Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

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.”