Behind the brush, the Simpleton watched as the Professor checked the Map, the Compass and the Sextant.

Silly tools, the Simpleton thought. As the Professor continued his trek toward the tower that once belonged to the maiden Rapunzel, the Simpleton leaned against the bark of the great oak he called friend.

The language, ingrained, and not stalkable by map or sextant, ran through the Simpleton. He drug the crescent moon of his right pinky nail against his left wrist and winced as a line of red began to ooze from the fresh cut. One drop, two, fell into the grass, bending a single blade of grass.

There.

It was timed perfectly. The Professor looked down at his three tools once more, and for too long a glance, because when he looked back up, the tower was gone.

The Simpleton leaned back against the great oak and disappeared. Balanced scales, indeed.