text: [Themes: fantasy, fantasy, spiritual]
  
  A lilting symphony wakes you; brightly colored warblers and thrushes are serenading the dawn. It's your favorite time of day - the golden hour when the flora and fauna of Dreaming Forest blush and bloom, but the humans of Harrow Village have yet to wake.
  
  Since dreams were lost thirty years ago in the Sacrifice of Salvation, there is little attraction left for you in sleeping late. You wake with the sun - earlier, in winter, - and generally spend your mornings laying out in the dewy grass, staring up at the light shimmering over the leaves of the forest canopy, or trying to count how many different sounds you can hear. Sometimes, you bring out miniature, carved palaces and hang them, then sit a while watching the hummingbirds squabble over the thrones of seed and the fountains of nectar.
  
  But today is different, for it will be your last day in Dreaming Forest for some time, perhaps forever. You sit and drink hot Franjia tea, just watching and taking everything in, as if drawing each aspect of the scene on the folded papers of your mind.
  
  "Good-bye to you all," you murmur at the creatures of paradise that flit and dive around you. This place, this secret idyllic corner of nature, was the final dream of your wife before she was lost. You were meant to have shared it together - her, the Muse of Epics, and you, the simple storyteller she fell in love with. Instead, you had tended it for four decades, alone, with only her memory beside you. And now, even that is fading.
  
  "It's time," you sigh, and return inside your simple wooden cabin to finish packing. Today you are to begin a pilgrimage that will take you thousands of farspans north, across the equator and beyond, to the sacred Grove of Muses. It is there your wife stands as stone, along with the other muses who gave their lives to save the planet. All except Sandman, who was all but destroyed, and now orbits the planet as a ring of glittering dust. Now, instead of giving special dreams, all dreams return to him.
  
  A weeks' worth of food. Three pairs of clothing. A blanket. 50 pieces of silver - all your savings. There isn't a lot you can take, since you will have to travel light. And it will not be easy - you will have to trust that you can earn money along the way, whether by odd jobs or by telling stories, if you hope to keep traveling once your funds run out. But there is one item above all others that you must take: Ivani's Book of Tales.
  
  It is your most valued possession, the original stories your wife once inscribed and gave to you as a wedding present. Many of the stories have faded to near illegibility - the ones you have read the most, for all tales fade in the world now that the muses have gone, even ones like these written before the Sacrifice or written on Remembrance paper or carved into stone. They might not vanish immediately like spoken tales, never to be told again, but they still are powerless to last forever. But to lose the memory of them - that is what terrifies you, and what has driven you to take this Pilgrimage.
  
  At first you had thought the lapses were just the dawn of old age - you are over seventy - but they were all related to the Book of Tales, or to stories you told the people of Dreaming Village. You would speak a tale, and then not only would the words be lost forever - but you would find you couldn't recall what the story had been about a week later. After months of this, you began to hear rumors and complaints of others who were also forgetting - forgetting not just the stories they had heard, but the memories of the Muses or the dreams they had had in childhood before the Sacrifice had robbed the world of nighttime visions. Then, you woke one morning to find you couldn't remember the color of Ivani's eyes.
  
  Something is wrong, and it is imperative that you find out what. You hope there will be something with her, in the Grove of Muses, to explain what is happening or provide an answer. She had sacrificed herself to save the world, but at what cost? Why have dreams gone? Why do stories fade? And what is eating your very memories?
  
  You shrug on your cloak, shoulder your pack, grab your favorite carved walking stick from your collection, and shuffle on foot through the trees towards a forked path overlooking the town. Your limited supply of money will not get very far, and you cannot cross mountains, oceans, and deserts on foot. You'll need some form of transportation, and the nearest place to get that is Dreaming Village.
  
  The town is divided into two sections - the main town, and Inrit Gardens. You are well-known to the townfolk as you have spent over half your life telling stories to them and buying food and supplies. But Inrit Gardens is a place for tourists and the rich who planted summer homes there. Like most village-folk, you avoid it unless there is a reason to go.
  
