I check the symbols popping up on the ink display as the canoe approaches the shore. At this point the Wavefinder’s patterns read as if they were just another common language. It hums as if to sing along with the waves rocking us. We hit the wooden pier with a soft thump. 

Mild sunrays cleave the temperate air, the valley is blanketed by fog and thick dew. Breaths of the treetops rise towards the unstable skies, droplets waiting patiently to reach the thirsty ground.

I stand at the edge of the forest, one of the concrete silos in front of me has split clean in half. Reminiscent of a large egg, pieces of the shell strewn across the overgrown yard of the Wetland Station. The gondola dock is in especially bad condition…

The cables connecting the stations disappear far into the mist rising from the treetops. I don't dare to climb it for a closer inspection, still feeling a bit groggy from the journey and the early morning leading up to it.

The station rests on a small artificial island, most constructions would struggle to stay afloat, sinking into the mire-like depths without a trace. It's hard to tell if it's floating with the help of some ancient contraption or if the architects somehow managed to place it on top of the bedrock far below. Maybe it's some forgotten magic still running its course. 

A slight shiver travels down my spine as I imagine my presence breaking the spell, my steps shifting the ground ever so slightly, letting it know it's finally time to sink to its long-desired resting place, far below the surface.

The antennas crowning the station tower look relatively clean. 

I haven't heard anything about them needing to be serviced, so I’ll leave them be. It's not really on me to check their condition, although considering this route is rarely traveled this time of year, the possibility of infrastructure being out of order would not be a surprise .  ..

The peat boulders lining the forest edge are covered with herbs of unusual character. 

I pick a handful while boiling some water, taking a moment to rest and eat the extra ration I got from the Librarian before leaving town. 

The sun is still high on its sluggish path across the sky. 

*

The Planetarium is only a two day hike up the foothills. 

Of course there are shortcuts, I mumble to myself studying my crudely drawn map.

Neatly folding it, putting it in the back of my notebook. Most of them are discouraged, probably for good reason. Mossy cobble paths lead to more traitorous, more slippery, mossy cobble paths, and so on. I grab my backpack and check the knot tying the canoe to the jetty. It won't be going anywhere even if the skies decide to erupt.

The path elegantly dwindles into the lush fern-clad woodland.

The Lake Station quickly disappears out of view. Duckboards cover the first stretch, luckily they aren't too dilapidated, a boot in the swampy depths beneath wouldn't be a great start of the hike. 

With the elevation increasing the sound of my soles against the murky wood turn into a more varied, more pleasant sound of soles against differently sized rocks covered in different amounts of moss. Four of the pearls dangling from my wax canister have lit up. 

It's still a while until dusk arrives, but it might be a good sign to set up camp. Paddling from town took its toll. Even with the canoe swiftly moving between the grassy mounds protruding from the shallow water, I'm quite beat. 

The ground here is dry enough, flat enough.

Before darkness falls I have time to heat another travel ration and stitch up a few holes in my backpack. I write a handful of passages before the last pearl flutters and goes dark. 

Is it worth lighting a candle? I've got a good amount of wax with me, but it feels unnecessary to start digging into my reserves already. I check the spare canisters in the outer pocket of my pack. Opening the lid of one fills the air with a deep sweet scent of beeswax, it whispers promises about the depth of dreams to come. With a yawn I lay out my things and pack up my notes. 

My sleeping bag is too warm. Knowing the weather might switch up, and that the morning will surely bring cool winds from the mountains, it's comforting. Although a little clammy…

*

The dew settles once again, and the morning sun scatters the mist. As I take a pass around camp I notice the bottom chamber of the Wavefinder is half open. The capsule looks fine, but the battery needs to be switched out. I only have two extra ones with me. They're easy to come by, and just as easy to forget. The protective cases they're carried in weigh a bit too much for comfort, so two felt quite generous. I leave the spent one under a large rock. Should be left alone there. 

I switch it out quickly. I'm not too fond of the gloves required to protect from the rays inside, they're quite cumbersome, but I’m used to it. I can hear a loud click as the Wavefinder closes back up, and the familiar beeping returns. 

Same sound as usual. Time to keep moving.

The large boulders strewn through the landscape are fascinating. It feels as if they have been placed with great intent. Trees have taken a liking to the larger ones, lending them a hand in reaching higher towards the sky.

