In his bedchambers once again, Guillemagne ponders the strange affair that Sir Clark has just approached him with. On the one hand, he held no hostility towards the man; on the other hand, the other world was overwhelming to experience, and Guillemagne remained unsure if the risk of leaving Lothariton unguarded would outweigh the benefits that such a new experience could bring with it. 

He strokes his chin, staring out of the window overlooking the plains outside the city. Could he bear to part with this familiar scenery again, after only recently becoming used to it? Change, yes, change is a part of his and everyone else’s lives. But there must be periods of stasis between the strife…

Nay, is now truly the time to doubt? He promised the people he would be their hero, and yet here he is, biting his nails and being indecisive. Guillemagne clutches the communication device closer to his chest. What to do, what to do…

Sir Clark seemed honest enough. Guillemagne trusts that the man will surely aid him in any way he can. For now, he rests, and tomorrow he shall think upon the question.

Light dawns upon the continent of Ekhanoia. It is morning, a bright and early morning for Guillemagne. He goes through his usual morning toilet; once completed, Guillemagne ventures off to see Hansel in order to warn the mayor of his departure. 

"Leaving, are we?" Mayor Schmitt asks. "Again, so soon?"

Guillemagne nods. "It will be a brief absence, I promise. Do warn the guard — they will have more work to deal with. I apologize for that."

"Very well. Bring me a souvenir of this other world when thee returnest, my boy."

No further words are said. Both parties have the utmost faith in each other. 

After Guillemagne leaves the office, he purchases a piece of bread from the baker for his break-fast. It is a light and airy loaf of high quality; crispy edges without and a network of holes within. Guillemagne finishes the baguette, feeling his energy restored. He thanks the baker on his way out.

To prepare for his coming rendezvous, Guillemagne purchases some of the apothecary Costamary's remedies and antidotes. They come in glass vials with handwritten labels and sturdy corks.

Guillemagne bows towards the apothecary. "Thank ye kindly, Lady Fennel. These will aid me muchly."

"Oh, please. Thou art my most loyal customer. We are on better terms than that, aren't we, Guillemagne?"

He files the vials away into his inventory, placing them next to Sir Clark's communication device. "Ha ha, I suppose so, Costamary."

Guillemagne spends the rest of the preparation day by saying his farewells to all and sundry. Of particular note are the people who were at the Mayor's meeting from the week-end. Guillemagne can't help but notice them, and their interesting little routines. 

Sir Sardion is hard at work chiseling away at a new sculpture. His ordinary work of shaping the facades of buildings has slowed down somewhat; due to a recent dearth of patrons willing to commission artisans because of a lack of supplies, Sardion and others like him have found themselves with a much wider length of free time. Oh, it seems young Kyano is carving a… Guillemagne laughs to himself. A scantily-clad woman, so far without a face.

"Master Lothaire!" Kyano calls out. "Stay awhile and pose for me! I'm in need of references — only live models will do!"

"I shall have to decline thy generous offer, Sir Sardion," Guillemagne demurs. "Some other time, perhaps; I am leaving awhile."

"Well, I guess it can't be helped… it seems I will be using myself as the reference. Farewell, Master Lothaire!" Kyano waves the knight goodbye.

On his walk through Lothariton, Guillemagne passes by Mimir and the rest of the Blacksmiths' Guild, still hard at work making the pots and pans that the Merchants' Guild ordered a week ago, with the newly-integrated Amagrisse du Lac supervising their work. He would wave them farewell, too, but he would rather not disturb their intense concentration. Mimir and Amagrisse made a good team, or at least that was what Guillemagne heard… news tended to reach his ears quicker than most others.

Lady Atenai Palles, the scholar, is near the gates tending to a new patch of earth. She is leaning on a nearby rake when Guillemagne passes by. 

"Guillemagne!" Atenai cries, surprised by his sudden appearance. She pushes her dislodged spectacles back into place. "Goodness, what a fright that was… dost thou need anything from me?"

