I don’t know where the Infinite Plains are, or when for that matter. Someone told me we’re at the end of time, where everything that ever has been or could be has blended together. I don’t know if I believe this, but I find myself disbelieving less and less as I travel. It was Steven who told me this. I liked Steven, he was a good traveling companion. He was mostly human, at least where it counted.
All travelers part ways eventually. I left Steven and the spectral worms that puppeteered his body near a brook that whispered secrets in a dead language. We spent the evening laying in argyle grass, watching lunar gnats dance across an inky sky . Twisted trees lined the bank of the creek, reaching out to us with gnarled arms and beckoned us closer with flowers that smelled like a dear memory. Cinnamon spiced wine for me, damp loam and a mother’s scales for Steven.
We shared a meal and a story, then I went to bed. I woke that morning to find my companion hanging from a nearby tree, body engulfed in a glistening cocoon. He was kind enough to leave me a note advising that I be at least 12 miles away before the next full moon so I wouldn’t become his first meal when he completed his metamorphosis. The note didn’t specify which moon would be full, so I ran the full 12 miles the next day.
Great guy, but poor attention to detail.