Could it really be a storm? Speculating won't do any good, the weather is changing, the air feels more humid than before, and the temperature is sinking at an alarming pace. Had it been earlier in the season this would signal heavy snowfall, now it almost feels like thunder is approaching. 

Instead of thick brush the path is now lined by low junipers and pines covered in beards of lichen. Their crooked branches whisper as curious birds jump in between them and the mossy cushions shielding the ground below. I wonder if they've ever heard sounds like the ones emitting from the husk of the Wavefinder. They're quick to imitate, close to perfect. The signal is stable.

*

Thin veils of snow whirl around the copper pylons lining the last stretch of the path. Just outside the planetarium doors a magpie is waiting. Waiting might be an overstatement, considering it is minding its own business jumping around collecting strands of moss from the cracks between the cobble. It's almost freezing. Approaching a pair of gilded glass doors, this entrance leads through a larger greenhouse wing, half buried in the mountainside. The magpie's entourage of smaller white birds don't seem to be helping much with the collecting of moss. The sight of the flock, forming, reforming and scattering, almost like a cloud of snow blowing in the wind, is quite amusing.

The greenhouse glass pains are foggy, not from the usual vapour, but a blueish layer of lichen clinging to the inside. It's been cold lately, the greenhouse with its humid air must be the perfect home for the impressive variety of cryptogams present. 

A slumbering shell. 

The rustling sound of the flock reforming, quite close this time, startles me. The magpie seems to have taken interest in my backpack, studying it from a safe distance. Probably the threads stuck in one of the clasps swaying in the cold wind. The flock quickly finds another point of interest and rustles off, making a sound almost like paper blowing off in the wind.

Snow passes by with every gust, it doesn't settle. Not yet.

*

A figure is curled up at the end of the long hallway, no larger than a medium sized sack of beans, or perhaps the size of the rock I discarded the spent capsule under. A single candle is burning on its head. I can feel the pulse of the flame as it soaks up the wax, whispering, illuminating the walls surrounding it. I take a few more steps and feel a pair of tired eyes peering out toward me under the cords of wax dripping.

Without that familiar voice echoing through the slumbering foundry halls I wouldn't have been able to tell Ceryl from the other constructs. I'm surprised by the jolt of energy, as she jumps up from her previously contorted resting position. I've never heard a construct move this quietly before, she's wearing a knit pair of socks to keep the hard sound at bay… 

It's quite a view seeing Ceryl's figure approaching so quickly, soft footsteps tapping, the occasional sputter of wax beads splashing against the stone floor. She tries to stop a couple of meters from my feet, but slides the last bit and bumps into the front of my right boot. 

“Your socks are slippery” I state the obvious with a bashful grin as I look down at the large eyes staring back up at me.

“Yeah, Garson made them for me” Ceryl mumbles with a tired voice. 

I can't tell if it's meant as a jab or if she too is just stating the obvious, either way it's probably true. 

Wouldn't it be nice if tea was brewing? She says and does a little turn starting to walk down the hallway. 

I can hear a sigh echoing down the corridors, as if the first looming moments of consciousness have hit after a long rest. I quickly dig up a spare candle from my bag and light it with one of the canister pearls. 

It only takes a few swift steps to catch up to the wax guardian, my boots being noticeably louder in context . ..

*

The gondola seems to be in decent condition, Garson didn't flinch when I asked if it could be used, and Ceryl showed me the way to the ladder with surprising enthusiasm. Perhaps it's one of the few things here that has gotten the service it needs. Getting up on the rooftop, the wind once again reveals itself. The heavy rain has waned, just slightly, and is now accompanied by large snowflakes competing to reach the ground. For every moment passing the snow is taking the lead against the large droplets hitting the copper roof. A hypnotising sound.

The connection to the Lake Station might have been an option now that I can get a good look at the cables leading down, disappearing in the clouds flickering of snow crystals. Thunder arrived after all. I find it hard to believe it will be a problem further up. The Mountain Station connects directly to deep shafts that lead to the Observatory, worst case the tunnels should be safe if the storm persists. Come to think of it, the stations further up might still be inhabited as well, and in the worst case I can search for an active monastery. While I've packed to keep warm even in the depths of the mountains, it would be nice to have somewhere warm to stay… Inspecting the gondola I've neglected the tall  lightning rod protruding from the roof beside me, best to get inside again before the blizzard picks up. The Husk blinks as usual, beeps as usual.

A bed roll in the study shouldn't be a problem tonight. Warm and dry.