Wednesday

Wanderer wanders wearily.
Where wolflord walks, winter whispers.
Where women wail, wise watcher will wait.
Which witch wants what?
Warrior wearing white, wield weapon with wariness.

Walker

Well, walker walks warily where wild whispers wander. With wise wit, walker watches worrisome warts wax woeful. Walker will wrest wisdom where wisdom wanes; walker will wield whimsical words, warlike weapons, weighty wizardry. Winter weather wakes – will walker wear waterproof wraps? Why wince? Walker waits where walker wants, wreaks woe where walker wills.

Looking Back (Part 2)

Hey, look: the old folder, and here is a second scrap...

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The little islands are dark, slightly tarnished - ambergris, blue vitriol, rust, deep slumbersome black-brown hues in a night-lake of midnight blue. The Wanderer sits alone on the cliff, warming old hands over a dancing yellow fire and his food. He has placed his weapons by the fire, and the fire’s light dances over them as well.

It is comfortable here in the Archipelago, he muses. There’s no stress. Back to nature, except that you can have modern conveniences whenever you want. He pulls the spit from the flames, lays it swiftly on a clean, flat stone, sucks his fingers. This is a good life. He looks with Dreamtime-seeing eyes out over the twilight sea, waits for the chicken wings to cool. This is a good life, he repeats, with much satisfaction. He tenderly caresses his flesh, feeling the invisible dents where flesh has rejected bullet and healed. A good life for a Wanderer, this is.

In the distance there is uneasiness. The centre is not at peace. The Wanderer looks back and down, and in the distance sees another with his inner eye. This other wears the billowing cape and dirt-coloured leggings of a Walker. Wanderer smiles.

Toilsome, toilsome step by step, the Walker wends his way Wanderer-ward. The Wanderer thinks of slain Hunters, many of them in a catacomb of the mind, all buried, all neatly entombed therein. He smiles again, and knows that for Walkers, he needs no weapons.

The Walker halts in the narrow defile at the foot of the slope and looks up. “Wanderer!” he calls. “Wanderer, come home!”

The Wanderer waits. He can afford to wait. The Walker is Maradaine Chase. Maradaine was always too good, too humane for his job. The Wanderer’s smile is feral.

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That's how the third section goes. What on earth was I thinking of? The question remains unanswered. But still... what was all this about?