The cooling desert made him shiver. Like a broken clock with time, the desert was only the right temperature for a few minutes twice a day. At least it wasn't as dark as he'd feared. Sure, the clouds were blotting out the stars, but even in the dusk he could make out a shape. A vertical sandstone cliff, off in the horizon, that would be his first way point. One of many points that worked in favour of his escape. The most important being that it would take a good long time before the warden knew he was gone.

He was positive — although it felt negative — that soon enough he would be dying for the comforts of prison life. If he survived that long. Herschel enjoyed a good understatement, but to describe this trek only as difficult left a lot out.

"This first desert is just the appetiser, the Khmur will be the real test. I've never heard of anyone who crossed it on foot."

And don't forget, even when we get that far, it's still only half-way, his realist added.

It was nearing time to go, but his numb legs weren't up to the task quite yet. So, his multi-thoughts went back to over-thinking. Focusing on the problem of Zig-Zig's largest gaggle, the Escè. With them, one had to be careful even mentioning that there was such a thing the outside. Because they weren't above needling someone for expressing the wrong idea. Even with the guards encouraging their needling, the gaggle still felt they needed to justify their abusive philosophy. This was done with one simple question, 'how can we know what we know?'

"Simple but effective," he said. "To an open mind it can be abused to rationalise almost anything."

The question itself was valid, but they used it to spread fear and uncertainty. The Escè were convinced that reality wasn't just an overrated illusion, but an actual illusion, like a shadow on a wall. And even if it wasn't, nothing mattered anyway. Combining these ideas, with jabbing people with little needles, kept unpopular discussions to a minimum. Even so, it wasn't until after his thought experiment that he started seeing them as the warden's unwitting lackeys. Now, he couldn't see them any other way. It was another thing he hadn't told the Socks.

We couldn't tell them, they would've tried going after them in debate, his pity thought.

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After deciding to leave the only place that ever felt like home, his first instinct was just to get far away form the prison. Later, he decided to head back to the familiar eastern shores of Sojurut. A large part of his youth had been spent as a hermit in the bandit infested Eastwood. The thought of once again running for his life through those waist-high ferns, made his frown nostalgic.

He'd guesstimated, a word he was proud to have coined, that getting there would mean crossing most of the continent. The stars and the ocean told him he was far to the west. Herschel wasn't familiar with this side of the world, but his hermit days had educated him in living off the land. And he had a knack for being hard to track.

The little he knew of the western nations, came from the kind of evil hearsay that develops around anything unknown. As a younger man, he'd questioned all speculations. But that was before he came to Zig-Zig and saw lizard-women in the scaly flesh.

"Of course, seeing shouldn't be confused with believing."

But after getting manhandled and imprisoned by Akri, it made it harder to contradict their existence. It also made dismissing other rumours about the west more difficult. There were all sorts of stories. Some even claimed the living dead roamed somewhere in the far north-west. But living dead seemed like an oxymoron, and he'd dismissed it as altogether moronic. Yet, all the stories had one thing in common, the west wasn't known for its hospitality.

We should avoid anyone clever enough to give us up to the warden, his caution thought as he stepped into harsh freedom.

His legs shook from all that crouching. Dripping with wet muck, his sandals kept sticking to the dry ground. Leaving behind a few wet poop-prints. He turned to look at the dark prison. As hoped, there were no alarms, no sign that anyone had noticed.

Ten minutes from the sewer exit, he threw himself head-first into the cold ocean waters. In the green moonlight, he scrubbed with whatever was handy. What he hadn't noticed was the voyeuristic rock formation that followed him down the beach, and was now watching him bathe.

We're free! The last free philosopher, that's the important thing, his priorities celebrated.

"And I don't know that more distance from the warden means more safety," he tried negotiating with himself.

Still, he knew it was foolish, he could do nothing less than get as far away from the warden as possible.

If we could, we'd go further than possible, his resolved added.

Because of the library's suspicious lack of maps, he had no idea what they called the cliff he was heading to. Or that Zig-Zig was in the perfect spot to discourage escapes. But as he walked away, Herschel and his resolve went right past the living rock that was almost certainly clever enough to give up his position. Not that Trolls were known for being clever.