"Sir Knowington," Mr Fauldon finally spoke out, his mind being filled with new thoughts and even more questions, "I wonder if we will be able to recover this stone..."

The man in bright suit had took notice of Mr Fauldon's doubt and discomfort even before the thoughts had come to him and just before the words had been spoken (not that he could read minds, only that he would have known sooner had the smell of caffeine not been so steep).

"And to you I would answer," said he calmly and while yet progressing, "that, whether or not we do, it will not be without consequence. The first being that the Overlap draws nearer and has begun to reopen the old scars of those who here have dwelled for a very long time. Second, that with you not having it, opinions have swayed in doubt of the lord Keyno's judgement and my selection. Though you may not realize it, many are losing trust in Keyno with the increasing fault-lines in reality.

"Thirdly: with this imbalance already growing alongside time, not having the stone is only securing the suspicion and assumption that not all is well. In a land of such bizarre and imaginatude, you must understand the amount of fear this brings. That stone—your Task—has never meant more than now, even though it is just like all those before it. What you do now is not only affecting the task of the stone, but of people's opinion of it. You are the Karier, sir, and though you may doubt recovering something that has slipped from this realm, I do believe you have no right to suppose that all hope is lost. Especially since, in essence, you are the carrier of that hope."

The ever-so-peculiar guide came to a stop and turned back to Mr Fauldon with eyes of sincerity. The man spoke factually and honest of Mr Fauldon's predicament. He knew Mr Fauldon felt weighed of responsibility. He understood what Mr Fauldon felt inside.

"Come—you see that?" sir Knowington said to him, pointing to the massive structure towering above them and stretching on in either direction. "The Wiliswall, and built that none should cross."

"Wait, none should cross? Then how are we to cross it? And why is it that none should cross? It seems to me the mainland is intent on separating itself. First the river Floweth, then Rys' Springs, and now the Wiliswall?"

"So many questions," replied sir Knowington, a palm lifted so as to hush the conversation. Something moved amidst the moss and bushes. As the Shadow Bean Hills drew closer to the Wiliswall, so did the terrain enrich. Small and large, wide and skinny, thick and coarse—the nature grew more repulsing of ease.

Mr Fauldon only caught a glimpse of what pursued them in the thickery. "What is that?" he whispered to sir Knowington as he crouched low, a break of sweat against his brow.

"That," said sir Knowington as he eased his position, "is our guide."

SCENE X, Part II:

"Humph!" came the grunt of an emerging creature.

"Good to see you again," sir Knowington spoke as the Shrooblin stepped forward. "It's been too long... Earold."

Mr Fauldon fought the urge to laugh to the name (after all, who names their kid "ear-hold"). Then it clicked for him: "Hold on, you mean to tell me this is the sibling of Aerold? The one who 'forced' her into servitude?"

"Why, yes, I am kin to Aerold, the Devious Shrooblin Deceiver. She indeed has quite the grudge against me!" Earold seemed to laugh at the discomfort between he and his sister. "But do not worry, I only sped up what was inevitable. But I must ask: what brings you so near to the Wiliswall? The Shadow Bean Hills begin far swen from here and there is no reason to cross this far. Unless..." It was then the Shrooblin (whom Mr Fauldon was far more fond of than the grouch who'd deceived him) realized the intent of sir Knowington.

"No," Earold simply stated as though he and the bright suited man had held a whole conversation in the two seconds that had passed. "He is not ready," he went on to say.

"I would not be here otherwise," sir Knowington reassured. "It seems the rift herald has slipped from this realm."

Mr Fauldon suddenly made the connection. The rift herald. It rang a bell to him. That verse! "It has long since brought the rifts of herald near, Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear." The words had rolled off his lips without him even knowing he spoke them aloud.

"Humph!" the Shrooblin disgruntled, "well fine, but he must first prove himself to me. Come."

Thus they followed Earold as the Shrooblin twist and wound his way about the thickening overgrowth of the Wiliswall. They soon came to be enveloped by large trees as boastful as the giant red sequoia, only having roots like web coming in and out of the ground and winding about other trees and roots. Only Earold knew the roots to follow as he lead them deeper in and along the wall until, finally, they came to the oddest of arches where two roots crossed. The arch rose a distance of a good fifteen feet, just shy of seven Shrooblins stacked upon each other. Vines wrapped and overhang the corners of each joint and a small column of smoke seeped from the cracks in the wood where a dwelling had been carved out.

Where Shrooblin lead them in.

For standing beneath the crossing and with a grin of utmost admiration did Earold tug upon one of the vines. Mr Fauldon barely had the time to catch his stance as a once hidden platform rose from under their feet and lifted them to the hole etched in the bottom of the dwelling. Climbing in, Mr Fauldon found himself crouched low amidst the many furnishing and collections Earold had obtained. Sir Knowington but resided himself in the near corner as the Shrooblin prepared the most peculiar of stew.

In short spurts did the host continue adding spices and herbs to the petrified pot (yes, for Shrooblin were not known for their metal work, rather an adaptation using petrified wood in its place). Mr Fauldon also noticed that the fire indeed was no fire he'd seen before. Its glow was of a deep ember blue and hissed instead of crackled. The warmth coming from it seemed to skip the skin and go straight to one's innards, which made him feel the slightest bit hot if not for the sweat beginning to cool him and the Korgath skin hard at work.

"What causes the fire to do so?" he asked in wonder and awe as the Shrooblin yet made adaptations to the stew.

"Young-Karier-sir-you, that is beside the point," the odd Shrooblin answered him, obviously his attention more focused upon the mixing rather than conversing. And with a flicker of both hands and a dab of conclusive spice, the combobulation was complete. The small space that was home to Earold filled with an odorless aroma.

Truly, all sense of smell, apart from the sweat of the Calnorian and Mr Fauldon, was absent. Bringing forth a deep spoon, the mischievous Shrooblin let loose the most whimsical grin as he held it out before Mr Fauldon. "Drink it," he said hastily, his entirety consumed with what Mr Fauldon would think of it.

Mr Fauldon was altogether confused how doing so would prove anything. Even sir Knowington seemed weary to the request of the Shrooblin (for who knew of the spices flung into that stew—not to mention that seemed to be all it was made of). Mr Fauldon gulped to the voidless odor, a certain nausea sweeping about his head as he gazed into the stewiness. Though but a spoon full, it almost seemed as a bottomless bowl from which there would never be an end.

He was about to ask if it were required to drink all of it, but etiquette answered for him. If only a gesture of kindness, it is best one to finish the serving handed to him—no matter how bitter. Except in this case, he imagined it could just as easily kill him.

The sweat creased his brow.

Mr Fauldon reached out and took the spoon—Earold not blinking even once during this whole time. The Shrooblin anxiously and eagerly observed Mr Fauldon's every expression as the stew, as a small train-game to a child's mouth, steadily made its way to his lips.

A sort of steam arose from the collaborative substances and penetrated Mr Fauldon's nose—a feeling of grotesque swelling up inside of him. Forcing down his jaw, the tip of the spoon touched gently to the upper lip.

It felt cold.

Steadily he arched his hand until slowly did the rich texture reach his tongue and swell down his throat before he could think to choke.

It was of mild warmth—until the additives brushed against his buds something fierce of heat and spice.

Overwhelmed by the flavor and completely exposed to it, Mr Fauldon was unresponsive as his mouth but drew in all that was left in the spoon (for his hand had arched back even more and the contents poured so swiftly). Eyes lit aflame and throat practically eradicated, he finally gasped for anything other than the stew.

