"MOSS?" (Patreon)

Lysander spluttered as soon as he stopped coughing.  "You didn't tell me there was MOSS in this!"

"You didn't ask," I pointed out.  "You only mentioned lizards, and there are no lizards in the stew.  Elves don't lie."

"I'm unclean!" he wailed.  "Moss is forbidden!  I will have to make a pilgrimage all the way to Chimpenburg and sacrifice an ant at the temple!  Do you have any idea how much that will cost?  I'll lose a week's worth of business!  Oh woe, oh misery!  You're going to have to pay for this, you maniac!  What kind of meshugga puts MOSS in a stew, of all things?  Ants are expensive; do you have any idea how hard it is to find a perfect one without blemish, suitable for ritual use?  I'm going to need the money up front.  What an embarrassment!  What a hassle!  Why was I put on this earth just to suffer?"

"Settle down or I'll turn you into a lizard," I scolded.

"He could do it too," Burnside added.  "Elves don't lie."

"Fine, okay, I'm settled," Lysander squeaked.  "See how calm I am!  No need for elf magic."

While the monkey grumbled under his breath about antipathy and Burnside helped herself to another bowl of stew, I tried to puzzle out my present situation.  There seemed to have been a time skip long enough for the rabbits of Bunkirk to do something which confined my scrying range to the forest, and also for my hairdresser cult to be scattered & disbanded.  Ash must have misled me about the temporal management procedure around the Gate!  Had he ... LIED?  Could he do that?  Could he do that without Fuma smiting him in Her mighty wrath?

Also, what had he said about cultivating gratitude?  I wished now that I had paid more attention during his Unseelie monologue.  Apparently, by not doing anything he had placed me in a position where I would be forced to rely on him for help.  Was that his scheme?  But it was so blatant!  So obvious!  Did he want me to realize that so he could bait me into retaliating?  If I did, would that put me on the Unseelie path?  Augh!  He was playing mind games with me!  ... unless ... perhaps that was just what he wanted me to think.  Wait, wouldn't that still count as mind games?

"I am calmly and politely asking you, Mister Elf," Lysander murmured, interrupting my reverie.  "To kindly defray the cost of a week's pilgrimage and the purchase of a sacrificial ant, which - no fooling - I am going to have to pay for as a result of your cooking."

"What's that??" he added, pointing in the direction of an ominous rustling in the underbrush.

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