“I saw it,” he reaffirmed afterwards, sitting on Urqhart Hill looking over the valley, water filled in the dancing fire vision. “I guess the dam would have had to been at about Marty’s house here, then run across the gap connecting Urqhart Hill with, well, whatever that opposite peak’s name is over there.” He looks toward it as if Marty’s house was transparent. And perhaps it was in the moment, just in that instant.
Now let’s draw back and look at the whole thing, at about the same angle Jeffrie saw it in his fire vision.
Behold: the Indian Lake (Sox Pond) basin. 1919. The year fire met water and neither won.
Better get down to the bar and meet the others, he ruminated/thought/pondered.
At five minutes to twelve, the king declared that it was time for his daughter to retire for the night. Punishment! She will not see the shape pullers tonight. And all because she spoke about a little silver being mixed into their predominantly golden hue. Truth! She must escape into her fantasy world now, the micro-continent of Rosehaven. She is *Princess* here, not mere Merry Gouldbusk.
One day she will rule this land with a sweet not sour heart. But right now the burden is too great, and bitterness threatens to break her soul. She’s got all the places that make her life worth living still. Not mere pins marking locations but *resonance*. She will rule by such resonance. Rosehaven will vibrate as a single, pure note when she’s in charge. The Queen will back her, she knows. From her Coffin World.
Just a little time to watch some tv before turning in.
Pitch sat up on the soft feather bed. He’d made it! But what would happen to Mary now?
No Musician or Wheeler to be seen at the, um, *exit*. But that really wasn’t surprising.
Time to see what’s here in this Comfrey sim!
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.”