Tronesisia nurses a jigger of cognac and waits patiently in Audrey’s while the others amble about below and beyond. She speaks to the bartender after glancing over at Curled reading ‘Winesap’. “You know, Bean, they should never have named that boy Paper.”
Paul finally made it out of that cave.
It took them a while to find the teleporter up to Audrey’s in the tall grass, the remaining bit of vegetation in Grassland created by magical seeds.
“We need to get The Lawnmower back down here pronto,” Paul demands.
“I’ll see what I can do about,” a smiling Peter replies, thinking he can find him sleeping at the Prog Rock Museum over in Kazzkark.
Paul looks around. “Where’s Mary?”
It’s as if she just disappeared into the weed itself.
“Wake up Rip Van Winkle. Time to go back to work.”
“Lambs,” states Paul. “As far as you could see.” He reconsiders. “Well, that’s an exaggeration. How many would you say there was, Mary?”
“20, 25. Then whittled down to 16, then 8, then 4, then 2, then only one. My precious Little One.”
“Little One yeah,” Paul says, thinking back. “That was before the VHC City days.”
“Yes,” Mary answers with a lump now in her throat.
“VHC City?” Peter questions.
“Oh let’s not go back to that right now. Let’s stick to the far past. See, Peter, this is why we should rename our group The Lambs.”
“Or Lamb,” Paul adds.
“That way dazed and confused fans won’t be calling out for that dreaded ‘Huff the Magic Dragon'”.
“Huff, Puff, whatever,” chimes in Paul.
Peter taps his cane on Grassland’s barren ground, producing a hollow sound. If it wasn’t tinted green it might as well be a sandy dune. “And the darters did all this?” he asks. Tacit agreement through silence here. Mary keeps holding back a big cry.