Last I wrote, I was about to head to Bridgetown. Now I am in North Kempton.

Two months ago, November 16th through 17th, I think, I made my way to Bridgetown and met with Meon. I took a plane from Gentry County Airport to the Airfield in the greater area of Lerutan. From there, I took a cable train which arrived to Midway Station in Bridgetown. Meon's flat was one block East and one block North of the Midway Platforms, on the Bridge, itself, on the Combrian side.

So it was a long day of travel, I think about three hours.

When I arrived, Meon invited me in and sat me down with some coffee. I told him of everything that happened between Marcus Terrings and Karlin Maryk, more than what I could say over telephone or ticker. Meon seemed to listen intently; but when I finished, instead of providing insight and advice on the matter, he simply stated that he had nothing to say and then changed the subject.

The conversation drifted into politics, during which Meon felt certain that Jackson would win.

"I don't see how a radical third-party candidate from an upstart organization can bring down the mighty Foundationist-Laborist establishment," I remember saying.

"You would be surprised how many think differently," Meon said.

Of course, I did not believe him at that moment. In fact, I was completely dumbfounded by his actions. He seemed a completely changed individual, not the Meon I knew for years and years. And in this case, I even began to wonder if he was either politically swayed or knew something that only few others knew.

And my dumbfoundedness was increased even moreso by what he said next.

"Go back to Cabotton next week, and finish your semester," Meon said. "After finals, I need you to do me a favor. I will send over 500 qors to your bank account that week. Whenever you see that, and whenever your academic break starts, take the plane and train routes necessary to reach the town of North Kempton. See if you can find Cray Fenton."

"I thought you no longer had interest in the happenings of Cray Fenton," I protested. Indeed, that was true. Meon had made countless mentions with me in conversation throughout the years about his fallout with Cray Fenton. After Fenton's downfall, Meon was hoping to reach out in the hope of consolation. He had tried this many times but was met with cold silence. Eventually, Meon gave up, or so it would seem.

But Meon placed his hands on my shoulders. "Don't mention me," he said. "Also, when you get there, approach him as if normally someone from the outside wanting to make friends. In the process, get as much information from him as possible, his whereabouts, his relations, especially with the Galleston family, and especially his craft."

"What is the meaning of all this?" I asked.

"Just do as I ask." Then Meon smiled. "It will benefit all of us."

Usually, a conversation with Meon made me feel whole whenever I came to him during low points in my life. But that particular conversation made me feel even more fragmented and confused. I returned to Cabotton the same way I came. And during the last week of November, first week of December, I just simply felt emptier than before. I stopped engaging on the most part with the Third Level Society, not just because of having to focus on my final examinations, but because I simply became a shell of who I was.

My mind turned quite frequently to the Four Towers on the University Campus.

I went through the motions. I took and passed my exams. At the end of the first week of December, I put the Society and Meon completely out of mind.

And then, in the late hours of Friday December 7, news broke that the electoral Docks District in South Masonia was handed to Edward Jackson. That was the final building stone in this year's contested election, the outcome of which determined the outcome of the election. So Edward Jackson of the radical Diplomatic Party was named the next Prime Minister, unseating the incumbent James Black and breaking the Foundationist-Laborist dynamic having been in place since the beginning.

Meon Bell was right.

In all this chaos and uncertainty, Meon Bell's seemingly off-hand and semi-delusional statement regarding the politics in the outside world was actually right on point. I actually had thought that Meon was converted into a brainwashed hopeful of that libertarian campaign platform. But now I realize that perhaps I was misunderstood. With Meon Bell serving as the point of fixture in the socio-political soup, I decided to finally follow through with his advice.

I still paid a visit to my family for the first week or so of winter break, staying over the holidays of Stellacrux and the New Year. But afterward, I set out to North Kempton. I decided to take the following Spring Semester off from Cabotton University.

When I got there, I realized that the rumors I heard in the past spoke true about North Kempton. I saw pictures of the town before everything happened. Nothing but a few farmsteads. But when the Airship Pirafone crashed in one of their cropfields, national attention was drawn here. Before long, the airship industry saw the place as a potential stopover; so they built an airfield here, dedicating it to Captain William Solomon, having received a hero's honor for having landed the Pirafone on the ground without casualties. In fact, Cray Fenton having broken his wrist was the only injury requiring a hospital stay.

