"Hey hey whoa!" Trashscarf protested, surprised by this promotion. "I'm no prophet or mystic... or were you talking to the mustache? You seem to know more about it than I do already!"

"Sir, I... uh..." Offswitch was trying to stare while keeping his gaze respectfully averted, and if you don't think that's tough, try it sometime. "Sir--"

"Trashscarf is the tall one, Fluffy is the shorter one," Trashscarf replied helpfully. "Actually, shame on me, I never asked. What pronouns do you use, Fluffy? Have you even got a gender?"

"Heck, I've got 36,000 of 'em," Fluffy said cheerfully. "But 'it' works jes' fine."

Offswitch gave up the struggle and went back to staring. "I... uh. Quaesitor Trashscarf, I guess. I'm sorry, uh... see, that code I was talking about, it's how I was raised, my folks belonged to this weird old religion that no one really remembers anymore, all about the interconnectedness of all life and stuff, and there's pictures in this old book of the old Prophets, wearing mushtaches like... that."

"Why, that's absolutely splendid!" Trashscarf was beaming brighter than his lantern. "Here I thought I'd wandered into a mystery that would take at least sixty yards, but here came the Woodstrider, and now you! Waywalker's Luck, ho!"

"Sir, I don't know much about it... I mean, my Pater taught me but I kinda didn't exactly memorize all the details. But my Pater lives right here in Creel, I was visiting him, and we could go talk to him, maybe? He'd be really chuffed to actually see one of them. We thought they were all lost forever, like the place we came from."

"Where you came from? Is it a valley on the Fractal Coast?" Trashscarf asked eagerly, in between Fluffy going "That's me! That's me! Howdy howdy howdy!"

"We don't know where it is or was, it was just this beautiful hidden valley paradise kinda thing, with wise monks and teachers and stuff, you know the kinda thing," Offswitch said, scrambling upright. "You found it?"

"...Oh," Trashscarf said, remembering the condition of Fluffy's valley. "Er, yes? I think so? But it's in a bit of a mess--"

"Yeah, that tracks," Offswitch said, nodding hard. "There was some kinda plague or cataclysm or curse or something, and everyone left because of it, and then all the outsiders-- well, I mean I guess they were the outsiders once they left, but anyway-- people kinda treated them like shit for being weird and most of them died out, and no one's seen a mushstache for a really really long time."

"Well, the prodigal floof has returned!" Trashscarf announced. "You can even wear it, if it agrees. I almost certainly promise it won't eat your brain!"

"Uh, no, thanks," Offswitch replied hurriedly. "I'm not worthy. Like, seriously not worthy. The people who could wear those were like masters of ancient wisdom and shit, I'm just an assassin." He didn't have a hat he could twist in his hands, but he was kind of doing that sort of motion.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"I'm not a master of ancient wisdom, but I will admit a passing familiarity, in this case in particular, with shit," Trashscarf said proudly. "You say your father is here in town? Let's go visit him, right now! What do you say, Fluffy?"

"Shore thing! Let's mosey on over!"

"But, uh, what about--" Offswitch said, gesturing at the maps and suchlike. "So there's no adventure?"

"On the contrary, my friend, the adventure is only beginning! For the plague that afflicted your valley is only growing stronger. I believe it has now spread to the Old Road, and that means," he added with determination, "It is my JOB to put a stop to it! And with your help, we shall do just that, and maybe even find a way to restore the valley of your ancestors to its former glory!"

"Wow," Offswitch said, and seemed genuinely awed. Trashscarf got the impression that Offswitch, like many assassins, had cultivated a cool, unshakable persona, but was getting a raw introduction to the weird stuff that seemed to follow Trashscarf around like those gnats you can't seem to swat away. Trashscarf had gotten used to it, like a steer coated in flies, but it could be a bit unsettling to others, especially those who had any dignity left, or took themselves too seriously.

"I'll help you, Quaesitor," Offswitch said, drawing himself up. "I mean, I can't break my code, but I'll be glad to beat the tar out of anyone that tries to hurt you, and I'll do anything I can to help."

"First things first! Let's go meet your Dad!" Grabbing Fluffy's pail and sweeping his scarf up over his shoulders, he stood as well, and followed Offswitch as the assassin set out.

The assassin could indeed move at a good pace, considering his stocky shape. They left the tavern at a brisk trot, the bartender looking apprehensively after them; he knew Offswitch by sight and had once had to ask him to leave for peppering the dartboard with a series of exotic knives and daggers and screwdrivers and even a wrench-- having to pull that one out had made him glad he hadn't actually had to get physical.

The bartender had been rather hoping that Trashscarf would, as Waywalkers do, tell others he met in his travels about the excellent food and drink, convivial atmosphere, and, for the discerning young adventurer, a basement full of rats and large spiders and other things in need of eradication. But Trashscarf's sudden departure made him a little worried that maybe some of the latter had gotten into the former, and left something unpleasant behind in the Waywalker's cup.

Creel was deep in the cozy sort of night a town enjoys. There were lighted windows and smells of home cooking and good, decent people going about their evening, with only the occasional mugging or petty theft. Not like a proper city, Trashscarf thought, where there would almost certainly be something interesting going on.

It was that same dispiritedness he'd noticed in the tavern, and he was reminded uncomfortably of Fluffy's valley, where the Murk (he'd decided to give it a capital letter) would sap your will and smother your hope and slowly strangle you with a sort of low, heavy anguish. This must be how it started; just a general ennui and apathy, the telltale signs of a slow slide into despair.

Offswitch was jogging ahead faster now, and Trashscarf, whose legs were still a bit sore, asked him to slow up a bit, and the assassin instantly did so, apologizing, but Trashscarf said it was quite all right, and to please stop calling him Quaesitor, and they shook hands, and proceeded in rather more egalitarian companionship after that.

They were soon heading briskly up a track away from the center of town, where the houses thinned out and the woods thickened in around them. Distantly through the trees ahead, Trashscarf thought he could smell a hint of smoke that was different from Fluffy's usual aroma, and abruptly Offswitch dived right off the path and into a narrow gap between two trees, vanishing entirely into the bosky darkness.

Trashscarf followed without hesitation.