Arcie Emm

It was said that amongst the denizens of the palace, only Emperor Cintarian enjoyed the day known by some as Audience Day, and to most others as Judgment Day. Yet not because of the power that he could wield over his subjects, that power did not need a special day to manifest. No he enjoyed Audience Day because everyone else was so busy that, except for the three hours devoted to dressing before and conducting the audience, most of his day would be free to pursue passion of the moment, currently that being painting.

Amongst everyone else no such benefit could be found. For the nobility, it often served as a bitter reminder that despite their great powers, so too could they be judged. For the bureaucrats who enriched themselves by controlling access to the emperor, it was a day where their wealth did not grow and strict were the lessons against those who tempted to sell a time slot on that day, as the seller often found himself taking it to be judged himself. For the Emperor’s Chosen, the day was one of worry, with everyone having the right to have their cause heard, the palace gates were opened wide to those without security clearance and who were often angry. For the palace servants, there were the additional guests to house and feed, never mind the disgusting task of cleaning the Audience Chamber’s floor after certain judgments. And for the Champion, well he hated having his routine changed.

Ghastly to be woken before sun up. Yet what else could he do, on this day of any day, he needed to be ready to do his duty. So early morning found him in his private gymnasium stretching and running through simple forms to loosen muscles, ensuring his body would not betray him that day. Then to the masseuse table to loosen tightness in his left calf muscle, before a full body massage, with aromatic oils, left his golden skinned body glistening with health. A body so unlike any that have previously laid upon that table in the champion’s quarters.

Even different than Agnes Dubrovsky, the champion who had started him on his improbable path to this day. Hatchet face and with a body little different than the those she defeated to earn the position, her victory had shocked the worlds of the Empire. None more than the Felintin, home of many past champions, where the belief was that Agnes only won because Empress Ceelasion wished to have a female champion. There was a great deal of outrage.

But not at the dueling salon of Werther Kelimon champion of the Canton of Sedicrew, who despite being a wonderful teacher constantly lost his most gifted students to schools run by those of greater renown. He saw it as an opportunity to differentiate himself from better known schools, yet even he was too hidebound to open his doors to a female student. Instead he had keyed upon Nilson Fegrew, winner of the canton’s last two Youth Fencing Tournaments. His skill being the only thing keeping Nilson from being the butt of every joke for being to pretty for a boy. Informed of the offer, Nilson had begged and cajoled his father into selling his personal bond to Master Wether, hoping escape from the boredom of life on their farm.

Years later, Nilson often found himself wondering if he would have been so eager had he been aware of Werther’s plans for his new bondsman. Usually Nilson could convince himself the answer was no.

Yet sometimes, when life weighed heavy, he was not sure. Nilson still remembered the universal shock when The Scepter, along with the Empress and her champion, was lost in space. It had been almost two years into his studies, not long after he stopped denying what was being done to his body, and Kelimon had decided to end the experiment upon learning the new Emperor Cintarian’s Champion was a man. Both fearful of what would happen if cut adrift and eager to continue his studies, Nilson had reluctantly embraced what had been done to him and used it to worm his way into the Werther’s arms. Earning himself a permanent place, Nilson proved a most apt pupil on the mats of both the salon and Master Werther’s bedroom. Having been so willing to exploit something he had previously fought against, it was not hard to imagine that he would have accepted the master’s offer even if fully aware of the man’s plan.

Finished with his massage, Nilson wrapped himself into a robe, moved to a table, and began to eat the simple meal that had been set upon it. Eating the unflavoured noodles and seared squid, while washing it down with a specially prepared drink, was the last step to preparing his body for what may come that day. He would have preferred to do it in quiet solitude, but there was no time, so he did stop his body servants as they began to work on his appearance for the day. Truthfully, though he never said it aloud, he found their gentle fingers rather soothing.

First they worked on the golden hair, which during his days on the beginner circuits had earned him fame beyond his skills with a sword. Long and straight, it brushed the floor at the back of the chair on which he sat. Completely inappropriate though it seemed for his chosen profession, it served a purpose. As Jelynn brushed the hair away from his face, to begin creating a thick braid, Terise began to attach small tablets, a centimeter square of ivory, silver, gold, copper, brass, or steel. Personal marks of those he had defeated in his career, it was these that demanded his hair be so long, for all to fit. They only left enough length in which to weave a metal weight, that with a sudden spin could leave an opponent stunned.

Nilson’s bowls were empty long before his hair was complete, so closing his eyes he brought himself into a meditative state. One that was not broken even as Terise began to paint his face, both enhancing its beauty and forming a haughty mask he could hide behind. At the same time lacquered his long nails with a burnished copper, creating never used, though welcome weapons of last defense.

