Step after slow step, the Fixer separates himself from the Festival-goers, consulting a map taken from the Collegium that depicts the whole of King’s End. Mourn. Following the coastline, he quietly marvels at the vast expanse of rolling white hills beyond the water. The going is easier here, where the water melts the snow. Phi, however, is cold. She burrows into his chest, curling into a little tiny fluff ball, and he wraps his layers protectively around her. The little capuchin is a creature of Torchline; this is not her world, but she would not be left behind.
The hedges of Queen’s Gambit loom in the distance, and Falke finds that he’s eager for a rest. He knows the maze is there, but perchance it will have a bench to sit on and rest a while. Just a little further, then maybe he’ll activate the Compass and go home. It's not like there's much at home for him anyway, other than his work.