  You have toured Inrit a few times just to see the sculpted gardens and the creatures that inhabit it, as it too was a place touched by your wife, but its beauty had been tamed and controlled, so it did not hold the solace you hoped. Still, it might be a good place to visit, now, as nobles have deeper pockets than the common man. While it might be harder to get noticed or draw a crowd in a place like Inrit Gardens, they would likely be willing to pay a lot more for an hour's entertainment.
  
  But you haven't said good-bye to anyone in the main village, and they are the ones who have supported you all these years. The children, especially, are fond of your tales, even as their parents grow jaded through the years, remembering the times when stories could be told over and over. And Talsum, the closest person you have to a best friend, lives at the bakery in town.
  
  You reach the edge of the forest and the forked path and look down over the village. Inrit Gardens dazzles even from here, a patch of green and blue, home to many stately homes and several larger mansions. Everything there seems quiet, almost untouchable. The main Village is a bit more brown and homely, but you can see the colorful awnings of the market stalls in Town Square, as well as at least a hundred small figures moving about. It should be a good crowd, today. You step forward, clenching your staff with veined, papery hands. Where will you begin your journey?
  
  [Author's Note: The muses are gone. They sacrificed themselves to save Sandrella from cataclysm, and all that is left of them are drained, stone husks, and a ring of dust orbiting the world. Your wife was one of them. But with them went all the dreams and the permanence of stories. And now, forty years later, it seems memory is next. Though an old storyteller with little to your name, you must undertake a long journey to the Grove of the Muses, hoping to rekindle the flames that once burned inside you, before you can't remember them at all.]
  
  > go to town square
  You join the early morning crowd in the town square. A few shop stalls are open for business, although you have everything you should need for now in your pack, and townfolk mill about picking over the wears. A few children run here and there, but most of those are the shop assistants. More will soon come once the typical breakfast hour is over.
  
  Some people give you strange glances, as your garb is that of a pilgrim. You wonder if they recognize you under your hood, but no one approaches you as you walk the perimeter of the square.
  
  The Monument of the Muses, a large fountain with an impressive statue of the muses, looms over the northeast corner. You once donated a large sum of money to have it commissioned in her memory, and inscribed the plaque yourself. At the time, it seemed a fitting legacy for Ivani - back then, there was no need for the money the two of you had saved if there was no longer going to be a life together and children to come. Now, you wish you had kept a bit more back for yourself. Perhaps you could have taken this pilgrimage long ago, and ended your days in a home nearer to the Grove of Muses. But that would have meant leaving the home and grove she had made in the forest - and being with her memory was more precious than being near what was left of her body.
  
  To the west of the square is the main residential section. Wooden homes stand in an ordered grid for a farspan until the houses give way to shacks and cabins rambling back to the treeline. To the east is the blacksmith, bakery, Inn, hospital, stables, and some other larger buildings and permanent shops. To the south is the logging camp, the council chambers, and a very nice lake bordered by Dreaming Forest - Lake Firayah, where you proposed to Ivani.
  
  Part of you wants to walk the streets of the town, one last time, and carve the sights into your mind. But a good crowd is starting to form, and even now some children are looking towards you curiously. You can hear them whisper - it seems one has recognized you. It would be the perfect moment to sit in your usual spot and share a final tale with the people you have shared so much of your life with.
  
  > tell a story to the crowd
  You pull the hood away from your face and head over to the Monument of Muses. Sitting on the edge, you wave a hand and call in your loud stage voice: "People of Dreaming Village! Harken to my tale!"
  
  It is the classic call of a storyteller, and has its effect on the crowd. Soon dozens of people are headed over, as well as a large mass of children. Some sit, some stand, but all look at you with the unspoken question: why are you dressed that way?
  
  "I have decided to undertake a journey, a long pilgrimage to the northern hemisphere, past ocean, over island, and through forest to the distant Grove of the Muses." The murmuring in the crowd grows, and there are several cries of protest. You hold up a hand. "I have grown old beside you, but I must return to my cherished Ivani. If the muses are with me, I will return to you someday. But for now, I wish to share with you a final tale."
  
