“Reggie, get out of here! This is not your story.” The rat scurried away under the master’s bed.
“So… the king made sweet love to his dead queen one too many times and finally fell into her grave. The End.”
“Marvelous, Frank,” cooed mate Felicia Fox beside him. “Tell us another one. How about the Prince who ate a basketball and it became his head.”
“No, no,” insisted Sam Swan. “How about the Princess who made love to a living person and then turned into one herself.”
“Old news,” groused Cathy Cat. “The Great Queen is the story. How she got good and dead in the first place. Shape pullers.”
“What do you think, Cheeky?” asked Frank Fox to the so far silent chihuahua across from him.
“Dunno. Don’t care. Whatever.” Cheeky then rolled over and took a little snooze on his pillow.
“Shape pullers it is, then.”
(to be continued)
“Very nice. This will do.”
“I get it, Magus Ellen,” Sidechick Corea shouted from below. “The rat tales are the 2 in the pictures, the first and last of the post. But the *same* rat tale. That of Reginald’s.”
Ellen walks out to the front stairs. “What was that, my friend?” But Ellen heard well what he said. No need to voice it, true, but no harm done. Here at least.
He listened patiently while Sidechick repeated his observations. Then: “Good, good.” He stares back inside the treehouse… “We’re almost ready up here.”… and then toward the cave mouth.
Dr. Brown knew a thing or two about sniffing out mysteries. He’d been doing so most of his life, especially a particular one involving the Cult of the Three Suns. Clues had been flying in from all directions recently. And now another had fallen in his lap: a pregnant Pat or Patrick Starr, connected with *North Yd* of all places (pronounced like “North Wide” just so you’ll know). Tilers, he thought from his secret underground lair, far far away (spatially and temporally) from the simpletons at Eotia Village. Squid people. Opposite sides of the circle, one dead and stuffed, the other living and breathing and… preaching. Vicious cycle — no, not vicious — *natural*, a comes around, goes around sort of idea. But now he had to find Tessa. She was the key.
Less than a half year ago; North Yd:
“The tile here indicates safety, however,” her grandpa reinforced. “Safe to split up, then. You examine the buildings that way,” — Grandpa Gold points behind Tessa — “and I’ll work my way around from this end — counterclockwise — until we meet up somewhere in the middle. Is that okay?”
I could spend the rest of my life staring at these walls and learning nothing else. I can’t believe all of the months from my past I did so. Nascera, he thought bitterly. Turns out nothing’s here. Nothing atall.
Even Reginald appears to be gone.