Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

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.