I fear the rest of our journey through the tunnels will bore you, and so I shall carefully edit out that which remains incidental. Suffice it to say that there were a great many adventures had with me and my pilgrim as we wandered; a few poems of note, though none deserving of praise.
We spoke little, though it became quite clear that we both understood that the other was searching for the Encinidine.
Down I slid, for how long I do not know. It was a descent most familiar for me, a descent most familiar to all, I am sure.
We have all fallen. Whether through fortune or failure, a steady descent surrounded by guiding sides of metal or wood, that gently nudge us to the left or to the right, in hopes the landing is much softer.
We never look up when we fall.
“I cannot fathom,” muttered Sir Juhrooz, as he turned the paper this way and that, “what the purpose of this procedure actually is.”
“Oftentimes,” Mr. Porist carefully positioned his sheers around his earlobe, “the purpose is the procedure.”
My Doppewassl friend stared at the paper for a moment more, before slowly nodding. “For seven days and six nights, I and my fellow trainees caught a drop of water as it slid down a pane of glass.
You walk forward, or back, you’ll get to where you’re going. Might take days, or weeks, or hours, or seconds, you’ll be where you are, and that’s where you’ll be.
It is at this point, the moment that my merry band plunged deeper into this ominous and portentous domain — a place laden with tales of ominous forbearance and caustic airs — that I must pause to talk of time.
“Well then,” Mx. Image shuffled about, looking to and fro. “We are, indeed, in the Sibilants, yes? And yet I have heard countless tales of its nature. Indeed, entering the Sibilants is as easy as opening the door, but leaving again, well…”
“There is no escape,” Sir Juhrooz nodded. “Bound about by sinew and custom, once you have entered the Sibilants, it is here that you will die.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” I assured my companions.
I hope you have never seen the Sibilants. I hope you have never lived in nor traveled past the Sibilants and its darkened halls and empty rooms. I have no doubt that there are those who love living among the bones of the long dead, but I cannot imagine what kind of beings they might be. They are certainly not of my ilk.
I, for my part, had never set foot behind the ivory doors that lead to the hollow bones of the Underheel, and so I was quite excited, perhaps even eager, to walk the horrid hallways of the Sibilants and meet the dark denizens therein.
So we returned to the Grand Junction, reveling all the while. The Dworgs were delivered to the local authorities without delay once the Galaship had docked once more. They marched in single file with their stone faces held high, their twig-beards clattering as they walked. They were met by a contingent of the Anointed Bulwark along with a veritable garment-rack of shackles, irons, chains, and cuffs.
At the front of the vanguard was the chiseled nose of my dear Captain de’Laisey.
The four Dworgs were being held, and I use the term gently, by General Tritsk. He had set them down in a small adjoining sitting room, and was pacing back in forth in front of them like a worried hen. His medals clattered and jangled as he stalked, head panning side to side as he studied each of his detainees.
For their part, the Dworgs sat calmly, quietly, and patiently. They turned to look at me as I entered the room and walked to the General’s side.
Of course, as with all journeys, the will to travel did not aid us in actually getting there. Mr. Porist said so almost immediately: “What shall we do next? We cannot go anywhere for some time, as Lord Pulkwark’s Galaship will not stop until it has reached its berth, as I doubt our host would be willing to lend us a lifeboat. And even then, the coming war will surely cause chartering a new vessel to be quite difficult, if not impossible.
The Galaship Ruskinolam was a mighty vessel, large enough to entertain hundreds of the most exacting and particular lords and ladies from across the Myriad Worlds. Different wings on different decks had their own climates, designed to keep the different races comfortable, or uncomfortable, as their proclivities leaned.
For those who found the average, or should I perhaps say median climate tolerable enough, or perhaps had some method of preventing the worst of their adverse affects to such atmosphere, gathered in the central ballroom.