Earold broke into a ravished cackling and even the chuckling of sir Knowington from behind.

Mr Fauldon finally swallowed the last remnants his mouth contained and miraculously the taste disappeared, leaving him with the expression as though a two-day hangover had just hit (only this soon cleared up with a little smacking and shaking of his head to the daring endeavor).

"There you have it!" exclaimed the Shrooblin, as though all his life goals had been achieved in that single act. "I will get you across that wall. If not to the death of you, at least I know his character!"

"Know my character?" Mr Fauldon choked yet again. "How could you know it from that?"

Earold smiled as he began stirring the pot once more, pulling up a bowl for himself. Two scoops did he place in it, setting the spoon down and guzzling what he'd served to himself—not one flicker amidst his devour to give away any reaction to the sure power of the stew.

Slamming down the empty bowl, he released a pleasurable exhaust as though satisfied to the utmost. It was then he answered: "Well, you see, there were several things that occurred just then. For one, you took the spoon from my hand instead of sipping just a little. That was to say you are willing to take full responsibility for your choices. Second was you neither asked how much you needed to drink. That goes to show that you are willing to see a task all the way through. Thirdly is the matter that you gulped the whole serving down! Ha! That is at least half a bowl! I take that as a commitment to fulfill and to satisfy. You knew to finish the whole plate—which shows me you are willing to put yourself on the line. All in all, I'd say that says a lot about a man. I will thus take you across the wall."

Mr Fauldon was astounded at the Shrooblin's conclusion simply from an act of stew. Surely the odd creature bore more wisdom than most perceived. Then again, Mr Fauldon knew nothing of the Shrooblin other than what he had experienced. At first deceit, but now a more trusting guide.

And so his test of approval to the Shrooblin succeeded and they gathered themselves up to proceed to the Vine of Crossing—or so Earold called it, as it was the only means of crossing the Wiliswall and was also only known by Earold himself.

Thus they were led again by the Shrooblin as he wove through the many roots of those trees that did border the towering wall, though none came to its height in comparison. It seemed as though everything sought to reach the light despite the cold echoed from the ancient structure. Who knew how old the forest that spanned it was or who and when the great divide had been constructed.

Which led to even more questions for Mr Faulon as he fought the many shrubs and weeds to keep up with Earold's familiarity and ease (for to Mr Fauldon, it was as far from a walk-in-the-park as could be). Meanwhile, sir Knowington elegantly moved through the terrain unaffected in his composure and pace. They drew even closer to the crevice between of the massive wall and the lonely earth. An eerie silence befell the surroundings as they happened up a single root that penetrated its binds to the ground and rose steeply and upward until the leaves of those great trees hid its scale.

"Alas, young-Karier-sir-you," said Earold, "we have reached the Vine of Crossing."

"Vine? Is this not a root?" asked Mr Fauldon.

"Well... yes... it is, in actuality, a root. But I like vines better—they remind me how I get into my hut. Besides, I'm the one who made it so, so I get to name it."

"You made it so?"

Even sir Knowington seemed in the slightest admiring the claim. "So you have been up to something during your years as caretaker," he said to the Shrooblin, as though bringing up a joke of old.

"Oooooh whatever," Earold said in return. "If you want to get across, you have to become a Nutrient."

"Nutrient?" Mr Fauldon exclaimed. "By what on earth do you mean?"

"This is not Earth..." sir Knowington mumbled, as though he already knew what Earold meant as well.

"Nutrient," Earold answered him, "is what the roots of carry. Just as you are the Karier of the Task, so is that Root of Crossing—for your sake—the Carrier of the Nutrient." The Shrooblin snickered at his own play on words.

But Mr Fauldon still felt utterly confused.

Earold continued: "In essence, the only things to go through the roots are nutrients, and since only this root goes over the wall, one must become a Nutrient in order to cross over with it."

"So you are saying I have to be devoured by this root in order to get to the other side? How in the world is that to happen?!"

The Shrooblin laughed yet once more. "So much question! You might do good to clear your mind of worry, good young-Karier-sir-you, and seek clarity. After all, there is reason I made you drink that stew..."

"What?! You made me drink that stew to make me into a Nutrient?! Wonderful..." Mr Fauldon trailed off. "But then why not have sir 'know-it-all' drink that stew? He better be crossing this wall with me."

Sir Knowington gazed up the endless scale of the Wiliswall. "Why, I am not like you," he simply said to Mr Fauldon. "I will go by other means."

"But I thought you said there was no means of crossing and yet here we stand at the 'only' means of crossing and now you tell me you have 'other' means of crossing? I must say, this is altogether inconsistent. Which is it then?"

"For you," Earold replied, "this is the only means of crossing. My stew has already prepared you for it, so there's no arguing. I may not know the extent of the business you have upon the other side, nor do I care. But if the 'know-it-all' Knowington needs you across, then that is enough for me."

And in a surprising shove, the Shrooblin tackled Mr Fauldon against the root—his coat and body quickly being absorbed as he hit against it. He had no time to react as the root overtook him and soon his vision disappeared beneath its surface. Odd was the feeling that came over him as he but watched the ground and roots and trees turn to tiny little ants and become shrouded by a dark mist as the majestic root bent over the top and crawled its way back down.

The next thing he came to realize was his body rolling atop dried out leaves and a moistless ground. Trees like roots overturned spotted the view before him as a single path followed the root a little ways further. Sure enough, sir Knowington had somehow already made it and ahead of Mr Fauldon, awaiting him to come full to his senses.

And as his senses came, he was finally able to take in what resided opposite of the Wiliswall and the Land of Bayohn.

SCENE XI:

"Let us keep moving," said sir Knowington to him as he stumbled toward the guide, still nauseated in the process of being unnutriented. "I do not wish to invade here anymore than necessary. We are aliens to this forbidden and accursed land."

"I'm at wit's end, sir Know-it-all," said Mr Fauldon to him, "please make effort to speak to me less riddle and more explanation, for I am already weary and in awe so confounding."

The guide looked to him as though a teacher to a bewildered student, finally concluding the only way to progress was to thoroughly explain. Though he was not in favor of it, he found it better to do so in the given circumstances.

After all, he had told Mr Fauldon he would explain eventually.

And it was he that had chosen the downtrodden tramp from the start—for he knew the man more than capable of greater things.

The guide made effort to clear his throat while stepping over the many small roots and cracks that spread over their path. The trees here bore only few leaves and those they did were enlargigated and dried up. They also would stick to one's clothing if given the chance. Though for sir Knowington, he was too elusive, and Mr Fauldon wore the coat of Korgath skin, which resisted them effortlessly. The path they clung to was narrow and wound through the spread of shallow trees. It seemed as though no sun ever rejuvenated them as they sought their warmth from deep within the ground. Against the red gloom of sky, the trees looked as silhouettes of web interwoven and spanning to the next.

And out of the trees, grew the most rugged of rocks as though a fear had once petrified the wood long ago. Such feats seemed to be where Earold had gotten his pot, only having smoothed its edges and hollowed its base. Yet, the occasional green sprout would be seen thriving from the ridges between the rock, roots, and trees. It even happened that Mr Fauldon saw a leaf that had fallen midst their path and, through its center, had a greenery sprouted.

"What came of this place?" Mr Fauldon trailed from behind.

Sir Knowington kept onward leading as the path deviated from the great root they had crossed over with. "A great fear once swept this realm, and to this day it seeks to seep back in whatever essence it may. This dark—this seemingly haunting plague—still lays waste as poison to everything this side of the Wiliswall."

