Chapter 2         "So this is how I'm going to die," Milton said, "walking around in a forest with a flying midget."     "I'm not a flying midget!" Dante said hotly. "I'm your dream-self: your spirit guide!"     "Whatever, you're a spirit fairy thing, then," said Milton. "We're still going to die."     "Don't be such a pessimist. I'm sure we'll be fine. Like I said, I've never been lost a day in my life."     "We've been wandering around in the dark for hours! I'm so hungry!"     "Quit sniveling and keep walking!"     Milton grumbled, but did as he was told. The noises he had heard earlier were only growing louder, and he found this unnerving. "What are those noises?" he asked.     "Probably just some stray figs or something, maybe some lost fuzzies -- nobody can really tell who or what's bound to get lost in this forest." There was a pause.     "You're really comforting."     "Thanks!"     "I was being sarcastic."     "A compliment is a compliment." They trudged on for a few more hours with little to no converstional exchange. Milton was getting unbearably hungry and thirsty by this point, and after a while, he had to sit down to take a breather. Everything was still so dark, yet it was clearly morning now: there was a little bit more light than before. He could see shades of green in the leaves around him, the different tones of brown in the soil, and a plethora of odd woodland critters. There were blue and red birds, purple frogs, yellow snakes, and everything of the sort all within view just from where he sat. He watched as a red white and blue striped snake slowly approached a nest of eggs and sighed as his stomach roared. Dante noticed the nest too.     "You know, of all things, how to make a fire, right?" Dante asked.     "Yeah, why?"     "I was thinking eggs for breakfast," Dante said before tipping his hat and drawing a wicked, curved blade from his belt. Milton felt that it was unpatriotic to kill the snake, Dante thought Milton was dumb.         It didn't take long for them to cook and finish their eggs. With Dante's guidance, Milton was able to build a fire from fallen timber and cook on a flat stone. Dante even convinced Milton to eat the snake, which ended up being a good idea since they had no plates to eat the eggs on. The boy would have never eaten a wild snake (or any snake for that matter) in his wildest dreams had he not been so hungry, but he was glad he did -- it was delicious.     "This is fantastic!" Milton said. "Have you ever made this before?"     "I don't think with this particular kind of snake or this particular kind of eggs, no, but I have whipped up some similar things."     "Well either way, it's delicious." Milton swallowed the last bit of his snake and said, "I feel like I could wander aimlessly for a good while now, as long as we found some water."     "Good, 'cause you might have to. Though, I think I heard a brook some ways past that 'V' shaped tree. Let's go look."     The water they found there was crisp and delicious; it was the best thing Milton had tasted aside from the snake burrito. He leaned forward into the water and washed the dirt away from his grimy face, and then he spent some time trying to geteven more dirt out from under his nails. The body of water itself was the end product of a small waterfall that seemingly emerged from the wall of trees, yet the water it bore was pristine and beautiful -- Milton had even thought his reflection to be in high definition, like his grandfather's prized televison set.     "You feeling better?" Dante asked.     "Yeah, a lot better, actually," Milton answered. In the light, he could actually see what his self proclaimed spirit guide looked like. Dante had shaggy black hair, a yellow scarf, and piercing brown eyes. He wore a burgundy leather vest with a matching belt, a white under shirt, dark brown leather pants, and gloves that were red like fire. The vest itself was completely sleeveless, but what it lacked for in sleeves it made up for in pockets: at least twenty of them were countable immediately. The only other thing Milton had ever seen with so many pockets was the man's belt, which seemed to have even more pockets and compartments. The man's shoes matched his vest and belt, which also matched the large, curved scabbard that hung at his belt. His face was rugged and his nose proportionally large, but he had sort of hardened air of kindness to his visage that was utterly familiar, but Milton could not place it. His skin was very tan.     "What are you supposed to be?" Milton asked in reference to the man's clothing.     "An adventurer," he said.     "Oh. I guess that sounds about right."     They continued conversing as they marched through the woods. Milton found out that Dante was a manifestation of something that lurked deep inside Milton, and that Milton must be an adventurer at heart. Dante was there to help guide Milton through what he called "the dream-world" and also balance him out as two acceptable beings instead of one unacceptable being, seeing as how the standards were, "much different here than what you're used to, boy -- much like everything else about this place." Milton was easily contented with these answers. The answers didn't seem as impacting as he felt they should have; it was almost as if he had known them all along. The whole time Dante was talking, Milton would just lazily nod his head as if he were falling asleep. He could not shake that "just woke up" feeling for the life of him.     "Just for clarification," Milton said in his stupor, "I'm Milton. You're Dante. We're both secretly adventurers, but I'm actually a real person, and you're just my 'spirit guide' because I can't actually exist here all by myself 'cause of how different everything works. And we're also stuck in an infinitely long forest teeming with elves and weird monsters."     "Not just elves and monsters, but also anything from your world that someone might have dreamt up that managed to break out of its dream crystal. But, yeah, that sounds like a pretty accurate recap."     "Okay," Milton said, "Sounds good to me, I s'pose." He felt like he was dreaming.     "That'll wear off in a little bit, but not all the way," Dante said.     "What will?" Milton asked confusedly, paying attention to Dante instead of where he was walking and thereby doing a faceplant into an enormous tree.     "That," Dante said succinctly. Milton rubbed his bloody nose.     "Ouch."     * * * The man gripped his spear tightly. It was his first expedition, and he wasn't about to screw it up. There was no doubt in his mind about what he had heard: there were definitely two, possibly even three people just on the other side of those bushes. He looked over at his green-haired comrade who gave him a nod and then put up two fingers. Okay, he thought, definitely two.     The other men were all taking similar preparations for the ambush. Some of them were leaning against trees, others were laying flat on the ground and steadily advancing forward on their stomachs. In total there were about seven of them, yet their prey was entirely unsuspecting -- these hunters were all masters of the trade. One of the closer men who was crawling on his hands and legs motioned for the rest of the men to come closer, and they all did.     So his original estimate had been off -- it clearly wasn't two or three people, but rather a dreamer and his guide. Oh well, that was a better catch anyway; he could work on his sensing capabilities some other time.     "Move in," he heard someone whisper, so he did.         "I think I see an opening!" Milton shouted.     "Where?!" Dante asked.     "Over there -- see! That way!" he pointed toward a wide gap in the trees from which several pert rays of light protruded.     "I can't believe it!" Dante exclaimed, "We might actually be the first non-elves to navigate the infinite forest!"     But he had spoken too soon.     As Dante was finishing his sentence, a large, muscular man with blue hair and and a huge-headed spear stepped out from the underbrush and blocked the exit. His shoulders were broad enough to completely prevent Milton and Dante from passing, even if they both went in different directions. The man himself had pointy ears and huge, bushy eyebrows. He had a sleeveless vest with no undershirt, so his buldging muscles were clear and accounted for. His pants were green and baggy, and his shoes were leather and slightly curled at the toe. His jutting chin and stern expression made him look mean; His red headband clashing with his blue hair made him look dumb.     "Shit." Dante said.     "What?" Milton asked. Unfortunately, they were surrounded -- Dante had realized it before the boy. Milton felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. Then he felt nothing at all. Dante turned to see that a scrawny looking elf had crept up from behind and bashed the boy in the back of the head with the butt of a spear. The elf was panting and gripping his spear so tightly that it seemed liable to snap.     "Careful, kid," Dante said, "don't strain yourself." Then he passed out next to Milton. * * * At this point, Milton felt like he had woken up far too many times with not nearly enough time in between. Now he was in some unfamiliar bed and in a robe which he was sure was not his own. The day (or days, he realized that it might so happen) just kept getting better and better; it was definitely going to be a long one. The silk white robe he was wearing was the most comfortable thing he'd ever felt in his life, and the sheets of the bed were a close second. Dante was in a similar, albeit doll-sized bed on the nightstand next to Milton. The room was very bright and had two huge windows opposite the beds. Everything outside the window was enshrouded behind big, dark green leaves and mahogany colored branches. Milton could see houses all over the place -- both on the ground and in the tree branches -- that looked surprisingly natural in their locations.     "Where are we?" Milton asked.     "Shit," was Dante's reply, just waking up, seeming to still be in the moment just before he passed out.     "What's wrong?" Dante looked around, then back at the boy.     "We're in Roark."     "What's a Roark?" Milton asked enthusiastically, propping himself up in the bed like it was story time.     "The capital of Elfland. You'd better hope they had a good reason for not killing us on the spot for trespassing, kid, because if not..." There was a moment of silence.     "Why does my head hurt?" Milton asked, scratching his cranium.         A few moments later, the big wooden doors to the white room opened, and in in came a tall, navy green haired elf. His bare chest was huge and resembled a washboard, and it was framed by a brown leather vest. His arms were covered by sleek, silky sleeves that hung past his hands, and his eyebrows took up a good three fourths of his forehead. His pants were velvety and green, much like the leaves of the surrounding plant-life.     "I am the leader here," he said, cutting to the chase. "What business have you with the princess?"     "Princess?" Milton asked.     "Shh, be careful," Dante whispered, "he's the chief of Roark. You need to address him respectfully or we're going to be very, very dead. Look at that dark blue hair -- they don't all have that, you know!"     "Your friend is partially correct," the elf said. "However, for one who knows so much of our politics, he knows very little of our physiology. Elves' pointed ears are for more than show." Dante gulped.     "Listen," Milton began, "I don't know anything about princesses. I don't even know where I am entirely, but--"     "You must listen," the elf chief interrupted. "We've recovered your garment; the evidence is already in our possession and it is overwhelming. I would like for us to remain civil, as we have not seen a dreamer such as yourself in these parts in some time, and your influence could be quite useful to us in the coming days, so please, just tell us exactly what your intentions are."     Milton was about to say something, but Dante piped in, "What exactly is his influence?"     "You don't know yet?" the elf asked, bemused.     "No," Dante said, "but now I feel like we should."     "Well," the elf said, "We'll forfeit our information when you yours. Boy, what'll it be?"     "Honestly, I have no idea what any of this means about anything," Milton admitted.     "Perhaps this is just a means of declaring that you need more rest," the chief pondered, albeit forcefully. "Perhaps I should oblige that request. If you need anything, I have people posted all around. Don't bother trying to make yourself scarce -- you can't. The same goes for leaving, so make yourself at home; I will instruct everyone to be as welcoming as they can make themselves. Please, for your sake and mine, try to remember your business with any princesses." The elf was clearly in a hurry to be somewhere else. Milton didn't say anything, and simply let him leave the room. The door shut with a loud oaken thud.     "That guy was weird," Milton whispered to Dante.     "You don't know the half of it," he replied.     Milton rolled over on his side, now bewildered completely by his situation and hungry to boot; he hadn't eaten since he had snake-tacos however long ago that had been. "What should we do, and what about that princess?" he asked. "I'm hungry."     "I dunno," Dante said. "I'm sure they'll feed you though. I wonder what he meant about your garment."     "Wait," Milton said, having just had an epiphany, "Do you think he meant my shirt?" Dante thought about it.     "Yeah," he said finally, "I do," and then came a string of expletives.         By the time Milton had actually gotten out of bed, his stomach was growling like two racoons fighting over a banana peel in the dead of winter (I'm not sure if racoons are usually active in winter, but for the sake of continuity let's just assume they are). There were weird leather-like loafers at the foot of the bed that seemed custom fit for the boy, and he was already wearing socks, pants, and everything else -- even strangely smooth white gloves. The shoes slid on very comfortably and he was walking out of the door before he knew it. The shoes felt like they made his footsteps lighter, so he wasn't surprised when the two females outside of his door didn't hear his approaching.     "Oh, hello!" the one with pink hair said, shocked. "Is everything alright?" she asked with an awkward, forced smile that was quite possibly bigger than her actual face.     "Yeah," he said, "I'm just really, really hungry."     "Oh," she said, "well, we can fix that. Come this way!" she beckoned him forward, and he began to walk. The olive-green haired woman followed too, but she said nothing.     The food was the best he'd ever had: fluffy crescent rolls, deliciously tangy soups and sauces, strange meats he'd never had before salted with God-only-knows, fruits of all shapes and sizes -- spotted, speckled, striped red, blue, yellow, green, and white -- and cake that was richer than Bill Gates having a money-filled-pillow fight with Donald Trump, Steve Jobs, and hopefully me after this book becomes a best seller. He voraciously devoured all of it like he had been a starvation victim.     "You must have been starved," the olive-haired woman said passively.     "I haven't really eaten this well in a while, or ever, really," Milton admitted.     "So it would seem," chimed in the other woman.     "Yeah," Milton said awkwardly while fumbling his hands around, realizing there were no pockets on the silk robe they had put on him. He felt naked. "Can I, uh, change my clothes?" he asked. He waited for one of the women to answer. They both sat at the big, wooden table with their faces shining brilliantly from the big, open skylight in the roof -- but neither of them spoke for a long time. "I'm sorry I asked," Milton said. Dante kept quiet, resisting an urge to mock the boy for his ignorance.     "There's a new shirt for you on the table in the room from whence you woke," the green haired woman said. "You may not, though, recaim your original upper garment."     "Oh, um, okay" Milton said before excusing himself. He walked down the long wooden corridor from memory, all the while feeling the cold, glassy, contempt stares of the elven women on the back of his skull. When finally far enough away from them and within sight of the wooden door leading to the room, he turned to look up at Dante, who was silently floating by his side with a worried look.     "What the hell was that all about?" Milton asked.     "Do you know why this is significant?"     "Uhhh," Milton pondered, "Because of my shirt?'     "More than that: Milton, you're the first dreamer in centuries to be welcomed into Elfland -- let alone the capital city -- without being killed on the spot. You're very, very lucky to be alive and untortured."     "Seriously? That one guy was pretty nice."     "You're clueless, aren't you? How did I come from your psyche?"     "Well, who was the last guy to come here that wasn't me," Milton asked, trying to change the subject.     "Uhh," Now it was Dante's turn to be stumped. "I think his name was Junior Token, or something like that."     "Oh, well that sounds kind of familiar."     "Yeah, they eventually had to kick him out -- he never wanted to leave them alone, and they couldn't ever get anything done."         After changing into his old clothes (save for his T-shirt, which was replaced by a bold bright red silky counterpart, he also kept the leather slippers since he could walk pretty quickly in them, and his old shoes were beat to hell) and pocketing everything else on the table with his clothes (against Dante's will, of course) the boy left his room once more. The dining room he had been in previously was now empty, but that didn't do anything to loosen the unrelenting feeling that he was being spied upon. Through the door at the end of the dining room was an even grander hall, lined with big white pillars on either side with huge sky lights in the curved, arching ceiling. Wild vines poured in the illuminated open windows and gave the gigantic hallway an aura teeming with life -- the whole thing was strangely calming for Milton.     "So," Milton began, "are these people like, nature freaks or something?"     "Sort of, well, yeah. Something like that."     "Wait," Milton said, stopping in his tracks. "They aren't like the aliens in Avatar, are they?"     "Well technically, the aliens were the humans -- but no, they aren't."     "Good. That movie was dumb, but the effects were cool."     "The effects are pretty cool here too, I guess. Just don't touch anything."         Milton and Dante continued walking through the enormous hallway for some time, seeing many differently clad elves come in and out of the many doors. Some were warriors bearin their chests and donning bows, some tailors, some were cooking, and some were eating -- one thing was certain: they all knew their places.The transient visitors eventually realized that the hallway was actually winding in and around the trees in the forest, and that some of the vines pouring in the windows were actually the roots from the enormous trees.     "This is such an interesting set up," Milton said.     "I must admit, I'm surprised. I'd only heard about this place up until now." Then a woman ran by screaming with a spear protruding from her chest, blood gushing everywhere. There were terrified cries and earth shaking explosions, and the sound of gunshots were heard. Voices clouded the air; some were shouting orders, and some were screaming in agony or calling the names of loved ones. The wall was blown out near the boy and his spirit guide, sending splinters of mud-brick and wood flying everywhich way imaginable.     "It seems we've overstayed our welcome," Dante said, trying to stay level headed. The speared woman had collapsed a mere few feet away from the two only seconds ago.     "What's going on?!"     "I have no idea, but it looks like the elves are being invaded -- wait, is this the empire's doing?!" Dante suddenly shouted as a squadron of soldiers burst in through the gaping hole in the wall. They were dressed like nut-crackers, but with smaller hats and darker uniforms varying between red and black. "And clockwork soldiers, none the less!" The commanding officer pointed forward, and all of the men began to march in sync. Some raised rudimentary rifles, others drew enormous swords, more yet drew spears and little blue pistols.     "What's the plan?" Milton asked, mimicking Dante's act of keeping his cool.     "Run or die, your choice."     "Let me think about it," the boy replied as he broke into a sprint. He had no time to reflect upon the first and only death he had ever witnessed in his young life; he just needed to get the hell out of there. He bounded over crumbling pillars and dove through a second hole in the wall, landing on the forest floor amidst the screaming crowds. He landed on one knee, the other foot poised to push off the ground, one hand in the air and the other flat in the earth; he kneeled like he was about to run a marathon.     "There!" Dante hollered, "See that purple thing?!"     "How could I miss it?" Milton asked, trying to tune out all of the noisy dying in the vicinity.     "That's how they got here, and that's how we're leaving. Hurry!" Milton didn't need to be told twice; he always knew he wouldn't regret running track all those years. * * * Richard sat at his ill-begotten throne and sipped away at a goblet of the kingdom's finest wine. He gazed down at the crystalline floor, but only to see his own reflection; he could not care less about the actual craft work. With the flick of his wrist, he tossed back his long, greasy black hair.     "The attack?" he asked his advisor.     "Successful."     "Good," said Richard. "Now leave."     It felt good to be king; it felt even better to be the king over a successful campaign. * * * Milton and Dante stumbled out of the portal, and everything began to smell a little purple.     The sky was a like a bloody scab, leaking dark shades of (mostly) purple, red, yellow, and orange all over. The air itself was smoky and cloudy, and everything carried the distinctive smell of sulphur -- most likely from the canons -- and death. Looming in the sky were ominous, ever present airships that bobbed up and down without a sound; silent, malevolent, and observing. Their inaction was almost more vicious than anything they could actually have done. Below the ships were hundreds of miles of dugout trenches, cliffs, canyons, and plateaus. All of them were formed of blood red, blood thirsty soil. Nothing could be heard over the screaming men as they fired their guns and died. One's eardrums would have suffered the bombardment of the cannons and automated weapons even from afar; Even the horses, though bred deaf and dumb, could sense the tremendous vibrations -- it upset them to no end.     Milton shook his head trying to clear out all of the confusion. "What the hell is all of this?" he shouted over all of the noise. He felt like Tom Hanks in that movie about saving Matt Damon.     "Come with me! Take cover!" screamed Dante as he floated towards a stone outcrop. Milton followed him and ducked, it was a little bit more quiet there. "We're in the 5 O'Clock war zone. We went back through the rift those soldiers out of before. We need to find the first way out of here and FAST. There's no telling what will -- look out! Grenade!" Dante tugged on Milton's shirt and led him out from behind the outcropping and through the trenches. The two of them ducked around corners and wove around and between dusty sandbags as they tried to avoid the ever present gunfire. The whole situation was a frantic mess drowning in utter chaos.     "What the hell should we do?"     "Keep your eyes peeled for a portal like the one we came through before! That's our only way out!" A soldier jumped across the trench as Dante was finishing his sentence; Miton ducked only just in time to avoid being kicked in the face.     "What are these people fighting over?" he hollered. A cannon nearby blasted a huge ball a hundred feet forward that tore away at an improvised barrier, sending splinters every which way. Seven men were killed instantly, ten more were critically wounded and full of wood.     "This whole area," Dante said, "No one owns it yet."     "So they're all just killing each other?!"     "Kind of, well, it's complicated -- Look! We just have to get out of here, I'll tell you later." The cannon nearby them fired once more.     "Okay," Milton said.     Dante continued down the trench. "Keep your head down!" he said to Milton, and Milton listened. The boy crouched as he walked, though the trench walls were high in some places and low in others. It took all of his will power not to cough; there was an enormous amount of odd dust and smoke drifting about in the air. The whole place was dark and foggy, yet Milton could somehow see where he was going; it was almost like he could see through his other senses. His pains of hunger lead him north, his itching scalp informed him to jump over the fallen soldier, and though his eyes relayed nothing more than fog, his mental picture was quite vivid; he even spotted the portal before Dante did.     "Keep going in that direction!" Milton screamed through cupped hands.     "Good work, kid!" Dante said, but Milton didn't hear; not because he couldn't, but because was distracted: standing atop a nearby plateau, he noticed someone familiar. A soldier with unkempt blonde hair, a big sword, and purple armor had his back to Milton.     "Rex!" Milton screamed so loud that his lungs felt liable to burst. He was so confused that it made his brain hurt; memories of who rex was flooded his mind uncontrollably and overtook his ability to think about anything else. "Rex! Look at me, come on! Rex!"     Rex finally did turn around, and a look of shock and awe was the entirety of his visage. He looked like he was about to attempt to form words, but he didn't, because the plateau he was on was blown up by an enormous cannon ball from one of the precariously drifting airships.     "Rex! No!" Milton cried.     "Come ON!" Dante shouted, tugging on Milton's shirt. The guide was forced to tug his limp dreamer all the way through the portal. * * * Everything was dry and dirty. All he could feel aside from the sand covering every inch of his body was the incredibly hot sun on his back. When he bit down to close his mouth his teeth felt terribly gritty, and it was then that he realized his mouth was full of sand. Trying as best as he could, he could not manage to get it all out; there was always more sand. He gave up on trying to spit out the inexplicably infinite amount of sand and stood up. It was then that he came to his second realization:     He was alone.     He cupped his hands to his mouth, "Dante!" he cried, "Where are you?" No response. He stumbled forward. The most he could do was stumble; he was far too tired to walk and was rapidly losing water through his pores. "Dante!" he cried again, but to no avail. The boy's hair was soaking wet with sweat already, and his eyes were beginning to burn. His mouth was incredibly dry, and the sand he hadn't managed to spit out really wasn't doing him any good. "Dante!"     