He slips out of his apartment with a backpack slung over a shoulder. He's in all black -- black trenchcoat over a black band T-shirt and black BDU pants with the ankles tied down over black Doc Martens boots. His blond hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, like usual. He shuffles down the hallway, nods to a couple neighbors coming the other way, heads to the staircase. Two flights down, and he's out into the chill evening, heading to the subway stop down the road. He gets the occasional odd look as he walks, but most just write him off as another goth or metalhead and carry on with their lives.

A tap of his pass gets him into the subway, and he's lucky -- a train in his direction comes in just a few minutes. At quarter to nine PM, the car is fairly empty. A cluster of college kids are at one end of the car, dressed for the clubs or a concert. There's a handful of wage-worker-types scattered throughout, heading to overnight shifts. A young couple sitting together look like they're heading somewhere on a date, dressed for some special occasion. And the requisite drunk is curled up on the opposite end of the club-kids, half asleep, mumbling, and reeking of cheap wine.

He grabs an open seat, sets his bag on the seat next to him. During a busy time of day, that would draw ire, but at this hour no one cares. It's only a few stops to his destination. The club-kids pile out ahead of him, and he just rolls his eyes and trails in their wake of Axe and cheap perfume.

It's a short walk to the strip. Bars, restaurants, and nightclubs, galleries and trendy shops, a café or two, and a theater all wedged together in a few blocks. The city redeveloped an old factory district a few years ago, and their plans paid off. The restaurants are filled with people coming out of the early show or heading to the clubs. The bars are standing-room only, noise and chatter spilling out through the doors and windows open to the crisp autumn air. People of all ages are on the sidewalk, coming and going.

He's an imposing figure in black--tall, broad-shouldered--and he makes his way through the crowd steadily as people move aside for him. His destination is actually just off the main strip, and he could’ve taken a side road there, but he likes walking the main road, picking up the energy and vibe of the crowds. He doesn't let it show, though. Not yet. His face is a bored mask, and he doesn't do much more than nod to acknowledge the occasional greeting or wave. A few blocks down, he makes a turn, ignoring the wine-bar on the corner, and heads down the quieter side street.

There's an awning on the side of the building, covering a side door that's been propped open. A low, steady beat can be heard from it, pulsing quietly. A stocky, solid man with a shaved head is standing outside the door, chatting with a short, older woman, who leans against the wall smoking a cigarette. He's in a fitted black t-shirt and black jeans, "too tough" for the cool weather. She's more sensible, with a black leather jacket over her dress. The man sees him coming, nods. He nods in return, then smiles for the first time at the woman, who straightens and stubs out her cig.

"Hey, Cat!" she says. It's her nickname for him, short for "Caterpillar" as she explained once. He didn't press further--he didn't need to.

The bald guy steps towards him, in front of her. "Hey, man, I'll need to check your bag--"

She cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. "Nah, Cat's okay. Friend of ours. Sorry, Cat, he's new. You doin' good? Haven't seen you for a few months."

He shrugs. "I've been busy. New job. Needed a break, though."

She nods, and pulls him into a quick hug. He looks embarrassed for a moment, before she turns him loose and waves him towards the door. "Glad you’re back. I'll see you downstairs, hon."

He nods and steps inside. There's a short flight of stairs down to the basement level. At the bottom, another man sits behind a podium by the door. He checks his ID, takes his cover charge, stamps the back of his hand, and nods. "Have a good one."

"Thanks." He pulls open the door and steps inside.

The volume jumps immediately once he's in the club proper. The thudding beat slams into him, and he winces at the sudden onslaught. He takes a quick glance around. The club opened only a few minutes before, and is basically empty. There's maybe a dozen patrons total, aside from him. Half are at the bar along the back, and a few more are sitting at the tables or on couches, nursing their first drinks of the night. A couple of teens are the only ones on the dance floor at the moment. He makes his way to the back and heads down a short hallway to the restrooms. The door to the ladies' room is propped open, as usual. A woman's inside washing her hands at the counter.

She turns as he steps inside, looks confused. "Hey, man, the mens' room is the other door!"

"Yeah, sorry, need to get changed," he says, then ducks past her and into the handicapped stall at the end before she can protest further. It's the biggest, and he’ll need the room.

The coat and the bag are hung on the hook on the door. He loosens the cuff ties of his BDUs and pulls them up to just below his knees, revealing that the Doc Martens are knee-high, not the usual ankle-length. He perches on the handrail on the wall and unzips the Docs, thankful he doesn't have to unlace them to get them off. Free of the boots, he steps out of the BDUs, revealing a pair of black tights underneath, with a pair of thick knee-high socks over those. He tucks the BDUs through the handrail, and the band shirt follows a moment later. Bending, he pulls the boots back on and zips them up. Though the ladies' room usually stays cleaner than the men's, he still wants to spend as little time in stocking feet as possible. Now it's time for the backpack.

From the front compartment, he pulls out a black bra--sturdy and supporting, but with lace along the edges. He pulls it on, snaps it behind his back with the ease of long practice. Next comes out a battered cardboard box about the size of a large book. Inside, in folds of tissue, are a pair of breast forms, which are quickly slipped into the bra and settled into position. The box goes back into the backpack, and from the main compartment comes a long-sleeved, short-skirted, boat-necked black skater dress. He pulls that on over his head, tugs it into place. He'd had to hunt online to find one in his size with a high enough neckline--between the basic forms he could afford and the patch of hair on his chest that he doesn't dare shave off, showing cleavage isn't an option.

The last item out of his backpack is the pride of his collection: a black leather underbust corset. He'd saved for months (and spent another couple working up the nerve) before buying it in a specialty boutique in the next city over. He wraps it around himself, zips up the front busk. He gives the laces a tug just to get it snug around him; he'll finish tightening it in a moment. He quickly folds the pants and shirt and stuffs them back into the backpack, then exits the stall. Turning his back to the full mirror, he looks over his shoulder and deftly begins pulling the laces tight. A few minutes' effort has them even, hiding his gut, knocking several inches off his waist, and giving him some of the curves he otherwise lacks. Satisfied, he ties them off and tucks the excess away.

From his backpack, he fishes out a small makeup case. He doesn't bother trying to make it perfect; in the dark club, nothing subtle would be visible. Eyeliner, a bit of dark shadow, some blush, and a dark, red lipstick he'd found in the discount bin of the supermarket one night. No foundation--he'd shaved a couple hours ago, and his beard was blond and blessedly thin. He pulls his ponytail loose, brushes his hands through it, then fluffs it out a bit over his shoulders. Someday, he'll work up the nerve to go to an actual salon, but until then he makes do. A couple girls come in the bathroom, giggle at him fiddling with his mascara, then duck into stalls.

Finished with the mascara, he packs the makeup away, then takes a step back and looks himself over. And tries not to sigh. Six-one, two hundred pounds, broad-shouldered, large hands--he passes like a kidney stone. But, still, with the forms and the corset, the makeup, the long hair, the flared dress and knee-high boots--it's as much of herself as she can show. It's enough, for now.

She gives the corset a tug, settling it lower on her hips, then fishes a small black purse out of the backpack and slings it over her head and shoulder, enjoying the way the strap falls between her breasts. Her wallet and phone are tucked inside, then she grabs her coat and backpack off the hook and makes her way out of the bathroom. It's pushing ten, now, and the club's starting to fill up. She gets a few nods from some of the other regulars, a couple smiles. The coat and backpack are dropped at coat check; the girl working the check smiles as she drops an extra buck into the tip jar there.

Freed from her burdens in more ways than one, she heads for the dance floor. The music is alive now, thumping, pulsing, like a second heartbeat in her chest, drawing her into its energy. The DJ has warmed up and the floor has started to fill. The denizens of the club are a dark rainbow, a writhing, gyrating ode to the different and weird. She plunges into the midst of it all, eyes half closed, letting the beat guide her steps as she's carried away by the music.

Tonight the butterfly spreads her wings and flies free.

Just a bit of silliness that came to mind last week. Enjoy!

---

“FOOLS! NO MORTAL CAN DEFEAT ME!!!”

“Umm, actually, about that? We did some research into that prophecy: it says ‘No man or woman shall defeat you.’”

“AND THUS I AM INVINCIBLE, FOOLISH WORM!”

“Well, not quite. See, they’re genderqueer, xie’s agender, she’s intersex, and I’m neutrois.”

“...WHAT?”

“Let's just say that gender’s a social construct and there’s been a lot of progress over the past few decades. Between the four of us, we figure at least one can get around that prophecy of yours. GET HIM!”

And thus was the Ancient Evil defeated, once and for all.

Hey everyone! Not gonna lie, I'm a huge Dungeons & Dragons geek, and this contest gave me the opportunity to explore a bit of what life might be like in a world that operated under that sort of rules. It's possible that I may revisit this band of misfits in the future, but for now, pull up a chair by the fire, grab a tankard of your favorite beverage, and enjoy!

o=={{========> <========}}==o

The Goblin’s Head wasn’t the dive-iest pub in the city, but it was close. It was stuffed into a dark, low-ceilinged basement, and though it hadn’t been deliberately built to dwarven proportions, several low, heavy ceiling beams posed a hazard to any half-ork, elf, or dragon-folk who entered. The eponymous goblin’s head was a small, shriveled thing tacked to the wall over the fireplace by a well-placed dagger through the forehead. A thin haze of smoke lingered in the air, stinging the eyes. A bar ran along the south wall, with a few stools occupied by various denizens of the city, a cross-section of all the varied races of its population, all more intent on their drinks than on their surroundings. Several small tables held more patrons, singly or in pairs, and a few larger tables in the back hosted slightly larger groups. The mood was not desperation, despair, or wantonness, but rather the sullen air of those who have reached the bottom and know they are unlikely to ever rise again.

The only person who took heed of the lone half-elf coming down the stairs was the bartender, an old dwarf with his grey beard in tangled, matted braids, who huffed at him then grabbed a dirty rag and pointedly moved to the far end of the bar, deliberately ignoring him as he scrubbed at an imaginary stain. Falen did his best to keep a grimace off his face; he knew he stood well out from the crowd present. He was fairly tall, but slender, with pale, freckled skin and short, red hair. His clothes were well-made, though plain, as though a noble were trying to “dress down”.

