At long last here's some NJ. Many thanks to Gavin for retyping this from his draft copy when I had an accident
It bobs and jiggles in place quivering respectfully, particularly to Praise-the-Lord. It wants to help. Nothing would give it greater pleasure it implies, than taking itself off to Duke Alfric to inform him of the arrival of the mighty Lord Captain (it bobs a bow towards Pal) and his retinue (it quivers disdainfully towards the rest of you, until Dethorm growls at it and lofts his musket slightly).
The Captains interrogate the titterer. It is initially unwilling to tell its name, but when Grimmelshausen moves as if to hook something out of the air with his halberd it suddenly becomes rather talkative. Its name is Kolvorok. It can tell very little about Færie though it says a lot in the process of doing so. It seems to be a denizen of the wastes, or with the inversion of logic that seems to be a part of Færie it argues that it is wherever people (using the word loosely) are lost and aimless. Kolvorok is also unaware of the location of Elijah or Imogen, so it seems they cannot be lost, else it would be there.
Under further questioning it refers to its place as on the borders between one Power and another. When asked what powers it names or titles them and describes what it calls the themes of their existence. They are: Duke Alfric, as already mentioned, his theme is Glory and Cunning; The Hunter whose theme is, of course, hunting (most of you have met him); The Lord of the Lower Places, whose nature is dust; and She of the Mountain who has The Art as her theme. When Kolvorok speaks of these it seems to be more sure of the first two, the latter descriptions have a certain sing-song quality to them. Of other powers (the dragon), or lesser neighbours (Boris) it seems unaware when asked.
Further descriptions seem beyond it (Praise-the-Lord mutters disgustedly that it's as lost, forlorn and useless as the lost, forlorn and useless waste it inhabits) as if it is more aware of the effects of these powers (or the themes it refers to) rather than the causes, not to mention that it knows its place and if a great lord such as Lord Captain wishes to pass through a place then far be it from it to interfere for obviously a Great Lord cannot be lost being the centre of things, by definition. Pieter van Rijn observes sourly that this is best described as getting out of the way if something powerful goes by. Reluctantly it agrees.
Despite the near unanimous cries of 'No thank you', 'We can't go there', 'I think not' to the titterer's proxy invitation on Alfric's behalf, as good Christian men abhor the invitation to sup with the devil (for who could have guilty consciences over doing The Lord's Work and overthrowing the schemes of the Dark One's minion), it seems that, with the wasteland spirit sent about its business on strict instruction not to bother Godfearing men again (if you should want to summon it or attract its attention again you can, of course, find it where you can find nothing else), the idea of bearding the beast in his lair may have its merits. As Praise-the-Lord puts it "If he's the lord of these parts we're bound to meet him, or more of his retinue, so might as well be polite about and announce ourselves than irritate him by skulking about his borders."
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In the meantime you gather your kit, and Elijah's, and bearing Duke Alfric in mind, set off (singing hymns? no? perhaps not).
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It takes some time to reach the environs of Alfric's land, for it is well known that the citadel of Ælfheim lies far beyond the world's end.
As you march the clinging silvery mists lift slightly, to reveal an open rolling countryside, not unlike that which once lay to the South of New Jerusalem before forests and fires overran them. It is still the otherworld though, for the mists never lift entirely and the light by day has that sourceless silvery quality that is reflected in the vegetation. It seems that nothing else moves out to the misty limits of vision on the endless plain, save the gentle breezes that sway the grass in slow swirls and waves. At night the darkness is incomplete, broken by the gentle gleam of the grass and the pale flowers that open only in the night, vanishing entirely into the grass in such daylight as there is. The night sky is deep blue and starless.
Gradually the landscape gains more features; small copses of trees, less twisted; clear streams wind from silver-sand fringed springs and pools, issue from small rocky outcrops which seen from the corner of the eye take on the forms of fantastic animals such as are seen on the more ornate fountains in the mundane world, spewing water from their mouths though these might be said to have a certain degree of vibrancy as if frozen, crouched, before the spring. The night flowers are more frequent too, forming a dimly seen path at night from nowhere to...
On the third night (or fourth or second, there are a variety of opinions) a break can be seen in the path. The ground must fall away before you to give a view, for beyond the break, distantly, there is a misty hint of towers.
You wind down the slope, between glades and dells of a subtle beauty, around rocks that happen to have fallen together in such ways as to form grottoes, tunnels and chambers of glittering crystal inside. Then out onto a riverbank. The river is narrow and fast, crossed by a ridiculously high-arched, marble bridge. Thin, tall towers stand at the ends of the balustrades, blank pennons swirling from each in the breeze. There is a tent on this side, from which rides a knight all in white, upon a mantichore.
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All of you may have cause to beware of the Duke or his servants, as these two presumably are: a number of his giants are missing, as is the Hunter from an elaborate imprisonment. Has anyone any further confessions on these lines to make to the party, or wishes to remind me of privately? There are also the usual questions of attitude (supplicant, equal, conqueror), questions to be asked or shoot first, etc., etc. You know the form.