#ptonic week

Footsteps approached Fakir, writing as usual on the dock. He didn't bother turning; it was probably just Karon, or someone else out to enjoy the lakeside.

"So," a smarmy voice called. Fakir's pen jumped across the page, and he scowled at Autor. Of course he would have the audacity to disturb him. "You ended the story."

Fakir's forehead thunked against his clipboard. "Of course you of all people would remember."

"Why wouldn't I? I have writer's blood too, as you're well aware. The story may have had its claws in both of us, but naturally my prowess and knowledge was enough to keep my mind intact, powers or not. As for the rest of this town—"

"Do you have anything important to say, or will you finally leave me alone?" He glared at Autor, challengingly.

"Hmph! Quite rude," Autor pushed his glasses up. "Well, since you stopped coming to me for advice, I thought I'd take the liberty of locating you. You've made yourself quite the easy man to find; if the Bookmen wanted to come for y—"

"Get to it." Fakir interrupted, turning back to his writing.

Autor's mouth opened and closed a few times in frustration. "You—fine! Whatever! I only came to ask why you haven't turned that duck into a girl again."

Fakir's glare slid patronizingly over, "Sure, because the last time a story influenced the people in this town it went so well."

Autor "hmph"-ed again, pushing his glasses up derisively. "Extenuating circumstances; THAT story was meant to stay contained as a story, and escaped into the real world. A true tale-weaver knows how to seamlessly influence reality. Why, if I had that kind of power, I wo..."