The next morning, Tarrick feels absolutely terrible. He’s slept fitfully, with an eye open. Now he knows why people are scared of walking around at night. That mask still haunts his waking hours. He can spot it at the corner of his eye. In the dark corners of the inn. He’s fallen asleep out of exhaustion more than anything, way past his usual bedtime. Tarrick has woken up groggy and frustrated. With gritted teeth, he stabs at the poor piece of bighorn-lizard egg in his plate. Rycrofth, Grandma, Prothea and Isolniel look at each other.

“Are you okay, Tarrick?”

“Do I look like I’m okay?”

Someone at a nearby table gulps. Everyone stares. There are people piling at the door to tell their story, but Tarrick doesn’t care. He can’t bring himself to care. His usual enthusiasm is gone. Replaced by anger and fear. He’s fought some dangers before. A few cave-ins in the Wide Canyons. The mountain scorlion. Old Leohomin’s mansion. But he’s never felt this… like this before. Terrified of what lurks wherever he’s not looking. Tarrick puts down fork. He can’t eat. Not like this.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Isolniel. That was uncalled for.” Tarrick drops his napkin in his plate and rises to his feet. All stare, looking up at him, still seated. “I can’t live like this.”

“Like what?” asks Grandma.

“In fear. We’re going to find Greglith.”

“But… we failed yesterday.”

“And we’ll succeed today. I feel it in my bones. Come on. Get up! We’re going.”

They exchange a glance again. Tarrick is already on his way to the door while the others are halfway to their feet. Wind whips at Tarrick’s face. He looks out at Yeagsant from his perch on the tavern’s threshold. It’s a cool breezy day outside, a kind he’s not used to anymore after the suffocating heat of the Wide Canyons. Tarrick is already walking down the stairs when the door opens behind him. It’s a long way down and he’d prefer to have a heads up. The longer they wait after sunrise, the harder it will be to find Greglith.

Prothea calls after him and proposes they go to the city archives. Maybe they’ll find something there. Isolniel, Rycrofth and Grandma acquiesce and Tarrick, beyond his frustration, has to begrudgingly admit she’s right. They can’t start their search without a modicum of information. And so, early in the morning, they sit in a half-circle at a table in the city archives, noses stuck in books.

“This is useless,” says Grandma. “We could be looking for years and never find the masked one. This feels like trying to find a needle in a mountain scorlion nest.”

Tarrick agrees. He almost throws away his book in frustration. Almost.

He’s not angry enough to get mad at a book, thank you very much.

“Guys?” They all look up at Isolniel. “I think I found something.”

She’s been reading Yeagsant’s address book. All lean around Isolniel. Prothea lands on Tarrick’s shoulder and looks down. Curiosity shines in her eyes.

“I don’t see anything,” says Rycrofth, eyes scanning the page back and forth.

“See this?”

Isolniel’s index claw digs into the paper on a particular line. She reads aloud: “Gregoriam Elorin, second house in Middle Rows Street. Look here.” Isolniel grabs another book and flips its pages to the letter E. “Gregoriam Elorin. Husband to Fawarlith Elorin. They live in Middle Rows street with their son Ulben and their daughter Venona. But here’s the kicker. Look here. There’s a little star next to almost all these names.”

“Except the son,” says Rycrofth. “They’re all… dead except him.”

Prothea jumps on the table and pushes the book closed with her nose. “That’s the name directory for five years ago. So now that kid would be… about twenty-years-old. Maybe a bit more.”

Eyes land on Tarrick. Searching.

“He could’ve been around that age,” he says. “It was hard to tell through the window. And through that mask. But I bet Greglith isn’t old. I don’t know if anyone past their twenties would just… get up and jump from roof to roof with no purpose in mind. For fun.”

“You’d be surprised,” says Grandma. “If I could do that… I would.”

“Anyway,” Prothea cuts in slowly, pointedly, “that poor boy has been living all alone for five years.”

“And Greglith started wreaking havoc about five years ago, I think,” says Isolniel.

