Blom and Gack were sittin’ out one evening as the Catcher’s Moon rose in the indigo sky, illuminating the top of the Fleep Fleep forest and casting a pale light over the quiet streets of Gilba Gilba. This town — or maybe the people in it — had a strange thing for naming things double. He was just glad nobody had taken to calling him Blom Blom yet.

“Well what do ya make of ‘im, eh?” inquired Farmer Gack after a long exhale of the sweet, sweet stuff in his pipe. The smoke swirled and whirled up into the light of the Raggen Maiden’s lanterns. There it hung like a night mist, mingling with the actual night mist and forming a unique sort of mist that faded away with disinterest in itself.

“Tryin’ not to make anything of nothin’ that don’t need makings of,” answered Blom in his gravelly monotone. He pushed his square-rimmed spectacles up onto his nose and took another mini draught of Heemee’s. Fine stuff. Had a way with the wines, Heemee did.

“Fair enough,” conceded Gack as he idly tapped the side of his pipe. “Folk’re talkin’, folks’ve got their tongues waggin’ nonetheless, by the noose.”

“Aye, and folks’ tongues ain’t my business, less they’re askin’ for em to be wetted,” answered Blom.

“Me, I think he’s got no right to be makin’ his rounds out here in the Outlands! I keep a mite watch on all our transients and I don’t like the look of ‘im, makin’ hisself known for what he is.”

Blom hadn’t been paying attention to what Gack was rambling about but maybe he should start. He didn’t like village newcomers slipping by under his nose ‘specially if they attracted the notice of the Commerce Guild, of which Farmer Gack was a loud part. “What’s he been claiming then, hey?”

“Said he was from the Crown, tax collector on Crown business,” muttered Gack in annoyance. His tone was a familiar one in Gilba Gilba: leave us to our affairs and we’ll leave you to yours!

“The Crown, you say.” Blom’s already perked ears perked up to max perk, a status they maintained for the duration of however much longer this scene was going to go on.

“Not me who’s sayin’, but indeed he was for certain,” Gack said. “Surprised you hain’t been wise to his prowlings, knocked hisself on some doors makin’ sure the folks here’ve been payin’ up their levies.”

“And the Commerce Guild harn’t been in this fella’s nose yet?”

“Oh we’re on it. Expect to find him in the morning and see what he’s about. Tax collectors in storm season? Something’s not right.”

“Aye.” Blom was unsettled. This mysterious stranger hadn’t called on the Ragged Maiden, the most prominent structure in Gilba Gilba. Why not?

Blom and Gack dropped to silence as they stared out into the silent streets of the village. Gilba Gilba closed down fairly early as the autumn season approached. STORMS tended to make people into superstitious souls out here in the Outlands. Tonight was unseasonably clear and the Catcher’s Moon shone like a big ol’ Catcher in the west! Have to enjoy these rare evenings when the stars peeked through the night.

A breeze that carried the colors of the night passed by the Ragged Maiden’s rear porch and made the hanging lanterns flicker and gutter like a fireplace. Blom repressed a shiver and Gack did not.

“Hoo now!!!” Gack mooned like a moooner in the moonlight. “Autumn indeed!”

The streets were still still. Still quiet. Blom felt a strange uneasiness in the face of the dead town. He half expected Glen to come shuffling out of the darkness like he did that one night last year, mumblin’ about Jibberjabs!

A steady crunching sound approached from a faint distance. Blom squinted into the dark street and peeped out a couple blue lanterns twinkling like dots, followed by a faint outline of two horses. Just the town constables on their night rounds.

“Fine evenin’, gents,” Blom muttered as they passed.

“Aye Blom,” came the reply from one of the riders.

Blom eyed them as they disappeared down the dirt street and vanished behind Teever’s Tavern.