  "Give us one about the harvest festival!"
  
  "No, winter!"
  
  "Something with booze!"
  
  "With a frog!"
  
  "A sundial!"
  
  The crowd rushes into giving you suggestions, their questions put aside in the excitement of hoping of their suggestions get chosen. For a couple of minutes they shout over each other, offering things both mundane and absurd.
  
  You smile. "All right, then. A story set on a frigid, wintery day – in a courtyard, where a sundial stands to mark the time."
  
  The crowd quiets, whispering to each other in anticipation, as they await your traditional selection of who will give the final prompt.
  
  One of the little boys, Tajon, who has come to hear most of your tales in the last few years, is sitting eagerly at the front. He frequently throws out adventurous, and sometimes silly, suggestions like pirates and princes and his recently offered but rejected, "frog." You've asked him for a featured prompt a couple times in the past, and they were fun crowd pleasers followed by a decent, if nothing special, haul once the hat was passed for tips.
  
  A quiet woman standing at the edge of the crowd also catches your eye. You haven't seen her before; she's either new to the town or just passing through. Her dress is a simple, but well-tailored, and the quality seems less rough than that of the townfolk. Her eyes are shadowed by the net of a gray veil. In one fist, she clutches a fine embroidered handkerchief, hinting that she has the means to match. Pleasing her might be more lucrative than angling to please the crowd, but her general aura is tragic and closed off. You aren't sure if you should use your final story in Dreaming Village to win over a stranger, either, rather than please the community you've befriended.
  
  > ask the woman for a character
  Right now, the most pressing concern is gaining coin for your journey. A typical crowd haul of five or ten silver isn't going to contribute much, but the stranger looks like she has a deeper purse to pull from.
  
  "You, miss, in the gray." You tip your staff towards her.
  
  "Wha – what?" She asks, startled, her shoulders tensing. There is a light murmur of disappointment from those in the crowd not chosen.
  
  "I could use a last prompt for my story. Think of a character – it could be a person or animal, anything that thinks or moves – something that resonates with the core of your being."
  
  "I – a caged bird." she offers.
  
  "A caged bird. A lovely choice!" You say, nodding to encourage her as your mind spins, weaving the threads of a story. A sundial. A winter's day. A caged bird. "Gather all and hear," you begin as usual, "the Tale of the Scarlet Nightingale."
  
  "Once, in the lands of the frigid south, far from here in a kingdom of ice, a noble captured a rare nightingale. Its song was sweet, as the bird was known for, but its feathers were a bright scarlet rather than the usual dull brown. The noble was enamored with his prize, and spent a great deal of his fortune on a golden cage to house it and lavish parties to show off its brilliant plumage and heart-rending song.
  
  But soon, the bird grew melancholy. Not wishing his bird to die in anguish, the noble struck a deal with the nightingale. For one hour, every morning, the noble would allow the bird to fly free. But when the shadow of the sundial marked ten o'clock, the bird must return to the cage. And for half a year, the nightingale was happy once more. In exchange for an hour of freedom, he was content to spend the others in captivity to the noble.
  
  But as the months wore on in the land of ice, and the summer frosts changed to the deep snow drifts of winter, the nightingale grew restless. "I was born free! Why I have I become content to slave in exchange for a mere hour?"
  
  One morning, the coldest of the year, the noble released the nightingale into the air as the sun's shadow marked nine on the sundial. He admired his pet, watching for a minute as the red bird circled, then turned to take his betrothed for a walk until the hour was over.
  
  The nightingale soared. The snow glistened, the pine trees chattered and swayed, and the glorious sunlight was warm on its feathers. On and on it flew, into the forest where it was born, seeking out half remembered paths until the cold of the shade drove it out again. He cast one look back towards the distant courtyard, where an inviting tasseled pillow sat inside the open, gleaming cage. The sundial beckoned him to return.
  
  But he ignored it, and turned his face once more to the sun and the endless sky. It might mean death to fly the frozen skies, but for his last day he would have pure freedom again.
  
  When the noble returned, the cage sat empty. And though he called, the bird did not return. "He promised!" The noble seethed.
  
