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The clockwork veteran looked about the shadowy thicket that concealed his bolt hole and the hidden pond it adjoined. He frowned in exasperation. It wasn't exactly just his bot hole anymore. The peculiar Hedge natives had accepted him as one of their own which apparently meant they could eat his food, hide in his Hollow or just come by for a a chat and a cuppa. Not that he understood half of what they said between gibbering, mewling and the occasioned passionate squawk.

At first the wary tinker thought them an annoyance or possibly a security threat. But now he realized it was rather like have geese in the yard who raised a fuss when anything was awry. He didn't know how he knew that about guess. With a mind rent by a desperate escape through the Hedge, he was sure how he knew many of the things he did.

His dreams hinted at what he had lost. He once had medical talents he no longer possessed. If medical talents could be described as weaving flesh and mechanisms together as one and an intellect commensurate to the task. He had helped create monstrosities, he was sure of it, though his dreams more often revolved around repairing those same monster man-machines in the midst of battle.

The clockwork changeling Verne shook his head to clear the incursion of unwanted memories. It wasn't his real name. That had been lost long ago with an eye and and arm and numerous other bits and pieces. Eventually, he would become more machine then man until all that was left of him was stuttering gears and squeaky springs.

The winter fruit had finally ripened. He found three good pieces and left the rest to the Hob the lingered around his hollow. The Hollow.

“THESE ARE MINE!” He hollered out to the assorted Hedge-folk scattered about, holding up the luscious goblin fruits. They stared at the refugee from Elsewhere as one. He was normally such a quiet fellow. “The rest are yours as you like. NO bloodshed in the sharing, please. Or YOU will be the ones cleaning up the mess.”

As soon as he turned away to enter the simple bolt hole, the chatter and gibbering resumed as if nothing had been said at all. He wasn't at all sure if the Hob had understood, though they generally didn't seem to bother his few possessions. Though sometimes he did have to shoe some from his sleeping mat only to have them return moments later for an evening's cuddle. It was an affection he suffered... diplomatically.

He entered the trunk of the large twisted tree. The main chamber below was the major communal spot with a tiny stone firepit at the center. It provided little warmth and had been little used after a fire had gotten out of hand. Verne imagined he could still smell smoke at times though it might have been one of the especially gassy Hobs providing the smoky air.

All manner of Hedge Folk came and went. Sometimes wounded and those he helped as best he could though he wasn't the healer he once was. He rather got the impression the Hollow was an open secret amongst the strange folk and seen as something of a sanctuary tended by their once mortal cousin. He wasn't sure the honor was a blessing or a curse.

Generally the loft was left to him alone save for the most fearful, most harried, most afraid of Hobkin. As if the loft by his occasional presence was any safer then the rest of the bolt hole. It was in the loft he had fashioned a door way to the World Beyond.

Both floors hadn't much in the way of amenities and pretty much everyone or every-THING that visited was left to fend for themselves. Here and there were little nestings or collections of random items scavenged from the area. For the life of him, Verne wasn't sure if they were offerings, fashion suggestions or local natives moving in. He tried not to disturb them for the sake of peace of mind, though sometimes he wondered if they were just left overs from Hob Parties held in his absence.

As he trudged up the trunk to his personal space, he took the ripened goblin fruit to enjoy later and stashed underneath the pillow of his mat. Verne hadn't wished to take it with him to the World Beyond less the fruit grow sour and unpalatable.

He sighed, looking about the Hollow above and below. He really needed to do something with this place. Pictures. Curtains. A Hearth or some sort of working kitchen.

Yes. A workshop of some sort. Maybe even a Library once his shattered mind could better suffer written words again. For now maybe he'd just settle for a good sweep.

Verne looked to the door to the World Beyond. Closing his eyes to summon the wither all to deal with the separate reality, he strode forth and pressed a lever. Gears clinked softly as if whispering secrets to the springs and the passage to the World Beyond unfolded like a curious mechanical puzzle.

Looking behind him to make sure no curious Hob was eager to follow, once satisfied the sorry soul now called Verne slipped to the Other Side and to an old House Boat docked on someplace now called the Sacramento River.