Sir Dallyho's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

Sir Dallyho spread his maps across the wooden desk in his hideout. The morning sun lit the pages through gaps in the sagebrush walls. He needed to organize everything before the presentation. Three months of work had to fit into one clear argument. He grabbed a soda can from the pile near his sleeping bag and took a long drink. The fizzy liquid helped him think. His research materials covered every surface—stone rubbings taped to walls, photographs pinned above his cot, hand-drawn charts stacked on crates. The sandy cabin had become his workshop, but now it looked like chaos. He needed order. The council would tear apart any weak spots in his presentation. He started sorting papers into three piles: discovery evidence, symbol translations, and timeline proof. Hours passed as he worked through each document. Sweat dripped down his face in the growing heat. He crushed another empty soda can and tossed it aside. The cabin smelled like dust and old paper. His fingers left smudges on the photographs as he arranged them in sequence. Each piece connected to the next, building his case step by step. By afternoon, he had created a clear path through his evidence. The maps showed where he'd found the symbols. The rubbings proved they matched his predictions. The photographs captured details the council couldn't deny. Sir Dallyho stepped back and looked at his organized workspace. For the first time in months, he felt ready. Tomorrow, he would carry this proof to the museum stage. Tomorrow, everything would change. But something still worried him. He walked outside and checked the metallic cooler sitting in the shade. Inside were glass vials filled with soil samples and pieces of carved stone. The desert heat could ruin them before his presentation. He touched one vial and felt it was still cool. The ice packs were holding. These samples were his strongest evidence. He closed the cooler lid and secured the latch. The desert flowers around it swayed in the hot breeze. He had one more task before he could rest. His theory needed historical support, something the council couldn't wave away as lucky guessing. He grabbed his hat and headed into town. The thrift store sat between two larger buildings, its windows filled with old books and trinkets. A bell rang as he pushed through the door. Shelves lined every wall, packed with leather journals and dusty volumes. He searched through records from early settlers, maps from forgotten surveys, and faded newspapers. His fingers pulled book after book, scanning pages for mentions of ancient symbols or ruins. Then he found it—a surveyor's log from fifty years ago describing markings that matched his discovery. Sir Dallyho tucked the book under his arm and paid the shop owner. He had everything now. The physical proof, the translations, and the historical record. The council would have no choice but to listen.