"Yet I see sprouts," said Mr Fauldon.

"Yes, a sure sign that even the darkest can be cleansed. But few desire the sacrifice that takes. What you see here is a result of the first fault line of an Overlap long ago."

"You keep mentioning the Overlap," Mr Fauldon said, "and back on the outskirts of the Shadow Bean Hills I found myself quoting those words. What does it mean that 'It has long since brought the rifts of herald near, Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear'?"

"Well, Mr Fauldon, as you said, I brought you here from another place, just as Grevious was once brought. These 'places' are other realms. Let me explain it as such: imagine a single portrait from which many look upon in splendor. It has different colors, traits, and scenes throughout, yet still is known to be one image as a whole. You are looking at this picture from the front as though standing in a gallery. Now, imagine yourself stepping closer, noticing that the portrait is actually a puzzle of many pieces fitted together to look as one when, indeed, they are but pieces. Now, say you stepped slightly to the side of it. It is then you realize that none of the pieces are actually joined, only positioned to look so when viewed from the front. The picture once 'whole' becomes instantly complex and layered as the pieces spread forward and back so that none touch, but all would otherwise fit perfectly.

"Each of those pieces of the puzzle, of that grand portrait, is a realm so to speak. Where you came from, where Grevious came from, and where you both are—all are different pieces. They are meant to be kept apart, never touching, yet forming one picture. It is when parts from one piece cross into another that there is a brief tip as the two pieces experience a brief attraction. It is during this period that a brief imbalance occurs. If the alien part does not return in time, the tilt of the two pieces begins to draw nearer—leading to what you have been hearing as the Overlap.

"Keep in mind that only between pieces that would otherwise join can one cross two realms. So in actuality, the realms that are in play are all just one small spectrum of the greater picture. But Grevious has refused to return, and acts of old are only amplifying the matter, which is why there is more prominence that the Overlap will occur, and in this realm."

Mr Fauldon could hardly remember to breathe amidst the magnitude of thought. "Wait, wait, wait... how in the realm are you able to travel between these realms then?"

"I am not 'traveling'," said sir Knowington. "I am but crossing into an adjacent realm. I crossed into yours because of the requirements for the stone:

Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,

Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.

But caution to the one who carries

For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.

Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take..."

The 'man-that-knew-much' looked up to the veins of grey that stretched the sky in contrast to the gloom of red brought forth from the lighthouse against them (for the veins too were poisoned, causing the light to turn a reddish tint).

Mr Fauldon opened his mouth so as to speak but was hushed at the sight of something just around the bend. A figure long since seen.

"Well greetings to you," came a voice not of sir Knowington's.

"Serve Per Card?" Mr Fauldon inquired to his surprise, for there sat the gambler at his table as though such a place was no hindrance to his business. "How, when, what, why—"

"Ha! Nothing has changed at all, I see!" the man chuckled. "My good partner, have you not wasted your inquiries yet? Poor sir Knowington, I'm surprised you still have ears! Not to mention a mouth for answering so many questions!"

Sir Knowington gave no smile upon his face (for he but glared at the gambler, undesiring of the man's appearance and 'business' with Mr Fauldon). "You have no reason to be here," he said to the dealer of cards.

"Why, nor do you, I might add," Per Card replied. "This place is not the best fit for a Karier, even without the stone. Though I know why you're here and I will not keep you. However, I just wanted to check on my valued customer!"

The man of large proportions beamed toward Mr Fauldon, both his hands propped upon the white cloth that spanned his folding table. "So," continued he, "might I deal you more business, my greatest acquaintance?"

"I still have the others you gave me," said Mr Fauldon.

The man's eyes widened. "Say what? Have you not used them at all?!"

"On the contrary..." sir Knowington added (for many a time had he reminded Mr Fauldon of the Card of Inquiry).

"Indeed, I used them often, though now they seem less responsive and make me rather nauseated to put forth the effort."

"Let me see, let me see!" the dealer demanded as Mr Fauldon drew out of the cards.

Serve Per Card's eyes swelled. Ignoring the blank card (the one that had saved his life many a time), he reached out and gently took the Card of Inquiry, seemingly astounded at its state.

Even sir Knowington seemed aware of something that had been caught in the air of the moment.

"This... this..." echoed the dealer's words as he cradled the card closer to his spectacles. In an instant did both he and his table warp into thin absence, taking the card with him.

Mr Fauldon, in utmost confusion, turned to sir Knowington. "Whatever happened there?" he asked, still holding the blank card.

"Well, Mr Fauldon," sir Knowington said, "most cards are used up the first time—not to mention you used it several, and even to its utmost when we were at Rys' Springs. Yet, the card still remains."

"And why is that? What does that mean?" Mr Fauldon inquired.

"It means either that card is special as is its doorway, or that you are special as its wielder."

"Whatever on earth does that mean?" asked Mr Fauldon.

The bright suited man rubbed his eyes once more (for there Mr Fauldon had mentioned 'earth' yet again, which seemed to irk the man).

Continuing on their way, sir Knowington followed the narrow path between the crooked trees as though he'd once lived in the place. That, or the man truly and indeed knew far more than he let on. It was almost as though knowledge of something were never new to him, though the interpretation of it could be.

However confusing it was, he did finally speak again, saying, "Hensers, my young and inquiring Karier, are what those cards are called. There are many different kinds that serve many different purposes. From simple things such as answering questions to more mystical feats like calling upon fire—these 'cards' enact as doorways to chambers unseen."

"You mean to tell me that there is now a realm for everything? How in the world has an Overlap ever not been happening then?" Mr Fauldon asked.

"Ha, so anxious to conclude that you always end up with more questions, for your knowledge is so small in comparison to the vastness about you. Understand me when I say chambers and not realms. Indeed, there are some Hensers that are forbidden and others that even do pull from realms we neither understand nor should interact with. But the matter of issue is that with each use of a single card, one exhausts it. To use the card is to briefly open the door to that chamber it represents. Anytime that door is open, massive amounts of strain are put upon it, often consuming it in an instant—if not by the second use. Hensers are not meant to last. They are meant as but brief taps into a given chamber to serve a single purpose. You, however, kept using that card."

Mr Fauldon slowed down a moment as if to not trip upon the mingle of old roots crossing his path. "But you kept telling me to use it," he said to the Calnorian.

Sir Knowington only gave the smallest of pause in his step, as though more were going through his mind than his mouth as he spoke: "Yes, because I wanted to see just how far it would go. I noticed it at first kept slipping your mind, then would bring forth nausea. But it still held." The guide came to a stop nearside a large, uprooted tree, reaching out his hand so as to observe its texture.

"So what does that mean, then? Mr Fauldon asked.

"It means as I told you. You have an innate sense of handling the cards without wasting them. It is almost as though you yourself strengthen those doors and could also better bring the realms."

He knew not what to think, only that the bright suited figure relaxed his poise and looked toward him. "We're here," he spoke to Mr Fauldon, leading him then about the uprooted tree until they came to stand in a clearing unlike the terrain they had been crossing.

For here there were far more vines than roots and the overgrowth seemed still alive with hints of green deep inside them. The trees that did surround the central hill were far taller than those he'd seen before, and they wound themselves upward and over—not so much to create a ceiling, but over each other as though once a terrible twister had manipulated their form.

And, eyes wandering on up the slope, Mr Fauldon came to see an ancient artifact atop it. It rested alone, as though its walls had been torn away, and only its jagged pillars remained. For there, before them, was a great gate, empty of door and structure.

