The Musician woke up Wheeler the next day to the tune of “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes, played on a gothic violin purchased in a VHC City music store several days back. He’d been saving up for months. And he’s already dubbed the steep hillock he plays upon in the above picture Fiddler’s Knoll, a natural perch for such creativity. As fine as the musician is playing, and as interesting a song as he’s covering, Wheeler still awakens upset. She had no water to bathe with the night before. All the scrounging around the various corners of their compound — nay, their *prison* — had produced basically nothing of interest. And they were unable to scale the walls to see what was outside. No flying here as well. Trapped. But today was another day and perhaps Morris would return and give them more information.
Wheeler yawns and stretches her arms as she exits the caravan. The Musician halts his playing and looks down on her. “Past 10 now,” he explained. “Waited long enough to practice.” He then begins another song, which he introduces with the title and composer. “‘My Sweet Lord’; George Harrison,” he says, and immediately leaps into it.
Wheeler walks over and sits on one of the logs at the still brightly burning fire in the compound’s center. “This place stinks,” she says.
The Musician halts his playing again. “What’s that dear?”
“I said, this place *stinks*! Did you hear that?”
Sensing the mood, he gives up trying to practice for now and rather stumbles down the knob’s slope while cradling the violin in his arms, meeting Wheeler at the fire. “I don’t think it’s too bad,” he says, sitting down on a log beside her own. “I have my knoll now, my practice perch. I’m pretty happy here.”
Wheeler simmers a second before responding. “No… I meant this place *smells*… smells bad. And what’s that beside the fire? Looks like a bit of colored shoe.”
Just then a hole opens up in the cliff wall opposite the direction of their caravan with only a slight, brief rumble. Morris emerges.
“Ahh, I actually found you here. Good you’re up. I hope you slept well, or as well as possible. I heard there was trouble locating water.” He then stood unusually close to the fire, shuffling and kicking his feet around on the ground in front of it. Again, Wheeler and The Musician missed the hints.
“No water, yeah,” Wheeler said. “Tougher for a girl.” She glared over at The Musician, who moved his violin to the opposite side.
“Well, no fear in that now. I found a portal to the outside. It was those darn foxes all along. One for each of us. I’ll go first, just to make sure it’s safe and it works again. Give me above 5 minutes before heading in yourself.” He moves around the fire and leaves just as quickly as he came, exiting through the hole again.
Wheeler only waits about 30 seconds tops and then bounded off the log and toward the opening. “Come on Musician,” she beckons with a wave. “I want to see what he’s up to if we can.”
Inside they found the cutest little things possible.
Sunklands 