Once-Captured Moonlight

The Tales of Minz series is narrated and edited by fictional characters. This short story is set in their whimsical world. Learn more about the series here.

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Certain short stories provide more background information about characters we’ve met before in the Tales of Minz. This is one such story. It doesn’t answer everything about these two enigmatic, mysterious characters (at least, it doesn’t answer everything for me and my curiosity), but it does give a little bit more insight into their character—the sort of individuals they are.

—Barnabas E. Wooldridge
Editor in Chief of the Tales of Minz 

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A wizard’s tower is, perhaps, one of the worst properties for a real estate agent to try and sell.

Their best chance at getting it off their list of listings is to hoodwink some poor, unfortunate soul who doesn’t know any better. Convince them that the land is prime for development, or that the crumbling tower of wood, brick, and stone has a certain flair of antique architecture from Ages past. Get them to waive an inspection and buy the property “as is” because there’s another young couple that’s really interested in it—it’s only a matter of time before they put in a solid, seven-figure offer.

Why is a wizard’s tower one of the worst properties for a real estate agent to try and sell, you ask? 

It couldn’t be because wizards often choose to build such towers of wood, brick, and stone using their henchmen as cheap labor who often ignore regulations from the Builder’s Guild. 

Nor could it be because wizards often choose to build such towers in the deep, dark woods—far off from the far reaches of the rest of civilization.

It absolutely couldn’t be because wizards—jealous, insecure, and paranoid keepers of many secrets—often put magical wards and traps all around their towers, meaning certain doom for those who don’t know how to avoid such nasty things. 

No, none of those reasons could possibly be why selling a wizard’s tower often proves to be one of the worst properties for a real estate agent to try and sell. 

You might imagine, from this introduction, that this short story focuses on a real estate agent trying to sell a wizard’s tower. Your imagination would lead you astray, though, just as this storyteller has (somewhat) intentionally done. 

Forgive me. I am merely painting a certain portion of the backdrop for our story. I want you to imagine a  tower of rotting wood, crumbling brick, and timeworn stone. Magical wards and traps—decidedly sinister in nature—protect the tower and its nearby surroundings with an invisible barrier. To transgress its arcane barrier means slow, painful, and certain death even though the one who cast such dastardly enchantments is long gone.

That tower stands—albeit crookedly—in the middle (that’s a relative term) of a deep, dark forest. The forest’s name doesn’t matter, nor does its location. You’ve likely never heard of it anyway, because it doesn’t exist anymore. At least, not as a forest. Not as trees or anything else that makes up a forest. That wizard’s tower is gone now too. 

But imagine with me for a moment … Imagine it as it once was. 

See the tall, crumbling tower built of wood, brick, and stone. See its multi-colored slate shingled spire with the retractable roof to make visible the starry sky above for nighttime experiments. See the thick hedge of thorns that surrounds the tower—an impassable barrier just as surely as the invisible magical one. See the creeping, tendril-like vines that have slowly begun to climb the tower, brick by brick, because the forest remembers: there were once trees where the tower now stands. The forest is determined to avenge its fallen friends. And it will rip this tower down to the ground, given enough time. 

See the deep, dark forest. See its tallest and oldest trees gnarled and twisted with age. See its youngest saplings still proud and unbent. They haven’t yet stooped and twisted in an attempt to catch the passing afternoon sun’s warm rays. They will in time… if they don’t get choked out by the weeds and thorns. See the detritus and fallen leaves that cover the earthen ground with a moldy blanket that continually grows. See the mushrooms and moss growing off the sides of trees and upon the forest floor. 

See the ravens and crows roosting in the twisted branches of the tallest trees. There’s something… not quite right about the way they look at you with those beady, glassy eyes. Heads tilted to the side, curious, as though the fowl creatures are wondering—what is a trespasser doing in this long-forgotten place?

See the woodland creatures scurrying to and fro in the underbrush, trying their best to avoid the uncomfortable gaze of the birds above. They know to avoid the area around the tower. Too many of their kind have wandered that way and ne’er returned. 

The woodland creatures pay you no mind, even though it certainly seems like the birds do. Don’t worry. They can’t see you. After all, you’re not really there. This is all made up in your mind’s eye.

But what I shall describe to you next, Dear Reader, really did happen. Even if no one else was around to see it when it did. You and I shall travel back to that long-forgotten place and observe this brief moment in time, unseen by the rest of the waking world. 