Not but a hollow entry with no reason.

SCENE XII:

"We have come as you said," spoke sir Knowington, though not to Mr Fauldon. For there appeared a figure before them, posing atop one of the pillars that stood.

It was the knight.

Mr Fauldon hadn't noticed him when first admiring the great structure, so it seemed to him that the man had just appeared in the blink of an eye (which wasn't entirely unbelievable considering he had slain the Croak King with hardly any effort). It wasn't till then that Mr Fauldon really had time to admire the knight's physique, for before, the knight moved too swiftly for him to be attentive of detail. He was no giant, nor a man of 'iron strength', though about his knightly form did armor cling. Not the thickest of armor, mind you, for that would be cumbersome; rather, this armor was of a metal not found in the realm from whence Mr Fauldon was from, nor from the one he was in. Silver it was (like most metals), only his was stained with a particular reminiscence of old (like those statues one finds in castles of ruined history—frozen, as if to say, in a time long since passed). The joints showed a chainmail cloth beneath, bearing the resemblance of an impenetrable undergarment.

Above all was the knight's helmet. Unlike his armor, it shone brighter and remained untainted by the stains accumulated everywhere else. And to his right shoulder, the whitest of cloth hung from beneath the shoulder plate—a red trim contrasting with the white. Such left one in awe once looking upon it, for Mr Fauldon found it hard to break his gaze from it.

The knight held before him his great sword with both hands as it dug into the surface of the pillar atop which he resided. "And to think he made it thus," the knight spoke (his words carried more weight than even those of lord Keyno, and his involvement was in service to authorities beyond the realms). "You know that though you seek this Gate, I cannot permit it through oath to greater authorities."

Mr Fauldon was confused and ascertained inquiringly, "You mean to say you told us to do something that now you cannot let us do? This makes no sense!"

"What he means," said sir Knowington, "is that by obligation he cannot willfully let us use this gate."

"Why would we use a gate to nowhere? Its walls have been torn down and serve no purpose—though I admit it is quite spectacular."

"You, Karier, are an odd one," said the knight, his fists clenching about the sword even tighter (as if to retain his control over its hunger for justice, for they were intruders upon the forbidden gate).

"Then why are we here?" asked Mr Fauldon, who was doubtful of sir Knowington's means of retrieving the lost stone.

It was then that the ground shook again—only this time the realms quaked as they had with Grevious. The Gate trembled and lit up only for a moment. From out of its bowels rippled a figure as though being spat across the distance. Smoke arose in the wake, and the knight quickly drew his sword as he himself was knocked from the pillar (though he landed unwaveringly beside it).

Mr Fauldon, who had felt the heat from the shock to his forehead, quickly pulled up his coat to shield the rest of him. As the smoke and dust settled, his eyes widened.

It was Grevious, but the man was shaking uncontrollably and had eyes of the utmost terror.

Naught but ten paces before Mr Fauldon had the stone fallen, but Grevious neither looked at it nor the company of the knight and sir Knowington.

His eyes were fixated upon the hollow gate once again dormant, the faint remnants of threaded green clinging to the atmosphere as though healing itself from the abrupt tear.

"Grevious," said sir Knowington, his own stature tense and resentful of the past Karier's current predicament.

Grevious finally caught sight of sir Knowington's eye, stuttering to speak the flood of despair still trying to escape him.

Mr Fauldon moved quickly to regain the stone, cradling it close and not once blinking. A sense of protectiveness he had never felt before seemed to engulf his interpretation of the scene.

Grevious looked to him, his lips finally able to work again. "I am done with this!" he yelled out.

Mr Fauldon heard the rattle of armor as the knight changed his stance, outraged at the appearance of Grevious (though more so because the man had used his gate impermissibly).

"You dare taunt me?!" the knight proclaimed, the very soil giving way to his might.

It seemed Grevious had not noticed the knight till now, his eyes growing even larger before they attempted to hide behind his hands.

"Not so easily!" the knight scoffed, the ground quaking as his figure flickered.

The mass of explosion propelled Mr Fauldon several feet back—his every effort to retain hold upon the stone. He slid and scooted until finally was able to brace himself for what was unfolding in front of him.

Between the knight's judgement and the twisted Grevious... was sir Knowington.

"Indeed, you are done with this foolishness," said sir Knowington, no effort showing in his stance, yet strain continued as a moment's distraction would continue the blade's destructive path. He had appeared so suddenly between the clash, and with great power did his outstretched palm resist what gravity deemed otherwise absolute. He spoke, however, to Grevious, not the knight (for they had no quarrel). "Again you abuse the stone, the name, and my patience. You, my old friend, have lost my favor. I wish you had returned on your own volition, but it seems I must do it for you. Your presence has long been overdue; your time in this realm is done."

It was not a tear, but Mr Fauldon saw for the minutest of seconds, a remorse befall sir Knowington's expression. The bright suited figure lifted his head to Mr Fauldon, saying, "I leave it to you, Mr Fauldon. Do not disappoint."

There was a swirl of dust and vibrant hexes and Grevious and the guide vanished. For the first time, Mr Fauldon felt an ominous weight of expectation from the man he knew so little of (apart from him being far more than he was known to be).

In their absence did the knight's blade crash to the ground—a gush of force spewing about it. The knight took in a breath, his palms lifting the great sword from its found grave and jabbing it before him that he might rest his shoulders.

"To poison the Gate, he deserved death," the knight spoke. "Though still you remain... only now having the stone." His armor clinked as he glanced over his shoulder and at Mr Fauldon.

So many questions were in the Karier's mind that he needn't ask any for his expression gave them away. The knight gave an awful chill in his gaze.

"You are filled with too much question," he said to Mr Fauldon. "I must say that your greatest hindrance is a lack of ascertaining for yourself. By letting your admiration and wonder get to your head, you are unable to function as you should and when you should."

The knight's muscles tensed, the heavy blade lifted once more—this time pointing toward Mr Fauldon (who knew not whether to take the gesture as an odd act or a sign of aggression). "You've become unfit!"

Mr Fauldon's body shivered at the knight's glare as the man's figure flickered once more (like static upon a screen).

In half a blink, Mr Fauldon found the knight to be suspended, and to his left there was a massive sword swinging at him.

Terrified, helpless, and desperate, Mr Fauldon clung tighter than he had ever before to the stone.

Without knowledge of his own action, an urge to use the stone infiltrated his mind. As the cutting edge drew swiftly nearer to his ear, Mr Fauldon could not escape the question of reason.

He could not escape the accusation of the knight, nor dodge the deathly judgement.

But he did refuse using the stone. He did choose to stand his ground, even though he had not the speed to dodge even if he wanted to. He chose to accept his inability.

He chose to stand firm regardless of his fate and despite that inability.

And in the stillness before the two forces clashed, a light shone gloriously—such magnificence he'd seen before but never knew how it came. Only this time he was more aware of his situation. Once more did his back arch, and light emanated from that which he held dear.

Not the stone.

Not himself.

It was that girl upon the blank card, though only for a second, for when the light settled, the knight was found standing with his sword behind him (for he now leaned against the sword so as to blot its thirst for Mr Fauldon).

The knight folded his hands before him. "Surely in your fragility, help has always seemed to come to you when otherwise you wouldst perish."

"Indeed," said Mr Fauldon, still frantically trying to comprehend what had occurred. "I am not like you, nor sir Knowington. I do not have strength to slay croaks nor magic to thwart embermud, but I am grateful to those willing to lay their lives down for my sake of being Karier. I am but left humbled and only able to cling to my task even more. I may be weak, but I will always cherish those who fight for me."

