He'd fashioned--carved and scraped--a pot and handle from a hard, smooth, whitish material lighter than rock of the same size, but a good deal tougher. He found it shortly after he left the tribe when walking along the edge of a stream, not knowing where he was going or caring. He kept it for that reason, never imagining he'd eventually make a pot out of it. That was Scratch's inspiration. He handled it when visiting one time, feeling its texture and strength, its hardness, and pronounced, "This would make a nice pot for morning drink." It shimmered colors as the firelight flickered off it. Burn marks marred its bottom now and up the outer curve to mid-pot. They cleaned off easily, but he hardly ever bothered anymore. Half-filled with the brown liquid, he hung it on the stone hook that swung into the fire, then plopped back down into his favorite chair, choosing to surrender to brooding while he waited.

None of his furniture had he built. He'd found pieces of wood on the forest floor that vaguely resembled two chairs and a couch big enough to accomodate his long body. He did go to the trouble of padding them with feathers and scraps of fur from a carcass he'd come across, but that was it. Artistry came second to utility; at least, it seemed that way now. His initial euphoria at his newfound freedom had waned. Talks with Scratch had been helpful in getting over the emotional instability of a separate identity. But he could see he needed to work on himself, by himself. He was comfortable; that's all that mattered. His bed was a flat slab of soft wood from the inner core of the tree struck by lightning, covered in swaths of fur, resting on pebbles at the corners. Blankets of dried, braided grass entwining strips of scraped underleaf were made by others who knew how, gifts from the diverse community after he arrived, an outcast and alone. They became friends and he respected and honored their friendship, reciprocating whenever he could, which usually meant moving or lifting something heavy.

He adopted the custom of carving out a home beneath the exposed root of a broad-leaf tree, digging the chimney to come out on higher ground on the upper side of the root. A back tunnel opened beyond that, in case the front entrance was blocked or if the chimney got covered over. His contribution was the entranceway: Instead of the arched portal leading directly to the outside, a tunnel turned sharply to the left beneath the root, opening to the forest farther down. Two plugs, one stoppering the outside portal and the other between the living room and the tunnel all but guaranteed no winter draft, much less wind, would invade his warm space. It worked pretty well and was sensible. He needed sensible at that time.

Using a matted swath of twined straw to grab the handle, he poured himself a cup. Winter was upon them in the northern forest. Working physically helped him clear his mind and calm his feelings, so long ago his extra chamber had been filled with more than enough firewood and supplies. Wax-leaf canisters of water lined one wall; if any of it went bad, there'd be plenty of snow to melt. And those stones that shined, he'd made up several thin-leafed baskets to contain them, which he hung around the large living room. The leaves gave the light a yellowish tint, which he found relaxing. In his bedroom, a pile sat on a chunk of dried wood--he called it a table--next to his bed, illuminating with a creamy white the chiseled contours.

He knew what his tribe was doing now, socializing, living off stores mutually acquired, all receiving an equal share. The comaraderie, the conversation, the playfulness reverberating through the group. But he also remembered how they got those goods, what they did to acquire them, and it made him sick. He was of their ilk by dint of birth and learning, teachings of their way ingrained as though by nature. At first, in the beginning, long ago. But with time and generations, the teachings were no longer necessary.

He liked his life now, solitudinous though it was; he didn't need to kill anymore, to hack someone to bits. He never liked it in the first place and oftentimes feigned participation. But that was life, their life. But it troubled him deeply; he wondered if there could be some other, more satisfying, way. The excitement and exhilaration he once knew when young and about to embark on a raid had gone, replaced by the cries of mercy from their victims echoing in his mind. But they were ruthless, showing none. He began to voice disagreement at strategy meetings of those about to partake in the hunt. He would try to discourage killing certain kinds of creatures. His reasons, though baldly stated, were never clear to the rest. As a result, he was shunned and labeled a troublemaker and suspected of not fulfilling his obligation as a member of the tribe. His heart was not in it, the right place. Eventually, he was excepted from hunting expeditions altogether. This set him off even more. He was a warrior; to be told to stay home because he wasn't bloodthirsty enough enflamed him. He protested vehemently to the council of elders. That was the final affront, challenging a decison by a hunt master. They were outraged. Consequently, and on recommendations from hunt leaders, he was forced out, ostracized, turned away from the tribe.

He sat drinking hot brown liquid made from ground, dried, tawny-colored mushrooms that grew in the dung of large animals, everyone's favorite morning drink, and at just about any any other time of the day too when a pick-me-up was needed. Along with it, he munched Turbo-cakes. They were similar to Scratch's but had a few extra ingredients that gave them a tangy flavor.