Fitting, really, that we should do so. Our protagonists have been known to meddle with the rules of time. They’ve been known to find themselves in the stories of other beings. It’s only fair that we should do the same to them from time to time. 

The Old Road doesn’t make its way through this particular forest. No road built by man ever has. The only path through the forest is cut by the cold, coursing river, and the hooves and paws of wild game traveling through the underbrush.

How did a wizard’s tower get built there, if that’s all true? Good question, but I’m afraid the answer might sound like a bit of a cop out. Magic. The wizard’s tower was built by magic, which is probably the one and only reason it still stands. 

So, no mortal man had ever blazed a trail through the forest. And the wizard who built the tower in the middle of the deep, dark woods had died centuries ago. (It was an arcane cold that did him in, if you were wondering, which is like the common cold but far more magical, and far more deadly.) 

Imagine the shock of the forest itself (if such a thing is possible) and the woodland creatures to witness two individuals doing something that hadn’t been done in well over three hundred years: walking through the deep, dark woods. 

One of the individuals is an old man with a large, bushy beard. He wears a brightly colored stocking cap and a thick, black cloak. A heavy, weatherproof knapsack is slung over his left shoulder. The other individual is an even older looking horse, content to follow behind the old man on a winding path through the trees. 

These two individuals have gone by many names throughout the years they’ve walked the wide, wide world of Minz. But for the purposes of this story, we’ll simply call the old man Bremley and the even older-looking horse Maurice. 

Many tales have been told about Bremley and Maurice—and because of them. I have searched far and wide for mention of their deeds both great and small. I want to eventually tell their story properly from start to finish. But some stories—such as theirs—take a great deal of time to find. They are woven together, made up of many tales. 

This is one such tale. 

By all outward, worldly intents and purposes, it is a relatively minor tale. But this story isn’t meant to be about outward, worldly things. It’s something else instead. Great deeds do not always have to affect the entire world. They can affect a smaller number of beings—or indeed only one. 

“Easy now, Maurice. Mind where you step. There’s some foul magic in the air—and I don’t like the way those birds are looking at us.” 

Bremley had no need to hold the old horse’s reins. He had never needed to direct Maurice before. His friend could understand him better than just about anyone. That understanding went both ways. 

With his animal instinct, born of the need to survive the harsh world around him, Maurice could sometimes recognize certain traps that eluded even Bremley’s keen eye. Such as the one Bremley was about to step foot in now. Maurice didn’t know what it did—all the old horse knew was that his friend couldn’t take one more step.

Maurice neighed in warning, and Bremley froze in place. His booted foot hovered over an unseen trap. Slowly, the old man moved backward a step. He lowered his knapsack to the ground, glanced back at Maurice, and then knelt on the forest floor. He carefully examined the fallen leaves in front of him. 

“It’s not magical, whatever it is,” he muttered under his breath. “Nor is it living. So what…?” 

After a moment’s consideration, Bremley finally took a stone from his pocket and tossed it in front of him. When the smooth river stone hit the ground, it was instantly swallowed up. Or, more accurately, the stone fell into the deep and gaping, maw-like, stake-filled pit that had been hidden beneath the covering of leaves.

Bremley stared at what could have been his final resting place if not for his friend. Then he turned back to Maurice with a faint smile. “All right, all right. I’ll watch where I step, okay?”

Maurice just snorted. It almost sounded like amusement—as if he were thinking of all the times Bremley had said something similar, promising to be careful over the many, many years that they had been friends. How many times the old man had actually kept his promise… well, Maurice didn’t need fingers to count such occasions. His four hooves were plenty. 

“Shouldn’t leave this for anyone to fall into,” Bremley said. Then with a furrowed brow and an intense look of concentration, the old man lifted his hand and said a magic Word that caused the pit to collapse in on itself and be filled with rich, dark earth. A faint depression in the forest floor was all that was left of the deadly trap.

Bremley stood and dusted off his hands with a self-satisfied expression. But that expression slowly turned grave and serious as he saw something that normally could not be seen.

“Deadly traps—both magical and otherwise—lie waiting in this forest, Maurice. That must account for the foul smell in the air. I think whoever set them is long gone. But their insidious work still remains. What do you say we unravel some of these traps and try to get to the bottom of this before anyone gets hurt?”

Maurice seemed to be inclining his head. But it could have just been that he had an itch and—lacking a more effective means of scratching that itch—was resorting to other methods. 

