'I shouldn't have left him behind.

The danger was too great, and my energy too low... With the rift torn, my body moved on its own. I wanted to survive. Selfishly, I wanted to live.

Crawling onto the land of Grunterbad alone, I wonder if it was worth my ignoble efforts.

I am not of this place. I do not understand its laws or customs. I hide myself away in the hopes that he will follow me here... that I will not die without friends in a strange and foreign land.'

The mighty Warlock magicked away the tears that fell upon the page of the journal. This was his third attempt to read it, his heart heavy with the words of the man he loved. The first of the books chronicled the early years of his transportation; of begging for food and taking whatever work allowed him to sleep indoors.

Tracing his finger gently across the words, the Warlock wished he could have given him comfort. Had he been by his side, life would not have been so cruel. Reading page after page of the hardships he suffered, enduring the pain of his prose; at last the Warlock found the greatest of his questions answered.

'I tried again. Foolish as I knew it would be... there is no magic here.

When I felt myself recovered, I attempted to open the rift and summon the velvet water. No matter my methods, only the river ran through my fingers. In this place, no enchantment can be spoken... the words are lost on the wind.

My only hope is on the other side, that he will learn what must be done. I knew too little of Grunterbad... that letting the portal close was sealing my fate in this realm. Will he know..? Will he know to leave it open when he comes? Will he come at all..?'

The Warlock had suffered many disappointments in his search for the mystical land of Grunterbad. Every time he traveled, he would arrive in another pocket of his own world; sometimes half a days' journey from where he left, and once, deep in the western wilds where the better part of a year was spent on his return. He learned quickly, never to close the portal behind himself; not until he was sure he could make it back.

The witch must have feared that Enforcer Brox would chase him through, to have acted so rashly. Had the Warlock done the same, he could have been left there, powerless, with only the ashes of his love for company. Conquering the Madning Isle had taken too much of his time, if only he'd been faster, maybe he could have been there, if only at the end.

Closing the journal and laying a kiss upon its cover, the Warlock returned it to the box. The day was long, and destruction close at hand. He needed his rest so that the world might be swallowed by the ocean.

In another wing of the Velvet Palace, the Counsel was staring into the fire as the flames licked and spat at the fresh logs the servant had thrown. He was reminded of home. His mother had a scar on her shoulder where she'd sat too close as a child and caught her dress alight. From the earliest time he could remember, he was taught to fear the fire.

In the passing of years, all fear had fallen away. He felt nothing.

"Counsel... pardon the intrusion, but we've received word... about the drunkard."

A flicker of interest flashed across the Counsel's brow upon hearing such unexpected news. It had been several decades since he'd made himself known to the world, assumed to have perished in a ditch, or be uncovered passed out in a backwoods bawdy house.

"Where?" asked the Counsel, before tempering his curiosity, "Still living..?"

"He's been spotted, alive, as close to Relmund as Master Pie's Sirrup House."

The Counsel decided to pay him a visit before the end of the world; if only to discover where he'd been hiding himself. Wrapping his cloak tightly around his body, the Counsel mounted his horse and raced into the night; closing the distance before the last star glittered into place amongst the heavens.

"This is the place?" he confirmed with his attendant.

"Indeed sir," came the swift reply, "It is possible he presumed the Sirrup House still operating as it had in the time of the... in the time before the Warlock. Once infamous for its women and wine, it has returned to a more reputable position. It is unlikely he would have attended knowing of tonight's performance."

"Performance?" asked the Counsel. 

"The Zauber Play, sir..."

His eyes growing wide, the Counsel rushed into the theater before it was too late. It troubled him, recalling the past that had been made so public; but he had learned to bear it. There was another who had not.

Master Pie himself was pleading with the furious drunk to leave quietly, the audience either muttering to one another or staring in stunned silence. Upon the stage, the actors appeared to be turned to stone; a littering of statues frozen in tableau. 

"Is this what passes for entertainment to you people..?!" cried the troublemaker, "Spewing lies to satisfy your inaction..?! He means to bring the witch back here, you understand? A demon in our land! You romanticize a demon and do nothing to stop him!"

"You would rather the Protectorate returned..?" a foolish question surfaced from the audience.

"Who said that?!" bellowed the drunk, scanning the crowd with killing intent.

"Oh just shut up and leave already!" shouted another, "You're ruining the show! Some of us came to enjoy ourselves!"

"There's something to be enjoyed in this..?" he challenged, "Glorifying the witch as though a god! Denying he brought anything but destruction?! What sacrifice do you presume him to have made? You're all blind to his evil!"

Fiepet had remained in place watching them. In part, he hoped the vocal outburst stemmed from the man's passion for the arts, but increasingly, he feared that it was rooted in some kind of truth.  

"I've had enough of this!" a stout porter declared, rising to extract the nuisance himself, and muttering a vicious incantation under his breath. Before the whirring winds of expulsion could be enacted, the Counsel stepped in.

