I still sleep often, and lose my way in dreams. While waking, my energy ebbs and swells without pattern. I can scarcely plan anything. Were it not for the lovely distraction of RoK’s fourth anniversary, and a recent visit to Dundee Inn, I would despair.

Instead, I try to remember exactly how the Blessing of Ben’s Will felt as it bolstered my own heavy spirit. I recall my breath measuring darkness and the sensation of sunshine on my eyelids. I remember the beginning of a story, blue as infinity. I resolve to hear the end. It’s a worthy quest.

Mostly though, I remember two fellows earnestly seeking resolution, or rather, a consensus of opinion regarding their appearance. I smile still at the image of them tossing their head like ponies. Genuinely tired as I am after the play, aching with the remnants of stress, I’m still a feather lighter than I was not long ago. There is nothing as precious as laughter, nor so tempering as joy.

I must keep in mind that both those things are better when shared.

Dragged myself through daylight, questing for a bucket of water. I passed a muddy rut in the road, speckled with wasps and dragonflies, and dimly noted that their colors were no richer than the smooth, brown earth. My throat seized at the sound of a river, and I glanced into the churning waters, wagering my chance at surviving a dip. Traveling north, I fled the sun by ducking into the cool shadows of the meditation circle east of Milltown. I dug my fingers into the cool sands for a moment, and if what I took from that place did not quench my thirst, it did remind me that Dundee has a spring.

Stumbling back into the dry heat, I bolted south. It took me forever to find the spring, and when I did, I simply sat there for a moment. I held my fingers against the cool water, and caught my breath. I finally splashed some water on my face and drank my fill. The problem with really cold water, though, is that you never suck down as much as you need. I felt obliged to stop at the Dundee Inn and buy an ale. With it, I forced myself to eat a burger, though it made me queasy to contemplate. It went down well enough, the first bite being compellingly tasty.

When the first cool tendrils of night air spilled through the window, tickling my neck, I nearly swooned with relief. Weary and restless, I didn't know what to do next, whether to roam beloved places, or simply to sleep again. Whilst still trapped in my own indecision, a friendly adventurer moseyed into the inn, followed shortly by an initiate who proudly announced the completion of his profession's quest. He was to be an Enchanter. It kindled my interest, and I lingered for a while longer.

From the conversation that ensued, especially after Shannara joined us, I realized just how important 'lineage' is in these lands. I don't know if it's a recent thing, or simply a matter of taste. I didn't actively seek a sponsor myself, but Glorina recommended Shadow Ryder Anu, and I quite liked his thorough manner of explaining things. It helped that he had been around long enough to accumulate a good store of knowledge, but I don't recall having any curiosity about his lineage until after I'd become an Enchanter myself. At that point, I was entertaining myself with the notion of family, trying to decide whether such a concept was worth a second try. I only got so far as discovering the next link back in my mystical kin, El Gato. I cannot help but refer to him as 'grandfather', though I refrain from doing so in his presence. You can only be so irreverent, before someone strangles you.

Impressive lineage. My pony had impressive lineage, though I made all of it up at whim. Inkasi, brighter than any platinum coin, swifter than a desert fox, and sure-footed as any old mule, descended from forest ponies, shy striped and dappled mares, and their fierce pale stallion. Or perhaps she spilled from a cloud and tumbled down a mountain side one moonlit night, staining herself with an icy, silver glow. Or maybe, she was a prancing carnival pony, fresh peeled from the paint of a carousel. That one's what my Uncle Halah always claimed anyway. He said he saw her there, trapped and dizzy with her endless circles, and stole her free with a magic trick.

Remembering Inkasi, I went to where the music plays eternal, and danced in the grasses. I turned frantic, careless circles and sprang about with no regard for my ankles or the treacherous dew, but no ill befell me. Nothing beyond a sudden flush, and total exhaustion as my earlier weariness returned. I withdrew to Ryndall, there to rest near books by clever men. I wanted to dream of my pony. I wanted to dream of my Uncle. For once, I wanted memories, and nothing deeper than the past.

I'm weary. I need somewhere to rest, for as long as it may take. The tides of dreaming grow ever stronger, and my interest in the waking world wanes. I cannot be in the wilds, nor in the company of the dead. I cannot trust myself to awaken if something starts chewing on me. My skin itches, the silver of my tattoo writhing like mist, tickling like little silver fish. Next will come the fever, a warm flush reminiscent of anticipation. Then sweet daydreams will find me, bind my steps and blind me to anything else.