  His lover put a hand on his arm. "Is it not for the best?" she asked. "Why seek to hold what should by nature be free?"
  
  To the north, the nightingale flew on, past the borders of the kingdom. As it grew dark and he grew weary, he alighted on the branches of a frozen tree to rest. Here he sang, whistling and crooning to the last rays of the setting sun. It is said that his music thawed the heart of Willow, Muse of Tragedy, and she gave him the warmth needed to complete his final song.
  
  The crowd is unusually silent as you finish, perhaps because the story was more somber than your usual fare. The children shift on their bottoms as if bored, though a few of the adults look thoughtful. The air shimmers, as it often does after a story has been read or told, and you feel the twisting sensation that always accompanies the loss of a story. It is as if something out there is eating the tales as they are told, so that no one else can ever say them again.
  
  You clear your throat. "If you enjoyed the tale, please spare a coin for my journey." You pull out a worn blue hat from your pack and begin to walk with it around the group.
  
  A few of your regulars throw in a coin each, but the crowd quickly disperses. A couple people clap you on the shoulder and say a soft farewell and wish you luck.
  
  The hat is – woefully light. 5 silver coins isn't what you were hoping for.
  
  "Excuse me." A light tap on your shoulder alerts you to the presence of the woman who gave you the prompt.
  
  "Miss?"
  
  "Mrs., Mrs. Correlis. Your story was – beautiful." She dabs at her eyes with the handkerchief. "It was like you knew him, somehow."
  
  "Knew him?"
  
  "My husband, Rodsen. Everyone called him 'Big Red,' because of his hair." She swallows. "He's up north, fighting for the mages against the Delt Incursion. Or he was." The lady twists the handkerchief, breaking the delicate threads. "They say he deserted, ran off during breakfast hour. And what if he did! They put him on the front lines, where he was sure to be killed. Or worse, locked forever in a dark cell too small for humans, a cruel fate no one should face. They say he's a coward." Mrs. Corellis hangs her head. "But I'd like to think he's like your bird. He did his duty – moreso, as they had no right on his life to begin with. And if he is dead, then he died free!"
  
  You pat her hand, but she pulls away, only to put her hand in a pocket and come up with a heavy purse.
  
  "Just – thank you, for your story."
  
  "Thank you," you reply, but she has already moved on, melting into the morning crowd of shoppers. You open the purse into the hat and count the total: thirty silver! She must have put in twenty-five.
  
  Perhaps some stories were not meant for crowds or public enjoyment, but intended to find their way into a single heart.
  
  > acquire transportation
  You head for the east block of the town, where the Stables are. It will be the best place to buy an animal for the long journey. And while your back hurts just thinking about the hard ride ahead, it's the only way.
  
  The proprietor is a portly, balding man, but still younger than yourself.
  
  "Mr. Palmer! Welcome!" he greets, grabbing hold of your thin hands with his sweaty ones. "Dressed for a journey, I see!"
  
  You nod. "I'm going to the Grove of Muses."
  
  "That's quite a ways, quite a ways. None of my beauties will get you there, of course, they can't swim that far!" He tries whistling and laughing at the same time, which comes out something like the sound a mad hyena might make. "But I can get you to the shore of Syphyr." He rummages around his cluttered desk and comes up with a map, dirty and creased enough to be at least a decade old, which he spreads before you. "Here are a couple routes you could take:
  
  "From here, you could take a donkey northwest through the Ashen Veldt. It's pretty desolate out there in the plains, and ashy, but it's flat ground - even an untrained rider can make it. Plan to camp, as it's a two-day ride to Logvorn. From there, you can catch a boat.
  
  "And if you are a little foolhardy, but want to see some amazing things along the way, you could take a horse through the Pass of Night northeast. It will weave through the mountains until you reach the Cathedral of Havor. You'll need a guide, and it's a difficult ride, but the Cathedral is one of those places everyone should visit once in a lifetime. A bit dark for some, since they serve the blood gods, but great inspiration for a storyteller, right?"
  
