The little hidden valley off the Fractal Coastline was still a bit of a mess-- many trees were down, including most of the red giants. But there were others coming up, here and there; spindly things with leaves rather than needles, and looking a bit sickly, but trying, nonetheless.

The rotting wood, that he'd thought was black with slime, was covered with moss and lichens, small ferns and seedlings.

The ground, though still marshy, was being colonized by weeds and vines, a slow advancement where the combatants were trying to out-photosynthesize each other in the wan light that managed to trickle down through a thick filter of clouds.

The ivy he was sitting in the middle of was rather lovely, actually; its leaves were the shades of an autumn forest, plum and peach, crimson and gold, blazing orange and russet.

"It... doesn't look as bad, now," Trashscarf said cautiously. "I mean, it's still a mess, but before, it looked like death and nothingness. Hopeless."

"That's the murk," the mustache muttered under his nose. "Makes everything seem worse than it is. When you're deep in it, it kin be hard ta see yer way out, without a lil' help."

"All right, so, what exactly is the 'murk'?"

"Danged if I know," said the mustache. "It's somethin' in the water, I reckon. Didn't used to be all boggy here, but the mists fall almost every day, now-- speakin' of which, you better get movin', because it's comin' back soon and I ain't sure I can pull ya out a second time."

"Moving where?" Trashscarf looked around-- the light was indeed growing, but the fog was indeed also creeping in around the fallen trees. The struggling plants in the wasteland were various shades of sickly green and yellow, but the autumnal ivy was a vibrant wash of color around him, and seemed to sweep uphill further-- in fact it covered the hill above, burying any details under a patchwork quilt of leaves.

"Well," sighed the mustache, "I'd invite ya to come see the sights, meet the folks, all that-- but it's all under that ivy, now. When the murk came, they all left. Left me behind." Trashscarf felt the mustache pull his own mouth corners down in a sad face.

"All right," he said cautiously, "I think that covers my surroundings, now what about the fact that I have A TALKING MUSTACHE GROWING OUT OF ME--"

He tried to rip it off quickly, like a bandage, and that didn't work at all except to make his upper gums bleed.

"I ain't really talkin', yer doin' that fer me," the mustache retorted, unflappable although kind of flappily. "Most folks can't hear me atall, much less give me some kinda cornpone accent."

"How special for me," Trashscarf sighed. "So what are you? A ghost? a god? You knew I was a Waywalker--"

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"No, -you- know you're a Waywalker. I jest reminded you."

"Speaking of which," Trashscarf admitted, getting to his feet. "If there's nothing more here to connect to the Way, I... we? might as well leave before I get all mopey and self-pitying again."

He glared at the encroaching fog-- it did seem to have a murk about it, not an active threat, but unpleasant nonetheless, like a pile of vomit rather than actually puking. "Is there anyone else here? Any -thing- else?"

"Not anymore," the mustache sighed. "I been keepin' things together as long as I could, but--"

"What. Are. You." Trashscarf folded his arms.

The mustache quivered. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, or git the wrong ideer," it said carefully. "Lots of folks don't really fancy--"

"What."

"I'm a fungus. Hey!" it added, as Trashscarf grappled at his own face again. "Stop that! Dangit, yer brain's a mess, ain't easy to match up things. I'm a... fairy ring?-- nope... I'm.. ha... I'm an information network, like in a city. Just a buncha connections; lotsa little fibers linkin' up everything in the forest, helpin' them all talk to each other, like. Swappin' stories and food and helpin' them in need. I'm a mycellium network."

"Are you going to grow into my brain and make mushrooms sprout out of my ears?" Trashscarf asked warily. "I'm not fresh off the sidewalk, you know. I've heard things."

"I jest barely met ya, mister," the mustache said, affronted. "Don't go talkin' dirty to me."

"What's your Gallatin name?" Trashscarf was suspicious.

"Why? What's yours?" The mustache was suspicious right back at him.

Trashscarf drew himself up grandly, and tossed his head back like a tankard. "Quisquilliaefocalis," he declaimed, with a bow and a flourish.

"Glomerafloccus, atcher service, mister Dustsash. Hey, that rhymes with 'mustache'!"

"I don't have to take that from you, Clustertuft," Trashscarf retorted. "I'm going to call you 'Fluffy'," he added, threateningly.

"Sure," said the mustache, with a weary tone that Trashscarf was familiar with. "But I ain't one of them Cordyceps types."

"All right then," Trashscarf relented. "If I have your word of honor, as a mustache and a mycellium network, that you're not planning to take over my brain and then the World, then I suppose we can be friends. And if you're going to sit on my face, we should at least be friends." He was twiddling some of the colorful ivy into his scarf as he spoke.

"Hells bells, I couldn't even keep this place proper, after the murk set in," Fluffy grumbled. "Only thing still thrivin' is the ivy, and I been tryin' to keep it down so the other things git a chance. Normal-like, I ain't the type to put myself face-forward, but the murk's killin' me too. I barely managed to pack what little self I got into this here mustache. And grabbed onto you, because... " Fluffy quivered. "I need yer help, mister Dustsash."

"Trashscarf," sighed the same, "And I'll help. Let's go. But instead of coffee, could you do-- smoke, maybe? Or skunk or diesel or... just, smelling coffee when there is no coffee--or breakfast when breakfast is gone forever and no one loves me and everything is pointless and sad and I don't even know why I bother..."

Trashscarf was starting to drip the snot of self-pity again into the mustache, as the fog closed in, and Fluffy treated him to a powerful scent of mesquite woodsmoke, with a hint of creosote and tar, and Trashscarf took several deep breaths, his smile returning. "How do you do that?" he asked.

"Same as I do all the rest-- just poke bits of your memory. Think you can find the way back?"

"I'm a Waywalker," Trashscarf said grandly, giving a last sad look to the marshy little vale, where the reddened ivy grew thickly over structures that might once have been a place along the Way.

But until this mystery was solved, and the strange murk dispelled, this place was unsafe for travellers, and he needed to fix it, with something a little better than a "?!"