Ignoring the bartender’s slight, he surveyed the bar, then looked towards the tables in the back. There, at a table pulled close to the low, fitful fire, was his quarry… he hoped. He shifted his pack on his back, then picked his way through the tables to the group of women he’d spied there. One of them spotted him as he made his way over and motioned to her companions, causing their conversation to die as they all turned to watch his progress.

“Whaddya want, kid?” she said, as he approached within speaking distance. She was short, even for a halfling, but plump and curvy, with a ruddy complexion and messy, blonde hair twisted up into bun. She wore well-worn, but well-kept, leather armor with a casual ease, and she had at least three knives sheathed in easy-to-draw locations.

Falen nodded to her and the others in something of a minimally-polite bow. “I am in search of the Star-Crossed Swords, and I was told I could find them here. Are you them, or have I been misled?”

A look passed around the table, then another one of the women spoke -- a tall half-ork, her gray-green skin adorned with tattoos, and numerous bone beads threaded into her jet-black locks. “You have found us,” she said, with the thick accent common to members of the orkish tribes that roamed the northern steppes. “What is your business?”

“I wish to join you,” Falen said, nervously. His declaration was met with a brief moment of silence, followed shortly by uproarious laughter from the women. The rest of the pub’s patrons looked over at them with a mixture of confusion and annoyance, then turned and began ignoring them again.

Another of the women, a tall, pale-skinned elf with midnight-blue hair worn short and spikey, rose and grabbed an empty stool from a nearby table and pulled it up to their own. Her robes were red and gold, patterned after those of the Royal Academy mages, but lacked the tassels and badge that signified the Royal patronage, marking her as an independent mage. “Sit, child, sit. If you’re serious about that, and I have a terrible suspicion that you might be, we need to have a talk. Thrakkin!” she called towards the bar. “An ale for our guest here and for the rest of us as well, and wipe the mugs first!” There was another huff from the bar, but not long after Falen had settled himself on the stool and nestled his bag between his feet, the bartender had brought over the requested round of ale for the table. He reached for his purse, but the elf waved her hand. “This one’s on us.”

Once the bartender had shuffled off and everyone had had a chance to take their first sips of ale (it was dark and sour, but not unpleasantly so), the fourth and final woman at the table turned towards him. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with chocolate brown skin and dark brown hair woven closely into dozens of small braids. Her half-plate armor was a patchwork of different pieces, no three from the same set of armor, but they melded into a very functional whole. “So, you want to join us. First question: how old are you?”

“This is my twenty-fifth spring, m’lady,” he said, nervously. He knew he looked younger, though, both due to being a half-elf and due to… other factors.

That drew a snort from her, and a snicker from the others. “I’m a woman, aye, but I’m no one’s lady, thank you very much. My name’s Ayanda, but ‘ma’am’ works fine for now.”

“Err, yes ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”

“Better. So, twenty-five. That’s young for you half-elves, right?”

The elven woman spoke up before he could answer. “Maybe sixteen or seventeen for a human or halfling, or fourteen for a half-ork. Old enough to be considered an adult in most human kingdoms, at least, but elven communities usually wait for thirty or thirty-five.”

Ayanda nodded. “Thought so. You have a name?”

“Falen, ma’am.”

“Faaaay-len,” Ayanda said, drawling it out, causing her companions to smirk. “Now, Falen, why do you want to join a washed up pack of bitches like us? I know the Whitespears are always recruiting, and the Children of the Glade have an open invite for any elves or half-elves that want to try out. You’d have a good, comfortable life with either of those companies. Well, as comfortable as any sell-sword’s life is.”

“Well, ahh, I, umm… I heard…” his voice faltered, and he blushed.

“Have they been telling tales about us again?” Ayanda pressed.

“They said you…” he trailed off, looking away and taking another pull of his ale.

“Ahhh…” the elven woman said, quietly, with a tone of understanding. “Is ‘Falen’ the name we should really be calling you? Maybe Faylinne? Something else?”

Falen still had a mouthful of ale, forcing him to do his best to keep from spraying it all over the others. He wound up snorting it instead. After a moment of coughing and choking, punctuated by Ayanda whapping him on the back almost hard enough to knock him off his stool, he turned back to the women, nervously. “My parents named me Feylyea when I was born…” he muttered.

“Oh, child…” the elven woman said softly. “You’re going the other way, then…”

“Errr, yes, ma’am,” Falen said into his ale, as he fidgeted with the mug. “So, it’s true, then? That you all--”

The half-ork set her mug down with a thump, cutting off the half-elven lad and causing him to jump half an inch from his stool. “Not here. Come, we go to Mama’s. Fewer ears in walls there. There we tell stories and make decisions.” The women nodded and began gathering belongings and finishing their drinks, causing Falen to follow suit. Ayanda walked over to the bar, money changed hands, and soon the five of them were making their way out into the cool, crisp night.

As they walked, Falen couldn’t help but notice that all of them carried weapons. The halfling had her knives, plus a pair of long daggers strapped over either shoulder; the elf carried a stout oaken staff carved with runes and with a faintly glowing crystal on one end; the half-ork had a long, wickedly curved blade tucked through her sash; and Ayanda had a round shield slung over one shoulder and a soldier’s arming sword on her hip.

“If you don’t mind my asking, where is this ‘Mama’s’ that we’re heading?”

“Not too far,” the halfling woman said. “She runs the Red Tree over on the edge of town. It’s an inn, but the common room is open to everyone, and there are some back rooms where you can have a proper conversation. The beer’s more expensive, so it’s not as good for your everyday drinking, but the food’s pretty good.”

“I see. Also, I hope I don’t sound ungracious, but only Ayanda introduced herself. I didn’t get the rest of your names?”

The plump halfling woman turned to face him, and gave a graceful, flourishing bow, all while walking backwards on the cobblestoned streets. “Call me Rose. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The elven woman spoke up next from behind him. “I am Nimlye, child.” The way she said it, it rolled almost musically into three light syllables, ‘Nim-li-eh’.

“Durga,” the half-ork said, next. It took Falen a moment to realize that that was the entirety of her introduction.

Before he could reply, though, Ayanda spoke up from the front of the group. “We’re here.”

The common room of the Red Tree was larger than the Goblin’s Head, but also cozier somehow. Several tapestries had been hung on the walls, and a pair of fireplaces on either end of the room were bright and well-tended, warming the room and giving it a cheery glow. Instead of the bar and scattered tables, a pair of long tables ran almost the length of the room, with patrons perched on stools along them, chattering and eating. A small stage was raised at one end, and a pair of troubadours sat there, with one singing an elven drinking song while the other accompanied him on her mandolin.

A large human woman bustled over to them as they entered. Her dark hair was shot through with steel grey, but her arms looked thicker and stronger than Falen’s legs, and the calloused hands she wiped on her apron spoke of decades of honest work. Her eyes narrowed in a glare as she looked them over.

“I thought I told you lot what I’d do the next time I saw you,” she growled. Falen’s companions all looked at one another, uncertainty on their faces. Before any of them could react, she burst out laughing, grabbed Ayanda, and pulled her into a bone-creaking hug. After a moment, she released her and reached for Durga, who simply sighed as the innkeeper all but lifted her off the ground. Rose did get lifted, and then Nimlye received a somewhat more sedate hug, as if the woman was wary of crushing the slender elf. “Thank you all again for sorting those boors out last week. Your first round’s on me tonight. What’ll it be? And who’s your friend?”

This was clearly not the reception the Swords were expecting, and it took Nimlye a moment before she responded. “The young one is Falen, Mama. Is one of the back rooms free? We need to have a conversation with him.”

“The damn fool wants to join up!” Rose piped up.

Mama cast an appraising eye over Falen, who was doing his best to hide behind Ayanda. “Hmm… I see. The small room is free. You’ll be wanting drinks, I assume? Ale?”

Rose piped up, “Wine, since you’re buying! And whatever you’re serving for supper if the pot’s still on.”

“Cheeky. I’ll have the girl bring it back to you.”

“Thanks, Mama!” said Ayanda, leading them across the room and through a doorway at the back. The room they entered was maybe ten feet on a side, mostly filled by a large table and half a dozen mismatched chairs. An oil lamp on the table provided ample light, while a small brazier in the corner provided some warmth. They settled themselves around the table, with weapons and bags getting heaped on the spare chair. As Durga poked up the coals, a tow-headed girl of maybe fourteen came in. In one hand, she held an earthenware jug, while the other balanced a tray with several glasses on it.

“Good evening, Bera, and thanks!” Ayanda said loudly to the girl, leaning back so that she could set down the wine and glasses. The girl bobbed a curtsey, then made a series of rapid gestures at Ayanda. “Oh, no, you’re more than welcome,” Ayanda said, making her own series of gestures as she spoke. “Let us know if anyone else is giving you trouble like that and we’ll sort them right out.” The girl replied with a smile and another short series of gestures. “We already asked your mother about some dinner, but a pitcher of water would be great with it.” The girl bobbed another curtsey and ducked back out of the room.

“Uhh…” Falen said, watching the girl leave.

“She’s mostly deaf and doesn’t speak, but she can read lips if you’re clear, and knows sign-speak as well. You’ll pick it up if you spend enough time around here,” Nimlye said. Rose, meanwhile, began pouring the wine, a rich, dark red, and everyone soon had a glass.

“So,” Ayanda said, “what brings a half-elven girl-turned-boy to our table at a quarter to drunk at night?”

Falen sighed, took a swig from his wine, then sighed again, trying to collect his words. “My parents refuse to see me as anything but their darling younger daughter. I expressed an interest in adventuring, and my mother threw a fit. ‘No way in the Nine Hells is my little girl going to live that kind of life!’ You mentioned the Whitespears and the Children of the Grove. My dad wrote letters to the commanders of both of those companies, threatening suits against them if they accepted the application of ‘his daughter’. The other public companies got word from them. I tried applying to the Black Eagles as myself, and got laughed out of the room. Well, I finally reached my majority last month, so my parents can’t bring suit, at least, but I’m still blacklisted from all of the big companies, and my parents cut me off as long as I stand by my ‘foolish delusion’.”

