“When at long last the final day of Dream came, and we watched Spindle, our birthplace, and for almost half a century our home, pass into Potential, we were greatly saddened. But there was some comfort for us in this time, because Morgana The Great, first of her name, Matriarch of Lizards, did not die with Dream.

Of all the Muses of the First Jo’s Dream, only Morgana was kind to us. At best the other Muses tolerated us, at worst they drove us to fight for their entertainment with The Squirrels. It was a hard time to be a Lizard, but she made it easier.

Without her berries, and the other snickety-snooks she provided our people, we would certainly not be where we are today. In those difficult early years when Fox, and Squirrel and Muse all sought to harm us, she gave us shelter.

Though her Dream may be gone, although she is forever separated from us by the walls between worlds, here in The Transcendental we will remember. Every Dream we visit, we tell them of Morgana The Great. By our influence on the Jos, her story will always be told in The Mundane.

This is the gratitude of the Lizards.

We are forever Yours in Twilight, Morgana Shadestalker.”

- The Secret History of The Lizards, Lizard Ditka

The sea beats against the rocks as thunder, the heavy spray a never ending downpour. The clouds above are steely, their light pale and grey. Still, the little room at the bottom of the lighthouse is warm, a stove burns brightly in the corner, upon which rests a small teapot that begins to whistle.

You carefully avoid the lizards that bask in the warmth of the fire as you retrieve the tea: naturally a blend of your own invention. Although you cannot brew potions like you once did in Dream, you found that your skills have transferred to their Mundane analogues quite naturally.

Kilgharrah, as you’ve named your Shoulder Daimon, is still with you. They are certainly more than a mundane lizard, although perhaps less than the magical being there were in Dream. Whatever they have become, Kilgharrah has been a stalwart companion to you for many years now.

Tek sits at your small table on the spare chair you’ve taken out for her visit. She comes perhaps a little too often for your liking, but the company is generally agreeable.

“Morgana, you should come to Muses Anonymous sometime,” she says as you begin pouring her some tea.

You settle down and pour yourself a cup. “Perhaps.” You reply. Honestly, you don’t feel any real need to. You write now, and in those stories you have found more satisfaction that in Villainy or Revolution or anything else you had done with your life before coming to The Mundane. The Lizards make good company too.

Tek takes a drink, pauses a moment, and spits out the small reptile she had accidently slurped. “They really get everywhere don’t they? I’m taking care of the squirrels that stayed in The Mundane.”

That is quite interesting. “Oh, I wondered what happened to them. Are they still couriers?” you ask.

Tek shakes her head, “Sadly these squirrels were trained for battle, not delivery. They are having a hard time adjusting to civilian life.”

Your talk continues for some hours. Eventually, there is no more news to share, no more stories to tell. Tek understands you prefer to keep your own company, although you’re sure she would like more from you: she even asked you to live with her and that Shady Guy once, many years ago.

After she leaves, you go out to sit on the rocks overlooking the churning waters. The sun is setting, though you only know it from the deepening of the sky’s grey. You close your eyes, listen to the sounds of the ocean, feel the rain on your face.

Sometimes you hear the Revolutionary still, although over the many years their voice has grown quieter. They are happy for you, and seem to have found some peace for themselves in Dream.

But you do not hear them now. Today it is just you, and the sea.

“Captain, there’s something caught in the positronic net!”

The fisherfolk set the net to haul in, and disgorge its contents on the main deck. A small drone scuttles over the detritus. It's mostly seaweed, and it takes the drone some time to pull away enough to reveal the snag.

Lying among the ocean debris is something… not of this world. Like a blade from a pair of scissors, although as long as an arm. It is black beyond blackness, a hole cut from the fabric of the world.

The fisherfolk gather around to admire their catch, and their grizzled old captain picks it up in one hand. They turn it first left and see that from that side the edge glows with a faint pink, then right, from which it bleeds an austere starlight.

“What in the heck do you think this is?”

The captain rubs their chin. “You know, when I was a kid there was a kindly old sea witch who lived in a lighthouse near here,” they growl.

“Witch?” the first mate asks incredulously. There isn’t much of that kind of superstition around these days.

“Aye, witch. And don’t take me for some superstitious sailor! She was not of this Earth, you mark my words. Sometimes I’d think I’d see tentacles poking out from under her mac’. Anyway, she wrote stories of another world, and in them she mentioned a blade with one edge in the world above, the world of idea, and one in the world below… our world”

The sailors gather round, staring in wonder, as the captain prepares for an experimental swipe.

The limit of the weapon was always the Juice of the wielder…

Humans have enough to sustain an entire world.