“That’s a long time to be terrorize the city without being caught,” points out Rycrofth.

“And it didn’t take us long to figure out Greglith,” admits Tarrick. “Didn’t it?”

And so, they set off for Middle Rows Street. It’s located smackdab in the middle of the scamander web that forms Yeagsant. From where they leave the city archives, it’s only a short way down. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Still, the road ahead seems long. Tarrick grits his teeth. He’s tense. He clenches and unclenches his fists, at his sides.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Tarrick?” asks Grandma, walking with him at the front of the group.

“I…” He could lie. It would be easy. But two things stop Tarrick from lying. One: Grandma would know instantly he’s lying. And two: he doesn’t want to lie to her. That’s when things start to go downhill. “No. No, I’m not okay. Were you okay, when we met Rycrofth again, during the cave in?”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Grandma tsks. “No, I wasn’t. But I want you to know… whatever troubles you, you can always talk to me about it. All right? And take care of yourself. That will help, too.”

“Thanks, Grandma. I think I’ll sleep better once all this is dealt with.”

“We’ll all be.”

They walk down another flight of stairs and arrive on Middle Rows Street. They walk down the platform and reach Ulbin Elorin’s home. It’s an old, dingy little house, with cracked white-turned-cream walls and falling roof tiles. A garage that seems way too big for such a tiny house is wide open, like the mouth of a beast. Inside, a saw hisses. Sparks fly. Tarrick walks up to the garage wall and knocks.

“Hey! Sir! Mister! Hello!”

The saw stops and a Davrian lifts a full face mask up on his forehead. It’s Ulben. No question about it. But he doesn’t… he’s not like Tarrick imagined Greglith, the masked one, to be like. There’s no mischief in his eyes. He seems… tired. Exhausted. With drooping eyes and a slumped figure.

“Yes?” asks Ulben in a monotone voice.

“You’re Ulben Elorin, right?”

“Hm, hm.” Ulben wipes his paws on a greasy towel and throws it away. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Tarrick. And I know you’re Greglith, the masked one.”

It doesn’t take long for Ulben to admit it. At first, he denies. Vehemently. But then Tarrick looks him in the eye and says “I saw you last night, you can’t lie to me.” Ulben sighs and nods. He slumps down in a chair, sitting amidst the knicknacks that is his workspace in his garage. Ulben runs a paw through his fur.

“I knew someone would figure it out. How did you find me so quickly?”

“We found you in a name directory,” says Rycrofth, stepping closer. The others follow. “We found your parents first. Gregoriam and Fawarlith Elorin. Greglith. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

He smiles. In a sad kind of way. “It wasn’t hard, huh? Right.”

Prothea flies up onto Tarrick’s shoulder. “What happened to your parents? Or your sister?”

“Prothea!” protests Isolniel.

“What? Someone had to ask.”

Ulben doesn’t seem that impressed by a talking cat-owl. Instead, he simply blinks. He keeps on smiling in that sad kind of way. “What do you know about my sister?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” shrugs Grandma. “She seemed… kind.”

“She was so kind. The gentlest soul you could ever meet.” Ulben’s gaze gets lost in the distance. “They all died on Affliction Day, five years ago. A floating isle from way up above landed on the city by mistake. No one was to blame but Nature’s whims. The houses were shaken, but held on. The people who were walking the platforms, though… a lot of them fell. They didn’t make it.”

For the first time since early this morning, Tarrick feels something other than anger. His heart grows heavy. He feels sadness and guilt and… maybe not quite pity. But his eyes water the same.

“My parents and grandfather died on Affliction Day three years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“Me either.”

“Is that why you’ve been Greglith ever since?” asks Isolniel.

This time, Ulben’s smile is genuine. He jumps up in one swoop, kicking his heels. Ulben rummages through his knicknacks hanging on shelves and wire racks on the walls. He grabs something, a small object Tarrick can’t identify, in his fist. Then, Ulben walks over to a slim box hanging from the wall. He unlocks the box - with a bronze key Tarrick couldn’t quite identify earlier. Inside the box, there’s only a non-descript button sticking out of the wall. Ulben pushes on it. Out of sight, pulleys grind and ropes hiss. A trapdoor slides open in the floor. A small platform rises. It stops a few seconds later. Everything stills.