Regardless, Bremley took the horse’s motion to be enough of an answer. He nodded and moved over to kneel beside his knapsack. The heavy, weatherproof bag looked beyond full. After a few seconds of rummaging in it with his arm impossibly up to his shoulder, fully inside the bag, Bremley pulled out two objects. 

One was a small, drawstring leather pouch. It had an odd icon that looked like wind stamped into the leather. The other was a pair of scissors with strange, arcane symbols engraved in the two blades.

“Before we deal with the magical traps…” Bremley muttered under his breath, “Let’s take care of the non-magical ones.” 

The old man then spoke a string of magical Words, cleverly strung together with very specific intent. As he spoke the Words, thunder rumbled ominously overhead in the afternoon sky. After a moment, the rumble seemed to echo throughout the forest.

This is what caused the rumble: using a fairly complicated bit of spellcraft that he had picked up on his travels, Bremley spoke magical Words. These were Words which erased any and every non-magical “footprint” made with ill intent in the forest. Anything made by hands with the hope of causing any sort of harm to another being were targeted by Bremley’s spell. Spring traps and pressure plates were sprung and disassembled. Pits with sharpened stakes were filled in safely with dirt and detritus.

After a few minutes, the rumbling ceased, but the cacophony of noise and sound continued as the many creatures of the forest voiced their displeasure at the sudden disturbance.

Bremley took off his multicolored hat and wiped sweat from his brow. He looked tired but pleased with what he had accomplished. “On to the magical, Maurice,” he said to his friend. 

The old man carefully opened the drawstring pouch and poured out some of its contents. Fine, colored sand. The grains were a vivid purple, and as Bremley held them in his hand, they began to glow brightly. Bremley stared down at the pile of glowing sand and then hurled it into the air with another shouted Word. Instead of falling to the ground, the sand dispersed into the forest in the cool, afternoon breeze—a brightly glowing trail of colored sand which revealed a tangled, insidious web of magical traps all around the old man and the old horse. 

Bremley studied the tangled web of magic carefully. It looked like a spider’s web—if that spider had forgotten how to spin a web and instead strung pieces of its silk haphazardly all throughout the forest. It was so convoluted and yet intricately connected. Bremley could only see a small part of the web (what was actually in front of him), but he could see where the magic went off winding amongst the trees, deeper into the forest still.

“All right, Maurice,” Bremley said. He picked his knapsack up and slung it over his shoulder again. “Let’s follow the magic and see where it goes.” 

Fearlessly, the two friends forged ahead. There were no more non-magical traps to hinder their progress. But they did get stopped several times by magical, web-like spell strands, placed in such a way that it’d be impossible to go forward without running into them. When they encountered such delays, Bremley simply took his strange scissors and cut through the magic as easily as though shearing through string. The spell strand would unravel and disintegrate, blowing away in the wind, and the old man and the old horse would press on. 

They continued in this manner for several hours, going deeper and deeper into the wild and untamed forest. The brightly colored sand warned of danger and illuminated their way as the tree covering grew denser and blocked out more of the afternoon sun. As the last of the light faded from leaking through the tree branches, Bremley and Maurice came to the tower. 

It was just as I described it to you earlier on, Dear Reader. 

See the tall, crumbling tower built of wood, brick, and stone. See its multi-colored slate shingled spire with the retractable roof to make visible the starry sky above for nighttime experiments. See the thick hedge of thorns that surrounds the tower—an impassable barrier just as surely as the invisible magical one. See the creeping, tendril-like vines that have slowly begun to climb the tower, brick by brick, because the forest remembers: there were trees once where the tower now stands. The forest is determined to avenge its fallen friends. And it will rip this tower down to the ground, given enough time. 

See now what you didn’t see earlier—not without the magical sand Bremley tossed in the air: hundreds, if not thousands of strands of magic coming from all directions in the forest to connect to the top of the wizard’s tower. Or rather, to be more precise, the magical strands emanated from the tower, going out into the deep, dark forest. The magic extended its malicious, web-like tendrils, infecting the entire forest below.

Bremley and Maurice looked up at that tall, yet crumbling and crooked wizard’s tower, just visible above the massive hedge of thorns. It was there that the strands of magic led them. It was there that they had to go. 

Bremley approached the hedge of thorns and spoke softly. He was not as gifted with this sort of magic as a dear friend of his, but he could speak to the plant life, honest and true.