Sitting thus by the fire, he thought to visit someone, to go outside to greet the brisk air and examine the first snowfall of the season. Because of the thick canopy enveloping the northern forest, he knew what he would find: snow would barely have made it down to the middle branches with virtually none on the lowest. On the ground of decaying leaves and tangles of twigs, it would be spotty at best, marking where the canopy overlap was sparsest, an inverted travel map for a tree runner. But the warm fire, the hot drink and delicious cakes held him fast in his comfortable chair, a private world of quiet solitude. About to be interrupted.

A length of thick twine with a pebble tied to its end hung through a hole next to his outside door. Inside, suspended by u-shaped twigs, it was laid across the roof to the opposite wall, then running the length of the tunnel to another hole adajacent his top door. It passed through and its end was tied to a bundle of pebbles. When the outside rope was pulled, the bag sucked partway into the hole. When released, its abrupt drop made a kalump sound. When visitors came, they pulled the cord, then let themselves in, replugging the hole behind. If the inner door wasn't opened by then with Heater standing there to welcome them, they knocked. If no answer, they left, perhaps leaving a gift of something or a payback.

And there it was--the interruption. Kalumpkalumpkalump; three of them in rapid succession. That particular calling card belonged to an old friend from the day when a band of them would sneak away from a strategy meeting and go to their secret swimming hole. Just the five of them, lazing about in the grass on a hot day, the sun low on the horizon, shafting and streaking through the thick, leaf-covered branches wherever it could find passage. At nightfall, they'd sneak back into the complex warren by way of a zig-zag tunnel. One end began at a young broad-leaf tree--a clear landmark for those who knew--and the other in an old, abandoned storage room, walled off from the inside at the very rear of the multitiered nest of tunnels, storage facilities, work shops, barracks of soldiers and scouts, and individual rooms for the queen, her entourage, the council of elders, and leaders of the hunt and overseers of distribution. It was a well-oiled and organized society where everybody knew his place, his job, and his responsibilities. Most of all, loyalty to the tribe was paramount and any violation thereof was deemed a grave affront--a crime against the tribe, in fact.

However, none of the five ever considered play an act of treason or disloyalty. They were stout warriors all and had nothing to be ashamed of. Play was part of their nature and needed to be exercised at least as much as tracking prey, killing and dismembering. It was their way and no one questioned it. Not directly, at any rate.

He recalled that hot summer day when they conspired to overthrow the queen and free their people. It didn't start off that way.

They were at the swimming hole laying about, drying off in the evening heat and talked about what it must be like for other creatures whose nature was to live alone with no one to answer to, no imposed code of conduct and honor inculacted from birth, strictly enforced and believed in with all the zeal of religious fanatics. It was their way. Somehow, they saw individual freedom as contemptible, cowardly, and the way of those unable to form allegiances, a transcendent force shared by all in the tribe.

As usual, their chide of creatures who lived alone always began with dismissive insults poked at their appearance, the foods they ate, the homes they lived in, and the laziness and disorder of their lifestyles. They would laugh uproariously, at first. But after a time, the humor and mild contempt would wring itself out and a pervasive silence would fill the void, the gentle brook running through their swimming hole the only sound.

The largest of them all, Bruiser, stood and paced a circle around the pool, stepping easily through the shallow filler stream. He plucked a length of field grass and began breaking it into tiny bits, tossing them into the pool with a quick, jabbing motion. He was irritated. They'd been here before, the impasse. After a spate of belittling remarks, each taking his turn tryng to best the last, they spiraled in on what they intuited as the unspoken, mutual problem.

Stumpy, sitting on a moss-covered stone, leaning against the cliff-face that served to conceal their pool, voiced what was on everyone's mind: "I'm sick of this crap, fed-up. It rubs me the wrong way. The hunt leaders have been calling all the shots lately, deciding who to attack. Nobody has a say. Killing prey and leaving their bodies behind, that's just plain wrong." He paused for a bit, leaned forward, absently threw a pebble into the pool, and in a low voice repeated, "It's just plain wrong. Everybody is up in arms about it; we're hunters who eat what we kill, not leave it to rot in the sun. We were just following orders, like good soldiers, but going against the code in the process. Don't they know that?"

