It was a whole day before anything happened. A cold day and dark, cold night. Isolation and the frigid environment deeply affected Fürgůïn’s spirits.* He glanced at his own shoulder - bare and cold. It hadn't been his finest moment. But what was a freezing renling to do? Eat his own clothes? Niggit hadn't been happy recently anyway, terrified by all that bedlam, then stuck inside a stuffy pocket. He'd miss him.

Later, Fürgůïn spotted two figures approaching from the direction of the bridge. As they drew closer he could recognise Razzles and what looked like an elbh. Their advance was slow, reluctant. Razzles' face looked for all the world like bad news, strangely pale.

When they finally stood before Fürgůïn's makeshift tree-shelter, the pair were silent and solemn-looking. “Want to come in?" Fürgůïn indicated a small space of snow. Knohm and elbh ducked under the sparse twigs and huddled side by side, hesitating to sit directly on the icy ground.

* Fürgůïn recalled the well-known stories of the wars of old: knohms and renlings embroiled in conflicts from which many a beloved beard never regrew, or if it did, it just looked like armpit hair. Post-war society saw many an ear on the streets twisted beyond all recognition or irretrievably poked inside its own hole. Tales of the stables of Groll drifted into Fürgůïn’s lonely thoughts, desperate times, desperate measures. What he wouldn’t give now for some tibmibling cheese or a basket.

See Endnote #5

"Well, I suppose we might as well get right to it," Razzles began, pulling a piece of parchment and a quill from a pocket and pursing his very red lips. "It's been a difficult time in there." He paused and sighed. Fürgůïn waited, noticing how snow absorbed sound and how its moisture eventually permeated almost everything. Razzles still had a distant look in his eyes, melancholy and a little vacant. The reason for his peculiar pallor was evident now at close quarters: a dense plastering of foundation. He had evidently succumbed to negative knomic tendencies and embellished himself with a theatricality utterly unrestrained.

"We've gotten together and made a decision," Razzles went on, now looking at his parchment for the details, "Ah... Yes, er… We've decided that we can't approve of you coming back to the bridge."

Fürgůïn was about to point out that he didn't want to - he wanted to get on with the quest, but instead, he simply said, "May I ask why?" Knohm and elbh exchanged a glance. The elbh shrugged, Razzles tapped his quill on his parchment, frowning with artificially arched eyebrows. The whole situation had a surreal air about it.

"Did you call Norris a fat, squalid trollop and refuse to help Ebore with the dishes?" Razzles enquired, lacking any real commitment as if he had been fed the question. It didn’t really require an answer. After an uncomfortable few moments, the elbh suggested, "Perhaps we'll go back and discuss this some more."

He frowned, swayed slightly as if experiencing an inner struggle. Fürgůïn noted flecks of red on Razzles’ sleeve.

"By chance, did you eat any of those pieces of toast with Norris' jam on them?" the renling grimly enquired.

"Yes, I ate two I think," Razzles replied.

"Ate two Razzles? Ate two?" Fürgůïn enigmatically responded.

The renling stared for a while at the backs of the departing messengers as they trudged through the snow back in the direction of the bridge. He didn't know whether to wait for the inevitable or perhaps just set off northward on his own. Give them a while and they'd be back again, likely with some jam-inspired explanation of how he'd unreasonably wedged a bottle up Norris' fat hooter or that he hadn't believed poor old Ebore or something like that. He hunched deeper into the pathetically insufficient dip in the ground and brooded. The snow gathered on his hat.

It was another day before knohm and elbh stood again before the bare twigs of Fürgůïn's shelter. The dip in the ground below was empty apart from the snow that had blown in once left unattended. Fürgůïn was nowhere to be seen.

Ignatious, meanwhile, was running, his big urgh-bane boots pounding the blunt cobbles of Tullgotha's less-frequented back streets. Somewhere far in the distance, a bell was frantically clanging and alarmed voices were yelling.

"Grrrr! Grrrr...rimm! Disappeared. Dropped me right in it!" Ignatious panted angrily as he ran. Rounding a corner into a narrow, arched alley shadier than the rest Ignatious bounded down some stone steps and rested against a dirty, crumbling wall breathing heavily. In his mind it had been a small matter, some more easy money. The offer had been generous. Not much expected in return. What was the problem?