Through the shroud of the knight's helmet, a chuckle came. "And such a dependence upon others is no weakness," said the knight, pushing off his blade and taking a stride forward. "You astound me, young Karier, with your ability to admit weakness and stand yet even bolder—a trait that is more valuable than you know. Even though, at times, you yourself are the one holding back your own might. It was in your last moments that I realized you thought hard upon what you've seen. You recalled sir Grevious using the stone to escape; you recalled the Overlap that it brought more swiftly. You remembered your task of being Karier—and what that meant to Nomad, to Mercedies, to Ravage, and to Kish. I judged wrongly, and only such an act would have made it clear to me. I shall grant you, therefore, clarity, Mr Fauldon, that you may become who you are meant to be. Or rather, more of who you really are."

The knight raised his gauntlets as though his arms were a clock. Then, in a circle of motion, he swirled them so that a draft came over the place and over Mr Fauldon until he found his surroundings ablur and taking on new form.

SCENE XIII:

When he came to, he was standing alone atop a large ridge of the Shadow Bean Hills that overlooked the small town at the base of the Lighthouse.

Though he knew himself not to be alone.

He felt the stone's warmth even within the sash beneath his coat. He'd nearly forgotten how red it was—the skin of Korgath that many a hunter sought after. It had kept him safe and bore many memories through the plethora of adventures he'd experienced as of late. Mr Fauldon could hardly believe he'd once lived anywhere else. That he'd once been a tramp amidst bustling streets where no one knew his face.

Mr Fauldon crouched until he came to sit upon the slope overlooking the valley of the Lighthouse. The hills before, those behind, and the vast terrains beyond and about—all meant something new to him. It was almost as though part of his task was simply becoming acquainted with it all so that he knew the extent of the stone's purpose. Though, had it not been for those he'd met along the way, he knew himself incapable of making it as far as he had.

Or as close as he was.

With a sweaty palm did he hold out the familiar card he'd so long taken for granted. Three times would he have been in peril of death's shadow if not for the saving light of that gift. He recalled the time he'd been given it and the unawareness he'd had of its significance.

How he'd asked for a man's true name, but instead was shown his own heart.

The feeling he'd felt when first seeing her face....

Mr Fauldon's eyes lit up as the card began to unfold even more largely in his hand. As the folds stretched, so did the essence wrapped about, between, within them until a light mist came about him. It was soothing and calm and as pure as the dew that gathers in the morning. He wondered as to the meaning of what sir Knowington had said to him pertaining to the Hensers. Thinking back, he treated them less as cards or tools and more so as something surreal.

Reaching out his hand, he let go of the card in admiration of the face it bore. Lifting and drifting upward, the card begin to glow a deep blue as shimmers of light began gathering in its center.

There appeared a girl in blue robes bearing extravagant yellow designs across her coat and blue markings on her bright face. Long, fine-lined hair hung down her back, and she folded her hands behind her. The most innocent of smile crossed her face as her feet came to touch the ground upon which Mr Fauldon struggled to stand amidst her presence (for he felt caught off guard by her beauty).

"And who might you be?" he asked her.

"This is wonderful!" said the girl all caught up in excitement from that which surrounded her. She seemed to admire everything as though seeing for the first time. In youthful joy, she grabbed hold of Mr Fauldon's hand before he had a chance to realize it—blue rings lit about them as they passed through a vortex of vibrant hue. It felt nothing like flying or falling, yet their forms fluttered swiftly and reappeared upon a cliff's edge.

"It's so much prettier from here!" she remarked, just as overwhelmed as Mr Fauldon (though for entirely different reasons). Somehow they'd appeared at the ridge of Mt. Skyward—the sight being that of the entire region spanning out to the river Floweth and then to Waterryse Mountain and all that was in-between.

"You see that?" She pointed to a small, barely visible village just swen of the great river. "I do wonder! Let's see it for ourselves!"

And they were through the vortex of hue once more, reemerging at the edge of the village, previously only being a speckle to the eye. Mr Fauldon had hardly any time to take in the peculiar residents bearing yellow markings and clockwork insects upon their backs. "Aren't they lovely?" exclaimed she. "I admire the Beezleton folk oh so much! They are so committed and inventful, truly they are."

"My dear—" Mr Fauldon dared to speak but already had the vortex surrounded them again, and he found himself near a pond.

"Look!" she said to him, rushing down to the shallow water as though to feel its coolness upon her skin (for her senses were still becoming much alive to all that entertained her).

"My dear," Mr Fauldon spoke again, "what is your name?"

She looked up to him, the look of innocence and purity infiltrating his eyes.

"I am Pamela," she replied. "I am the one you summoned to serve."

Mr Fauldon's expression hardened, for he knew her to be more than such. "I did not summon you," he said.

Her feet became still in the waters of New Pond as did the ripples she'd brought.

"I mean to say," he explained, "that you came free from my will and are free to roam for yourself."

Pamela's gaze was endless into her reflection mirrored in New Pond. Mr Fauldon hadn't recognized the place at first, but now he did. He saw exactly where once had been the table of Serve Per Card at their first meeting. He saw the very trail sir Knowington had first led him down.

And he saw it wind back up the slope to the hill that began it all.

In reminiscent steps did he then see the very cloud tree that had befallen the place—almost as though a dream being relived in his mind.

"So I am free?" came the tender voice from behind.

He turned to see Pamela now beside him. "Yes. And though I would like to spend eternity admiring every crevice of this spectacular realm with you, it is imperative that I return to the task at hand. I must return to Threshold, if you do not mind."

She smiled at him—even swifter was her embrace about him. "Thank you," she whispered. "I shall always seek to serve those in need as I did you before you set me free of that state."

And for the last time their figures escaped into the vortex of hues, and he soon stood in the fragile presence of the Lighthouse. He knew not what had become of Grevious, but the Overlap had seemed to be temporarily lifted in light of the man's absence. Surely it was as sir Knowington had said, and the man had been returned to whence he came, thus bringing the slightest bit of balance to the realm.

Though now it was up to Mr Fauldon to fully restore it. He'd first arrived in Threshold empty-handed, but now he stood as the true Karier of the Task.

He saw Kish running toward him and knelt to her level. "I knew you would!" she said, more excited to see Mr Fauldon than from realizing the significance of him actually returning, and this time in possession of the stone.

"Now, now," he said to the child, "if only now I may place the stone."

The little girl beamed from ear to ear. "It's up there, Mr Mister!" said she. "You got to go all the way up!"

With a deep breath, he lifted his gaze to the top of the Lighthouse. Truly it towered above the terrain. Its light grew fainter, though still shone enough to see.

"Then let me take you there," said Pamela, stepping forward once more and grabbing hold of his hand.

Another breath left him now standing within the top chamber of the grand Lighthouse. Yet again was his mind unprepared for what it saw. But instead of questions, it felt to him as though answers were filling his mind. In the center there was a large bowl (only just larger than a bathtub) and from it rose a sort of radiance that gathered in a sphere above it. That was the light's rays that gleamed over the entire terrain. He then saw the balcony's outline that wrapped about the chamber and noticed the etchings upon its outer slopes.

"Amazing," he said as he took it in, for the etchings resembled that of the valleys, hills, and trees he'd seen so closely. Where etchings of a ridge rose, the light would cast a shadow causing a mountain or hill to arise (be it Waterryse or the Variley Hills). Where small prongs rose roughly, so did the light reflect a forest (as the case for Darsel Woods and the like).

