Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

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.