The muscular urgh-bane peered back up the steps. No one following. Good. All Grimmbros had to do was pose for next year's Torturer's Emporium calendar. What was the problem? “His manager!" growled the wound-up urgh-bane out loud, "Should trust my stinkin' judgement! I'd have done it for him." He breathed again deeply and inwardly admitted perhaps he wouldn't. It had required Grimmbros posing in spiky underwear.

Catching his breath, Ignatious took stock of the situation. He'd hunt him down, that's what he'd do. It was Grimm’s fault - he'd never have head-butted that dwarf if wasn't for Grimmbros having vanished. Now he was a fugitive. Stupid dwarfs and their money-making deals. In Ignatious' darkening mind the brawl that had developed when he had signed but Grimm couldn‘t be found and the subsequent arrest was all thanks to Grimmbros’ sudden disappearance. Time to go and see Egmord, call in a favour and even the score.

Fürgůïn trudged for quite some time through the unnatural winter before giving in to what he had really known all along. The sunshine far ahead of him was unreachable. It remained resolutely in the distance. No matter how far he walked in pursuit of appealing warmth, he remained in appalling iciness. He had grown aware long before admitting it to himself that the weather woman was sending this frozen misery in order to pressure the three questees to get on with the job. It made no difference that he was on the road north - the other members of this motley fellowship were not there with him. He could not outwalk this weather.

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He stood for minutes resolutely facing north before finally turning to look backward. The whiteness extended as far as he could see, fresh snow gradually filling in the trail of his footprints away back over the horizon and, although out of sight, he knew it continued all the way back to that wretched bridge. All he was achieving by going on alone was to extend the region of snow and ice between himself and his friends. They were a fellowship - like it or not - they would be together until the end. He heaved a sigh - it seemed that there had been plenty of those of late - he began the long journey back.

Razzles would not be there when he arrived. The jam of despair was a powerful conserve. Even Norris hadn't expected the downhearted knohm to sneak off under cover of darkness and make for Tullgotha. The despondent clink of little bells marked his movement along the road to the city, his head was down and he had no interest in who or what he might encounter on the way. The snow followed him as it did the renling.

At one point Razzles stopped, not so much because he chose to - more because four huge legs blocked his way. He didn't look up even then. He looked rather at the feet at the end of said legs. Two were enormous compared to his own, great leather-booted feet ready for action. The others were even bigger, with a pair of shoes capable of sheltering a whole family of knohms like himself from the wretched blizzard that seemed to be following him home. Home...

The thought dropped into Razzles' head like a muddy boulder. No one moved. Razzles stared at the feet, the feet were motionless. Razzles sighed and peered upward. Far above him he heard a gasp and then a gruff voice said, "Dead knohm walking. Look at his face. Come on, we've got bigger fish to fry." The feet stepped over the numb knohm and passed by. Razzles recognised the rugged form of Ignatious striding away from him, but his companion, twice as tall as the sizeable urgh-bane, he didn't recognise. A bigh. He wouldn't make it over the stupid bridge. Collapse the whole thing probably. Who cared?

Grimmbros lay in the comfort of the sheets, once again nursing his own private gloom and playing over past Chicken-Scratching highlights in his head when something unexpected happened. With a crash, a small object shattered the window of his upper room. It thudded to the side of his bed among a tinkle of broken glass. It took an effort to stir his interest even at such an intrusion.

Grimmbros languidly leaned and peered at the rolled-up form on the floor. It took a while before he recognised the person of the small elbh that he had previously met in the cellar. He was folded up into a bundle of indignity, parts of his body stuffed firmly into other parts clearly not made for that purpose. Just one baleful eye blinked up at Grimm from the undignified depths of a physical contour. Something briefly stirred upon the oceanic surface of the urgh-bane’s barren soul, then passed and back he sank to his daydreaming.

A desperate, muffled ‘mmmmfff’ sound broke his inattention. The pitiful elbh was clearly contorted beyond endurance. A swell beganbuilding somewhere within the sea of Grimmbros’ fathomless apathy. A swell that slowly grew into a wave rising from deep within him, threatening to crash upon the distantly familiar shore of his waterlogged spirit. A compassionate wave of urghbanity, of mercy. He leaned over and snapped the cords that bound the elbh. Job done. Wave over. Back to The Complete Imaginary Unabridged History of Chicken Scratching.