“Hmm…” Ayanda began, but further reply was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Bera’s return. This time she bore a larger tray, laden with steaming bowls of stew, fresh bread, a large wedge of cheese, and a pitcher and extra cups. Ayanda and Durga quickly rose and helped her unload the meal, then Bera curtsied again and left. “So, you said ‘screw it’ anyway, and decided to leave the safety and comfort of home for the life of a sell-sword instead.”

“If it means I can be myself, yes. I refuse to be married off to some damn merchant’s brat to secure a stupid business contract. And with my parents cutting me off, I can either sell my sword or myself, and frankly, the latter’s not for sale.” That drew a round of nods. “So, as I was getting laughed out of the Eagles, one of them made some crack that only the Star-Crossed Swords would take a ‘freak’ like me,” she spat the word, “and I figured, ‘why the Hells not’, and decided to seek you out. I, umm, was kind of hoping to find you in a better setting than the Goblin’s Head, but I suppose this place isn’t too bad.”

“Yeah, the Head’s a dump,” Rose said between bites of stew, “but the lot over there know us and don’t give two shits about us. Plus the ale is way better than it should be for what Thrakkin charges for it, so it’s our usual watering hole. But Mama’s here is the place to get a proper meal. Pass the loaf?”

Durga spoke up. “What do you do?” she asked, then pointed to Ayanda. “She fights,” Rose: “She sneaks,” Nimlye: “She conjures,” then herself, “And I ask spirits for aid. What do you do?”

“Well, I’m more than a fair shot with a bow. Not that I have a bow. Father took mine when I started talking about leaving, even though my brother gave it to me for my naming-day. But I’m pretty good with them. I can do a bit of magic, but mostly household stuff like mending and minor healing. And I’ve fenced a bit, umm, not that I have a rapier.”

Ayanda shook her head, causing her many braids to ripple. “Of course not. What do you have on you, kid?”

Falen looked down at the table. “A couple changes of clothing, forty-odd silver, and my knife.” He gestured to the short knife on his belt, more useful for eating than for fighting.

“Huh. Well, I have a spare bow, though it’s nothing fancy, and I’ll bet Mama has a rapier stashed away somewhere that we can borrow in the morning. I suppose we can give you a tryout then. Do you use a buckler off-hand or a dagger?”

Falen looked up, hope in his eyes for the first time that night. “Either, ma’am, although I’m better with the buckler. But, really? You’ll give me a tryout?”

Ayanda looked around the table, and the others all nodded. “Just a tryout, mind you. No promises. We do some dangerous stuff, and we can’t afford to bring someone with us who can’t keep up. In our work, ‘dead weight’ quickly just becomes ‘dead’.”

“Thank you! I understand. That’s all I can ask, I guess.”

“Now, I’m sure you have questions for us, I can tell.”

Nimlye chuckled. “‘Question’, you mean. He's already tried asking it once.”

Ayanda grinned, then nodded. “Go ahead, ask it.”

Falen swallowed his mouthful of bread, washed it down with a quick sip of water, then asked, nervously. “I… Ah… Someone said that you were all actually men.”

“Look around, boy, do we look like a bunch of men to you?” Rose asked, waving around the table. “Not a swinging cod among us!”

“But, umm…”

Ayanda patted him on the shoulder, gently. “Don’t worry, we know what you mean. And the answer is yes. All four of us were born male.”

“But, how? How did you change yourselves?” Falen asked, hopefully. “I did some research, when mother thought I was with my tutor. Change potions cost thousands of gold and only last for a few hours at most. There isn’t even anyone in the kingdom that could make one! And any spell that could do it would have to be at least seventh circle! I’d practically have to get an Archmagus or the High Cleric herself to cast it for me!”

“Well, for the most part it wasn’t by choice, and I doubt that anything that happened to us could be replicated for you, at least in any safe fashion.”

Falen’s face fell. He nodded, and took a slow sip of wine. “I understand. But I’d still like to hear how it happened. To each of you, I mean. If that’s okay.”

Ayanda looked around the table, a slow smile forming on her face. “Now there’s an old bunch of tales, but I suppose it’s reasonable request. We certainly haven’t dusted them off in a while. Who goes first?”

“Not it!” called Rose, who was busily mopping up her bowl with a hunk of bread.

“Pass!” said Nimlye, holding a finger alongside her nose and smiling.

“You are both cowards. I will tell first,” Durga said, then rose and stirred up the brazier again. Remaining on her feet, she turned to face the table.

“Many winters ago, I rode with the Strong Lion clan of my mother’s people. My father was a pink-skin slave, captured by her as war-prize from the Swift Antelope clan many years before. She named me her true-son when I was born, and I was welcomed into the clan. I became a war-rider, a head-taker. Many times I fought, and many times I felled my foe. Human, dwarf, ork, goblin. Manticore, dread-wolf, dead-that-walk, griffon. All fell before me. I made my name in their blood.

“My kin would have named me war-leader of all the clans, but our war-leader was the chief’s brother, and he was a coward. He would not face me in trial of arms, as was my right, but demanded that I make a trial of strength instead. The chief commanded that I bring back a feather of the great-eagle, the roc, that roosts in the mountains to the north, but that takes the buffalo and elephant as its prey from the steppes below. He said if I returned with the feather, that it meant the spirits had favored me, a half-human, and wanted me to be war-leader instead of his brother, who was pure-blooded.

“I had no choice. I could not say no, or they would think me weak, and weakness was death. I took my blade and my horse, and I rode north to the mountains. Many days I rode, towards the high peaks where the great-eagles roost. Several times I saw them high overhead, flying out on the hunt or bringing their prey home to feast. I heard their hunting-cries, and their triumph-cries, and they spurred me onward. After a moon’s turn, I left my horse, for the ground was rocky and steep, and began climbing. I found the den of a bear, brown and fat, who attacked me in his hunger. I slew him, took his claws as trophies, and feasted on his flesh to draw his strength into my own, as the spirits command. I climbed further, and found the home of a hill-giant, who tried to crush me with his great club. I slew him, took his gold rings as bracelets, and sacrificed his heart to the spirits as an offering for their guidance.

“Finally, after a week of climbing, I found the nests of the great-eagles. I found the heaps of bones, of elephants and buffalo, horse and lion, that they had feasted on. I heard their mother-cries and their young-cries, and I gave thanks to the spirits, for I had reached my goal. But there were many, many, far too many for even a warrior such as me to battle. But then I saw the nests, where they had pulled from their own feathers to line them for their young, and I saw the course I must take. That night, I crept towards a nest, and made to pull a feather free, but the mother-roc heard me and attacked, thinking me an egg-taker.

“I drew my sword and stood my ground, as a warrior should, but though I drew her blood, the she-roc was too great even for me, and she clawed me with her talons and tore at me with her great beak, and cast me from the peak where their nests lay. And down I fell, among the broken rocks and trees below. I lay there for hours, until the warmth of dawn was on my face, and with my dying breath, I called out to the Great Mother Sun, who guides us and protects us from the darkness. I felt my blood, my strength, water the earth beneath me, and I called out to Great Father Stone, whose back we tread upon and who supports us in all things. And then I died.

“But Mother Sun and Father Stone heard my cry, and knew that a true warrior had called to them with the last of his strength, in the act of a mighty deed made in their honor, and they sent one of their spirits to me. The stone-spirit, mountain-born, came to me, and laid her hand upon my broken body. ‘Be at peace, warrior,’ she said. ‘I will join with you, and your mighty strength will be mine, and mine yours. But your form is broken, and not even our strengths combined can make it whole as it was. The joining will change it, and I cannot say how. Do you accept my strength, knowing the cost?’ I accepted. My spirit joined with hers, and I awoke as you see me. And in my joy and triumph, in my hand was a shining, golden feather, torn from the flank of the she-beast that had slain me as she carried me from her nest.

“In triumph I returned, though the journey was long, and I showed the feather I had taken. But the chief and his brother laughed, and said they would never make a woman their war-leader, and cast me out. I would have slain them both on the spot, but my ordeal and my change had left me weaker than I once was, and I could see in the eyes of my kinsmen that they did not know me any more, and would have slain me in turn. So I left.

“I rode south, and soon reached your lands. I tried to buy food and drink, but the peasants threw stones, and shouted, and called for soldiers. I rode farther south, then the soldiers found me. I would have slain them, but these women arrived before blood could be spilled and prevented a grave mistake. They named me battle-sister, and I have ridden with them since.”

She finished by lifting her wine-glass, and the others all lifted theirs in turn, and they drank together. Falen lifted his own glass and drank with them--it seemed rude not to.

The toast complete, Ayanda leaned back in her chair, then pushed it back and stood, stretching. “Alright, I don’t think I can top that, and I’d rather not follow it, but I doubt either of those two are going to step up.” Nimlye and Rose both held fingers alongside their nose, exchanged a look, then burst into giggles. “Right, then. Top me up?”

Nimlye grabbed the jug, then frowned. “Hmm, looks like we’ll need a refill. More wine, or should we switch to ale since Mama’s not paying for it?”

“Ale!” was the chorus from the other three women, and Rose was sent out to procure it. A few minutes later, Bera returned with her tray, bringing a round of full mugs and a pitcher with more, and cleared the finished dinner plates.

Ayanda shut the door behind Bera, then took a pull from her mug and wiped the froth from her lips. “Ahh, much better than the sour piss Thrakkin pours. Now then, my story. I was born to far to the south, in some little flea-speck of a village that isn’t worth mentioning. One of those places where your options in life are farm or leave. I grew up on a farm, and I hated it. And since I was the fourth son, I stood to inherit absolutely nothing once my father and mother died, so I didn’t even have that going for me.

“So since farming was out, I took the other option as soon as I could. Just after my fourteenth birthday, I hightailed it to the the nearest city, down on the southern coast. I wasn’t smart, and I wasn’t clever, but I was strong as an ox and just as stubborn, so I went to the City Guard station and asked to sign up. The corporal on duty booted me out on my ass, twice. Said I was too young. Now, growing up with three older brothers teaches you a few things about getting your way, so I went back a third time, tossed the corporal to the ground, twisted his arm ‘round, and said that if he tried to toss me out again, I’d break it in half.