I don't care. I don't care, in a less-caring kind of way, but not anything resembling carefree. There is nothing so light in me now, only the pull of my bones as they yearn for rest, and the drag of my feet as they cling to the earth. I walk like one who has drowned. I can't help my shambling gait, my listless feet. It doesn't matter. They've only ever carried me in circles anyway, a zone of dooming replication. All my motions are empty, and my kills don't complete me. Nor should they, I suppose.

I've left so many things unfinished, I find it hard to do more than shrug at another. Let crystals hide in their metal tombs forever, or grant their shine to deserving adventurers. I will lie here, in my makeshift bed of grasses and fur cloaks, staring at my skinny wrists and bony fingers, wondering where my softer edges have gone. Into my head, I reflect, where everything is softening, like mud or green jelly.

Eventually, I eat, corn pilfered from Aldwyth's stables and dried strips of viper, both soaked in water and haphazardly flavored with what I hope are edible herbs, foraged from the forest. They quite resemble wild onions, pearl white and scarcely larger, and what smells like parsley, though of a reddish hue I find somewhat disconcerting. I almost took a little seasoning from the Swashbuckler's kitchen, but thought better of it. I can't replace what I don't recognize, and experimenting on my self is infinitely preferable to poisoning my guild brethren, or fellow Valornians.

After my meal, I decide I've become so skinny because I'm a domestic failure. My belly aches, complaining bitterly at my feast. I flop down on my bed, staring at the stone ceiling, and sing softly to myself, nonsense words to a wandering tune. As always, I fall asleep without noticing.

...

[COLOR=blue]In a nowhere place, Paaluak, the shambling, curls within her den of ice and mourns the loss of summer. She craves the sight of grazzels tumbling within the groves of aspen, within the shifting light. She craves the taste of flesh. Sour spittle coats her tongue, and she rises onto her squat hind-legs, snuffling at the crisp air with her pale, wide nose. She smells smoke, leaf mulch, and her own musk. She smells three briny eggs.

Slowly, she treads south. Her huge, soft feet press no prints into the frosted snow, but her heavy tail swishes sporadically, leaving a tell-tale serpentine sign of her passing. One night, she finds a lone mezzkin rooting at the base of an old pine tree and snatches him up with voracious snarl. His porcine features curl into a placating grin and he begs for his life.

"For I'm but a tiny, dry morsel compared to some," he pleads, grabbing Paaluak's whiskers desperately. "Really, I can find a dish fitting for one of your stature, girth, and discriminating taste. Me? I'd ruin your palate, to be sure. And you'd never appreciate what comes after."

So delighted is she with the squeaking of his voice, Paaluak tosses the mezzkin over her shoulder and binds him fast with her shaggy, moss gray fur. Rumbling softly, she moves further south at the mezzkin's suggestion, beyond fields of ice and ageless, frozen forests.

"Far in the south, the ever-summer lands are filled with fair maidens in the first flush of love. I declare, there's no sweeter feast than a girl-child just learning to flirt." For dozens of miles, the mezzkin prattles on about the virtues of well-rounded legs and succulent shoulders, and by the time the first tight, green curls of green appear on slender branches, Paaluak is drooling with hunger.

One night, the two come upon a ring of slender rowan trees, and hear the sound of girlish laughter, bright as moonlight cutting through branches. Within the circle dance six dryads, wood wives all save for the youngest, a human girl with a crown of oak leaves and glossy, chestnut hair. Being sharper of eye, the mezzkin spies the dancers first, and woefully recognizes the girl as his favorite truffle-gatherer, soon to wed a farmer boy.

"Oh, no," he says, just as Paaluak scents the mortal child. "I'd quite forgotten about brawny warriors. Well-salted and crunchy within their armor. A meal to put some hair on your chest, and a fire in your breath. Not that you're lacking in either, but I declare, there's no better seasoned meat than a well-seasoned warrior. And no greater way to ruin a perfect main course than with an appetizer as sweet as yonder, sighing girl. Best be saving her for dessert."

With a grunt and great reluctance, Paaluak turns her ponderous bulk away from the ring of trees, and walks east at the mezzkin's behest. For hundreds of miles, he describes the most effective way to roast, broil, and smoke a warrior. By the time the trees thin into sparse-copsed plains of tawny grass, Paaluak cannot still the complaints of her stomach, and the mezzkin has begun to complain of the noise.

Soon enough, they chance upon a nearly noble knight with a curly, cropped beard and blue eyes. His nearly patient steed whirls at the sight of the shambling one and her bizarre rider, and dumps the man into mud. Letting out a beery belch, the knight stands and gropes for his sword.