Guillemagne shakes his head. "No, I'faith. I am merely making my rounds before I go."

"Go? Go where?"

"I shall be traveling abroad for a while, to see a new world." 

"Eh?" Atenai looks puzzled. "Hast thou not already explored the whole of Ekhanoia?"

Oh, no, perhaps she is suspicious of his intentions… "No, no, don't worry, Lady Palles, I would never abandon thee nor the town. I simply wish for… a brief change of scenery."

"Some momentary respite, I suppose? That's understandable. 'tis easy to grow tired of the same old view every day."

"Quite right."

Atenai looks towards her barren patch of earth and sighs. "I tire of this nothingness, too. I promised Master Schmitt I would have some results for this project… if no results turn up, he won't allow me to investigate the disappearance phenomenon any further."

"Hmm…" Guillemagne stares at the patch of earth. "Atenai, didst thou water the plants?"

Atenai drops her rake in shock. "Oh."

Leaving the dumbfounded Atenai behind, Guillemagne saddles his horse, making haste out of the gates of the city and onwards towards the patchwork world. He retrieves the communicator device from his inventory; Sir Clark must have neglected to tell him about this useful feature — these communicators can determine the direction of their origin point, and fortunately it is straight out of the gates.

Night shifts into morning transforms into day melts into night morphs into dawn slides into dusk and bleeds into day again. Guillemagne's faithful steed gallops onward, to the destination, without compromise, without divergence. Like curtains of different colors parting to reveal yet more sets of polychromic curtains behind, the sky and scenery shift ceaselessly — until eventually even the architecture is changing with the distance covered.

The temperature, too, has changed. Even the slightest breath sends clouds of mist into the frosty air. Guillemagne's body is well-insulated, but the chill on his face is not to be underestimated. He urges his horse to go faster.

Crossing the threshold between worlds is a lot faster than Guillemagne thought it would be, though it is rather disorientating when riding on a steed as fast as his own. He dismounts at the gates of what appears to be the same alien city that Sir Clark took him to. He cannot read the sign atop the gates, but he senses that it is meant to be cheerful, welcoming, a signal of a safe haven amidst a turbulent storm. 

"Wait," Guillemagne mutters, stopping his horse for a moment, halting just outside the city gates. There could be a bandit ambush lying in wait, or a monster about to strike. Perhaps the city itself could be a mirage! Guillemagne remains cautiously at the gate, waiting to see what manner of surprise will rear its ugly head at him. 

Nothing happens. He breathes a sigh of relief, examining the surroundings with a practiced eye.

The length and breadth of this city much surpass his own Lothariton, let alone the Imperial Capital's size. He has to crane his neck upwards simply to get a glimpse at the roofs of the tallest buildings, which are shrouded in damp, gray clouds. A chill is certainly in the air; on this cold, cloudy day, Guillemagne is certainly glad to know fire magic.

Guillemagne dismounts from his steed and ties its bridle to a nearby post. "Keep watch for me," he bades it, in a sort of off-handed and absent-minded way.

As Guillemagne wanders through the cold, cloudy day of the Patchwork World's main city, he stops often to admire each building he passes by. The window panes of clearest glass, the structures of some unknown and mesmerizingly shiny material… Guillemagne almost loses himself within the architecture, and it takes him a surprising amount of willpower to force himself back onto the correct path. No more straying from the objective, now, it is time…

He navigates through the strange buildings until at last he finds the terminal he arrived in the last time he ventured to this new world.

Why, what good fortune! It is Sir Michael Clark himself, in the flesh! He has a rather odd object nestled between his palms. It appears to be some sort of black tablet in the shape of an elongated prayer-book. As Sir Clark stares at it, Guillemagne begins to wonder if it, too, holds some sort of hypnotic property for Michael the same way all the buildings did for him…

"Sir Clark? Canst thou hear me?" Guillemagne calls out.

Sir Clark puts his device away, into his bounteous bag, and waves to Guillemagne. "Yep, loud and clear. What's up, Lysander?"