Jumping to his feet, he picked up a large rock and threw it high over the swirling pool of water. When it landed in the middle, a crown-shaped splash flew upwards. Jagged and misshapen in every respect though it was, the myriad patterns emerged out of one another like sliding sheets of vanishing thickness, and collectively formed a crown. When the heavy drops had all collapsed--the last loud shearing sound catching up to the barely audible initial ones--the spherical sound wave passed over them all. The effect transformed their mood as though a call-to-order bell had rung. Stumpy waddled to the spot where the crushed, light-giving stones were scattered, picked up a handful and artlessly tossed them into the water. A casual gesture belying his present temper. They layed about the pool, staring at their hands or twisting blades of grass or digging at the dry, summer dirt--looking down towards the ground.

Heater and Stumpy had become best friends in their youth. As the story went, it'd been just the two of them out on a hunt of their own, when a poisonous horror of a creature dropped from a branch, landed on Stumpy, wrapped his long legs around him and started to squeeze. Heater came up quickly from behind and grabbed the multi-legged assailant around the neck. He leveraged his already considerable body strength by wrapping his powerful legs around a rock and, just as the creature's stinger was coming down towards his friend's abdomen, snapped his neck. It was a close call. He owed his life to Heater and discovered that friendship was a more compelling allegiance than the tribe itself. Now, as he stood, he was working things out that they all felt and were troubled by. Everyone waited for him to speak, you could feel it in the air.

How he got his nickname had become a required lesson taught during elementary training in what not to do. Although physical training was empahsized, to be sure, one had to be a proficient, extremely well-disciplined, and highly-skilled killer; the mental training pervaded it and gave it the cohesion and order it needed.

When very young, practicing his stealth, sneaking up on imaginary prey, he caught his ankle in a tight loop of wiregrass. As though a monstrous hand had grabbed him, pulling and yanking only tightened its grip, causing its sharp edge to cut into the hard, outer sheath covering the softer inner flesh. Young and inexperienced, he tried jerking his leg, which only dug the loop in more deeply. It never occurred to him to calm down--no danger lurked--sit and take his time unraveling it. He was just playing, after all. But his imagination wouldn't quit. What if predators were upon him? The grass was on fire? To escape, a matter of life or death? These stray thoughts drove him to desperation, exacerbating the situation, leading to panic. He yanked harder, tightening the loop's firm grasp even more. By the time his rescuers got him home, part of his foot was infected and had to be removed. Hence, the nickname--Stumpy. He looks back on that time and shakes his head at his greenness. Since then, nothing and no one has ever caused him to panic.

"We've become killers just to kill, as though that were an end in itself," he went on. "Our larder is full to overflowing, we've built new chambers, and yet we continue to hunt. We know this winter will be early, the signs are there, early and long, but that's what we've already prepared for. These hunts are extermination hunts. We're being used, the whole warrior force, the hunt leaders and the council are using us for their own ends, whatever that is. It doesn't make sense otherwise, to change the rules, the code we live by, after generations of its success. They're in it together. Territory, reputation, overthrowing the queen? She and her advisors are supposed to have control over food gathering and distribution."

"It's true that we're killing more prey than we need; it's unnecessary; there's no practical reason for it," interjected Bruiser in his booming voice, standing in the shallow stream. "Let them live for a later day. But right now, and for some time to come--I've seen the storage areas too--there's isn't any need." He splashed water on his face and chest, it didn't seem to cool him off any. "That's how we've always hunted, our way. Each creature is an offering, and we honor that. They're only food afterwards, when their spirits have returned to the earth. When our larders are bare, we won't have anything to put in them. We'll have to travel to the edge of the forest to find game. So what is the strategy here?"

He was obviously annoyed, and when Bruiser got annoyed, everybody listened. "And those who take part in an expedition are supposed to be given an even share. That's how it's always been. But I've been noticing lately the leaders getting far more and a few others who don't have any particular grand position. They're just ordinary warriors, status-wise, like us."

Twitch, he had a nervous eye when he got excited, said, "They're informants, I'm sure of it. I watched them on the last couple of raids spying on certain others and then reporting to the hunt leader." An ominous silence undercut the babbling of the stream as it filled the pool. Finally, he said, "They were eyeballing you, Heater."

Heater's head jerked up. "Why?" he asked. "What are they up to?" His outrage blossomed in a rush, "Spying on me, what arrogance!"

"What if the queen's in on it, whatever it is?" wondered Slider out loud. He never talked much, the quiet type. He could move as fast sideways as he could forward, that's how he got his name.