“The sergeant on duty that day was a dragon-folk, a huge blue-scaled bastard with a temper to boot, and he grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pulled me off the corporal one-clawed. He said to my face--since he was holding me at his eye-level, mind you--that the Guard had zero use for pipsqueaks that attacked officers, but that if I proved I could follow orders and stay out of trouble, maybe they had a place for me. Since I didn’t have the money to buy an apprenticeship, my only other option was to try my luck on the streets, so I said yes.

“For two years, I was their errand-boy. I slept in the hay-loft above the Guard’s stables -- which I was in charge of mucking out, since I had so much experience with that, of course. I polished armor and weapons, I ran messages, I helped the quartermaster unload supplies, I helped the cook in the kitchen, I kept the barracks clean. All the stupid scutwork. I hated it. But on my sixteenth birthday, that blue bastard of a sergeant stood me before him and swore me into the guard. I learned to wear armor, to fight with a sword, a spear, and a bow. I learned how to ride in a fight. I learned how to read a crowd, how to spot a thief on the streets, how to break up a fight or prevent one from starting. I made friends. I met a few girls, and even took a few to bed.”

She gave a wistful smile, then frowned and pulled at her ale. “And then the pirates came.” She refilled her mug from the pitcher, took another swig, and continued.

“I was nineteen when they came. The city had a small navy, mostly to make sure the traders coming into port paid the taxes that were due, but they were no match for a raid like this. A score of captains with half a hundred ships had banded together under the same black flag to pluck the juiciest fruit within two hundred miles. They swept our navy aside like dinghies before a hurricane, then fell on the traders. We sounded the alarm and manned the catapults and ballistae on the harbor, but they had hired mages, and they quickly blasted our defenses from their mountings. Raiders came ashore by the boatload. Scores of them swarmed the docks and seawall, slaughtering anyone who tried to resist.

“My sergeant, that scaly son of a lizard, was feathered with arrows as soon as he reached the water’s edge. The corporal whom I’d wrestled to the ground five years before, a sergeant now himself, was cut to ribbons before me. I panicked. I fled. I was not the only one. I stopped just long enough to dump my Guard tabard in a gutter, then joined the masses heading for the landward gates.

“They hauled off everything that wasn’t nailed down, pried up a few things that were, then burned the rest to the ground. There was nothing left to go back to but rubble-filled foundations and a set of walls. I went north. On the road, I did things to survive that I regret to this day. I hurt people and stole from them -- common banditry. I was headed rapidly towards a violent death or the noose.

“Then one day I made the fortunate mistake of trying to rob a proper adventuring company. It was a small one, only five people, and I had just ‘acquired’ a crossbow and was feeling cocky. Well, they put me on the ground in short order. The leader was a brute of a man but a kind one, and once I came to my senses, he offered me a better life. Said he saw ‘true steel’ in me. I thought he was crazy, but I said ‘yes’ and joined up.

“I travelled with them for three years. We ranged all over; the dwarfholm in the south, the elven woods, the warring kings in the far east. One day we heard a rumor of a lost treasure, buried centuries ago. One of my companions thought the rumor sounded like something she’d heard before, and after a bit of research, we thought we had a pretty good idea of where it could be found.

“Well, we found where the treasure had been buried, all right -- in the tomb of some long-forgotten king. It was a nasty trip in, and several times we almost paid for that treasure with our lives. But we made it in the end. There was whole chamber filled with gold, jewels, and everything else, and half a dozen enchanted items as well.

“Turns out we’d missed an important part of the tale: the curse. Almost as soon as we started divvying the loot, the gold melted into dust before our eyes. The gems turned to stone, and the fine silks to tattered rags. Our leader had drawn an enchanted blade, and it drove itself into his heart, killing him on the spot. My companions met similar fates from the enchanted weapons they had chosen. I had donned a belt which I had been told would enhance my strength. Instead, it changed me into a woman.” Ayanda gestured to the finely-woven belt tied around her waist. “Of course, once the change was complete, all magic faded from it. At this point it’s just a keepsake. I recovered what I could from the bodies of my fallen companions, but I had to leave their remains where they laid; there were too many dangers between the cursed tomb and the surface for me to try and bring them out alone. So I laid them out as best I could, said the few prayers I could remember, and left.

“I sent the forget-me-not letters they had written, sold the belongings I had taken from them, then used that money to drink myself into a stupor. Two months later Nimlye here showed up, pulled my sorry ass out of the gutter, and said that she was founding a company and needed a thug to hide behind, that she knew my sob story and didn’t care, and that since I was so determined to die anyway, I might as well do so profitably. That was twenty-one years ago, and I’m not dead yet!”

Ayanda raised her mug, then drained it in one long swig. The others did the same. Falen tried joining in, but almost choked, and set his mug down, sputtering. “Don’t worry, kid, you’ll learn,” Ayanda said, laughing, and thwacked him on the back again. “Okay, you two, who’s next?”

Rose smirked at Nimlye. “Flip you for it?”

Nimlye grinned. “Sure, but Ayanda does the flip.”

Rose pouted. “Deal. But you keep both hands flat on the table. No magic!”

It was Nimlye’s turn to pout. “Damn. Fine. I get to call it, though.” Rose stuck her tongue out, but nodded, so Nimlye spread both hands on the table, then said, “Okay, flip it.”

Ayanda just rolled her eyes and dug a copper out of her pouch. “Okay, here goes.”

The coin arced up, then Ayanda caught it and slapped it down on the back of her hand, keeping it covered. She looked over at Nimlye, who smiled and said “Crest!”

Ayanda brought her hands over to Falen then lifted the top one. The king’s miniature profile shone up at them. “Crown! Looks like it’s your turn, Nim!” Ayanda laughed, and Nimlye gracefully rose from the table.

“Bah! Alright. But you’re not getting my whole life story. We’d be here all night and next morning as well. I’m older than all of you plus Mama and little Bera put together. Besides, you ladies know most of it already. So, where to begin?” She pondered for a moment, and Falen took the opportunity to ask something he’d been wondering.

“If it’s a good starting point, I noticed your robes…”

“Oh, hmm… I suppose that’s as good a place as any. You know that we elves age slower than the rest of you, yes? Well, I grew up in the elven enclave in the capital, and came of age at the spring equinox, in my one hundred and fifty second year. As my magical talent was stronger than most, I applied to the Royal Academy upon my majority, and was accepted there almost immediately. I began my course of study that autumn.

“Adjusting to human magical teaching was… difficult, but once I was properly settled, I progressed rapidly. In ten years, I graduated from the Academy with high honors. I had my choice of positions waiting for me. A teacher of whom I was fond was a minor member of a noble family, and the head of her family was in need of arcane advisement, so with her introduction, I entered service with their family and served in that capacity for fifteen years.

“Then war broke out. This was in the reign of our current king’s grandfather, almost eighty years ago. As a graduate of the Royal Academy, I was sworn ‘to protect the kingdom and its crown against those that would do it harm’, and thus I was duly summoned. The count that I served also received summons, as the crown was rallying its armies, and we journeyed together at the head of his levy of footmen and archers. I presented myself formally and was ordered to accompany the count and his forces and provide whatever aid I could in support of their efforts.

“Almost every graduate of the Royal Academy from the past twenty years, plus the better portion of the top three classes still matriculating, received similar notices and assignments. Adding in the various spell-swords, hedge-wizards, and mages-for-hire that had signed on, over three hundred arcanists marched west with our army, plus a similar number of clerics and holy warriors from the churches in the kingdom. A thousand mounted knights, ten thousand men-at-arms… A mightier host has not been seen since. Sadly, our foes had similar strength, drawing upon their dark arts and the wretched gods they served, conjuring spirits of the dead and damned, and lead by the dread red wyrm, Edorax.”

Nimlye took a sip from her ale, then stared down at it for a moment, before setting it down and looking at Falen. “You’ve heard of the Spellwastes, yes? The blasted wastelands far to the west, where wild magic warps the face of the world and spells themselves take form and move on their own?” Falen nodded, wide-eyed. “This was the war that created them. All manner of magic was used in that war, and at the highest circles of power. Rituals and evocations, summonings, vast conjurations. The world had never seen its like, and I pray it never will again. My own part was small, but I cast my share of spells, and I am as culpable as the rest.”

She sighed. “In the end, we were victorious, but what a wretched victory. Edorax was slain at the height of the war, in a battle that broke the foe's resolve and tore the fundament of the world itself. The king demanded a trophy of the fallen wyrm, but so mighty were the magics used to bring down the beast that none could approach his corpse without their form becoming warped beyond recognition. It lies there still today, rotting where it fell.

“We journeyed home victoriously, but not triumphantly. Not one in five returned with us. My count and his son had both fallen in the last, tremendous battle, along with many of their retainers and soldiers. And though it was simple luck that I had been spared the same fate, I was summarily dismissed from my position with the house, and no other families would accept my service.

“Fortunately, despite the black mark on my name among the nobility, the Academy itself saw no fault with me, and with so many acclaimed mages slain during the war, they happily accepted my petition to join the faculty there. But teaching held little appeal for me, and I grew melancholy, retreating into research and study. I grew obsessed with the damage we had wrought upon magic itself, and was determined to discover how we might reverse it.

“For more than a score of years, I sequestered myself in the libraries of the Academy. Finally, I petitioned the Academy's magisters for permission to lead an expedition back to the Spellwastes, to test my theories and study them first-hand. After much deliberation, my petition was accepted.

“Six full mages, myself included, a dozen of my best students, and an assortment of guards and porters made the journey west. As much as I desired to delve straight to the heart of the Wastes, we were required to stay on the edges and see what information we could gather from there. We learned much, but at the cost the lives of five guards and one of my students. I brought word to his family myself.

“With the information gained during the expedition, I returned to my research and studies. After another ten years, I found what I believed to be the key to restoring the Spellwastes. I petitioned again to lead another expedition, but this time to the very heart, the remains of Edorax himself. It was summarily dismissed, and I was warned that they would not accept any further such petitions. I resigned on the spot and vowed to make the journey myself.