Things changed dramatically for that town. Before 1251, it was said that "nobody outside of North Kempton knew that North Kempton existed." Where there used to be nothing but open fields and scattered farmsteads stands, today, a proper town. There is a town square with intersecting avenues and traffic lights. And there's line after line of shops.

That was not what got my attention, however. What struck me was the arrangement of the residential housing estates. Those, in North Kempton, are complete squares with uniform houses and uniform lawns. Now we've had estates throughout Middle Remikra and the Great North for the past half-century or so, but these housing plots here in North Kempton are peculiar with their yard decorations, more specifically the bushes and hedges, whose shapes are obviously crafted by humans. And for the past thirty-six hours, I learned from a few North Kemptonians that there is a norm to have the best hedge and the best-kept lawn. Not necessarily an actual competition, but more like a competitive vibe. And this extends to fences, housing exteriors, and even sidewalks.

Another element of culture here is a similar incentive to produce the best model family of the town. In other words, there is a stronger drive here than I've seen elsewhere to graduate from school, join the military if you are male, obtain a college degree, obtain a job, then marry and start a family. And may I add that there is a strong expectation for adolescents to participate in sports. In fact, that norm is so popular that the local high school has more than one team for each of their sports.

And there also seems to be a community expectation extending to even relatively private behaviors such as one's conduct at the family dinner table, as well as pressure to attend Alconist worship every Sunday.

I'm not able to pinpoint what exactly about this bothers me slightly. All the norms here are present elsewhere, including Cabotton. But something feels a bit extreme about all of this. It seems that North Kempton and its very function seems to revolve around the norms of the individual and of the family. And North Kempton is the first town I've seen to boast a slogan: "Tradition and Community."

Regardless, I was happy to finally meet Cray Fenton. At first, I found someone who knew him, but that person would not respond to my inquiry other than "He's busy these days with private matters." I had booked an extended stay at the Town Center Hotel. So I decided to take another approach by leveraging some rumors.

What I gained from that was that Cray Fenton and members of the Galleston family were setting up and running a dymensional plane that simulated the city of North Kempton, itself, with avatars only in the form of humans and animals doing normal things. It seemed boring the way these sources conveyed these activities.

But then I came across Carla Solden. I told her everything that I heard about the Cray Fenton project, and explained to her how I had, on the most part, separated from the Third Level Society. That seemed to catch her interest; and when I asked to observe a session one night out of pure curiosity, she obliged and gave me the address to the Galleston Farmhouse.

So I arrived on the evening of January 14th to the Galleston Farmhouse. It was snowy, and had been all day. But I could see that they had about an acre of crops that they grew during the appropriate season. Indeed, they were right next to the William Solomon Airfield, which was quite a vast area; and Peter Galleston, who met me upon arrival, explained how that all belonged once to the Galleston family, initially as a large grainfield. The airship industry had paid a large sum of money to that family for purchase of the field, as well as paid for a lifetime of wheat flour imports.

The dymensional plane was in the house basement, but we convened in the living room on the first floor, where I finally met Cray Fenton, members of the extended Galleston family, and some of their close friends.

Fenton seemed quite calm and friendly, in stark contrast to what Meon Bell had told me. I guess that being away from the Third Level Society for as long as he was did much to calm him. So I told them everything regarding my recent experiences with the Third Level Society.

For a moment, Fenton's jolly vibe disappeared and was replaced by an air of serious acknowledgement. "Indeed, some things may have changed. But some things also remain the same." Then he beckoned for me to follow him down into the basement, where he showed me the dymensional plane.

It was basically a rendition of North Kempton. "Every significant building, every street, every zone, every geographical feature, crafted to the best possible detail with respect to our ability," Fenton explained to me. "It's not much, I know. Just a simple re-creation of the real world. But it serves an important purpose. Of course, that would take all night of explaining. So it is better for you to cast your own avatar and take part."

And I did. Thus far, things seem a bit less structured here. They do not even have a name for their organization let alone a policy book or Statute of Principle. But one rule here is that the avatar you cast must be an exact replica of yourself, with no unreasonable alterations.

But aside from that, there are no rigid leadership roles, although Fenton seems the "head of the round dinner table." There are no bizarre political dynamics here like in Cabotton. There seems to be an air of common sense for once. I haven't yet fully indulged, although I will in due time. But this already feels more comfortable for me than the Society ever did.

"There's probably more of you where you came from," Fenton said at one point. "Let them know that I would like to extend my perpetual invitation."

I am taking Spring Semester off from Cabotton University. In fact, I may even take off Fall Semester.