"You know," began Twitch, the cynical one who, nonetheless, was often right. "That would make sense, in a way. I mean, the hunt leaders and their informants aren't exactly trying to hide what they're doing. Everybody in the corp can see it and are troubled by it; only they're afraid to speak up. They sense things are in transition, a power shift, and don't want to be caught on the wrong side. A lot of them have families, I don't blame them. We've nearly cleared out every creature in the southwest sector. It was like the hunt leader was trying to see how far he could go, killing prey by the dozens. A grumbling is happening through the troops that's hard to overlook. I fear a major crack-down is coming."

"I have an idea," said Heater, now fully engaged. He was in the habit of voicing his opinion at strategy meetings before a hunt and was warned not to protest so much and so loudly, it gave the younger ones the belief that it was allowed. This only stirred him up more. He was going out, risking his life, killing for the tribe, returning with food, and they're telling him he has no right to contribute to the plan? To offer alternative suggestions? To ask simple questions, like: Why are we killing more than we need? He felt he was within his rights and his tirades generated a lot of heat. That's how he got his name.

Having no ideas of their own, being short on information and unsure what to do about it, they listened. His ideas were sometimes brash; actually, often brash, and reckless and so were usually received with a degree of reservation. But now, they were passed those concerns. Something serious that affected them all, including the rest of the tribe, was happening behind the scenes and they needed to find out what that was before it was too late. "We need an excuse to get away for a couple of days and visit Scratch. I have a feeling he knows what's going on. He always does. How that is, I don't know. But he's one of them. Their backs are of many different colors, his is a bright golden-green. They can see patterns we can't, and reveal connections that to us may seem impossible. If we tell him everything that's been going on, he might be able to show us the big picture. Besides, he gets information from all over, from many different kinds spread throughout the community, as they call it. All we know is what we're doing. Outside our realm could be the cause of all the suspicious activity."

It took only seconds for them to agree. Bruiser said he'd talk to the chief-of-the hunt, tell him he wanted to take a small group out into the west to do a survey. No hunt leader has ever turned Bruiser down, especially when it concerned what seemed like legitimate operations. While he was meeting with the chief hunter, the rest were packing their satchels with provisions for the long hike.

They moved out at first light. Trained and experienced at forced marches, they covered ground quickly, silently, finding their path through the ground cover. Nobody spoke. They reached the southern edge of the forest and took their first break. The sun was midway up. After a quick bite and sip of water, they lay back on the clover and passed out immediately. Minutes went by, accentuated by their deep breathing. Then, almost as one, they awoke and sat up. Took another sip of water, and proceeded on the next leg. They took the tree route along a branch that interlaced with that of another on the other side of the ravine, now flowing, low, but flowing, from summer's rains high up on the mountain to the north. They hit the ground moving fast; they wanted to arrive at Scratch's before nightfall.

The stars were just beginning to come out when they reached Scratch's abode. He was alone, thank goodness, and invited them in, offering seats and drinks, which they accepted gratefully. He also put a plate of his cakes on the table in front of the couch. They were close to exhaustion and much appreciated the hospitality, the comfortable furniture, and the heat from the fireplace. He rolled a ball of something into the round door portal to keep the heat in, arranged small piles of the bright stones around in certain places, and when all the ceremonies and preparations were completed, they relaxed, drinks in hand.

No one said anything. Where would they start? It was Heater's idea, so he finally spoke up. He related the background and context of their situation. His friends joined in and before long, they were all contributing at once, spontaneously finishing each other's sentences as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Instances, fragments of things seen and said, insights and inferences, clues and hints, traces that ran through it all, things they didn't know they knew, rose to the surface.

Something about Scratch brought that out. Was it his personality? Did it somehow make you smarter to be in his presence? Did his profound openness and warmth encourage and evoke it? Nobdy knew and they didn't care; results were all that mattered. Without saying a word, he helped their minds clear away the confusing debris associated with the main thoughts, and things they'd glossed over at the time of their occurence as being irrelevant, suddenly made sense. Connections formed between once previously believed to be separate events, subtle though they may be.

The large living room filled with the smells of stale sweat and the flush of sour adrenaline. Sratch pulled the door-plug open a bit to air it out and relieve the tension. After a time, and several drinks and cakes, the group wound down. Fatigue and strain were finally taking their tolls. They stood in a circle and played a game with their hands to see who got the couch--Slider. For the rest, Scratch spread out blankets on the dirt floor to which they added their traveling mats. The door was plugged, the fire was banked, and the light-stone bags covered, leaving the three small piles with their cool, milky light to watch over them.

