The next morning, Trashscarf woke, yawned, stretched, and made a strangled sound as his abused muscles all cramped at once.

It took several minutes of pained whimpering and frantic concentration as he ground out the knots in his muscles with practiced fingers. But then he grabbed for the malodorous pail like it was a stocking on Christmas morning for a child who had been very, very naughty.

To his delight, the ivy was now filling up about half the pail, and the other half was soft white familiar fibers. "Hey, you," he cooed at it, gently prodding the mycellium with a finger. "Remember me? It's Trashscarf! Are you all right?"

"You're seriously talking to a pail of moldy horseshit?" Bander was already awake and grazing on the sparse weeds around the barn.

"Ha! Shows what you know," Trashscarf chortled, as a section of the fungal fibers pulled away, and crawled onto his finger like a white wooly caterpillar. "Bander, this is Fluffy, aka Clustertuft, aka Glomerafloccus. Fluffy, this is Bander." He waved the finger in the Horse's direction.

He was very glad to see the mycelium showing at least some signs of sentience; he'd had a growing concern that he'd hallucinated the entire thing. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

He obligingly held the finger up to his nose, and let Fluffy transfer itself back to its mustachial position. The warm smells of mesquite smoke and coffee wiped away the lingering stink of the pail. He couldn't really complain about a little poop, he realized-- he was literally and proudly wearing trash, after all.

"Howdy!" said his upper lip, as the mustache spread thick and lush above it once again. "Nice ta meetcha, Bander. And I shore am grateful for the rescue there, mister Trashscarf. Ain't never been out of my home afore... it weren't as easy as I was thinkin'."

"That happens," Trashscarf said, in his own voice, with his own mouth, in his own rolling tones. "Leaving home is the hardest part-- but once you get the Way under your feet, travel is the best life to live!"

"The accent's not bad, but you're not very good at that ventriloquism act," Bander told him. "I can see your lip moving."

"You're going to see my lip moving over a whole table full of breakfast," Trashscarf said, grabbing up his pack and pail. "Let's go!"

Trashscarf was too polite to actually ask for a ride, but as they set out and the Waywalker's wincing stride was much slower than even the slowest plod of Bander's pace, the Horse snorted and dropped a shoulder. "Just get the hell on, Scarf. I'd like to get there before breakfast turns into lunch."

So they came into Creel at a canter--the pinto draft Horse's white-feathered feet clopping briskly and Trashscarf perched aloft with a matching mustache. He gave the guards at Creel's gate a glare, but they waved him through without even a second glance at Bander, who farted loudly as he passed them.

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"Must be kind of nice being a Horse," Trashscarf said, admiring the view from on high. He waved to some people, and the mustache waved too.

They found a tavern with a sprawling beer-garden, and Bander got his oatmeal and coffee, and Trashscarf got a marvelous full-cooked, with sausage and pancakes and beans and toast and streaky bacon and fried potatoes and smoked fish and eggs any style (he ordered them surreal, and they came out draped like clocks over the rest of the meal.) It cost him the last few coins from the generous folks at the Seadog, but oh, it was worth it.

"Do ya mind?" Fluffy complained. "Yer biting me, with all yer chompin' and chewin'. Lemme back in the bucket until yer done bein' all carnivorous." Trashscarf apologized, and obliged.

"So it really is some kind of... thing? Like a person?" Bander said, between mouthfulls of oatmeal.

"It's a fungus network, as I told you-- but don't worry, it promises its not going to grow into my brain and make me act crazy and go staggering off to find new places to infect," Trashscarf said reassuringly.

"That sounds like the kind of thing some kind of brain-eating parasite would say," Bander replied warily. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't actually know," Trashscarf admitted, offering the mold his grilled tomato. "Its home was being destroyed by some kind of pollution, coming in through the fog. Have you heard of anything like that?"

"Well," Bander said, looking around. "Things do seem a little different around here. Not just the laws and such--did you notice the fields as we were coming in? Barren, at this time of year? Something's going on with the crops, but it looks more like a drought than a fog, to me."

"We'll have to investigate!" Trashscarf said, with a glint of adventure in his eyes.

"You can do that," Bander snorted. "Some of us have real jobs."

"Aww!"

"But I'll tell you this," Bander said, "When I was here yesterday, I was asking about routes to Bridgetower-- that's where my cargo's going. Thought I could take the Old Road-- but folks are saying it's not safe. Weird things happening, and dark stormclouds that never seem to drop any rain. Sounds like your kind of thing, all right."

"All right indeed!" Trashscarf exclaimed with delight. "A dangerous road? Mysterious weather? That, my friend, reeks of plot, sure as Fluffy's pail."

"You're not going into it alone, are you?" Bander asked, dubiously. "Folks are saying some of the people who've gone out there never came back. You can't expect to fight whatever is out there with just a stick and a mustache."

"I must confess, I am a bit overextended right now," Trashscarf admitted, spreading jam on toast lavishly. The speed-stunt across the desert had drained him of both resources and power, and it would take some time to recover.

And most importantly, the matter of Waywalker's Luck. A Waywalker relies on the Way to bring them to where they need to be, when they should be. Benevolent coincidences, 'trail magic', are how they survive. They never linger in one place for long, lest they 'get behind' in their destined journey, and miss the opportunities that would have been waiting there for a more dedicated soul.

But skipping ahead, as Trashscarf had done, was just as bad. He had no idea what he'd be walking into, and he knew he wasn't ready for it.

Of course, it wasn't ready for him, either.

"Simple solution," Trashscarf said airily. "This is Creel-- a proper working whimsical fantasy steampunk town, not a tourist trap like Barking. I'll just hire some adventurers!"

Bander snorted loudly into his coffee, and splashed Trashscarf and Fluffy in equal proportions.