…“No!“ cries Ser Hestia, “Ser Quill, remember Jackie warned us, don’t look into its eyes!”
Too late. Your gaze is drawn, inevitably, to the mirrored eyes of Kalkfir, the great Dread Hound. Your reflection dies, screaming within its pupils, and the eyes open wide, growing to the size of dinner plates, then dustbin lids, pulling you in, falling… down…
… You run through yet another room of the endless restaurant, oh-so familiar faux French furnishings leering at you, countless copies of your Breadspace self in waiters' uniforms serving bowls of nothing to faceless patrons. “Let me out, you great stinking mutt!” you cry. A chef plates a nothing-casserole. A tinny Muzak version of 'La Vie En Rose' assaults your ears for what feels like the hundredth time.
“What are you doing?” says one of the Quills, stepping into your path with a horrible, bland smile. “Why bother? What is the point? Is there even a point? How do you know you are even real, that anything is real?”
You try to push him aside, “Stop this, I–”
“What is I? What is this? Can you see, can you trust your senses, with no eyes? Your memories might be an illusion – yourself not even a person, merely a meaningless idea. A figment of dream. Perhaps my dream. A fictional entity drifting on the mirage of time, every decision pre-ordained, no control. What is control? Can we even–“
SPLURRRRPRPST!
A gleaming sword bursts out of a cut in thin air and slices straight through the middle of the Quill, who crumples in two pieces with a wet splatter onto the restaurant carpet. The sword is followed by a gauntleted hand, arm, and then the helmeted head of Ser Hestia, who shouts, “Come on! This way!” You clasp hands and she pulls you through the rift…
… You sprint, fast as thought, across the stony ground. Ser Hestia pounds alongside, a dark fractal sky above. Finally, after escaping the Nightmare's trap, then the battle of the salt jungle, at long last, you have it cornered! The Dreadbeast has nowhere left to run. Up ahead a tall black lighthouse, shaped like a Chess Rook, stands sentinel on a lonely promontory, watching over a sea made entirely of sharks, sleek black clumps of water moving hungrily amid the mass of writhing grey-finned bodies. You kick the door open with a bang.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here!” cries the old lighthouse keeper, clutching at his beard and yellow anorak. “That terrible beast – it's lurking outside, beyond the reach of the light! Watching, waiting. Scottie and me were so frightened,” he pets the small white Highland terrier jumping around his feet.
“Curses!” mutters Ser Hestia. “It must have got around us. I’ll scout outside, see if you can spot anything from the window.” You stow your sword and hurry to the small window. No, nothing to see but the head twisting clouds and the biting cartilaginous sea.
“Aww, lookie dearie – Scottie likes you,” croons the old man from behind, “won’t you look at his happy wee face, his big round eyes.” Exasperated you start to turn, to placate him, when – wait, there was something about that terrier… that dog… You draw your sword…
“We really owe both of you a tremendous debt, Ser Quill, Ser Hestia,” says the vicar of Lesser Muselton, shaking both your hands vigorously. “Were it not for you, we would all be stuck questioning our existence forever! I shall make sure to spread the news of your great victory far and wide.” He presses onto you another load of Muselton jam.
You smile, and politely decline. You have no need of jam. Your deeds are enough. It may just be a beginning, but of such things are great legends made.
L'Oiseau de Nuit went bust. It was always going to happen in hindsight. Without the endless (if ethically questionable) coffers of the Company Company, a practice of selling truffle soufflé, halibut and 50-year Bordeaux for less than the price of a TERPSICO meal deal was never going to last.
The sudden relief from the late hours and 100-plates-an-hour unfortunately did not quite compensate for the drastic decline in your bank balance. Even a job dressing up as a giant stuffed sea mammal to advertise croquet began to look attractive.
Fortunately salvation was at hand. With the Company Company overlords fleeing Museford, the Coffee Company returned once again to merely being a small coffee shop on the second floor of the Cranium Shopping Mall. But that didn't mean Alexia Morgan had any intention of giving up middle management.
“Following the… reorganisation of the company, the head office has decided to retain me as regional coordinator,” explains Alexia from across their desk. “Even despite the reduced number of operations in Museford, as a result of the downsizing there are still plenty of… ah, situations, which will require my careful handling. As such, I will be taking a step back from the day-to-day work of coffee. Hence we shall be needing a new manager.” Alexia smiles. “I have been impressed by your dedication, work ethic, and commitment to the Compan– Coffee Company. I am therefore offering you the position of Barista Manager, putting you in charge of the front of house team, effective immediately.”
The salary is twice what you were making before. You have no hesitation. As soon as you pin on the sleek, gold 'Barista Manager' badge, you make an immediate change: “Custom coco designs prohibited welcomed!”
With your newly freed-up hours you go hiking every week with Louis – who brings samples of his latest cheese – and continue to go to meetings of the revitalised Children of Dawn (who are now talking about 'alien visitors' among other esoteric offerings). You take time to join in with Tim's psychic enterprise along with Calla, and to simply relax.
You never did quite get to the bottom of the 'Museford Monster'. Hestia has done her best to convince you of course, as have the Children of Dawn when you brought it up. You have found multiple tracks of a large clawed animal in the forest on your hiking trails, but you did also notice some dinosaur feet boots in Jackie Carver's cabin. She said they were for 'my fancy dress parties'. Hmm. Still, those claw marks were quite large, and there was that time when Louis saw a big black something moving in the distance. You are unsure. But, well, maybe Museford deserves some remaining mysteries…