  You pull the hood away from your face and head over to the Monument of Muses. Sitting on the edge, you wave a hand and call in your loud stage voice: "People of Dreaming Village! Harken to my tale!"
  
  It is the classic call of a storyteller, and has its effect on the crowd. Soon dozens of people are headed over, as well as a large mass of children. Some sit, some stand, but all look at you with the unspoken question: why are you dressed that way?
  
  "I have decided to undertake a journey, a long pilgrimage to the northern hemisphere, past ocean, over island, and through forest to the distant Grove of the Muses." The murmuring in the crowd grows, and there are several cries of protest. You hold up a hand. "I have grown old beside you, but I must return to my cherished Ivani. If the muses are with me, I will return to you someday. But for now, I wish to share with you a final tale."
  
  "Give us one about the harvest festival!"
  
  "No, winter!"
  
  "Something with booze!"
  
  "With a frog!"
  
  "A sundial!"
  
  The crowd rushes into giving you suggestions, their questions put aside in the excitement of hoping of their suggestions get chosen. For a couple of minutes they shout over each other, offering things both mundane and absurd.
  
  You smile. "All right, then. A story set on a frigid, wintery day – in a courtyard, where a sundial stands to mark the time."
  
  The crowd quiets, whispering to each other in anticipation, as they await your traditional selection of who will give the final prompt.
  
  One of the little boys, Tajon, who has come to hear most of your tales in the last few years, is sitting eagerly at the front. He frequently throws out adventurous, and sometimes silly, suggestions like pirates and princes and his recently offered but rejected, "frog." You've asked him for a featured prompt a couple times in the past, and they were fun crowd pleasers followed by a decent, if nothing special, haul once the hat was passed for tips.
  
  A quiet woman standing at the edge of the crowd also catches your eye. You haven't seen her before; she's either new to the town or just passing through. Her dress is a simple, but well-tailored, and the quality seems less rough than that of the townfolk. Her eyes are shadowed by the net of a gray veil. In one fist, she clutches a fine embroidered handkerchief, hinting that she has the means to match. Pleasing her might be more lucrative than angling to please the crowd, but her general aura is tragic and closed off. You aren't sure if you should use your final story in Dreaming Village to win over a stranger, either, rather than please the community you've befriended.
  
  > ask the boy for a character
  You would rather your last story be something your friends and neighbors will enjoy, especially the children.
  
  "Tajon!" you call, and the boy grins up at you. "I need a character. Someone or something fun!"
  
  "That's easy!" he grins. "I've been saving this one for weeks! An invisible giant!"
  
  "An invisible giant? That is a good one!" you laugh, inwardly wondering how you might work in not just a regular giant, but an invisible one into your tale of a sundial on a winter's day.
  
  "Ladies and Gentlemen!" you begin, "Be amused and astounded by the Tale of the Invisible Giant!"
  
  In the distant land of Pong-nong-nu, in a wintery park clearning, stood a sundial to mark the time. Busy students, haughty mages, daydreaming lovers, and giggling children were just some of the many who would come through the park before moving on. But one special day, the Giant Il-Gil-Nee came to visit.
  
  Gil wasn't like other giants, oh, no. He was big like the others, and thick in brawn and brain. But he also was invisible; a birth defect that had caused him more than a few difficulties in life. Fortunately, the many trials this came with – such as a mother who frequently forgot he was even there, or schoolyard bullies who would douse him in paint just to see him – had helped him develop a sort of flexible outlook on life wherein the smallest joys in life brought great pleasure and satisfaction.
  
  So, seeking some of those small joys, he came to a simple park in Png-nong-nu on a simple winter's day.
  
  There was a great tree in the park, a bit away from the sundial so as not to shade it. On this, the giant hung a lantern. The light was strong, enough to bathe the sundial in light. Gil stepped between the tree and the sundial until the stone timepiece was entirely in shadow. Then he stepped out. Light, once more! He held a finger out to test, moving the shadow where he willed, wiggling it as needed to mark different hours. Now, all he needed to do was wait.
  