He was just getting back into his mind-game when, again, his attention was drawn to the elbh. Two sorrowful eyes peeped over the edge of the bed, fixed on his own. Two little hands rested on the covers. The wave that had begun to sink back into the briny depths of despondency hesitated. Flecks of sympathetic spume wavered on its foremost edge. The elbh spoke.

“Mr Grimmbros sir, there’s another urgh-bane outside sir.” He paused, awaiting a reaction. When none followed, he went on: “Said his name was Ingratious. That him and some bigh Eggmould want to have a word with you, sir, Mr Grimmbros sir.” The elbh stopped then and just waited.

Grimmbros knew Eggmould, or more accurately Egmord. He was a violent hulk of a bigh that Grimmbros had bested once on the fields of Chicken-Scratching past. The urgh-bane had narrowly come to victory by virtue of his youthful zest and agility. Egmord’s might would surely have crushed Grimmbros in play otherwise. Following the game, the humiliated giant vowed revenge, foaming at the mouth, yelling that if ever he saw Grimmbros again he would pull off his arm and shave his head raw.

If Ignatious was with him it must mean... Did he intend to kill Grimmbros? He hadn’t considered that his disappearance might make Ignatious angry. “Let them come,” he thought with weary resignation. What does it matter? His eyes fell to the waiting elbh. They would do him too wouldn't they? Pull off his little limbs just to upset Grimm. Even if they didn't - then what? Ebore would have him back in that box again. The wave was on the move once more, its momentum gathering. A stream of urgh-banenalin surged into Grimmbros’ system. It was time to ride the surf.

Ebore knew the routine, he was an oafe, it was what he did. He wasn't optimistic about the odds especially under the influence of moribund marmalade - after all, this was both a bigh and an urgh-bane standing at the foot of his bridge. Of course, Norris wouldn't approve of him going out to challenge them, but she was in no state to object since that pesky renling had shattered that fateful little bottle up her big, green nostril. It had affected her badly. But oaves did what oaves did and the bridge routine was just part of who Ebore was.

He was about to launch into the traditional, "Who goes there? Friend or foe?" along with a bout of, "Ebore gonna chew this, Ebore gonna gouge that," when the gargantuan pair of intruders took the wind right out of his ready-to-flap sails.

"Want to earn some easy money?" the urgh-bane had cut in before Ebore could manage to introduce the normal formalities. Taken aback, Ebore wasn't sure whether asking, "Who goes there?" was still quite apt, so he fell back on a slightly uncertain, "Friend or foe?"

"Do you or do you not want to earn some easy money and be shot of that back-stabbing urgh-bane in there?" Ignatious persisted. Ebore hesitated - he owed Grimmbros his life. Far from being a back-stabber, he had proved to be his saviour when least expected. Perhaps he should repay that debt, ally himself with the dapper sesquipedalian and show himself an oafe of honour. Stand side by side with the sporty wordsmith as he took on the challenges now arrayed before him. Inside, a more deeply oafe-like part of himself smirked mockingly and chipped in, "I don't think so."

Soon, oafe, urgh-bane and bigh sat at the foot of the bridge discussing appropriate underwear fit to accompany the various machines of suffering manufactured by the Torturer's Emporium and how best to enact suitable vengeance upon Grimmbros.

Elsewhere, verdant blades of fresh grass folded around the soles of a pair of knee-high boots. Clean spring air frolicked at the edges of the long, dark drapes of a heavy woollen-like cloak that wrapped itself around a tall figure. The bright sun, prancing in the clear blue sky, teased the tall peak of the cloak's hood.

From somewhere deep within the cowl, the intense, focused eyes of one who called himself ‘the Kapucha’ surveyed the bizarrely niveous scenery that lay before him. The toes of his boots were literally at the edge of a snowstorm. While he stood in the glory of a warm, dry, spring day, swirling before him was a month of frigid winter. It was as if he were looking through a glass wall into another world.

Still, silent, he stood; searching, scanning the folds of winter that rolled out before him, like a buzzard on a perch surveying the field in justification of its launch. “This is getting a little too-far out of control for my liking,” he murmured