“The stipend granted by the Royal Academy to its researchers is small, but over the course of almost two-score years I had spent little of it, and I used those savings to hire porters and guards myself. They all deserted me, however, once we reached the edge of the Spellwastes. But I was a man possessed, and ventured on alone. After decades of research, I thought I could avoid the worst of the hazards. I was wrong.

“Doom struck me on the morning of the fifth day. I was surprised by a walking corpse, a remnant of the war. Its wild lurching startled me, and in my haste and surprise, I blasted it with the simplest of cantrips. This was a critical mistake. I was deep within the blasted lands, and immediately, I felt the energy of my simple spell rippling out like a beacon. I fled from that place immediately, but my minor act of magic had alerted all of the wild, animate spells, and they mindlessly began to converge upon me.

“I drove onward. I was obsessed with righting the wrong I had helped propagate, and no longer held even my own safety above this goal. I merely wished to survive long enough to restore the world to its proper order. I soon reached the massive corrupted zone around the fallen wyrm and plunged into it headlong, hesitating only to cast a careful abjuration designed to protect me from the worst of the effects.

“It mostly worked. I could feel my form changing as I approached the body, but pressed onwards heedlessly. I began my preparations, but Fate was against me that day. One of the animated spells was powerful enough to penetrate the magical tempest that surrounded me, and it set upon me. My ward was not built for that sort of attack and did little to slow it. Terribly, it was a spell of Feeblemind, and as it struck I could feel all of my decades of research wiped away. I destroyed it with the few spells its blow had left me, then frantically cast the half-remembered incantation that I had once thought would restore the world. It had absolutely no effect, and I no longer knew why. The Feeblemind had struck the most critical part of my memory, erasing everything in the blink of an eye.

“I took the only option left to me: retreat. I fled the hazards of the wyrm’s corpse, then read a scroll of recalling. It should have deposited me safely in the rooms I had taken in the capital after resigning from the Academy. Unfortunately, the spell misfired. It flung me across the world, scattering my possessions and my remaining notes to the four winds. I was left, all but naked, in an unceremonious heap in a pig-sty outside the capital -- a final insult to my venture into the Spellwastes.

“As I began cleaning pig shit off of myself, I discovered that I had been transformed into a female. To be honest, this was something of a relief -- the form I had been left in was whole and perfectly bearable. I was not monstrous or deformed, I retained all of my faculties -- save those lost horribly to the Feeblemind -- and from what I could see of my reflection in the trough where I was cleansing myself, I was not unattractive, either, though that was only a small concern. Given how tragically the rest of my venture had gone, I found my new status entirely acceptable.

“Still, it was a rather ignominious return to the city. I had lost my tools, my notes, the better part of my clothing, my very face and form, and, worst of all by far, I'd lost the hard years of study that had driven me for so long. I stumbled back to my quarters, ignoring the jeers and crude comments of the populace around me. The following morning, I sent a most contrite letter to the Academy, offering my most sincere apologies and asking whether they might consider my reinstatement. The answer was a polite but exceedingly firm ‘no’. I had burned my last bridge there, and they were glad to be rid of me. They even saw fit to bar my access to their libraries, such that I could not even study on my own support.

“I'd spent most of my savings on the doomed expedition, and no respectable employment was available to a mage with my wretchedly sullied reputation. Even the better class of mercenary companies declined my applications. There was enough small demand for my services from private individuals that I was able to keep myself fed, clothed, and sheltered, but gone was any chance at a steady position that would keep me in the comfort I'd once known, or that would allow me access to the resources I’d once had.

“After a year of that marginal living, I resolved to form my own company. I posted notices that I was accepting applications in all the likeliest locations. I received none. Well, a few crude louts made half-literate attempts that were more come-on than inquiry, and I dismissed them out of hand. Everyone worth hiring was steering clear of me. One evening, though, a neighbor of mine mentioned Ayanda’s situation and that she might be a suitable fit. As it turns out, she was. Not long after, we found Rose and Durga, and we’ve been together since.”

She raised her mug, paused, filled it, then drained it, and the others drained theirs as well. Falen managed to drink his straight off this time, though a portion of it wound up on his shirt. Rose couldn’t help but notice, and burst into a fit of drunken giggles..

“It looks like our young friend here is just about done-in, and, wheeeeeee… I’m a bit pickled myself. How about we see if Mama can put us up for the night, and then I’ll tell my story tomorrow over breafka- brek.. break-fast. Heee...”

“I knew we should’ve made the halfling go first,” muttered Ayanda.

“Every time she does this,” Durga agreed. “Small mug for you next time.”

“Awwwww…” Rose pouted.

“The lightweight does has a point, though,” Nimlye said, stretching. “It’s well after midnight, and if we are going to give Falen a tryout in the morning, we had all better be properly rested.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Ayanda said, as she began gathering the empty mugs. “Alright, Rose, you get a reprieve. But you’re the breakfast entertainment, and no escaping that!”

“Yes’m!” Rose said, grinning.

As it happened, Mama didn’t have any bedrooms free, but there were spaces enough for all of them in the common room by the fire. Bedrolls were procured, and the group was soon bedded down on the floor for the night.

Early the next morning, Durga, Ayanda, and Nimlye (Rose being impossible to rouse) dragged Falen out beyond the edge of town to put him through his paces. With the borrowed weapons, Falen shot at targets conjured by Nimlye, sparred with Ayanda and Durga, and did his best to resist Durga and Nimlye’s charms and spells. He didn’t exactly pass with flying colors -- Durga had him doing his best chicken impression at one point -- but the women were satisfied enough that they welcomed Falen as the newest member of the Star-Crossed Swords.

Two hours after they’d first risen, they were all -- Rose included -- back in the same back room as before, with Bera serving them eggs, toast, cheese, fruits, and griddled sausages, along with large pots of tea.

Ayanda swallowed a bite of egg, then turned to her halfling companion. “Alright, Rose, it’s your turn.”

Rose made a show of rubbing her temples and wincing. “Aww, do I have to? My head’s killing me!”

“Of course it is, you went drink for drink with Durga last night! We even let you sleep through the tryout! Now have some tea and get gabbing.”

“Fiiiiiiine. No sympathy…” Rose muttered, before downing the contents of her mug and re-filling from the pot. “It all started shortly after I took the throne as god-emperor of the--OW!”

“The real story, Rose, please?” asked Nimlye, who had just pinched her ear.

“Okay, fine, but my version’s better. I turn into a giant worm!”

“I will turn you into a worm, if you do not begin,” Durga said around a mouthful of breakfast.

“Really? That could be neat!” Rose asked, hopefully.

“No. Talk.”

“Hmph. Fine. I just, y'know, don't really like talking much about my past. And my story’s pretty boring, too. No wars or giant monsters or curses. Well, kind of a curse, but not really. But I'll get to that."

"You'd better," muttered Ayanda.

Rose stuck her tongue out, then continued. "Okay, so, pretty much every city and town on a river has a bunch of halflings living along the banks and by the docks, right? We like to travel, and rivers are a great way of traveling easily. You might’ve noticed that most of the ships down at the docks have halfling captains and a lot of halflings on the crew? Same reason. It's in our nature.

"Well, family's big with us, since we travel so much. Not really in a 'living together' sort of way, but more of a 'cousin's uncle's wife's nephew' sort of way. When two halflings meet, if there isn't someone else there to make introductions, they'll spend a few minutes sorting out the family connection, and there's usually at least one. Except with me. I'm an orphan. Not only an orphan, but I was abandoned without so much as a name from my birth parents. So that kind of left me on the outside of things. I mean, there's, y'know, procedures, accepted courtesies, or whatever, for foundlings like me, but it's a mark against you right from go. 'Nice to meet you! Who's son are you?' 'Oh, umm, I'm a son of the river.' '...Ah...' You get my point. I tried making something up once, but that fell apart in no time. There's only so many of us, so liars and false-namers get found out real quick, and people don't like it when you try and hang your leaf on their branch.

"At the ripe old age of six, I scarpered from the orphanage where I'd been dumped. I just couldn't deal with the kids there any more. Yeah, they were orphans, too, but their parents at least had the decency to die on them, not just dump them and run. Luckily, I was small even for a halfling kid and didn't need much in the way of food or shelter, so I survived well enough by pilfering what I needed.

"When I was about eleven, I started moving around a bit. I'd sign on as a cabin boy on a river-boat or just stow away on a big-folk's boat, and head to the next town or city along. I spent a few years bouncing between different towns, occasionally taking the odd job here or there. But even that got… tiresome… after a while. So I signed aboard a boat heading downriver to the capital, and jumped ship there. I was fourteen.

"The capital was the biggest city I'd been in by far, and I got into some serious trouble almost immediately. In three days flat, I’d run afoul of the Guard, two gangs of street thugs, and a pack of thieves. I was lucky with the last one, though. Their leader saw something in me that she liked, and rather than string me up by the squishy bits, she took me in. They trained me properly, and I was very quickly their star second-story man. I could get into anywhere that wasn't outright magicked shut. I'm sure the Guard would've loved to get their mitts on me, but we were well-trained and disciplined, and they never came close to catching us.

"For eleven years I lived the high life. I was number two in the gang, and we were the best in the capital, and nobody besides us knew it. And we liked it that way. The papers started referring to us 'The Ghosts', because they figured nobody could’ve pulled off the our heists without using magic. I'd give more details, but some of the cases are still open, and I'd rather not spill those beans.

"Well, every mountain has its peak, and mine was the high-summer festival at the Grand Temple. Every year, all the nobles gather at the Temple, beg forbearance for their misdeeds, give thanks, pray for a bountiful harvest, and, most importantly, offer their annual tithes. And it’s not just the nobles, either -- merchants, guildsmen, and common-folk also bring offerings, everything from coin to goods to food. You'd see beggars offer their last copper in hopes that it'd bring them two the next year. And the clerics there would take all of this money, and they'd give some back out, sure, but then the rest would go down into the vault, to get sorted and counted and distributed once the festival was over. By the end of the festival, that vault was the juiciest fruit in the city short of the palace itself. So we plucked it. Well, we tried to, anyway.