"Oh, no," says the mezzkin, "Rancid meat for sure. Can't crunch the 'sotted ones. Brew makes a man bitter, and a knight fall. Don't know what it would do to a Paaluak." For the mezzkin has recognized this knight as a once fearsome warrior, and qute fears being slashed by his blade. "I just recalled (must be a spell of forgetting) the finest, most intricate flavor comes from fillet of merchant. And where better to find merchants than within the city of glass? They throng the streets, bottleneck the alleys, and peek from every window, waving their goods and squawking. And those goods? Crushed saffron, coarse pepper, lemon grass and pig's hooves pickled in brine. From these things comes the merchant's unrivaled taste. West! To the city of glass!"

She's loath to budge, but finally capitulates, giving an angry, resonant snarl. For thousands of miles, the mezzkin rambles on, not only about what merchants trade, but also what marvels they devour in order to enhance their own culinary value. By the time the shining spires and shattered towers of the city of glass appear, Paaluak is gaunt, loose-skinned and nearly light of step. The mezzkin himself feels a bit peaked.

Just past the witching hour, the mezzkin directs Paaluak to a narrow waterway, and they circumvent the slick, cobalt walls by traveling beneath them. Above, a city slowly wakens, and the first light of dawn comes and goes while Paaluak splashes along the dark tunnel. The scent of kabobs frying and sweet rolls baking makes her shiver, and she bounds with uncharacteristic haste to a place where sunlight trickles down through metal slats. They are weaker than stunted pines, shredding beneath Paaluak's grinding teeth, buckling at the butting of her horned skull. With a clatter, the grate gives, and she heaves her diminished form onto a crowded street.

Panic ensues, but only briefly. Limbs flail and heels flash as a half-dozen citizens run screaming in sundry directions, and they are replaced by brawny warriors and fair maidens, often enough one and the same. Fireballs and arrows part the air and pierce Paaluak, making her grumble with confusion and ire. Whuffling softly, she catches the scent of something spicy and mouth-watering, and lets out one shrill, keening cry before leaping back into the darkness of the waterway. Arrows follow, and then warriors, and finally, a couple more arrows. She escapes the way they entered, and there is nothing shambling about her retreat.

The lucky mezzkin is unharmed, but Paaluak's hide is dotted with black-fletched arrows, and scorched most unbecomingly. "Unbind me but a little," the mezzkin offers. "And I'll pull those barbs out for you before we go seeking the rarest, most wicked delight of all. Now, I've never tasted anything more scrumptious than a wee, human child..." But Paaluak keeps silent, and increases her pace. Every word of the mezzkin makes her run faster, until the plains beneath her feet are a smear of gold, and whole forests disappear in a single stride. By the time they reach fields of ice, the mezzkin's voice has given out entirely.

Stooping low, Paalauk crawls into her den of ice, and there gives a gentle, crooning call. A splintering network of noise greets her, and the mezzkin lifts his weary head to see three eggs shatter one-by-one, spilling out three little monsters, each the perfect image of Paaluak, down to the long snout and feathery brows. With hungry mewls and hisses, the little ones crowd around Paaluak, scrabbling at her legs as they try to climb. A proud rumble deep within her chest shakes the mezzkin free, and he tumbles to the chilly floor. She casually pins him with one hind paw and opens her mouth, a rusty, garbled speech pouring forth.

"As my maulren before me knew, the best thing for new-hatched shamblers is a mezzkin fresh out of words. Makes 'em tender for little mouths. Like this."Paaluak takes the first bite, instructing her brood, and then they all gobble him up, hooves to snout.[/COLOR]

...

I awake at noon, my robes soaked with sweat, and my skin aching. A distant headache threatens, throbbing in counterpoint with my smallest motion. I lick my parched lips, and long for ale or water. Everything seems so distant, so difficult. It's not that I'm lazy, but my limbs certainly are. Languid and trembling, all my extremities seem useless, and I close my eyes to the world around me. Breath by even breath, I conserve my energy, spin it into something strong enough to carry me out for more food, and a bucket of water.

I remind myself I'm an enchanter. I concentrate on the fact that it takes me fewer steps to accomplish things than most people. I count the steps between me and my return. They seem overwhelming, and I suspect that sunlight will kindle a deeper fever. I choose to doze again, and wait until daylight flees. The cool of the evening will wake me, I trust. If not, I've rented this room for only a couple days, and surely they'll turn me out before I perish. Perishing patrons are bad for business.