“You want to tear down this tower,” Bremley said quietly. “I can see that. You were once forced to guard its walls, but that is no longer what you must do. You’re free. If you let me and my friend through, I promise that I will help you.” 

The hedge of thorns listened. Intelligent as all living things are, it could understand that the old man was telling the truth. (Though to be sure, Bremley’s magic certainly helped convince it.) Slowly, a small path was made through its impassable branches—a path through which an old man and an even older-looking horse could walk.

“Thank you, friend.”

Bremley and Maurice stepped through the thick hedge of thorns and found themselves standing in a small, unnatural clearing. At the center of the clearing was the wizard’s tower. Ominous. Dark. Filled with menace and mystery. 

The vivid purple light cast from the magical sand Bremley had tossed into the air cast an eerie glow over the clearing in the growing darkness. Soon, night would fall. And in a deep, dark forest such as this one, Bremley was sure that would be exactly when the monsters came out as well.

At the base of the wizard’s tower was a red door with faded, peeling paint. It was most likely locked, but Bremley knew how to get around such things. It only took a little matter of time. And Bremley had a lot of that. As much as he needed, really. 

Bremley stepped forward and—seeing no magical traps or enchantments—tried turning the doorknob. Surprisingly, the red door with faded, peeling paint swung open with great protest. It wasn’t locked. Unfortunately, even unlocked, the door was not large enough for a horse to fit through.

Bremley turned to Maurice and patted the horse’s flank gently. “I think I need to do this next part alone, old friend.”

Maurice snorted and nudged the old man gently with his nose. Bremley smiled and touched his forehead to Maurice’s head. “I’ll be careful,” he said assuringly. “I can’t imagine that there’s anything in that old tower that can harm me. But just in case…” 

The old man unslung his knapsack and set it on the ground. Reaching inside, he took out a sheathed sword that was longer than the knapsack was tall. He shifted his cloak and buckled the sword onto his belt. The blade was simple, utilitarian, and most certainly magical. It was the sort of instrument that Bremley would have much preferred to have no knowledge of, practice, or skill in using. As it was, he used it sparingly, and only as an absolute last resort. 

Faintly visible from the purple light cast by the magical sand, a stone staircase spiraled up into the heights within the dark tower. Ominous. Sometimes, open doors aren’t invitations. Sometimes, they’re traps. There’s no way of knowing which one they are except by pressing forward. 

And that’s exactly what Bremley did. He strode forward and didn’t look back. He stepped into the darkness of the tower and was swallowed by shadows.

Outside the wizard’s tower, Maurice neighed softly and stamped his front left hoof nervously, pawing at the ground. A crow landed nearby, perched precariously on the hedge of thorns, and cawed at Maurice. The old horse snorted, unimpressed. 

We could stay outside with Maurice, Dear Reader. But we would miss the rest of this story, and all we’d see Maurice doing is stand at the base of the tower in the growing darkness waiting for his oldest and dearest friend to return.

Let’s follow Bremley instead, why don’t we?

Inside the tall yet crumbling wizard’s tower, Bremley blew more magical sand into the musty air, but it didn’t reveal any magical traps on the winding, stone staircase. 

That made some sense—it was unlikely that a wizard would want to booby trap the inside of his own tower. What if he forgot to dismantle one of them and set it off on himself? 

It was silent as a tomb in the tower—unless, of course, that tomb was inhabited by an undead creature like a pesky Necrofly.

Bremley cautiously made his way up the spiral stone steps. He could make out unlit sconces in brackets along the winding walls, but Bremley didn’t dare light them. Instead, he held the glowing purple sand to dimly light his way. The stone steps were crumbling just like the tower’s exterior. At one point in time, a great deal of water seemed to have run down the staircase, for mold and damp lichen grew wild on the steps, making them treacherous.

Slowly, slowly, Bremley made his way up the stairs to the top of the tower. After the last step was a small landing that led to another red door, this one with a brass, lion’s head knocker. The other door has not borne a knocker. It felt significant that this one did. 

Bremley threw some magical sand at the door. The sand stuck to everything but the door’s knocker, illuminating it with a vivid purple glow. Bremley didn’t know how the door was enchanted; all he knew was that he couldn’t use his scissors to cut through this particular spell. 

The old man hesitated and thought for a moment as he stood on the landing. Then he smiled, reached out, and used the knocker.

TAP. TAP. TAP. The metallic sound echoed through the wizard’s tower. A second later, something within the door itself went CLICK. 