"I'm not going to go into details -- trade secrets, y’know. Suffice to say, myself and a few hand-picked associates got in, and we did it without killing anyone. A few acolytes and guards were going to have nasty lumps the next day, but, hey, at least they had healing magics close at hand, right? And Oh. My. Gods, you cannot imagine the treasure that was in that vault. Gold, gems, furs, silks, jewelry, art, incense, delicacies… There was more loot there than we could carry off, and we'd all brought bags of holding! We packed up a kingdom’s ransom, then my associates headed for the exit while I made a last sweep, and that’s when I saw it. It was a statue, maybe eight inches tall at most, tucked in one of the back corners of the vault. It definitely wasn't one of the festival offerings, but a tempting green glint caught my attention anyway.

"So, being the opportunistic sort, I scuttle back and examine this treasure. And damned if it isn't a statue of a naked woman! Not, like, lewd or anything, mind you, but she was curvy, and pregnant, standing with her hands holding her belly. Y'know, your standard fertility totem sort of thing. But that’s not what drew my avaricious eye. No, this statue was carved from a single, massive emerald, and I mean good quality rock. I figured that even if we couldn't move the statue intact, we could certainly cut it and have quite the pile of untraceable emeralds to sell instead. So I grabbed it.

"Next thing I know, I'm floating in some vast, glowing space, naked as the day I was born, and there's this glowing woman standing in front of me, looking more than a little like the statue I had just picked up. Because, you see, I am an idiot, and didn't stop to think about the fact that some gods and goddesses might take offense at having their sacred relics hauled off to be carved up and sold by thieves and might take personal notice of something like that happening during one of the holiest festivals of the year. Whoops.

"Well, we talked for a bit. I can't say more about that; it was kind of between the two of us. She was actually really nice about the whole thing, though, and even answered a few questions of mine. The portion of our conversation relevant to the question at hand, though, was the matter of punishment.

“Now, she had me dead to rights, and I mean that literally. Entirely-justifiable divine wrath aside, I was a dead man for this botched job alone, as far as the law was concerned. And that's before anything else they could pin on me was tacked on. But, luckily for me, she was the forgiving type, and she offered me a second chance. In return, I had to repent my evil ways, perform assorted other acts of penance which I won't go into here, and then confess as much as I could to the pile of wardens and clerics that had gathered to apprehend me once we finished our divine pow-wow.

"And that was the sticking point. No one rats out and survives. That was a hard rule in our gang, and not even I could escape that. If I talked, I was a dead man, sooner or later, and the later it was, the more painful it would be. So she arranged for me to disappear and gave me a new form. This one. So I still lost a head for my crimes, just, y’know, the little one, not the big one.

“Anyway, we said our goodbyes, I spent the next dozen or so years fulfilling my other obligations, then I said goodbye to temple life and set out on my own. My previous line of employment was of course a no-go with her divine pregnantness keeping her eye on me, so I eventually fell in with these two. A few months later we disentangled Durga from her situation, and that was the four of us."

She lifted her mug, then frowned. “Wait, shit, we can’t toast with tea. That’s bad luck! One sec.’” Reaching into a pocket of her backpack, she produced a flask, which she quickly took a swig from. “Much better! Okay, pass it ‘round.” They did.

Falen coughed as the rough brandy burned its way down his throat. “So, Rose, do you think your goddess might be able to help me?”

“First, she’s nobody’s goddess but her own. And second, no. Sorry, kid, she’s very pro-fertile-women. It’s kinda her thing. I’m sure she’d be sympathetic, but she wouldn’t help you.”

“No, that’s fine, I understand. I just wish there was some way...” Before anyone could say anything else, a commotion in the common room interrupted them. By unspoken agreement, they went out to investigate.

A human man was standing by the door to the street, sobbing uncontrollably, and Mama was doing her best to console him. As soon as she saw them emerge from the back room, she waved them over.

“Here, these are the Star-Crossed Swords,” Mama said. “I’m sure they can help you with whatever happened, sir.” He only wailed and sobbed harder into Mama’s shirt. She looked up at the others and shrugged.

Ayanda stepped forward. “Sir, please, come have a seat and tell us what happened.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir’! I’m a woman! A witch transformed me, and now I’m stuck like this!”

Falen looked up, whispered a quick prayer of thanks, then gently took the transformed woman by the hand. “Apologies, miss, we didn’t know. Please come sit with us in the back and tell us what happened, and we’ll do everything we can to help you.”

Thus the tale of the Star-Crossed Swords ends, and thus it begins.

o=={{========> <========}}==o

The character portraits linked below are not owned by me, and are used without permission. All links point back to the artist's original page.
Falen
Durga
Ayanda
Nimlye
Rose

An adaptation of the video for David Guetta & Sia's song, "Titanium", dropped into Lilith Langtree's Center universe.

(Inspired by a conversation over on the forum)

---

The fire alarm is blaring. Its ear-splitting howl drives its way into my brain like a freight train, forcing me awake. I blink, sit upright with a start. I’m sprawled in the middle of the corridor at my school, or what’s left of it. Lockers have been ripped from the walls, their contents scattered. Tiles from the drop ceiling have been blasted free and flung down the hallways. The door across the hall was torn from its hinges, and the room beyond it is a wreck, too. (Was there a bomb or something?)

As best I can tell, I’m the only one in the hallway. (Where is everybody?) My head is pounding. I lean against the wall, heavily, and slowly drag myself to my feet. A smashed clock is lying on the floor next to me: it’s well after four. That's right--I had detention, again. Everyone else left hours ago. (Why would a bomb go off now?)

I look around, my head slowly clearing (no thanks to the fire alarm). Everything seems to have been blasted away from where I had been lying. Why wasn't I hurt? If I was next to the bomb when it went off, I should be dead. Right? (What is going on?)

A feeling of dread falls over me. I have to get away from the fire alarm. I have to get away from this wreckage. I have to figure out what happened. I start shuffling down the hallway, my feet becoming more sure as I walk. My backpack is on the ground, and I snag it as I head to the doors. (I hope no one sees me.) As I walk by one of the classrooms, door hanging crazily from the hinges, I hear someone's voice over the alarms. A teacher? I stop, about to enter, when I hear what she's saying.

"Yes, some kind of explosion! I don't know how he did it! There was this flash and everything went flying! Please, you have to beli-"

She stops suddenly, cut off mid-word, and I realize I can see her reflection in the window of the door. She’s staring at me in the glass. And she’s terrified.

"...he's right outside... Oh no..."

I pull on my backpack and run, almost tripping in the debris. I hit the double doors at a sprint and made a beeline for the bike rack. Away from the fire alarms, I can hear sirens--lots of them.

I fumble with the lock on my bike, stop, force myself to take a breath, then yank it open. Five seconds later, I’m flying out of the parking lot in top gear, heading for an alleyway that cuts away from the school. I need to get away, and quick. A police car zips past just seconds after I turn down the alley; I hope they didn't notice me.

~You shout it out, but I can't hear a word you say...~
The first five blocks fly by in record speed. Not directly home; I hadn't recognized the teacher and I'm pretty sure she didn't recognize me, either, so I don’t want to lead people straight home. Once I’m sure the cops aren't in hot pursuit, I ease off a bit and start circling towards home at a more sustainable pace. Thankfully, the house is mostly downhill from the school, so I can catch my breath and plan my next steps. Our neighborhood is right by a state park--miles of forest that Dad and I had hiked in for years. Until the accident, at least. My foster parents can't stand hiking. I can cut through the park to the next town over, hop a bus from there to... where? I sigh, pedal harder. It won't take them long to figure out who I am. There are only so many students in the school, and they certainly have my photo.

Five minutes after my dramatic exit, I’m home. It usually takes me twice that. My fosters' car isn't in the driveway, but they won't be home for hours--the restaurant doesn't close until ten o'clock tonight. I’m actually glad, for once--this way they won’t be involved. I don't even bother with the kickstand; just dump my bike by the back door and bolt inside. Run upstairs and down the hall, dump the books out of my backpack, stuff it with clothes, my laptop, my spare cash. Sprint downstairs to the kitchen, grab a couple granola bars, some fruit, a couple bottles of water. It's a few hours' hike to the main bus station, and I know there are late buses. Still, it will be dark soon, maybe three hours at best.

Knocking at the front door. I see a flicker of red and blue from the windows. Police. Faster than I expected. I grab the knob for the back door, but it locked behind me when I came in, and my keys are still in the lock, outside. Crap. I whirl around, scanning frantically. The spare keys are on the counter, back in the kitchen. I don't know how or why, but I reach for them, then reach for them. The ring twitches once, twice, then flies through the air, smack into my hand. A crunch, and the front door slams open. I hear footsteps in the house. Think about it later. Run now.

A small, crazed part of me is laughing at the back door with a set of keys in both doorknobs. The rest of me is glad I run track. I sprint across the lawn, vault the back fence in one motion, and cut through my neighbor's yard to the back street. No shouts, no one saw me. Small favors. I dial back the sprint to a cross-country lope, but the backpack throws my stride off a bit. Snugging down the shoulder straps helps, but I'm glad the park is close. Three minutes later and I'm in the woods.

I wish it was summer--three months ago the undergrowth was so thick I would've been entirely out of sight just ten feet in. Now everything's dead, and there's not a lot of cover. I pull a bottle of water from my pack, take a long drink, start hiking. The sun makes a great compass; I start heading south. I'll turn west in a bit, but first I just need to get clear of my house.

~Raise your voice, sticks and stones may break my bones...~
A few hours later, I stop in a copse of trees. Take a breath, stretch, eat one of the granola bars. The sun has mostly set ahead of me, but, there’s still enough light for me to see without needing my flashlight. I'm just pulling my bag back on when I hear something in the distance. Barking? Oh, no. I peek through the bushes, see a light flickering in the twilight. A flashlight. Oh, no. Oh fuck. I keep looking, hoping it's just the one. Hope falters--another flicker, and another. North and east of me, mostly, but on my trail. With dogs. At least half a mile back, though--if there were leaves on the trees, I would have never known they were there.

I book it. Speed over stealth, distance over cover. There's a ridge just ahead of me, over that and it's a mile downhill to the edge of town, another mile to the center, and I can get lost and find a ride to, somewhere. Still haven't figured that out yet. Probably should, at some point. First bus to anywhere, really.