Pamela was just as amazed, though for Mr Fauldon, it brought life and intrigue to where he was soon to dwell.

"And to think he would pass this up in pursuit of other realms," Mr Fauldon said to himself, thinking of how Grevious had once been the Karier he now was. Walking toward the center bowl, he withdrew the stone from his sash. He saw that down the bowl lay another room in which he could make out an object levitating about a desk. Climbing over its edge, he prepared to descend, though a barrier resisted Pamela's approach.

She smiled at him. "This is where I depart," she said. "For this is where my task ends and yours continues."

"I will return, Pamela. But for now, I must set the stone in its place."

And he pushed off and down to the center room beneath the chamber atop of the Lighthouse.

Wood furnishings filled the room. His feet rattled the table as he landed. The Violstone of old levitated just before him with a radiating light, the essence of which drifted up and became the sphere above. The stone in his hands began to shine brighter as though its life was being restored.

But a chill came over him as he plopped into the chair beside that magnificent wooden table. It was almost as though a weakness were seeking to crack the stone—causing him to pull it back into his embrace.

"That," a voice came from behind, "is wherein your true task lies."

Mr Fauldon had not noticed until then that somehow Keyno had appeared in the corner of the room, and it was then he also noticed the Porhtree sprout on one of the beams that held the frame of the room.

"It is Porhwood," said lord Keyno as he strode forward, "an even more difficult vein of journey to use, so you needn't worry of unwanted visitors. For indeed this place is not built for intruders as you saw with Pamela being refused entry beyond the upper chamber."

Mr Fauldon felt humbled in the man's presence. "I am overwhelmed by this place and the responsibility I now hold. Truly, a home of it I shall make, but of what tribute have I been granted your visitation?" he asked to the Calnorian lord.

Straight to the point did Keyno answer him: "You saw the stone quake just now. I am here to tell you that it needs you more than ever. Though the Overlap seems at bay with the removal of Grevious, it is only momentarily. You must now nurture the stone made weak through Grevious' abuse. When he used it to tear through the realm, its strength faltered. Should you have used it, it would have cracked. That is why the knight respected you so. I see he has also granted you clarity where once you had only questions—such will do you favor in the task remaining. As Karier, your accomplishment of carrying the stone to its resting place is admirable, but now you must become its caretaker."

Mr Fauldon was reminded of the words spoken to him by Beelstow as they were echoed in those now said by Keyno. He looked down upon the fragile stone. Truly, it bore its own fragility and personality.

"Care for it, Mr Fauldon, that it may regain its strength when the old stone fades. I leave you now, with my gratitude for accomplishing the first task. It has restored my faith in sir Knowington's judgement, as well as the people's confidence in me. I bid thee well."

And just like that, Keyno no longer was in the room.

Mr Fauldon inhaled deeply, thinking about the responsibility upon his shoulders. Indeed, he had not feats of might nor magic, but he knew the burden he did bear could only be borne by him.

And because of that, he was confident in saying he needed help also. Though bearing the load of Karier, had he not the help of friends, nothing would have turned out as it did.

Thus, his eyes did raise to the light above him. The aroma about him felt like home and brought peace to his once troubled heart. Up and up did his gaze go until everything turned white, and his consciousness did return to that vision at New Pond.

His mind also took him back to when he had first emerged from that cubical. Reminiscing, the view caught him off-guard as though seeing it for the first time, and amidst its splendor, the once familiar booth now turned to earth and crumbled down upon itself. In its stead, a gigantic cloud tree sprang forth from the ground and began raining down upon the rubble—turning it to mud and flowing henceforth down the opposite side.

It was then his eyes opened as though from a dream to the realization. The booth... the crumbling... the cloud tree and the mud—it all meant something.

The clarity to him was like one remembering to take off the camera lens. New Pond... the place Pamela had taken him. It hadn't been there before.

It hadn't been there when he'd first come to the place.

It was the remnants of rubble from which he'd once came—the booth in that city into which he wandered with hope of a new task. Which only meant that the Overlap was inevitably still coming, and that a realm was soon to crumble indeed. Also, it was only but a shadow of what was to come. Despite his clarity and insistence, however, he never did convince Keyno of the warning. For all they cared, the "vision" was naught but "Fauldon's dream", and he was naught but the Karier of the Task.

And no one thought any more of it (except sir Knowington, for he already knew).

THE FOLK THAT DWELL

An Introduction To That Which Is To Come

To say the story stops there would be a preposterous idea. By no means! I have far more to tell you and for you to discover in the Realm of Euphora. Its creatures, its nature, its characters, its imagery—there is far more than meets the eye aside from what you have read thus. Like what came of Nomad's dream? What of Nobaph? Does Beelstow ever overcome Lerchah? What occurred to Grevious during his slip that made him so terrified? What kind of Karier was he before?

There are many aspects of Euphora to still be spoken about, of which I leave you with two: the story of the Shrooblin and a little more upon that brief mention of Beezleton. Keep in mind: the intent is that everything has a beginning and an end. It is for that "end" that one must keep reading the Grand Series that I am yet unfolding. The first book, The Grand Attraction, serves as a foundation of that great hall into which all stories lead. That hall then leads to the greatest attraction of all—the door at its end. But to get there, you have to walk (or in the case of actuality, you have to read and imagine). For there are many things leading to that hall that need to be told, and a good many of the hall's doors that need to be opened. Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task is but one of those doors.

So I leave you with the continuation of that which means far more than written in this book. Some may have wished for the sequel, but that will come all in good time. There are things I must speak, words I must write, characters I must introduce, and stories I must tell before you learn of their true extent. Thus, I challenge you: stay with me on this journey through the mind of fiction. The imagination defies explanation, so why define it? Such words are the fuel to my writing. Let no mind be bound by two eyes. Let no story be bound by one character. Let no character be bound by one door.

May you come to enjoy this as much as I have and still am! For many questions remain—and I look forward to elaborating upon them.

THE FOLK THAT DWELL

Trissellah Faeries and the Tale of the Shrooblin

To that which pertains to the Shrooblin and their origin, our story actually goes way back before the Shrooblins and to when the Trissellah dwelled in the Darsel Woods prior to the Entanglement.

The Trissellah were a benevolent culture of faeries and such. With their glistening wings would they spur about the woods of old in fascination and splendor. Caretakers, they were, of the natures of those woods, their creatures, plants, and substance as a whole. Fluttering and flattering, the faery folk were gifted with the ability of Nutrient—a forgotten magic, capable of wielding nature's growth, health, and livelihood. Thus, the faeries of Darsel Woods were known in mystery and wonder.

Then the Entanglement came. Also known as the Envinement, the Entanglement brought forth a force of nature not previously known by the Trissellah. But let us not get ahead of ourselves, for one must first be introduced to an essential character to understand the bringing about of the creatures called Shrooblin. This faery's name was Wingless, for unlike her kind, she bore no magnificent wings, nor could she flutter about as her folk so often did. Rather, she was forced to dwell upon the ground and never leave it. While her kind flew high and twisted elegantly about the vast trees, Wingless would but walk in their wake, counting the roses and feeling the soil between her toes.

"Come with us and play," her faery friends would tease as they reached for the veins of wateriness above. "Let us play another game a tag!" they would still go on to say.