Bremley held his breath and watched as the vivid purple glow faded and the magical sand fell to the stone floor. It seemed that whatever magical effect had been placed upon the door was safely nullified.

Still holding his breath, Bremley reached out and turned the doorknob. The red door with faded, peeling paint swung inward noiselessly, without complaint. Bremley exhaled slowly, held the rest of his magical sand aloft, and stepped inside the tower room. 

Bremley didn’t need his magical sand to see. The room was already awash with the vivid purple glow. And a softer, pale, yellow light too. The room was spacious—far more so than it should have been. Some strange magic was at work, distorting, stretching, and enlarging the space occupying the stone walls of the tower. 

It looked like you might expect a wizard’s tower to look. (Wizards don’t all have the same interior decorator, but they do often have similar tastes.) 

Bookshelves filled with dust-covered tomes lined the walls. A laboratory with grimy vials and broken beakers was off inthe far corner. A large telescope below the retractable roof crouched next to a drafting desk covered with charts of the constellations above Minz. A full skeleton was positioned like a mannequin by one of the bookshelves. It wore a suit of dented armor and was a near-twin to the one lying in a bed made up of moth-eaten sheets. 

All the threads of magic throughout the forest led to the heart of this ruined room. They all connected to a singular point—a dais in the middle of the room, atop which was what looked like a lightning rod. Resting on the dais below the lightning rod was a glass box. Within it was a floating orb of pure, once-iridescent light. Trapped. 

Bremley drew in his breath sharply at the sight. A righteous anger burned within him. He knew instantly what the orb was. It didn’t belong trapped in a glass box for centuries on end. Not that anything did. No, it belonged elsewhere. It belonged in the starry sky above. It was captured moonlight, and it deserved to be wild and free. And now Bremley knew why he and Maurice had been drawn to this particular forest. 

The old man quickly crossed the room, giving no heed to what secrets and mysteries the rest of the room might have possessed. If he had been thinking more clearly—or if Maurice were with him—he might have thought to check if anything else in the room was enchanted. 

First, Bremley severed the strands of magic connected to the lightning rod with his scissors. All throughout the forest, magical traps and enchantments vanished in the blink of an eye. The majority of the vivid purple light in the tower vanished as sand fell to the stone floor. 

Second, Bremley drew closer to the glass box. He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m sorry that you’ve been trapped in there. I’m going to free you now.” 

The orb of captured moonlight pulsed, almost as if it could understand him. With that, Berley nodded, took the hilt off his sword, and smashed the glass box, shattering it into a thousand tiny, glittering pieces.

Two things happened simultaneously, as soon as the glass box shattered. One was a reaction, the other was a magical trigger: 

The orb of moonlight haltingly launched into the air, wobbling shakily—unused to moving freely for some time—and the skeleton wearing the suit of armor came to life and lurched toward Bremley like a marionette. It drew a rusty blade from an even rustier scabbard on its hip bone. It grinned a toothy, gaping grin, clicking and clattering as it advanced upon the old man, its movements unnaturally fast.

Bremley gave a shout of alarm and jumped backwards as the skeleton swung its sword. The rust-covered blade wooshed through the air, narrowly missing Bremley.

In the air above the two fighters, the iridescent orb of once-captured moonlight pulsated, growing brighter—as if trying to give Bremley more light.

The skeleton was wickedly fast and deceptive with its jerky movements. It twitched, and Bremley thought it was about to swing again. Instead, the skeleton lunged forward and tried to bite him. Bremley managed to shoulder it aside, and sent it staggering into a nearby bookshelf.

Then the old man drew his sword. It hissed free of its scabbard. Arcane runes were etched on both sides of the Vorparian steel blade. The blade didn’t just take life. It unmade what once was. Bremley swung as the skeleton clambered to its feet. He took the grinning skull clean off and the skeleton exploded into dust as the magic spell woven into its bones was broken.

Breathing heavily, Bremley looked about the room, searching for any more threats or sudden movement. Seeing none, he lowered his sword then sheathed it. “Careless and foolish,” he tutted to himself. “Maurice will never let me hear the end of this.” 

Dimly, he realized that the orb of moonlight had floated down and was now hovering by his shoulder. “Unless we can keep this between us,” The old man said dryly. “You won’t tell him, will you?” 