I crest the ridge, and there are lights ahead. Close. Very close. I've been flushed like a bird, straight into a waiting net. I swing south, just past the ridgeline, but suddenly the woods around me light up. Someone's got a spotlight on me. I sprint, ignoring the shouting. I see a creek bed up ahead, drop down into it, out of the light. It's dry at this time of year, just a road of smoothed rocks, leading down towards town. I make a hard right, follow the bed down towards safety. I hope.

A bit further on, and there's a cutback. The creek-bed turns and starts heading back the other way; some fluke of geography. I swear, grab a brush, haul myself out. My backpack snags, and I pull it free. There's a clatter; dry wood on dry wood. I pause for a moment, look back, heart pounding, head thudding. There's a shout. The beam of light swings towards me. I take off again. Wrong move; the beam finds me again. More shouting. I'm trapped. I can feel a cramp forming. Track or no, hiking or no, I'm running out of run. I'm almost blind, too, sweat falling into my eyes, making them burn.

A root snags my foot. I stumble through a clump of bushes into a clearing. Not just any clearing, though--the cops looking for me must be using it as a base camp or something. There are a couple jeeps with big light bars parked next to me. A bunch of SWAT-looking guys that I didn't even know we had in our town are standing around, looking at maps or jabbering into radios. It takes everyone, myself included, a few seconds to realize what's just happened. How screwed I am. Then there's a lot of shouting. A lot of guns. All pointed at me. I raise my hands, slowly. Slowly let them drop enough to shrug off the backpack, step away from that. Slowly kneel, then lie down on the ground, hands behind my head.

I feel tight all over, all the running catching up to me at once. So tight, like a giant snarled knot.. Something building, straining in me. I realize I've felt this before. This afternoon, in school. After detention. After the stupid fucking detention for Billy's stupid fucking prank. After getting laughed at by the entire class. After wanting everything to just go away. And then I realize I'm glowing.

There's more shouting. Scared shouting. They say they'll shoot. Let them. I don’t care. I let go. Everything goes dark.

~I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose. Fire away, fire away...~
"Johnny? Are you alright?" A girl’s voice, well, a teenager. Not one I recognize.

I blink, groan, move a bit. I'm sore all over, even worse than before. Every muscle is burning or cramping.

"Hey, Liz, is he okay? He doesn't look so good."

There are footsteps next to me. Someone rests a hand on my forehead, and a wave of something slowly washes over me. All of the knots slowly release, from my neck all the way down to my toes. Everything hurts, briefly, as the tension burns away, but I feel so much better after, like I'd slept for days. I moan, roll over, start sobbing.

"Nah, he’s not hurt, he's just really, really sore. He'll be fine in a minute, though." Another girl. Liz?

"Okay, I'll let Max know we've got him. How are the officers?"

"They're all fine--no major injuries, thank God. Ray and Rita are dealing with them. I think their jeeps are probably both write-offs, though."

"Yeah, no kidding."

I push myself up to my knees, look around. A couple girls about my age are standing in front of me, one of them on a handheld radio. Both are wearing authentic-looking fatigues, although I don't know if Army regs allow bright-red hair. Off to one side, another redheaded girl and a guy with bright green hair--also about my age and in fatigues--are talking with the SWAT guys that had been pointing guns at me not long ago. Behind them, the two jeeps are upside-down--smashed wrecks, with one of them half-wrapped around a tree. The trees all look like they’ve been blown outwards; smaller ones are uprooted, bigger ones are missing bark. (Just like the school again. Was that me?) I’m kneeling in a circle of clear dirt a good thirty feet across or more.

I look back at the girls in front of me.

"What's going on? Who are you?"

The redhead smiles. “Hey, I’m Lara. We're with the Center. We're here to take you home."

"Honey, we're home!"

Bruce looked up from his tablet as Heather, his wife, and Emily, their daughter, came in from the garage. Their arms were laden with shopping bags and they both looked exhausted, but Emily's face was lit with joy.

He smiled and set the tablet aside as his daughter came over for a hug. "Those poor 'back-to-school' sales! I hope you left something for everyone else!" he said, laughing.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, dramatically. "Well, we didn't buy the whole mall. Some of the stores had stuff for boys."

Her mother came up behind her, tickled her in the side, then stepped past her for a kiss from her husband. "Alright, Emmy, let's get this stuff to your room. I want to see some of those outfits all put together on you. You can give your father and I a fashion show."

"Sure!" she said, then ran down the hall to her room with half her prizes, her mother close behind with the remainder. Sounds of giggling, chatter, and crumpling shopping bags soon came drifting back up the hallway. Bruce picked the tablet back up and returned to the job-hunting site he'd been browsing before.

Soon enough, he was distracted from yet another unsuitable listing by Heather's return. She winked at him, stepped aside from the doorway to the hall, and said, in her best announcer voice, "Presenting, North Valley Elementary School's newest third-grader, Emily!"

He dutifully applauded as Emily stepped out of the hallway in one of her new outfits, a green top and a grey, pleated skirt. She started doing her best impression of a model's catwalk strut, but stopped and pouted when her parents both started chuckling.

"Sorry, kiddo," her mother said, stifling laughter, "but that walk won’t really work for a few more years. Now give your father a twirl and then let's see that blue dress."

Emily did a quick pirouette, receiving the appropriate compliments in turn, then bounced back down the hall to change.

"So, how much did you two wind up buying after all?" Bruce asked cautiously, as Heather took the opportunity to grab them sodas from the fridge.

"Less than it looked coming in. A shirt here, a skirt there. Maybe three or four outfits' worth, total, plus a new backpack and a couple pairs of shoes. And almost all of it was on sale, of course." She plopped down next to him on the couch, then snuggled under his arm. "Don't worry, I stayed inside the budget we set, and it means so much to her to have some new things. We were good girls, aside from the milkshakes at lunch."

That got a wry smile from Bruce, which turned into a genuine one when Emily returned, now sporting a blue dress with white polka-dots. She walked out from the hall and gave another spin in front of them, causing it to flare out around her. Giggling, she spun again, then a third time. "Alright, you!" Heather finally said, smiling. "I want to see those jeans on you. I'll need to hem them tonight if you want to wear them for your first day tomorrow."

"Okay, Mom!" she said, running back down the hall to her room.

Bruce stretched out as best he could, wincing as pain shot through his leg. Heather started to rise, but he shifted position again and guided her back to his side. Sipping from his soda he began reminiscing about his own school days. It was so much simpler being a kid, he thought. It hadn't seemed like that at the time, of course, but now he knew otherwise. Heather was bringing in their only paycheck, while he received a meager disability check and scrambled to find something he could do since the accident. He sighed and sipped at his soda again.

"Hey, you," Heather said, craning her neck to look at him. "I know that sigh. We'll get through this. We've got enough for now, and you'll find something soon enough. Don't worry." Any reply was cut off by their daughter returning in a sparkly, pink top and a pair of too-long jeans.

"Nice shirt!" Bruce said, raising his soda to his daughter in a toast.

"Thanks, Daddy!" she replied, twirling in place.

"Okay Emmy, c'mere and let me grab a few safety pins so I can mark where that needs to be hemmed." Heather disentangled herself from her husband, then led Emily off towards the laundry room.

Bruce sighed again, watching them leave. "It would be so much easier to be a schoolkid again," he thought. "No bills, no mortgage, no job to worry about, just homework and schoolyard politics..." Laughter echoed from the laundry room. He shook his head, then grabbed his cane and empty soda can and carefully stood up. Slowly, carefully, he made his way over to the fridge and began studying its contents. As much as he wanted a beer at the moment, the painkillers he was taking didn't play well with alcohol. He grabbed another soda just in time to see Emily running back to her room with a towel wrapped around her waist in place of the jeans she'd been wearing.

"For the record, taking the jeans off in the laundry room was her idea, not mine," Heather said, laughing, as she walked into the kitchen with the jeans over her shoulder. "What do you want to do for dinner?"

"Whatever you like, hon. I'm not very hungry, to be honest, so just make what you want."

"Spaghetti and meatballs?"

"Sure, sounds good."

Bruce settled himself onto a stool by the counter, while Heather set about pulling the meal together. Soon enough, she called down the hallway to their daughter, who emerged wearing the skirt and top she’d originally left the house in that morning. Dinner was served, and the three sat around the kitchen table and tucked in.

Emily led the conversation at dinner, gushing about her new clothes, her new classroom, teacher, and classmates (she'd met them all last week at an orientation day), and all of the classes she would be taking. Heather did her best to keep up with her, but Bruce sat quietly, idly picking at the small plate of food he'd served himself.

He covered a sigh by taking a bite of spaghetti, and looked over at his daughter. Chewing slowly, he mused on what had him so down that evening. Even after the accident, he'd loved his daughter's enthusiasm about almost everything. The way she was gung-ho about every new experience could be almost infectious. So why was tonight rubbing him such the wrong way? "I'm jealous." The thought hit him like a slap to the face. He had to force himself to swallow the over-chewed spaghetti before he choked on it, then slowly took a sip of soda to wash it down. A quick glance at his dining companions showed neither had noticed, so he took another bite and came back at the issue.

"I'm jealous of my daughter. Why? I have a wonderful wife, my daughter's a joy. Sure, things have been hard lately, but they'll get better eventually. Why am I jealous of her?" The answer came to him quickly. "Well, why shouldn't I be jealous? She's young, healthy, brilliant, popular, and cute, too. She has her whole life ahead of her. She's not a broken down ex-construction worker with a busted leg scrambling to find something to keep his family fed. And here she is starting something brand new and exciting, while I mope around at home poking job sites..."

He couldn't hide the sigh this time, and it was enough to break even his daughter's stride. "Are you okay, Daddy? You seem sad."

"Yeah, honey, sorry. Just thinking about stuff."

"I'm sorry," she said, looking downcast.

"What? Why?"

"Mom's going to be at work, I'll be at school, and you're going to be here all by yourself."

"Oh, don't worry about it, kiddo. I'll be fine. You have fun tomorrow and I'll be waiting to pick you up right when school's out."

