More time passed and nobody knew how or why. It was just something that happened to time and everyone agreed with the sentiment, in most particular those aged folks who indeed saw a thing or two pass through their eyes upon indeed then which when indeed when which therefore it was surely to be seen.

“Time passes,” muttered the old Magister from his balcony. “Time passes and nobody knows how or why.” He puffed on his t’backer tube and wondered why he appeared in this scene. There was no reason for it and yet reasons were scarce to be found in this here situation.

“Aye,” answered a voice from behind him, another old Magister, the older Magister were truth to be told upon the brow of the balcony.

“Who be it?” the first old Magister grumbled, turning to face this man.

“Not a man,” answered the man, “but an older man.”

“AYE! OH!” shouted a voice from below. The Spring Thaws had brought forth the humanity from the town of Gilba Gilba, as they emerged from their huts and homes and homey ol’ homes to explore their city again.

“Eh?” mumbled the old Magister. He peered over his balcony to the street. It was Blom Blomgrin. “Ayo Blom.”

“This ramblin’ about time ain’t worth your time, Magister,” the stout, disgruntled innkeeper called back. “Now come on down to the Ragged Maiden what with the Thaws bein’ in effect. Find you an ale that appeals to your fancy.”

“Aye Blom,” muttered the Magister. The innkeep knew how to pitch a sale, if nothin’ else. “Be there in a docket.”

The Magister put his t’backer down and donned his street clothes. For he was going into the wide world, that of Gilba Gilba in the Spring Thaws, and havin’ hisself a fine ol red ale. He paused. Had there been another man here earlier? Behind him?

He exited his village manor and made his way down the streets of Gilba Gilba, keeping off the well-worn tracks as they were gouged with mud. Wagon wheels and carts of all sorts pressed the loose dirt into a sticky muck. His boots were no match for the power of nature so he stuck to the side. A warm red ale. That’s what he needed. Then he would compose his weekly report to the Crown and move on down to Hurgabatackis.