Scratch had told them nothing, not a word of comment or insight. He went into his bedroom and knelt before the carved images of his parents and the personal possessions of theirs he'd taken when he left their home. A pile of stones lay on the table next to his bed giving him all the light he needed. Gathering himself, he invoked a spell that would enable him to enter the spirit realm where he could travel freely over vast distances and with no physical hindrances. He had his personal allies in that world who he contacted, feeling for their auras.

Domain of Spirits:
An ephemeral dimension where beings who have transcended the physical dwell. On the other side are beings who have never experienced corporeality. Those who have known life on this side are far more powerful than those who have not. This situtation has created something of a rift in the spirit world. And along with it, jealousy and hatred.
What are they capable of? They can see the minds of those beings on the material plane, they can see thought. They can also see the networks or webs of interelationships surrounding those people. Beyond that, they have many gifts and talents--powers--that those on other planes of existence simply wouldn't understand.

The night was long. Scratch moved in and out of one world after another, noticing coincidences that reached across the voids separating planes of existence. There was something happening that was cross-dimensional; it wasn't restricted to the material realm; although, its effect seemed to be targeted there. He reached another ally, one who had been that for his parents. He spoke of instability, dissonance, fear among the magical community. They, of the material plane, sensed great danger coming to the forest. His ally was one of those who traveled freely between layers of reality. He spoke of nodes, converging, intersecting. All through the night, they conversed. At along last, drained of all energy, Scratch lay in his bed and entered Dreamland to replensih his spirit, always a nourishing place for him.

He awoke around midmorning and rebuilt the fire as quietly as he could, his guests were still asleep. He prepared the morning drink and set the pot on the hook by the growing fire, crackling and popping occasionally. In an alcove next to the kitchen area, he busied himself with canisters of powders and living grains, mixing them together just so. Into it he added a special herb, ground to tiny particles. Almost finished, he heard the sounds of tired feet scuffling the floor. Rounding the corner, he saw all his guests seated where they had the night before. He placed five cups on the table and the pot of brown liquid. Bruiser poured for all, then together they sat back to sip and feel the warmth of the fireplace. Scratch did the same.

He wondered how to approach it. The explanation. Their knowledge of other planes of existence may not be all that good. Should I first describe what that means? In the hope that they'll understand? Or would that cause undo confusion? Is it possible to avoid? He decided that no preparation was needed; they would know in their way of accepting the new and unusual for what it is without the curiosity to understand where it came from. This is this, and that is that.

Partway through their second cup, Scratch began, "Your queen is more than she appears." That got their attention immediately; the gathering had come to order. "She is familiar with the arts of my people, from high in the mountain where she came from. But because she is not one of us, has not the innate gift; her incantations are incomplete, imperfect, resonating poorly. She has, inadverently, opened a gateway for the intrusion of dark-energy thoughts. She broke into their realm, she imagined she was somewhere else entirely and was duped. Her mind invaded, she's been tranced. It makes her feel powerful; she thinks it's a good thing--enlisting the aid of the spirit world. But the dark-energy beings have poisoned her mind and they know exactly what they're doing. She acts as a tunnel, a conduit, between worlds, infecting the minds of the council and the hunt leaders.

"She isn't aware of the larger event taking place of which she is but a tool." Scratch paused to make another pot. The warriors sat quietly, not glancing at one another, trying to absorb what they'd heard thus far. He placed the pot on the hook, swung it closer to the fire, then sat back and continued, calmly, each word crystal clear, "In this forest are special places that act as local hubs for the entirety of living things. Under the earth run thin tendrils like worms that interconnect everything that grows in the forest. Communication, food, water, all travel those routes. At these special places, they meet at a hub, a central location. They are the strength of that area. The sector you speak of--the southwest--is one such."

He stood to fetch the now steaming pot and put it on the table, but remained standing by the fireplace. "The spirits of the creatures you've killed enter the earth there. Because of the numbers, the concentration of spirit energy infused into the hub has created a convergence, an intersection of other planes and dimensions of existence. When all is balanced, this in itself is not evil. But because they already have presence on the corporeal plane through your queen, the crystal's facets have shifted. This asymmetry is a weak spot where a path may open allowing dark energy to mingle with the material plane, the topmost. Dark energy can, at the intersection of layers, realign the material plane and infect, permeate, replace living things with their own things and thoughts. Once the underground network is destroyed, dissolved away, fragmented and rendered useless, chaos and disorder will ensue, and it will spread, radiate out to the rest of the forest."

