Scowling at Adamastor

((here's a little trip into the bizarre....
And a big thank you to the Adamastor Writer's Guild of Cape Town, who've smashed through illusions and shown me what real magic should look like.
Adamastor is a mythic figure, set to be the Guardian of the Cape ... g'on, google it.))

Where does the mountain end and the myth begin.

I'm not sure, but as I march up the back side of Table Mountain, what seemed incongruous bumps and lumps along a rocky slope turns out to be the stony frame of the guardian. The great Adamastor reclines against the mountainside, one foot idly flicking waves in Camps Bay while his arms are carelessly hooked over the top of Table Mountain. With one flick of a finger he could send the upper cable station shooting off into the distance.

I march up to where I think his ribs would be, driven by anger more than rational thought.
"It's all your fault."
My poking accusation only earns me a painfully bruised finger.
They stormy clouds around his head swirl in interesting fractal patterns as he turns to look down at me.
"You heard me. I blame you." I fold my arms in a defiant posture, trying to hide some of the shaking. But I'm here, and I'm going to let him have it.
"You and the guild. I blame you. Before I set off on this quest for knowledge life was simple. I could look at any wordsmith's work and easily lose myself in their creations. But not now, oh no., now that I've been shown what to look for."
I start to pace on the mountain side, kicking at loose pebbles to vent my feelings.
"Now I have 'opinions'; no more will I seriously consider a wordsmith's work unless I catch sight of the Lesser Spotted POV-hopping birdie. Instead, the moment I catch so much as a glimpse of it's raucous cousin hovering around the smith's domain, I hightail it out of there. "
I shake my head; to think that once upon a time I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a POV-hopper, never mind the brightly coloured PingPong Ricochet-er. The sight of that painfully colourful birdie bouncing madly between characters in a single scene can drive even the most ardent fan to distraction, trying to figure out who is thinking what, who felt that and where da heck did the Furred Plotbeastie shove off to in the confusion.
"And this, can you believe this!" I lift a hank of hair, showing him the tiny 'goggas' that have taken up residence; small, multi-legged and wielding mining implements, I have managed to build up quite a collection of Crit-Ticks.
"I mean, how can a wordsmith ask me to buy into their creation if there's no logic or consistency? If they go to all the trouble of telling me how a character is dressed all in black, then how on earth can wipe his hands on it and stain it red? And how does he manage to fall forwards into a cavern after digging through a man-made obstruction, only to emerge and rebuild the wall...did he lug all those stones back up? And also happened to be an expert in dry-stone building? I mean, really. And there should be a quota set to curb the over-use of exclamation marks and italics, and..."
I gather another lungful of air to continue my tirade, only to pause mid-breath as Adamastor moves. The giant shrugs his shoulders, setting pebbles and boulders tumbling down the mountainside.
"Use what you learn."
He breathes in again, and I learn forward expectantly, only to be flung through the air as he puffs his cheeks and blows out a stream of icy air.
His dismissal sends me skidding to a halt on the southern hook-shaped shore of an unreal bay.
"What? That's it?!"

A flock of Letters scuttle past, and inevitably I find myself drawn along in their wake. Who knows, maybe this time it'll lead to a really worthwhile read.