The orb pulsed twice and bobbed side to side in the air. Bremley smiled. “Good. Thank you.” He turned and began walking back over to the red door. The wizard’s tower held nothing more for him. He would keep his promises though. He always tried to do so. He called over his shoulder to the orb, “Come on. The night sky is this way, friend.”

After a moment’s consideration, the orb of once-captured moonlight followed the old man down the spiral steps and out of the crumbling wizard’s tower. Maurice didn’t seem surprised in the least to see that Bremley didn’t return alone. The old horse snorted and pawed the ground, as if in greeting to the orb. The moonlight pulsed in return and soared joyfully into the night sky where it danced amongst the glittering stars. 

Bremley watched it for a moment with a smile on his face. Next to him, Maurice nudged his shoulder questioningly. Bremley glanced over at the horse and shook his head. “What? No, no trouble at all. I was careful—just as I promised.”

Maurice rolled his eyes and looked about as convinced at Bremley’s statement as a parent being told by their child with a chocolate-covered face that no, they didn’t eat the cake, and they had no idea where it could have possibly gone. 

Bremley shrugged unabashedly. “Ah, well, maybe I could have used your help, old friend.”

Maurice nodded in agreement. Bremley could always use his help. That’s what friends were for. And Maurice would always be there for his friend. No matter what. 

Bremley turned back to regard the wizard’s tower with a look of distaste. He had no problem with wizards. He had been called one at times throughout the years. That wasn’t really accurate, but he took no offense. 

However, Bremley couldn’t stand the sort of wizard such as the one who subjected this forest to his cruel enchantments and entrapments. Magic was not meant to enslave. But many used it that way all the same. No, magic was meant to set free and liberate. Which was exactly what Bremley promised he would do with it. 

As he regarded the crumbling tower, Bremley took off his multicolored hat, knit for him by a dear friend. He snapped his fingers and then uttered a Word under his breath. It was a magical Word which very few could understand—much less speak. Like polysyllabic words which can be rather difficult to say, some magical Words are harder to use than others. Bremley was one of a handful of people who could speak such a Word. And as far as he was aware, Bremley was the only one in all of Minz who actually knew it. 

What the Word did was this: in an instant, the tall, crumbling  wizard’s tower felt the full effects of time upon it. In that instant, a thousand years and a day passed for the materials that made up the tower—and everything else inside of it. Brick and stone can withstand time’s passage better than most things, but they cannot withstand a thousand years and a day. They disintegrated along with everything else, turning to dust in the wind.

The only things the Word did not affect were living organisms. As such, a host of flies, gnats, spiders, and mice all darted off into the dark forest in search of new homes. Mold and lichen now covered the ground with the fallen leaves, detritus, and vines, where once a tall, yet crumbling wizard’s tower stood. 

Bremley had kept his promise to the hedge of thorns. He had torn the tower to the ground, just as he said he would. The wind whispered its thanks, and the forest itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. For the first time in a very long time, it was free.

Bremley and Maurice stood there in the small clearing for a moment. Then, the old man put his multicolored hat back on, stowed the sword, scissors, and leather pouch back into his knapsack, and slung the bag over his shoulder. 

As if noticing that they were getting ready to leave, the once-captured moonlight floated down from the night sky above. Bremley glanced over as its rays illuminated the small clearing. The orb pulsed several times. 

Bremley tilted his head to the side. “You don’t owe me anything, friend,” he said. “You were in need, and I was able to help you, so I did. That’s all there is to it. Enjoy your freedom.”

The orb pulsed again and moved through the air erratically.

Bremley frowned. “Well, if that’s what you wish, you’re certainly welcome to join us, and you can leave whenever you want as well.”

The once-captured moonlight danced through the air in the small clearing, pulsating happily. Bremley smiled again. Without another word, he and the old horse walked through the break in the hedge of thorns, back into the dark forest. The once-captured moonlight lit their way.

Bremley, Maurice, and the once-captured moonlight wouldn’t stay in the woods for long. They had too many other far-off places to go. Too much important work to be done. And while time didn’t pay much attention to them and what they were doing most of the time, they still had to work within its confines every now and then because everyone else in Minz did.

Dear Reader, if you think it odd that this story was essentially about an old man freeing an orb of once-captured moonlight from a crumbling wizard’s tower, I won’t deny that it’s one of the… stranger things I’ve discovered in my search for stories throughout Minz. 

But it fits in line with the sort of stories I’ve discovered of Bremley and Maurice and their many adventures. And that means it’s exactly the right sort of story to be told, even if it is an odder one.