  The first victim came! A man in a stark white suit, blending into winter snow, with a red wedding sash. "I spent too much time at the tavern!" he moaned aloud, heading for the sundial. "I must have been due at the church five minutes ago."
  
  Gil wiggled his pinky, just so, as the man came to see the time.
  
  "Only nine? I've an hour left? That much!" the man grinned. "I can go back for another pint."
  
  No sooner had he left than a little girl came, carrying a bucket and kicking up snow as she skipped. "Isn't it time yet?" She pouted. "Isn't it time to begin? Oh, please let it be eleven, for I long to start my snow sculpture for the contest!"
  
  Gil twitched a thumb.
  
  "The shadow has passed the two!" the girl clapped. "I must go fetch some snow." She ran passed to where the park rose in a hill and laid in the beginnings of a cute snowman family. Shortly after, an old woman came and scolded her, and forced her to knock over her work and begin again. Gil felt a bit bad for this, and spent some time carving mustaches and putting horns on the other contestant's snowmen, until everyone was done and the hardworking girl given a bright blue medal.
  
  As the afternoon wore on, an apprentice mage came to the park, carefully checking the time and then sitting down. "Only two hours to write the final pages," he muttered to himself.
  
  Gil chuckled, which the mage passed off as a throaty bird singing. When the mage got up in a half hour to check the time again, Gil flexed his index finger to move the shadow only fifteen minutes. This pattern was repeated for almost three hours, until at last the apprentice noted the fading light of day and dashed off towards the academy, certain he had met the deadline he had failed.
  
  "A good day." Gil smiled, then took the lantern and trudged off. The next morning, his footprints would become small ice-skating ponds for the children, and he would listen to their laughter from his home in the clouds. Simple pleasures were the best.
  
  The story over, you take a moment to enjoy the laughter of the children and chuckles of the crowd. It helps distract from the twisting knot in your stomach, the feeling that the story has been sucked out of you and fed to something elsewhere. The memory of the tale might remain, for now, but no one will be able to share the story of invisible Gil's wintery day of pranks again. At least, not in so many words, though they might try to tweak the details and spin it to make it new again.
  
  Some of the boys and girls are clapping Tajon on the back, and he sits there smugly, enjoying his place as lord of the other children for the day. You pass around your old blue storytelling hat, and a few in the crowd drop some silver in. Even Tajon, who never contributes with actual money, proudly holds up a coin and drops it in.
  
  As the crowd disperses, many congratulating you or wishing you farewell as they move on to their shopping, you eyeball the coins in the hat. It looks like 10 silver, about what you expected. It's not a lot, but at least now you won't have to spend all your coin on transportation.
  
  > acquire transportation
  You head for the east block of the town, where the Stables are. It will be the best place to buy an animal for the long journey. And while your back hurts just thinking about the hard ride ahead, it's the only way.
  
  The proprietor is a portly, balding man, but still younger than yourself.
  
  "Mr. Palmer! Welcome!" he greets, grabbing hold of your thin hands with his sweaty ones. "Dressed for a journey, I see!"
  
  You nod. "I'm going to the Grove of Muses."
  
  "That's quite a ways, quite a ways. None of my beauties will get you there, of course, they can't swim that far!" He tries whistling and laughing at the same time, which comes out something like the sound a mad hyena might make. "But I can get you to the shore of Syphyr." He rummages around his cluttered desk and comes up with a map, dirty and creased enough to be at least a decade old, which he spreads before you. "Here are a couple routes you could take:
  
  "From here, you could take a donkey northwest through the Ashen Veldt. It's pretty desolate out there in the plains, and ashy, but it's flat ground - even an untrained rider can make it. Plan to camp, as it's a two-day ride to Logvorn. From there, you can catch a boat.
  
  "And if you are a little foolhardy, but want to see some amazing things along the way, you could take a horse through the Pass of Night northeast. It will weave through the mountains until you reach the Cathedral of Havor. You'll need a guide, and it's a difficult ride, but the Cathedral is one of those places everyone should visit once in a lifetime. A bit dark for some, since they serve the blood gods, but great inspiration for a storyteller, right?"