Within a few hours the dwarf and his party returned to the doorless steeple. By then it was late afternoon, sun still high and beating. Before setting off for the journey back, the dwarf awoke to undeniably talking fungus, its features half dwarfen--though no beard. It, sitting and complaining of no fire or pipe, could be none other than Funguayou. The dwarf sat himself up straight and stared at the illegitimate offspring with a mixture of nostalgia and contempt. Here was a character from his lost past, but all the same one forced upon his party. It had been captured with the dwarf and brought before the bandits and their lust for blood. But, more importantly, it knew of Doctor Mallow--by extension, its home. The dwarf set to it a request for the location of a wheelbarrow.

“A wheelbarrow?” asked the shroom. “Sure, dwarf, what else do you desire? I am an excellent chef, you may recall, having inherited the culinary arts of the doctor. So why don’t you relax in the comforter I know you enjoy while I tend to a meal. Hmm? You are following my jest here. I thought perhaps the first words out from your beard would be a greeting, if not an apology. Several. I don’t suppose my wound was sterilized, for one. Though I suppose it is not entirely your fault we were beset by bandits, for two. Perhaps we shouldn’t be sleeping next to smokestacks. Really, I am still reeling from the loss of my last self--as are you, dwarf. Oh yes, you haven’t forgotten I know what you know. Indeed, I know now what you knew that I knew not. Still following? I am aware of the reset, and it is nasty. I wondered when we would discuss the mechanics. You know none of those human slackjaws could use the book? Not even Mallow--not I, either. Now don’t get a big head, you’ve enough bald as it is. ‘Saving’ may be a possibility to others. But as far as what he knows, and what you know, and all that I now know--this is your play, dwarf. You are bound to EXP as we all are (and your cooking is still laughably insufficient), but you alone can save. So someone is looking out for you. And, by extension, I assume, us. You do mean to include me in the party? Yea, I am aware of your lingering distaste. Well, you didn’t ask to be a dwarf. I didn’t ask to have my spore put on your dwarfen dome. Now--Hells, we must descend back down the cellar, he keeps a pipe there. And another good tool that should aid us both. I can’t go another second without a smoke, come--come, dwarf, we can discuss our feelings another time. Ok!”

Funguayou clapped its dwarfen hands together. The dwarf did not move or offer much in the way of response other than a blank stare, fungal revelation ravaging his mind. Indeed, the dwarf had once felt violated having his thoughts observed by Funguayou before it departed him, but took it at its word that further thinking was safe. In reloading his ‘save’, the dwarf had relived the dwarfen funguay’s birth; Funguayou gained all thoughts made before. The mushroom repeated its instructions and shoved against his legs in a vain effort to rouse the dwarf up off his sit. He watched his flock watching Funguayou. None animal acted unusually--same as they had with the first Funguayou. And like that instance, too, Waspig bore his own illegitimate fruit. While thankful his pet’s growth aroused no violent response from its species, the dwarf suffered a pang of annoyance. He appreciated, further, that he could be sure Funguayou would have no future access to thoughts as these--not so long as the scientist stayed in its cell, spores to itself.

Acquiescing to Funguayou’s pleas--out more from interest for the tool than aiding its habit--the dwarf eventually moved toward the cellar’s barricade and, together, he and Funguayou traveled down back into the learned labyrinth beneath the mossy cottage, remaining hogsects meanwhile continuing the art of ruining. Quicker than he anticipated, the two arrived to what was left of the laboratory. Funguayou shook its head at the madness.

“Some tamed sheep you shepherd. Not that your animal husbandry’s much, really. Well you’re certainly no baby but hardly a toddler. I’ll aid you in this, the doctor is a fine example to emulate. Yea, I know, I don’t mean as a being. But you wished for some reasoning to the feed. And yes, he keeps a wheelbarrow around. Why don’t you have a check of the tin chest there--I see what I require myself so artfully tipped over by our porcine friends.”