Then he noticed that the horizon was moving -- physically moving up and down. What the hell? he thought to himself. It was as if the line separating the ground from the sky were bobbing around on the waves of the ocean -- but that wasn't possible, especially since this was a desert. His curiosity got the better of him, though, and he also had nowhere better to go: so walked towards the anomaly.     Each step he took inflicted more pain than the last, and each step after brought him closer to his end. When he got closer to what he had thought to be the horizon, he realized what was causing it to bounce up and down: it wasn't the horizon at all; it was a rope! There was a weird little man hanging from it while trying to pull himself forward, and each tug the dangling fairy made on the rope, the more the rope bobbed around.     "Dante!" Milton yelled. Dante gasped for air.     "Grab the rope," he said, "then we'll talk. It's too dangerous."     "Okay," Milton said, glad to have some support. He could hardly stand as it was, so he threw himself onto the rope. The whole thing bounced around wildly, and Dante was almost flung off.     "Damn it, kid!" he shouted.     Milton would have apologized, but he really didn't feel like talking.         After a half hour or so they found some water. Dante initially wanted nothing to do with it, insisting it was a mirage, but after he saw Milton splashing around , he decided to give it a go.     "Oasises are few and far between," Dante told Milton. "They tried to make the rope go over as many as possible."     "That was probably a good idea. Is that why the rope is here? To find water?"     "Partially, kind of. It's more to keep people from getting lost -- and to lead from place to place. Without the rope, there'd be no order to things."     "Why not?" Milton asked with his head partially tilted.     "Because this is the endless desert; it's infinite! The only way people can live here is if they tie everything together."     "Oh," Milton said. He didn't find himself being surprised much anymore.     After they were soaked to the point that they were sick of water, they continued cautiously down the rope. Milton found that he held the rope much tighter now that he knew its significance. Along the way, they passed a couple of other rope-travelers, as they were called, heading in the opposite direction. They had said they were leaving back for a place called "Elysium," and that they had left not too long ago. Dante took this as good news; Milton took this as news.     The endless desert had lots and lots of sand. The rope, seeming infinite itself, was starting to wear away at the skin on Milton's hands, and he could feel his fingers beginning to blister. He wondered what kind of blisters the people that walked the rope their entire lives had, since there were evidently people who did that. That sort of life seemed adventurous, but also kind of stagnant -- you were always traveling, but just along a predetermined rope and only from one desert town to another. These people were vital though: they were the founders of each and every desert town there was -- the only exception being Turnibout, which happened to be directly in front of Milton and Dante.     "We're here!" Dante proclaimed.     "Alright," Milton shouted, "somewhere!" * * * Rex pushed heavy gravel out of his face and rubbed his eyes till they felt like open wounds. "What the hell was that?!" he shouted over the agonized screaming of his comrades.     Arthur pushed his way through a pile of rocks and emerged with dented, battle worn armor, "Was that from the drop ship?!" he asked, completely and utterly bewildered.     "You mean one of those big ships in the sky?"     "Yes!" Arthur exclaimed, "It was! They have never fired into the battle field -- not once in the whole history of the war! What on earth is going on?" It was like a scene from a horror movie -- if there were speakers, they'd be playing dark, ominous symphony music. All of the ships that had been previously hovering vacantly in the sky were now moving slowly and deliberately toward seemingly predetermined locations and opening fire upon all participants in the 5 O'Clock War. Many of the ships were lining up to form a barricade to shield the ships behind them, all of which were slowly descending toward the ground and unfurling large rope ladders. Strangely clad soldiers were spilling from the drop ships, brandishing strange, as of yet unseen rifles of many different colors. They looked kind of like evil cyborg ghost-busters. Within ten minutes there were already hundreds of soldiers on the ground, and only one of the thousands of drop ships had sustained fire -- it was beginning to burn and teeter, but it probably wasn't going to go down. The wooden hull seemed resilient, and the sails and masts remained unscathed by the fire from the ground soldiers below. The ships appeared to be shielded by some mysterious light.     "This," Arthur said solemnly, "Is no good at all."     "What?" Rex asked hotly, "Is that all you have to say?"     "Unfortunately, it would seem so." Rex had allowed himself to be caught off-guard, and was nearly killed by an approaching observer-turned-footsoldier. Skillfully, he parried at the last minute and stabbed the man in the chest through an opening underneath his demonic looking breast plate. No blood came out.     "It's just like fencing," Rex declared. "What should we do?"     "Wait for our superior officer to call in a retreat," Arthur replied, "It's the only thing we can do at this time."     "I don't know how much I like that idea," Rex shouted as he fended off another one of the rapidly advancing soldiers, "but we do need to get the hell out of this particular spot. I can't get any footing on these rocks."     "Let us go, then."         Rex ran toward the strange purple anomaly he'd seen before -- the same one from which he could have sworn he had heard is name being called. The troopers from the sky seemed to have the same idea. Rex fought them off on his way and broke through a path, dodging and diving over falling blades, crashing stones, cannon balls from every direction, and bodies being sent aback before hitting the ground.     He kept running with his guardian overhead navigating the path, "Left! Right! Duck, look out! They are swarming you, Rex!" commanded Arthur.     "Another one?" one of the troopers from the sky asked. "This is not the one that went through the rift."     "But we was only 'posed to collect one, remember?" chimed in one of the lower ranking grunts.     "Yeah, only one, that's what I heard," mentioned a third.     "There's going to be hell to pay for this," said the first one before throwing a net over the boy.     "Aghh! Get it off of me!" hollered Rex, flailing his arms around indignantly and trying to cut himself free. It was aleady too late; they would have him in the back of a dropship within the hour. * * * The city looked like something right out of One Thousand and One Nights. There were big, rounded pillars everywhere, vibrantly robed merchants on every street, villagers walking camels to and fro, and a plethora of village-appropriate noises from every which direction. People could be overheard haggling fine silks or chatting about the weather ("Dry again? I know!") while going about their business; the whole thing was just unreal. It was a vibrant little desert town, to say the very least. Every sand-colored building seemed to be a majestic palace in its own right -- like something some historical society would try and get a bunch of money to preserve. Milton felt like he did the first time he went to the mall as a little kid and broke free from his grandmother's hand in order to do some unsupervised exploration. This was the first time he'd been legitimately excited since he'd woken up in the forest.     "Are you okay, scruffy?"     Milton was confused. "Scruffy?" he asked. "If you're going to call me something stupid like that, call me Bright Eyes like everyone else. And I'm fine, I think. Why?"     "Well, Scruff," Dante said, blatantly ignoring the former of Milton's statements, "you look like you're about to pop." Milton turned tomato-paste red.     "I'm not gonna pop," he protested, "this place just seems really, well, I dunno... different from everywhere else. The people aren't angry or getting killed or anything. Where are we?"     "Turnibout, kid."     "That's a weird name."     "Well they call it that because --"     "Can we look around?"     Dante sighed. "Sure, why not?" he said resentfully.         Scruffy "Bright Eyes" Milton ran down the streets like a child in a candy store who was trying to find the prettiest, most colorful piece of candy in the whole shop -- not even Dante, who was bound to him both physically and spiritually, could keep up with him. The tired spirit guide had protested here and there, but the boy would hear none of it. Everywhere he looked, more cool shops with clothes from another era, stalls with cool knives, beggars playing foreign instruments, and the colors -- oh, the colors! Reds and blues and greens and grays abound in a sea of yellow and blue, it was as if the reason there were no rainbows in the desert wasn't due to the lack of precipitation, but was because of they were all stuck in Turnibout.     The stoney, sand covered roads lead all through the giant town in a criss-crossing fashion. Milton was walking past a particularly interesting street vendor when something popped into his mind.     "Hey Dante," he asked, "How do we get money?"     "You could trade," Dante suggested.     "Trade what?"     "Well, do you still have that amulet that you stole from the elves?"     "I didn't steal it!" Milton said hotly. "If I weren't supposed to take it, it wouldn't have been with my clothes!"     "Right, right, yeah, that's what I meant," Dante said snidely with a crooked grin. "But do you have it?"     "Yes."     "Okay, take it to that guy over there, in the blue," Dante said, pointing in the direction Milton was already facing, "demand no less than 150 coins for that; and don't be stupid, make sure he gives you a satchel to keep them in. Then use that money to buy some new clothes -- I have no idea why you ditched the elve's robes but had no quips about stealing their jewelry." Milton hesitated. "What's wrong?"     "This amulet is just really cool looking," Milton said with mixed emotions.     "Just do it. I'm sure we'll find a dead elf with something cooler sooner or later, what with the way things are going."     "That's just messed up."     "Blame your inner-self, not me," Dante said with a huge overdone grin.         