He poured himself a cup and sat back, holding it with both hands, relaxed, unperturbed, a calm look on his face, which is more than one could say for the rest. Time went by, the fire crackled. Finally, Heater spoke up, "Okay, can it be stopped and, if so, how do we do it?" The rest nodded. That was they all wanted to know.

Scratch told them what they must do and how to do it. The object was to break the trance the queen is in, and by extension, the council members and hunt leaders, and at the same time, break the grip the evil beings have on this dimension. That will realign the convergence to one of faceted symmetry and balance, giving the dark beings of thought and will no access. Short of killing the queen, which no one seemed opposed to--that would be the backup plan--he spelled it out for them. They would have to be very brave, it could cost them their lives. They knew this, each accepted the possible consequences. When they were done, Scratch made a huge breakfast, with the help of Slider, and together they ate for the trip home.

At the doorway, Scratch handed the powdery mixture he'd concocted to Heater, who put it securely away in a canistser in his satchel. They hugged for good luck, Heater thanked him, as had they all, and away they went.

A month later, the story found its way to Scratch's door via a teller on his way east to visit friends. He already knew the results, everyone did, but the full details he hadn't yet heard. They shared supper, and the teller told the news:

Shortly after their return home, Heater managed to get himself ostracized from the tribe. It sounded like a setup, preordained, but it'd been coming, nonetheless. Even though the plan was in place, he was informed by the hunt master that he was banned from attending any more strategy meetings. In effect, he was out of the hunt. Enraged, he appealed to the council of elders. They, in turn, were angered by his attempt to go over the hunt master's head. That was the final straw for Heater. He was banished. That left the other four to carry out the plan.

They were determined to fight their way in, killing comrades if necessary; this would be a one-shot deal. If stopped, they'd have no other chance and would probably be executed for the attempt. Their familiarity with the abandoned tunnels and walled-off sections of the warren would be a great help now.

With Bruiser leading the assault and Slider pulling up the rear, they chose a night when the queen would be away from her suite of rooms at conference with the elders. Their route laid-out, they only had one long stretch that was known by all. Stealthily but with all manner of speed, they arrived at the queen's inner chamber, found the altar with the wooden image of the otherworldy being she'd thought she'd been dealing with all this time, and mixed the powder Scratch had given them in with her own cermonial offering. The practice, Scratch had told them, was to throw a pinch into a small fire in front of the token and breath in the smoke.

Unfortunately, they were caught on the way out and, after a brief perfunctory hearing before the council, sentenced to death, of course; no one went into the queen's rooms. She felt this to be a bad omen and so knelt before her altar and sprinkled a pinch of powders onto a flame, seeking contact and reassurance. She breathed deeply and almost at once, the trance was severed. She rolled to the ground. Her personal guards, hearing her fall, came to her rescue. Her mind had been cleared, she'd come to her senses. The same was true of the council and hunter chiefs. The link connecting the dark world with the plane of seeming had been cut, weakening the convergence, causing the layers of reality to reestablish themselves in their normal parallel dispositions over the hub.

She remained unaware of the larger event looming on the horizon and of her role in it. But she did realize she was somehow being manipulated by forces unknown for an equally unknown purpose against the will and way of her tribe. She decided she needed more practice in the arts. She learned of the miscreants deed, understood what it had accomplished, and despite the strict rule, was grateful; albeit, none too ostentatiously. How they knew to do that, and that it needed to be done, would be forever a mystery. She didn't even want to discuss it. In truth, the fact that another being existed who could see into the realms of reality, see what she had been doing, detect the subterfuge, and then had the wherewithal to concoct the precise potion to resolve her fixation, was somewhat terrifying. Although, a part of her, a part she'd misplaced, wished she did know so she could thank whoever for freeing her, and perhaps, learn from him. However, she wanted no one to know of her other-worldy pursuits. And so, although she pardoned them--a gracious gesture--she banished them all. Some punishment had to be dealt, for appearances sake, if nothing else. The farther away, the better. Such is the way of queens; their compassion does not surpass self-preservation.

Heater opened the door, Stumpy walked in, a smile on his face and a satchel over a shoulder, filled, no doubt, with drinks and cakes from Turbo, to help one through the winter. He warmed himself by the fire, throwing a couple more pieces in, and talked about the snowfall and how hard it was to get here, and what happened to so-and-so the other night and on and on. Heater sat with a drink, smiling broadly, grateful for his life and old friends.