But Wingless would never let it get to her, for she learned quickly how to deal with her difference. She had sought counsel from the Teachtress and had been bestowed a new confidence. The Teachtress had taught her where strength truly came from and what it meant to truly be a Trissellah. And when her friends would tease and ask her to play tag or watch the glow of streams above, she would ask them instead, "How about we count the stems of the Kripple Evergreen or dance on the roots belonging to the Web Oak?" Though many looked down upon Wingless, they respected the Teachtress for her guidance to the faery with no wings and saw her mature in other things. It was quickly noted that of all the nature faeries, she cared more than any for the nature of that which was bound to the soil and ground below.

Now, in the matter of Trissellah, there rules the Nature's Prophet, a faery entrusted with foretelling the roots of the great trees and that which was to come. It was he who first caught wind of the Approach, the coming of the Entanglement. From the Roots of Old did he pull the wisdom about the Envinement's snare and cold choking over a forest that knew not how to dwell with it.

And nor did he.

It was in light of the Approach that the faery folk fled to the leaves high above and to the outskirts of the Darsel Woods that they might survive the Entanglement as it stretched its clasp swiftly and tightly. It was during the Great Fleeing that none of the Trissellah accounted for Wingless, who could not fly as they did and found herself trapped by the very roots that sought to overtake the woods.

Wingless was left behind and left even more bound to the earth. She did not give herself up to the self-pity most would have succumbed to even to their doom. Instead, Wingless wielded her gift of caring to feel pity for the suffocating woods and the nature that dwelt within. She saw the Entanglement as but a foreign traveler seeking dwelling amidst a woods that it neither understood nor that understood it.

Reaching out with the same care she always had, the faery began tending to the trees, the plants, the shrubs, and the vines—her touch being a comfort to all that came into contact. It was then she formed an odd attachment to the many uses of the mushrooms that dwelled previously and those that now joined as a result of mingling with the vine. Becoming a master of mycology (that is, the study of fungi and mushrooms), she learned to harness their ability to nurture, heal, and adapt.

For the withering flower, there she would place a red speckled shroom to nourish the soil that it might be rejuvenated. For the dried bark of trees both large and small, she found the blue shroom to be capable of pulling moisture from the air and granting more hydration. To the decaying stump, a green mushroom to better replenish the ground about it to spur new life. Even to those critters that still dwelt, there were shrooms for the sick, the weak, the poisoned, and the old.

With the help of the many types of mushrooms and the constant discovery of more, Wingless was able to spread her influence across the forest, even to the point of unionizing the Entanglement with the nature of the woods before. For since the Trissellah were gifted in the magic of nutrient and growth, so did Wingless learn how to bend the vines to her will, causing paths where there were none and passages where none previously could pass. To the outskirts would she occasionally go, seeing a weary traveler in need of passing through her great forest. She became a guide and median to the forest and foreigners alike—her intent on preventing any conflict.

But it happened that one day, while tending to the Roots of Old where moss of the slickest texture did reside, she found herself befallen upon the slippery ledges which clung deep within their web of wisdom. With no wings to catch her, she fell hard to the cavern below, her face and spine hurt and stained the ground. In wake of her tears, discomfort, and despair did a shroom near her suddenly glow a magnificent blue and come to life so as to give aid to the one who had aided so many. But drawing near to her, it knew not what to do nor for sure what it was doing (for it had never moved of its own volition before, nor was it accustomed to coming to life—it was altogether a first for the mushroom).

Leaning into her sight, the Shroom did the best it could to care for the injuries Wingless had incurred. From its members, it grew many herbs and fungi to try as each failed to heal her wounds. Growing tired from its frivolous efforts, it plopped down beside where Wingless lay and offered the only comfort it knew left to give.

Companionship.

It was then that Wingless managed a smile to the Shroom she had witnessed to life and give its all in healing her. She admired the creature's passion, gift, and companionship—for her greatest ally had tried to save her as she had saved the forest. Thus, they passed the time together, talking of the beauty that the woods held despite having fallen to its moss.

But the time came that her strength was fleeting, and she spoke to the shroom her last words: "I bid thee well, my cherished friend. In my leave, take care of this forest for me, for it needs much healing and guidance. Look after it, please, and keep those that seek passage from harming it. Be sure the Willow Pines do not mourn too much, nor the Web Oak grow too bold. Keep the vines from hindering the Kripple Evergreen and be sure the creatures that dwell are still looked after—even those that burrow deep holes and disrupt the Roots of Old. Care for these woods and for nature as a whole. Promise me, please."

And bringing forth its greatest courage and effort did the Shrooblin reply: "It will be our purpose."

With that, Wingless breathed her last into a new life that would nurture nature in her stead. It was then the Shrooblin were born into Shroobliness. It was then that the first Shrooblin stood upon its own two little feet and admired the hands that it now had and the task before it. In a great swell of emotion and joy (with a little remorse, of course, for the passing of the wingless Trissellah), the Shrooblin said aloud, growing fonder of its voice, "We will be little yous scattered abroad and tending to this forest as you have taught us so well to do. We will care for these woods and those beyond."

And so the long line of Shrooblin came to be known as the watchers of the Darsel Woods and the surrounding growths. It happened that the first Shrooblin nurtured the Collective and set about the code to which all Shrooblin were bound thenceforth. The code was such:

A Shrooblin must perform its duty, regardless of feeling, that Wingless may be honored.

A Shrooblin is required to assist all travelers through the entangled woods that they may not stray or harm the nature bestowed to our kind.

A Shrooblin is not to disregard its lineage and obligation to care for and nurture the weak, the sick, and the dying.

And lastly, a Shrooblin is to never abandon heritage—keeping with the purpose given by Wingless, the Trissellah that brought life to a crippling hope.

Thus, from generation to generation, the master Shrooblin would find its heir and train up for itself a prodigy to carry on. Since their lives reached into many centuries, a prodigy was selected at the moment one became the master Shrooblin. In the case of times more present, two masters dwelt in Euphora, one looking over the Darsel Woods and the other over the resurrected Wiliswall. Being as all Shrooblin were considered family, Aerold and Earold were siblings regardless of choice. It just happened that Earold's master, Pewtoe, neared retirement sooner than the master of Darsel Woods, being Felistah. Usually a Shrooblin takes two centuries to become accustomed to their territory and the tasks required of them. They must learn every bark, every root, every rodent, every bird, every leaf, every twig, until it becomes like the very pores of their membrane.

But all Shrooblin retire to their first state, a resting place that originally formed the Hills of Variley. It was with the resignation of Pewtoe that his lover, Felistah, would resign as well that they both may retire to the same soil and at the same time as lovers and long-time friends. Earold was anxious and ready to take responsibility, even though only a century had passed since his upbringing. Felistah, the master of the Darsel Woods, still had a good century left to go in her, and Aerold was rather reluctant to replace her, being as she wished no responsibility nor any interaction with others.

Regardless, Earold convinced the two masters that both he and his sibling, Aerold, were ready—even though Aerold boldly objected. And since the two masters of old desired the same, they listened to Earold over the voice of his sister. Hence, it came to pass that the obligation to the code set before them by the first master forced Aerold to comply, even if unwillingly, to the bestowment.

The grudge has lasted nearly a century since, for they still had not reached the general age of masterhood, thus still were not bound to raise up a prodigy—something Aerold despised having to do when the time came.

THE FOLK THAT DWELL

The People of Beezleton And The Thistle Bees

There happens to be, near to the thistle bees, a people known as the Beezleton folk. Creative engineers and architects of nature mimics, the people of Beezleton were known for their yellow mechanisms strapped about them like exoskeletons. For they used such mechanisms to scale the harsh walls and cliffsides of the river Floweth in their duties pertaining to the watch of the thistle bees' honeycomb hives scattered abroad. For if they did not, many a creature would seek to disrupt the flow and consume all that is rich and sweet. Both as protectors and harvesters, the Beezleton folk functioned as caretakers for the thistle bees that dwelt along the vast expanse encompassing the mainland of Euphora.

