[indent]
[/indent]
[indent]
[/indent]
[right][i](the moon has gone down behind the mountain)[/i][/right]
[indent]
[/indent]
[indent]
[/indent]

The sound of the ocean rushed and breathed behind her as Golde made her way up the rocky slope, toward the outline of tattered wind-sails turning gently in the salty breeze. Stones shimmered wet under her hands and feet as she grasped them and clambered higher -- until she stood upon a plateau overlooking the beach and Ifor sprawled peacefully below.

Across the flat landscape she could see a twinkle of lights in the darkness -- but since the moon had vanished behind the mountain, there was little light to make out more than that. One light was brighter than the others; almost sunlight, that beat a heartlike pulse as she watched it.

The windmill was aged and disused, but made of strong stone. Inside, the floor was overgrown with blue-glowing mushrooms that cast a cool illumination on the walls. The stairs wound up, slashed by dim starlight through the cracks in the stone, around the wooden machine that used to use the wind to ground grain, now gray in disrepair.

At the top of the stairs was a small room open to the stars -- the roof had rotted away long ago. This room was ... clean. The floorboards had been scrubbed, and the walls left intact gleamed like new. There was no debris, not even a leaf out of place. Against the far wall was a single wooden chest, and inside it neat stacks of identical, pristine books. Each of them was filled with the same precise handwriting, meticulous diagrams of plants, animals and imagined machines, and mechanical drawings of the view of Woondaly from the broken window.

From here, the glinting spires of the town were clear. Like something magical out of a fairy tale, the silhouetted skyline of roofs and domes was forested by precarious towers, glittered with tiny blue lights, illuminated softly by the pulse of the brighter point of sunlight.

Also in the chest, tucked into a corner, was a stoppered glass jar filled with thin shoots of a strange, winding plant that gleamed in the faintest light, like rippling rainbows on slick oil.

She would not be able to see the lone scythe that moved quietly along the beach, below the rocky cliff, toward Ifor.

The scythe, like those that had attacked the site of the obelisk, glowed a gentle violet underneath; its rider rode very close to the sand, keeping in the shadow of the rocks so not to be spotted from above. The rider snaked along the shoreline carefully -- but slowed and stopped as soon as Ifor's form was spotted on the sand. The rider hovered for a moment, uncertain, before carefully stepping down into the foam-washed sand. The scythe was quickly compacted into something that could be strapped to the rider's back ... but this was only to stall for time while he decided what to do with this new development.

He was a slight man, with an almost boyish look about his adult features, dressed in modest but very clean clothes that were nothing like the form-fitting uniforms of the Riders. He approached Ifor calmly, eyes steady on the hunchback's silhouette on the sand.

When it was apparent that there was no immediate danger, the rider lowered himself to one knee, curious, and carefully studied Ifor's unusual appearance: the strange shape of the skull, the curve of the spine, the size and coarseness of the hands. Ifor's eyes were moving behind closed eyelids ... dreaming.

With an unhurried decision, the rider reached into a jacket pocket, uncapped a small vial, and wafted some sharp-smelling salts under Ifor's nose to wake him.

[color=lightsteelblue]"You will be drowned by the tide,"[/color] he informed Ifor factually, [color=lightsteelblue]"if you stay here much longer."[/color]

[h3][i]Meanwhile...[/i][/h3]
The Hollows clamored and scratched and bit and moaned, climbing over one another to reach for the struggling griffin.

The huge, ghostly fox crashed into them, flung them aside in a frenzy of ripping teeth.

The boy, his eagle-mask pushed back, stared in dumb shock at the man who had appeared in the obelisk's place.

The yellow-haired man's eyes flashed with venom at Elliot's plea ... and then a slow, sadistic smile spread upon his face.

[color=yellow]"Please [i]aid[/i] her, you say?"[/color] he mocked, before he cackled a cruel laugh. His smile quickly turned hateful, and suddenly his fist was curled in Elliot's shirt.

Immediately Elliot would understand that this was going to hurt.

In a fierce, powerful motion, the man flung Elliot toward the shore. Elliot sped like a bullet, propelled by the wind, across the rocks and directly into the heart of danger. The fox returned to the form of a shocked little girl, and she scrambled away just before Elliot crashed into the swarm of Hollows with an explosive burst of air.

The Hollows were tossed in all directions, some into the sea, some into the rocks, some scrambling away on the beach.

Elliot would find himself laying comfortably against the soft fur and feathers of the griffin that had broken his trajectory. The griffin was injured, scratched and partially plucked, unable to fly but very much alive.

The man on the rock glared at the sky as if it had done him a personal injustice. He glared at the boy, who startled and stammered but was too star-struck to make out a word. He glared across the water at Elliot, with a deadly promise in his eyes -- and then he disappeared in a strong whirlwind. He had far better things to do.