She looked dubious. "Okay, Daddy, if you say so."

He gave a tired smile. "I do, hon. Don't you worry about lil' old me. I'm sure I'll find something to keep myself busy." He winked at her, getting a giggle in return.

Heather chimed in, "All done with your dinner, Em? Good. Go put your plate in the sink, then take a shower before bed."

"A shower?"

"Yes! If you don't shower tonight, you'll have to take one tomorrow morning, and then you'll start your first day with wet hair."

"Okay...." Their daughter cleared her dishes and slunk out down the hall, leaving her parents at the table.

"So, what's got you down, love?" Heather asked.

"I..." He sighed. "Sorry, hon, I don't really want to talk about it right now."

She reached out, grabbed her husband's hand, and gave it a squeeze. "Hey. You'll find something. Give my uncle a call like I suggested. He's always looking for new sales guys."

"Honey, I love you, but do you really think I could sell... whatever it is that his company makes?"

"I think you might be surprised."

Bruce sighed. "I dunno, I'll think about it."

"Alright, that's all I ask. Are you done?"

"Yeah, sorry. It tasted great; I'm just not very hungry tonight."

"No worries, love. Why don't you go get in bed? I'll clean up and get Emmy sorted and then join you."

"Yeah, sure."

Rising slowly from the table, he grabbed his cane and made his way slowly to the bedroom. He plopped down on the bed, winced, then slowly began easing his pants off. His left leg was riddled with scars, bright and fresh, from his mid-thigh down almost to his ankle. A load had broken loose from a crane on a construction site almost six months ago, and his leg had been caught under it, smashing it almost to the point of amputation. As it was, the knee joint had been replaced entirely, and several other plates had been put in to hold the other bones in his leg in place while they healed. He'd never have full use of his leg again, but he still had it, so he counted himself lucky, more or less.

Insurance had covered most of the medical bills and was providing some disability now, but it wouldn't last forever, and he'd never again be up to doing the sort of large-scale construction work that he'd done for the past ten years. His company’s accident review panel had determined the cause was “operator error”, absolved themselves of liability, and had passed the case off to his insurance to deal with. The company did offer him an office job shuffling papers, but the paperwork was the part of the job he'd hated most, and the thought of accepting a handout like that hurt his pride, so he'd politely declined. Three months later, though, he was starting to regret that.

He blinked, and realized he'd been sitting on the bed in his boxers, staring off into space. He carefully pulled on his pajamas, then hobbled over to the en-suite bathroom to brush his teeth. That done, he downed a pain pill from the bottle by the sink and washed it down with water. He tried to avoid them during the day, but on many nights, a pill or two was the only thing that let him sleep. Shuffling back to bed, he climbed under the covers and, not in the mood to read, flipped on the TV in the corner. There was a football game on, and he watched it idly.

By the time Heather quietly came into the bedroom, the football game had ended and Bruce had switched over to a sitcom. He switched off the TV as she began undressing, and she looked over her shoulder at him, smiled playfully, then began making a bit of a show of it, slowly pulling off her top and undoing her bra. He smiled and gave a quiet wolf whistle, which got her laughing. Even after thirteen years of marriage, they were still very much in love, and he tried to take every opportunity to let his wife know how much he appreciated her--all of her.

"I'm just going to take a quick shower, love. Want to join me?"

"Nah, thanks, I'll shower in the morning."

"Alright, back in a bit."

Bruce switched the TV back on, but rather than watching it, he just stretched out and stared at the ceiling, letting his mind wander. He woke with a start when Heather climbed into the bed next to him. The lights and TV had both been turned off.

"Oh, sorry, love, I was trying not to wake you."

"Mmm... s'okay."

She cuddled up next to him, tracing a hand up and down his chest. "So, did you like what you saw earlier?"

"You know I did."

Her hand drifted lower. "Want to see it again?"

Bruce sighed and hugged her closer, then kissed her on the forehead. "Not tonight, love, sorry. I took a pill earlier."

"Mmm... I'll take a rain-check, then." She snuggled down, using his chest as a pillow.

He stroked a hand through her hair. "How's Emily doing?"

"Nervous, excited. She took a bit to settle down. She's worried about you, you know."

"Yeah. She's a good kid."

"She's an amazing kid. She gets that from her dad."

He tried not to sigh, but failed. "...yeah..."

Without lifting her head from him, Heather reached an arm around and hugged him. "We'll get through, love. We've come so far already."

"I know."

"I love you, hon."

"I love you, too."

She hugged him again. "G'night, love."

He kissed the top of her head, craning his neck a bit to reach. "G'night..." Bruce laid his head back, closed his eyes, and drifted off, thoughts of his daughter wandering through his mind as he fell asleep.

---

"Hmmm... What's this? Oh, no, this won't do at all... Let's see here..."

---

"Maddie! It's time to wake up!" Heather's voice calling out woke Bruce. He cracked his eyes open, looking over to the alarm clock on his nightstand. Except his clock wasn't there, nor his nightstand. In fact, he was in a completely different bed. The bed he shared with his wife wasn't pink, and the walls of their bedroom weren't purple. He blinked, rubbed at his eyes, then noticed that his hands were much smaller than they should be.

Suddenly, Heather sat on the edge of the bed, startling him. He rolled over to face her, then realized she looked much bigger than he was used to. She smiled gently, and ran a hand through his hair--it was much longer than it should've been. "Good morning, Madison!" she said, softly. "Time to get ready for your first day of kindergarten!"

What Bruce wanted to say was, "Heather, what's going on? Why are you calling me Madison? Why am I in this room? Why am I a little kid? What's going on!?" What actually came out of his mouth, in the voice of a young girl, was a sleepy "Good morning, Mommy!"

Suddenly, a thought that was not his own entered his mind. "Sorry, I'll explain in a minute. Just roll with it for now."

Heather, oblivious, brushed her fingers through "Maddie"'s hair again. "I need to go get your sister moving. Get dressed and I'll have breakfast ready once you're done, ok?"

"Okay, Mommy."

Heather kissed her on the forehead, then rose and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

"Okay, WHAT is going ON?!?" Bruce thought, angrily, as he pushed back the covers. His body was a four- or five-year-old girl's, wearing a pink nightgown with various Disney princesses all over it.

"Head over to the mirror and I'll explain," came the response in his mind.

"Mirror?"

"Inside of the closet door."

Bruce, or Maddie, rose from the bed, and took a look around the room for the first time. Judging by the layout of the windows and closet, this was the small third bedroom that they used for storage and various craft projects. Except it was, without a doubt, a little girl's bedroom. "Madison" was spelled out in brightly painted letters on the wall above the bed, the floor was littered with toys and dolls, and the furniture had been replaced with a little girl's hand-me-down bedroom set in white. He walked over to the closet and opened the door, finding a full-length mirror hanging inside it.

The face looking back at him was obviously his daughter. Emily had always taken after Heather, but the cute face he saw now had definitely inherited his own features. The girl had fine, dark hair, mussed and tangled from bed, and bright, brown eyes. She thankfully didn't have all of his nose--his old beak would've looked out of place on her--but the resemblance was clear to see.

He took another minute or two to study the girl's features, twisting back and forth to see more of her body, then thought, "So, you can explain?"

That same not-his thought responded, "Yes." Another person stepped into view in the mirror. Bruce whirled around, but there was no one behind him. He spun back, and looked up at the woman whose reflection stood behind his. She was tall, serene, almost regal. If Peter Jackson had seen her before making the "Lord of the Rings" movies, Cate Blanchett would have never been cast as Galadriel. "Hello, Bruce."

"Ummm..."

The reflection giggled, and the thought of it echoed through his head. It rather spoiled the regal look, but in a good way. "Sorry to spring this on you, but I wanted to have a chat before I finished up."

"What's going on?"

"Three wishes."

"What?" Bruce's mind conjured up the image of a blue genie.

"Ah, no. Quite the opposite. Three wishes brought me here, and I'm fulfilling them."

"But I..."

"Not just you, my dear." The reflection smirked. "You wanted to be a kid again."

"Well, yeah, but..."

She cut him off. "And your wife and your daughter both wanted you to be happy again."

Bruce paused, staring at his new reflection in the mirror. He had been thinking along those lines the night before, even if he didn’t entirely want to admit it to himself.

”But what about my old life? What about Heather? I don’t want to leave her alone.

”Don’t worry about that.”

”But…”

The reflection smiled, and placed a hand on his (her?) small shoulder. He didn’t feel a touch, but there was a reassuring warmth. ”There have been other changes made tonight. Your daddy, Bruce, didn’t survive the accident. He was killed instantly.” She winked at him, then continued before he could interrupt. “However, it was found that the accident was caused by improperly maintained equipment, and his company was found guilty of negligence. Between his life insurance and the settlement with his former employers, your family will be well taken care. As for Heather, we had a chat like this one before she came to wake you. She doesn’t remember it consciously any more, of course, but, deep down, she knows Bruce loved her very much and wanted her to be happy. And now she has two wonderful daughters to keep her company, one of whom reminds her of her beloved husband quite a bit and in all the best ways.”

”Still, I don’t want her to be… y’know… alone.” He was surprised to see a blush on his round cheeks. It was something he'd considered many times before, though, both before and after the accident, and he'd decided that he would rather have his wife be happy with someone else than spend the rest of her life alone, grieving him.

The reflection chuckled. “That’s very considerate of you, and just what I would have expected. You have such a good heart. Tell you what: I’ll keep an eye out. If I find a warm, loving man, maybe already a father as well, and maybe grieving his own loss and in need of a friend, I’ll see if I can pull a few strings, have some paths cross. Come to think of it, I can think of one or two off the top of my head. Now, anything else?”

"Well, umm, why am I a girl?"

"Well, to be honest, I only mentioned two wishes. Emily very much wanted a little sister."

Before Bruce could react, the reflection winked, bent over, and kissed him on the back of his head.

Madison blinked, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Suddenly remembering what her mommy had said, she shucked out of her nightgown and undies (leaving them in a pile on the floor) and pulled on the clothes they had picked out the night before. It was her very first day of school, and she couldn’t wait to get started.

(The story continues in "Three Wishes, Epilogue"!)