And off the fungus trot, stub-like dwarfen limbs bouncing comically, the dwarf averted his gaze fast to the new directive. Over to the chest his large palms pushed up against the lid--it did not budge. He gave it another try. Struggling to the production of a bead of sweat, the dwarf relented, his fingers grazing a keyhole; it clicked for the dwarf. He, still careful with his toes, began searching the immediate area for signs of a key. None laid on countertops nor hung from the walls. No drawer produced one and neither did any shelves. The dwarf rummaged through piles of porcine destruction and found nothing, came up to Funguayou for assistance with nothing--naught but three thin stalk like screws. He found the fungus with a handful of herbs and a pipe. It packed the thing, noticing after the presence of the beard hovering beside.

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“Watch, dwarf,” said Funguayou.

From overturned instruments it drew a strange metal device with grip of a different, blacker material. Outwards prongs extended and twisted into one another. Gesturing the tool towards the dwarf, he took it up and, as if by instinct, gripped the thing and produced a spark. The dwarf marveled at the advancement past sticks and, leaning towards the impatiently foot tapping fungus, generated another spark that sent flame into packed herb. Clouds puffed and rose into the laboratory’s high ceiling. Funguayou breathed deep the sterile air after.

“That’s it. I thank you. Now, what is it you’ve brought me?” asked the aroma clad dwarfen parasite. “Oh. Yea, these are picks. Was that chest locked? Didn’t recall. Well, this is as good an opportunity as any to practice. Go on and try to click tumblers up where they’re cozy. You’ll know you did it right because it’ll open, and wrong because it... won’t. Ok?”

But the dwarf did not loiter long, returning to the chest and clumsily sliding a pick in. It immediately snapped, and the dwarf was forced to use his second to scrape out the first.

“LOCKPICKING SKILL XP GAINED”

“LOCKPICKING SKILL INCREASED TO 2”

It delighted the dwarf to know even failure could be rewarded. It did not amuse him to think of his getting used to a different world with different rules. He did not try to dwell on the subject long and, instead, shifted his focus to the tumblers. The fast echoing rattle they produced on their ascents and descents gave the dwarf the impression of once more escaping moss strewn caves as a boy, his lockpick an extension of himself, his fleeing now tied to tiny pieces of brass. Having lost himself in the metaphor, the dwarf jerked the second lockpick out with a jump--snapping it in two--as the chest’s lid clicked open.

“LOCKPICKING SKILL INCREASED TO 3”

Inside laid the fabled wheelbarrow, its design surprisingly, strangely ornate, its trimmings intricate, its handle and wheel collapsable. While the guilt of theft weighed his hands, the dwarf could not stop fate. He took the tool and, Funguayou in tow, the two returned back up the stairs, loaded the treasure with sacks of feed, and began the journey to the steeple. Long the two walked, themselves a convoy escorted by hogsects at both ends, slow trotting Speedy at the front. Halfway to their destination--Funguayou riding on the stacked sacks--the dwarf’s illegitimate offspring puffed on its pipe, half its rings catching the dwarf’s face.

“Oh, I apologize. I lost myself a moment there--so, we’ve plenty to address, yea? Do you hate me?”

Coughing, the dwarf shook his head.

“Hey, good stuff, I don’t hate you either. And I’m no agent of the doctor’s. I know what he knows and you know I know what you know. And that’s Funguayou. Ok?”

The dwarf, grunting to get his load over an assembly of pebbles, made no gesture, offered no expression.

“Ok. Hey, dwarf, I’ll be proving it. Better get comfortable. I’m not going anywhere.”

The dwarf offered little as reaction as well.

“Yeah, so. Well, alright.”

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 25”

And on the party traveled, and constant did the rings dissipate, and tire did the dwarf’s soles. The shape of the church coming into view from up and afar, massive river flowing alongside to the west, equally gargantuan egg at its source, the dwarf let loose a series of tired, aching exhales, his hands bruised and purple, his load nonetheless arrived where he wished it. In through the front of which a gap bore itself unashamedly, Waspig returned to familiar territory, its kind following in pursuit. As the dwarf gazed at the handiwork of his regretted past, he turned to Funguayou and asked if it held levels in CARPENTRY--a guess.

“No. Who am I, Jesus Christ?”