“Meet Greglith.”

The mask is a lot less terrifying in broad daylight. Neither is it slightly warped into a demonic snarl by the glass of the window anymore. Now that Tarrick stares at it plainly, it’s quite beautiful. Golden and purple feathers glisten in the sun. There’s no fur on that mask. The fur belonged to Ulben himself, underneath the mask that half-covers his face during his nightly adventures. Speaking of Ulben, he grabs the mask and reveals a strange pair of shoes underneath. Are those… springs attached to the soles?

“This was Father’s mask from his old theatre days. And those shoes… Mother made them for Vinny, my sister. Mother taught me everything about the workshop. And Vinny loved to jump. At times, we had to…” Ulben smiles at the memory, eyes glistening. “We had to fight to get her to take them off and come home for dinner.” He grows somber. “After the accident… I decided to honor their memories and adjust these shoes’ abilities a bit. So I could jump higher than walls. But on my first night out, someone spotted me. And that’s when the tale of Greglith, the masked one, was born.”

“Who came up with the name?” Rycrofth ponders, picking up a bolt and running it through his fingers.

Ulben almost looks sheepish. Almost. “I did. I… foolishly amplified the rumours myself. Not that anyone would be able to tell anymore.”

“Where does the blood come from?” asks Prothea.

“It’s mine. I cut my finger once and thought it would be hilarious if I put it on the mask to give Vinny a scare. Mother begged me to remove the blood. No luck. It stained.”

“Ah.”

“Are you still going to terrorize the town, though?” asks Grandma.

“That was never the intention! I didn’t… I didn’t want to scare anyone.”

“Well, you do,” says Tarrick, “and I could barely sleep last night because of you.”

“I’m sorry. But… I can’t bring myself to stop.” Ulben’s voice cracks when he says: “I’ve tried. Trust me, I have! This… this makes me feel close to my family again. You’ve never felt the thrill of jumping from roof to roof with the wind in your fur. You’ve never seen the twinkling lights of the windows mirroring the stars like I have. Besides… it’s my only hobby. Times are rough and… I don’t really have the money to find myself another one. I can’t stop. I’m sorry.”

Isolniel snaps her fingers.

“I have an idea.”

They all work together. Tarrick writes a commercial slogan. Isolniel and Ulben work on painting posters. And Rycrofth and Prothea work to bend the metal. Soon, the tale of Greglith, the masked one, has become… a business. It all starts in Middle Rows Street, but as soon as Tarrick, Isolniel, Rycrofth and Prothea take that story to Zelenyphe’s tavern, it spreads like wildfire. Everyone wants a piece of the legend of Greglith. And when an “expert” on the subject - someone who has studied this spirit and tried to replicate his Meaningful abilities using mechanical shoes of his own - appears, all want fragments of what he knows. Ulben becomes that expert and soon, Greglith’s shoes sell like hotcakes. Roof Jumping - under strict guidelines and the watchful eyes of the mayor and the authorities - becomes Yeagsant’s favorite sport.

“I could never say thank you enough,” says Ulben one night, a few days after they’ve started selling Greglith’s shoes and after a particularly successful day at Ulben’s workshop in his garage. “I loved improving my Mother’s shoes, but I never thought others would love them too.” He stares down at his paws, wrapped around a teacup. “I feel like I’m spreading a bit of joy every day.”

“You’re welcome,” says Isolniel with a wink.

Ulben looks up. “How can I make it up to you? How can I say thank you properly?”

Grandma smiles at Tarrick. Tarrick smiles at Grandma. Tarrick grabs a familiar suitcase he’s kept under the table. He opens it and takes out his writing supplies.

“Well… I guess you could… you know… let me write your and your family’s story?”

Ulben smiles.

“It would be my pleasure.”