After doing what he was told, Milton found that he had a surplus of coinage. He bought some new clothes, ie: a short blue half-robe, as they called it -- it was somewhere between a robe and a sweater and went down to his knees -- some new, khaki colored, very thin, breathable pants, a white cotton tunic, and some desert shoes. This lifestyle would make an adventurer out of him yet, but he still had a good hundred or so coins left. Not wanting to be frugal, he endeavored to find the perfect additions to his wardrobe. With Dante following close behind with a watchful (but silent) eye, Milton continued to trek through the vast desert town while taking in all of the vibrant colors, all of the oddly dressed people, all of the sights, all of the tumultuous sounds, and all of the pleasant smells. He couldn't help but try some of the delicious desert dessert pastries he smelled cooking on the side of the road, nor could he pass up the odd, cactus like desert fruits that had sweet nectary innards -- Milton had always been one of those people who liked to take in every aspect of the world around him; if something were in front of him, he wanted to look at it. He noticed every single brick in the road he was walking on, and took note of the different sorts of weird dresses the women wore depending on their age differences. It was a few hours of this until he then came to a rickety old stand outside of a dilapidated shack around which were no customers. He walked over to see that the one toothed, hobbled old man was peddling what looked to be knives.     "Hey," Milton said.     "Are you buying?" the old snaggle toothed man asked. The boy then felt that old devious feeling he welling up inside for the first time since he stole into the liquor cabinet one of those boring summer nights when he was younger; and he fell in love with the feeling once more.         "Hey Dante," Milton asked while the two were doing some more sight seeing, "Why does everybody keep looking at me funny?"     "Dreamers aren't that common," Dante said. "A lot of them are afraid, but most of them are probably just curious. They don't see people like you too often anymore."     "That's not true," Milton said.     "What?" Dante asked, "And how would you know?"     "Well, what about that guy that got thrown out of that bar earlier?"     "What?! What guy?"     "You didn't see him?" Milton inquired. "That guy with the long hair, he was a dreamer too -- he had a little guy floating right by him, I saw it, I know I did."     "Do you remember where the bar was?"     "Yeah, why?"     "I think we should go have a look."         And there he was, in all of his glory: a five foot eleven something young man draped in rags of all colors, kneeling by the stoop of a tavern with his dream guide hovering a few feet away. The man had light bronze skin, and long shaggy hair of an even lighter, chestnutty brown; it was an odd combination -- one that's not common, at least -- and he looked to be of Indian decent. Milton and Dante were too far away to see the dream guide, but he had discernable green clothing.     "Hey!" Milton shouted. The man stood up a little, and his movement revealed the big, brass instrument he had been playing just moments before. "Yeah, you!" Milton shouted again, closing in on his target. The man flicked his wrist, seemingly causing the instrument to disappear, and then he put his hand into his pocket.     "Hello, there," he said. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that the man was well traveled: his clothes were beat up and patched with outstandingly clashing colors, he had dirt caked into his face, and he had an air of uncertainty about him -- like he never stayed in one place for too long. Milton was struck odd by the man's accent.     "You're British?" the boy asked.     "No, I'm Homer, and this is Odin," he said with a jocular tone while pointing to his spirit guide. "Who might you be?" the man asked.     "I'm Milton," said Milton, "and this is Dante."     "I see you too are an outcast of dreams," remarked Homer.     "Yeah," Milton responded solemnly. "Hey, how did you do that trick with that instrument?"     "You mean this?" asked Homer. He stuck his hand into his pocket and flicked his wrist upon removing it. With a faint flash of light, he was holding an electric guitar.     "Whoa!" Milton exclaimed. Dante looked like he was thinking about something as he peered at the man, then, after careful deliberation, he flew over and began talking to the other guardian in private. "How do you do that?" Milton asked emphatically.     The man closed his hands around the instrument as if it were a ball, and it collapsed into the man's cupped hands. Light shone through the cracks in his fingers. "I'm a bard," he said after his performance, "it's just what I can do. Can't you do something no one else can do?"     "Umm."     "He doesn't know yet," Dante interjected. "We're still looking."     "How unfortunate," Odin said poignantly before absconding from the conversation once more. He then spun around in the air without making a noise nor eye contact with anyone. He had a long, pointed green cap, brown hair, a green tunic, green boots, and white undergarments; at his hip was a small, potato-like instrument -- all of these facts combined to make him an interesting, eccentric seeming sight.     "... Any ways," Dante mumbled.     "Sorry," Homer said, "he tends to drift in and out of it sometimes. Where were we?"     "That's a good question," Milton then asked, "What exactly is your story?"     "Well..."