"Stow your rage!" he told the porter; his voice resounding in the little theater with such power that all were silenced, and all enchantments cast aside. The glowing orb of light on stage vanished, and only the dim and gentle glow of candlelight kept the Sirrup House from darkness.

The drunkard didn't bother to turn his head to see who'd spoken. He knew too well. Squaring his shoulder to the porter and barging through the crowd, he had no intention of speaking a word to the Warlock's crony.

The Counsel had no intention of letting him disappear again so easily. A nod to his attendant, and the drunk was tailed to the back door.

"You may continue," the Counsel permitted, all but Fiepet bowing in the dark to show their gratitude. If it really was the Warlock's Counsel, it would do them no good to offend.

Fiepet stared at the pale, thin man who had commanded a room with a mere half dozen words. For such a powerful figure, he seemed so frail. The Counsel met his eyes, and Fiepet saw no sign of life reflected back at him. A ghost made flesh, for whom mortal business held no value. For some reason he couldn't fathom, it hurt Fiepet's heart to see a soul so broken.

The theater held its breath until the Counsel turned and swept out of the room.

"Honored guests!" cried Master Pie, his senses once more collected, "With trifles resolved and the night still in its infancy; let us not lose our sense of wondertainment! The play remains playing, and the Warlock yet to see his triumph! Take your seats, hurry, do!"
 
The ball of light began to grow as the actors returned their thoughts to the scene before them. All but Fiepet, desirous to ensure his brother was alright; he started towards the curtain when Cuttle caught hold of his wrist.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, "The act is almost at its close! You must await my ascension and stay to hear Stoat's words. Then you may go for a spell. Your death in the second act is all that's required of you."

Fiepet nodded, though he could not shake the uneasiness he'd felt upon seeing the strange, pale man. Safe in the knowledge that Delph was nowhere in his path, he returned to his affected stance, dagger in hand.

Delph had had seen nothing of the disturbance on stage, having followed the friendly dancer through a back entrance to the kitchen, lured by the promise of food for himself and his brother.

"If we go now, we should be back in time for a break in the action," she'd explained before the ruckus had begun.

"I didn't notice this door here before," he told her as they left the little area behind the curtain, "It's a wonder we didn't use it when we arrived..."

"Oh... well that's Cuttle for you. He'd rather disturb our show than have to come through the kitchens and risk the stench of food on his clothes. Hurry now, this way, didn't you say you were hungry..?" 

The sounds of the play grew quiet as they wound their way to the back of the theater. People were few, and the dazzling lights that had met them gave way to shadowy stone passageways.

"This place is like a labyrinth," noted Delph, "Are you sure we won't get lost?"

"Not if you know the way," the girl assured, "Just up ahead and on the left."

A large wooden table took center stage in the sparsely decorated kitchen. Around it sat the rest of the dancers, bowls of stew before them, distracted from their meal by the sudden appearance of the newcomers. The girl Delph had come with exchanged a meaningful look and motioned to the man at her side. A simple nod seemed to suggest there was food enough for Delph.

"And my brother too..?" asked Delph, "Though I'm happy to share my portion if there isn't enough."

The silent stares from the women were beginning to unnerve him.

"We'll certainly give it some consideration," an older dancer eventually conceded, "But for now, you are here, are you not? Let us deal with one problem at a time."

Beyond the kitchen, in the cool and sobering air, the drunkard had been cornered by the Counsel's attendant. His horse was hitched at the other side of the building, and he hadn't expected they'd care so greatly as to stop him from leaving.

"Kill me if you must," he declared, "Anything to end whatever reunion you were hoping for."

The Counsel stepped closer to better see his face.

"You're still angry," he said, his simple observation devoid of emotion, "But I wanted to see you all the same. There was a time-"

"No!" he cried from the attendant's grasp, "Don't you dare to speak of the past! Not while you continue to distort it at that lunatic's side! Have you forgotten why it all fell apart? You, who would summon a demon to this world! You would help him return the witch to-"

"The witch is dead," the Counsel told him, "It is over. All of it."

"Dead..?" 

"I wanted to see you one last time, to part ways before the end."

The drunkard failed to understand.

For years he had longed to hear news of the witch's demise. There were those that thought him long since perished; that he'd drowned in the river Vel and been lost on the currents. He wanted to believe it, to trust that the Warlock would never find him. And yet still they searched, and he could never escape the frightening possibility that the Maddening Witch might yet be found alive.

"The Warlock himself has found the truth of it," the Counsel explained, "There is no turning of the tide. All is put to rest."

The grip on the drunkard's clothes was loosened, as overwhelming tears streaked his reddened cheeks. A century of grief washed over him, and he could finally bear to face himself.

"Will you tell me now?" asked the Counsel, "Where you have been? What you have done? We looked for you, if only to satisfy our duty."

"What duty do you have to me..?" asked the drunkard, "I wished nothing but your deaths."

"And soon you shall have it..." the Counsel replied, "Death will come to save us, Ursa."