Free Quen Nim by Steve Shilstone

really didn’t need to hear any more snapjaw gibberish so early in the day. So such, she merely nodded and followed the revitalized Princess up out of the grotto and onto the tusk. The pair launched into the sky. Motty hadn’t had sufficient time to smooth her black trousers or to tug her yellow gloves. She hoped the flight would not be a long one.
    North above the Villcom Wood they soared. A few Chalky Gray Elves, gathering sudplums in the crowns of trees, saw ‘em go streaking by.
    â€œWhat were that?” called one to another in a neighboring tree.
    â€œThe red one with the blue wings were some kind of Royal, if my eyes am trustworthy,” came the answer.
    â€œThe black and yellow plump one, too?” asked the first.
    â€œWho can say what am known? A servant, mayhap? It are none of our mind to be bothered about,” said the other, resuming her sudplum collecting.
    Nimble Missst arrived far ahead of Motty at the Well of Shells next to the bramble border hedge of the bendo dreen. She strode to the Chronicler’s hut, which stood a short span from the Well. She interrupted the work of the famous Chronicler Harpo, aged blind roamer, and his scribe, Lace, a younger maiden roamer.
    â€œI am here to collect the prince,” boldly announced Nimble Missst.
    â€œWho is it there, Lace?” asked Harpo with a kindly smile while feeling his way out of the hut.
    â€œSnapjaw mind,” said the calmly unruffled Lace, emerging in Harpo’s wake from the hut with beeket quill pen in hand, “and a hollowite.”
    Motty had of course fluttered into view. She saw her little Nimby pacing below and gesturing in front of a pair of roamers, one ancient, one young. She landed, legs, legs, legs, two at a time in quick succession, and hoped for a pleasant chat. She’d never visited the Well of Shells. She’d never met the Chronicler, though she knew him at a glance. His fame was so such that widely well known. She danced forward, preparing a tune of introduction. Howsoever, before she could open her mouth, Nimby turned, flashing the fiercest of glares from her startling violet eyes.
    â€œâ€˜Witch’s cottage’ means ‘Chack Tree Forest’. Fly!” she blurted shortly, leaping to the sky with a powerful pull of her powder blue wings.
    Motty merely shrugged her regret and took off after her once again angry little Nim. She was so such ashamed to hope the princess was angry enough to change herself into a cloud. Therefore, she was both satisfied and guilt-ridden when her hope became truth. She easily kept pace with the angry boiling green cloud writhing its way to the Chack Tree Forest. When Nimble Missst jelled on the green grass carpet floor of the Forest surrounded by halls of fire white pillar tree trunks, Motty came in low under the dense dark green ceiling of branches and overlapping leaves to join her.
    â€œHe HAS to be here,” said Nimby with more than a shade of desperation.
    â€œHe has to be somewhere, that’s certainly true. The blue chacks are ripe. Won’t you have one?” sang Motty in a so such attempt to soothe her little Nimby.
    â€œRidiculous. Yes,” said Nimble Missst, and she snatched the offered chack from Motty’s yellow-gloved hand and flung it with all of her frustration and rage at a fire white pillar tree trunk, where it splattered and dribbled blue.
    â€œI have a suggestion,” sang Motty, and she dared to touch the left wing of her Nimby and give it a little caress.

Chapter Twenty-Four
    Motty’s Suggestion
    Nimble Missst whirled away from Motty and snapped, “No time to waste!”
    She jerked her head this way and that, took a false step here, a false step there. She flew off to the left, returned, flew off to the right, returned. She mumbled something about the underground river Motty couldn’t quite hear. She transformed with a shimmer to cloud and disappeared into the ground. All during this