After weeks of hiking, the weary traveller finally arrives at the lair of the reclusive metadragon. Its presence is confirmed by a cacophany of squelching from further down the cave. Smelling the traveller, the metadragon bursts out of the cave entrance in full flight, knocking them flat.
It begins a breath, vomiting up three smaller dragons who fly a short distance away before exhaling dragons of their own. The chain continues at an accelerating pace until the air for a hundred metres around the original dragon is full of a dense cloud of dragons of miniscule size. There's a brief quiet interval, then the process begins in reverse, with the dragons re-inhaling each other in size order until there's once more only one left.
This happens a few more times before the traveller recovers their composure and shouts up, entirely out of character, “Hey! Dragon! Want a Ticket to Spindle?”
Dear all,
Next month marks the 1st anniversary of the final Brainstorm! To commemorate the momentous achievements of last year, I would like to invite you to what I hope will be the first of a regular series of reunions. We’ve all been through more than any Muse would have ever expected before the Great Fade, and this a good time for us to come together and reflect on our shared experiences.
I encourage you come to the Exhibition Hall and catch up with old friends (or check up on old foes). Find out what everyone’s been up to! Many impressions have been invited too, including Princess Manta Ray.
I do hope to see many of you there.
Yours, Herbert
A single stray bullet.
Every bullet has a history: their trajectory does not start in the muzzle of a gun. Every bullet that ends its life tearing through flesh and bone has journeyed far to get there. But this bullet is more storied than most, if you will pardon the pun. It was not forged, its murderous intent not imparted by the hands of human or Muse. No, it was born beyond time, never becoming, but always being, pinned to the eternity of the Transcendental.
It was plucked from there at the whim of a Concept, The Gunslinger, and from their hands it passed to the one it was destined to kill. It settled with them for almost two decades before it was taken by a Squirrel for their war with the Foxes. It passed from soldier to floofy soldier, a hundred times it was chambered in the barrel of a gun and never fired. How could it be?
And then, at last the day came. Destiny could only be denied so long. Thirty years after the Tarot Crisis, Herbert Horatio The Third found himself on the outskirts of Squirrel territory. He heard the wail of the sirens, the thunder of the big guns, the distant yowls of flying foxes as they dived from the sky to seize squirrels between their jaws.
And it was in this chaos, that a gun, a gun almost as storied as the bullet itself, that came to the squirrels from their creator, was aimed into the sky, at Siio, wisest of the foxes. And missed.
A single stray bullet…
Given this story, given the weight of history, the Narrative momentum that this bullet has accumulated, can there be any doubt as to what happens next?
Fortunately, like so many plots that seem like they can only be closed with tragedy, this bullet is about to run into the one thing that can stop it: a Deus Ex Machina.
In this case the Deus in question is The Architect, and the machine… that is the Snowglobe Herbert was gifted so long ago.
He falls to the ground, clutching his chest. He opens his shirt to inspect the damage and find the bullet, his bullet, once again. It lies among the shards of broken glass, in the diorama of a perfect Spindle. He plucks the bullet out from the shattered globe and looks at it, incredulous.
For all the rest of his days, he does not lose it again.