Beezlewarden is what they were known as—those that were warriors for the hives and the harvesters of that sweet nectar treasured throughout. Wielding insects of gears and shafts, a Beezlewarden took pride in his unique craft. For to become a Beezlewarden, the pride of the Beezleton folk, one must first construct their Ward. A Ward most often was a mechanical mimic of an insect of nature. These "Wards" were oft equipped with wings of the finest honey-silks that made even Obliviouseh envious. Now, this feature was important to the Beezlewarden because of the need to cross the vast canyon being the river Floweth. Though countless swarms filled its berth, there were yet low and also high tides in which one still must avoid colliding with the large thistle bees, else they become agitated and stingy-minded.

Ever so often would the swarms reach their low, allowing for the Beezlewarden to flutter with their mechanical Wards down and into the hives etched across the mass of cliffside. Deep into these hives would they wander, sampling the nectars about and scouting for those creatures that sought to intrude. Many tales of bravery, both in reality and myth, are told of the Beezlewarden and their patrols deep into the hives. And should the rare occasion arise that a Beezlewarden not return from his expedition, the task would be burdened upon the Great Warden to decipher the mystery and recover the lost. For the Great Warden was the heart and soul of the Beezleton folk, being an ancient apparition of the first Ward—a silver mantis of preposterous proportions. Wielded by none, the Great Warden was driven by the instinct it had performed so many times with its creator, the most renowned of Beezlewarden to have ever arose past, present, and perhaps futurely (though not to say Beezleton's future would never improve).

One such case did occur—or rather, was in occurrence—during the brief visitation of Mr Fauldon and the ever-eager Pamela, who seemed overly fond of the Beezleton folk, for they were cool. Or better be it said that they were lively, creative, and always running about to some event of importance.

His name was Bryent, and it was his first venture into the hives alone, his third as a Beezlewarden. For it had taken him the first two times to work out the kinks of his Ward, needing the help of more experienced Beezlewarden to catch him during his many falls, shortcomings, and learnings. But finally had he finished his mimic of nature and named it Flower. He and Flower were an odd companionship—for was it failed to be mentioned that these "Wards" were companions of the Beezlewarden and interacted with them as such, being quite lively considering they were but mechanisms of gears and bolts and screws.

For each Ward bore within itself an Iconicsphere, which was responsible for its strengths and personality—also being what made it unique apart from its design. To obtain the Iconicsphere, each Beezlewarden-to-be had to venture deep into the depths of Waterryse Mountain and even to its very center. And where the swells of its heart did spur the waters of such bizarritude, there resided stones etched into the crevices and cracks of the great mountain, waiting to be pulled by those destined to become Beezlewarden.

It just so happened that Bryent had a rather peculiar story in obtaining his Iconicsphere. For he was not selected as others were for the task, rather he was destined by measures not accustom to the folk of Beezleton. For atop Waterryse Mountain there lies a ridge and platform from which the folk of Beezleton would begin their descent with the largest of cables strapped to the oddest of platforms. For the upward waterflow caused much pressure often too strong to pass through less shielded by the platform a good fifty feet.

Bryent was yet a good fourteen hundred turns from the time he would be lowered into that mountain. Though anxious to become a Beezlewarden, he would gladly help run the shafts and gears to that platform that he might assist his fellow companions in their expeditions downward. It was not the first time he had helped. He was growing more and more familiar with the ropes and conduct of running the mechanism, regardless of how long he had yet to wait for the time of his own venture.

But fate had it upon one particular day, being as usual as the rest, an eventful event occurred along that ridge so high and steep. For early did he get there so as to feel the rush of the great waters rise and the mighty breeze it did create. Coming to the ledge, he looked and saw Magston there beneath the platform, working upon its levers and joints.

"Why, Magston, whatever are you doing there?" Bryent shouted only just above the roar, for he knew it was not wise to venture beneath the platform, especially alone. But if any Beezleton were to do it, it would undoubtedly be Magston, for the man was knowledgeable in repair and also bore a Ward of the most shielding design—and that he called Shielder. So looking down, Bryent saw the massive wing plates of the Ward spread out and deflecting the horrendous currents of the waterryse (honestly, the Ward's scale was such that Magston had to have two massive wheels mounted as legs to it so as to help support the weight when it was upon his back).

"Hand me that wrench!" Magston yelled back at him, not caring to conversate while he worked his task of preparing the platform, though Bryent still knew not why he had begun it alone. Nonetheless, he saw the Beezletech's toolbox and the many tools spread about. But he knew what a wrench was. "The one that is oscillating!" Magston added.

Reaching out, Bryent retrieved the oscillating wrench and neared the edge of the platform. It happened that Magston was rather beneath it, causing Bryent to anchor his leg about one of the rails and lean heavy over the ridge to deliver Magston's tool.

And as impressed as the Beezletech was of Bryent's agile state, he quickly withdrew the tool so as to hurry his repair and keep the young Beezleton from dangling too long over the platform. It was then that some of the others had reached the mountaintop. Now, one must understand that Bryent was fully aware of the predicament he was in and had taken the precautions so as to secure his position. Regardless, he had not calculated for Dandel—a rather rambunctious Beezlewarden-to-be whose task it was that day to be the one to descend.

For Dandel thought it an impeccable time to play a prank on the young Bryent and try to scare him while he dangled over the platform's edge, seeing as he was secure. However, it was far more successful than even he expected, for all of Bryent's attention had been upon his grip and balance, and when Dandel did leap upon that platform, it broke the young Beezleton's attention from his footing.

And all it took was one slip.

"Bryent!" Dandel yelled, realizing the naivety of his prank. Magston saw too but was too rooted in his secure position to move in time to catch young Bryent as he fell.

Down, down, down he went—eyes shut tight and hands hard-covered about his face to shield from the waterryse that still sought to cut through cloth and skin. Helpless, he came to find Shielder's giant wings fold beneath him and just in time to protect him from the jut of rock into which he was about to collide. In a forceful impact did Shielder's wings shatter, though allowing Bryent not to be struck by the lethal protruding rock.

Eyes now open and skin ablaze, the young and terrified Beezleton spun his body so as to grab hold of the falling and broken Ward. Pulling himself in, he felt the gears pressing tightly about him as the mechanism found itself clenched into a crevice of the mountainside within. His descent ceased, and the waters blasted against the lifeless Ward, which had saved him now twice. He'd already fallen deep and looked hopelessly to the scale of rock and mountain that rose high above him—the faint shouts coming from above as Magston and the Beezlewarden that were seeking to rescue him.

And in that moment of despair, he saw beside him a glow of Iconicsphere. He knew to still be considered too young for it but felt it calling his name in whisper and tremble. With shaking and bruised palms did he pry at the mountainside until finally it had broken loose, at which point in time, regardless of intent, he was deemed a Beezlewarden, even before Dandel—who was both apologetic and envious from thence forth.

So there you have it. And yes, Bryent was rescued from the torrents of the great waterryse, and he was also deemed the youngest recipient of an Iconicsphere. Thus, only a few events later, and you see him running in the slightest of glimpses during the tale of Fauldon's Dream.

"A writer's greatest reader is also his greatest advertiser. Share what you have seen and see it anew with those to whom you share."

-An anonymous individual from an upcoming title: No'vel Melbourne
