Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

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.