"No no no no," Trashscarf whimpered, splashing some of his water into his face, trying to soak the drying fungus. Some of the water went up his nose, and he sneezed, and looked with dismay at the spattering of fibers that was shedding away from the mustache as it seemed to shrivel.

The air had been getting thinner, true, and dryer, and Fluffy's replies had been getting weaker and shorter, but Trashscarf had simply assumed this meant that the mustache was agreeing with him, and this was such a rare treat that he had simply carried on with his theories of the Way and the World and other big, important sounding Words. And now something had happened to Fluffy, and he hadn't even asked how to take care of it or anything--

He looked wildly back the way they'd come; if Fluffy wasn't able to live outside the valley, he could run back down-- but deeply ingrained in the Waywalker soul, as he'd pointed out, was 'keep going'. Fluffy'd asked to be taken out of the valley--surely it must have known it was possible? It had put its trust in him, as much as mushroom mustache might, and his heart ached with a painful weight as a distant memory whispered; You can't save everyone.

"Come on, Fluffy," he whispered, cupping his hand around his mouth and trying to warm the fibers with his breath. "I can't kill you in a way that matters!" He tentatively put thumb and forefinger on the meatiest part of the mustache and tried little compressions, alternating with puffs of breath.

Trashscarf wasn't sure, but he thought that, maybe, just maybe, he could smell a hint of woodsmoke and coffee from the mustache. "Come on, Clustertuft. Just hang on," Trashscarf muttered, trying not to jostle his upper lip too much. "We'll get through this."

He gripped the walking stick, and looked around grimly, and set out-- skidding and switchbacking through the sagebrush, and leaving behind him a trail of scraps of scarf and scruffy souveniers blowing like cobwebs from cactus and scrub.

He knew he had to hurry-- if Fluffy was already drying and withering in the cool darkness, what would the bright sun and burning heat of the desert day do to a fragile mycellium? And hurrying, in this case, meant using magic.

Waywalkers do have powers, but are reluctant to use them. But to save their own lives, or that of another, they can bend the rules, and the Way. Nothing violent, nothing flashy, but fast travel was practically a given.

Trashscarf was better at doing this in any kind of urban environment; give him a few cross streets, and he could 'shortcut' across the map like a bishop in three moves. He couldn't have given directions, or even told you how it was done, but he'd probably start rambling about things being fundamentally connected again. But that meant being on at least some kind of road or street or alley or path, some physical manifestation of the Way that his urban soul could recognize.

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Here, in this wild land of unforgiving desert, untouched by the hand of civilization, he could only fix his gaze on the village of Creel in the distance. Overhead, the stars came out in a wash of cosmic glory, but Trashscarf only had eyes for the tiny nest of twinkly lights glowing in the distant hills through the cold desert night. Those lights spoke of warm fires, welcoming lanterns, glowing windows, and hopefully, someone who knew how to treat a sick mustache.

"As the crow flies," he invoked, gritting his teeth as the power surged up through him; intoxicating, terrifying, tempting and tasting of bittersweet adrenaline. A wild night wind whirled up around him, sucking the dust off his boots and lightening his step as though he were a lucky leaf, and he shoved off hard with the walking stick as he broke into a run.

His scarf whipped in the wind, shedding memories as he fairly flew from dune to dune, touching lightly and still gaining speed. He kept his hand protectively over Fluffy as he went, to keep the delicate fibers from being shredded by the blowing sand.

Trashscarf's heart was pounding and his breathing about as violent as the wind; he was more the ambling vagabond and even breaking into a jog was something he normally avoided. A full out sprint under a full pack-- he grumbled a complaint, but reached behind himself in midstride and grabbed a strap of his backpack, and yanked.

An iron cookpot, a frying pan, a coil of rope, a bedroll, a set of warm clothes, a three-quarters finished patchwork quilt and a few other odds and ends came tumbling out, bouncing and skipping in his wake across the desert. Trashscarf heard the splattering clatter of a bag of dried beans patter like rain behind him as his speed increased further with every small sacrifice of comfort.

He couldn't keep this up for long, as his blurring vision told him-- the lights of Creel were certainly larger and brighter, though, even though they were turning reddish in his vision, and he let that light pull him onward and inward, like a moth. A moth rapidly disintegrating in the force of its own travel, but--

His boots hit the scraped and rutted hardpan of a faded outlying road, and he stumbled and crashed, rolling over and over like a hedgehog. His backpack, lighter but still substantial, wanted to keep going, and even with all its losses, it weighed almost as much as he did. Its weight alternately yanked him onward and slammed down on him as he rolled.

He finally crashed to a halt against the broad side of an old barn, cracking the dry wood-- but he was on a road, a surface with a purpose and places to be, and that meant he was Home, as much as he ever was. His hand was still cramped, clamped, around Fluffy on his upper lip, and he only now released his grip so he could gasp for oxygen more efficiently. The ends of the mustache were shredded away, but a solid puff of it still tickled his nostrils.

He lay back in the Trashscarf-shaped dent he'd made in the barn, and heaved deep breaths as bits of him caught up to the rest of him. His heartbeat and wheezing were so loud in his ears that he didn't even hear the creak of the barn door, and then a broad blazed head lowered into view, whuffling.

"Great grains! Trashscarf!? What the hoof are you doing here?" asked Bander, sniffing at him. "And what's with the mustache?"