Only as they moved away did he open his eyes. Knowing they would return with his uniform, he stood to perform another form, testing that his braid did not bring unbalance. Spinning to a stop he saw them watching him, a question in their eyes. Speaking for the first time that day, in his surgically created soprano voice, Nilson said, “Perfectly done ladies.”

Smiling, they moved forward to dress him. An activity that did not require involve much. His uniform was the result of years of experimentation and though not as exotic as most, for instance he had fought for over a year wearing nothing but paint, it hid little. Wary though he had been when he first adopted it, believing greater dignity should be shown as Emperor’s Champion, he had quickly grown to enjoy its fit. Nor had it been as big of economic hit as he had worried. Admittedly the licensing fees he received from the sale of vids from his fights had dropped, vids that had made him such a hit behind closed doors, but they had been offset by sales of his holographs that were more socially acceptable to display.

Armour being useless against vibra-blades. Nilson wore a sleeveless tunic of feather-lite, white silk embroidered with golden thread around its short skirt and collar, which slithered over wonderful curves as he moved. Underneath there was even less, just a small silken thong, which offered distracting glimpses to an opponent.

Yet most would be surprised to learn the flatness it covered was little different than what was hidden under the trousers of most of the top duelists. Recognizing the potential weakness to blows between their legs, many underwent a surgical procedure that created pouch inside their body in which they could tuck themselves, somewhat safely, away. Admittedly they would not stay tucked away for the extended periods that were normal for Nilson, nor have his cosmetic enhancements, but the idea was the same.

On his feet were boots of Interium raptor leather dyed a gold colour. No longer were they thigh high, as earlier in his career. He found that those limited his flexibility and speed. Now he wore ones that were knee-high and only covered his shins, leaving narrow straps encircling the back of his legs, which minimized the sweat and the sloshy feeling that could occur during a fight. However, he had not gotten rid of the ten centimeter high heels from those original boots. He found the added height brought him closer to eye-level with those he fought, plus the deutuxon stilettos were another surprise he had put to good use.

Twisting and turning in front of a full length mirror, Nilson ensured everything was perfect before offering his thanks to and receiving well wishes from his ladies. Then opening the door he moved out into the sitting lounge of his quarters, where he spotted a older man dozing in a chair. Smiling, he crossed the floor, leaned over to plant a quick kiss on a cheek, and say, “Time to wake up Master.”

“What? Oh, I’m not asleep girly, just resting my eyes.”

“Yeah, right.”

Through it all Nilson had kept Werther Kelimon at his side. No longer lovers, they had moved even beyond mentor and pupil to become best friends. Mutually and wordlessly they usually left the past buried, both what the man had done to the boy and the payment the no-longer boy had later offered to stay. Werther continued to prepare his pupil for what he would face with sword in hand, but rarely offered advice about life. Though he was always there to offer support when decisions made did not to consequences sought. With Werther, unlike with everybody else including himself, Nilson was content being a lovely girl.

Rising to his feet, with the grace of a Master Swordsman, Werther picked up a belt and scabbard, matching Nilson`s boots, and offered, “Shall I?”

“No it bruises the silk of my tunic, can you hold it for me?”

“Of course my dear. Will you wear your cape?”

“I can’t very well ignore a gift of the Emperor’s.”

“No you can’t. Here let me help you with it.” He agreed, before draping the cloak of white satin and gold trim over the champion’s shoulders. Then as Nilson fastened the golden clasp, fashioned in the shape of the Emperor’s phoenix, the older man pulled the long braid free. “Honestly I don’t know how you manage this thing, it weighs a ton.”

“Hardly. But I am so used to it that I would be hopelessly unbalanced without it.”

“Like the raptor whose boots you wear after your accidentally shot off its tail?”

“Very funny. Have you heard what is on the docket?”

“Rumours imply that it is a light load and that your services will not be needed. Still I don’t like rumours and wish I could get more from those damned paper pushers. They are under the impressions that you are sort of on the outs with the emperor and do not believe it is worth their time to talk to me.”

”They’re right. The two of us have nothing in common and in bed we’re both too subby for the other’s enjoyment.”

“I`m sorry.”

“Not your fault old man. After your time I spent too much time seeking love from those who were afraid of me. In seeking to quell their fears it became natural to let myself be controlled. It’s better when the Empress is with us, she naturally takes charge.”

Embarrassed at where the conversation had gone and still feeling guilty, Werther mumbled, “We better go if we are to make it on time.”

“Yes.”

Striding together through the halls of the palace, Werther seemed to fade away, silent of step and shrunken of appearance, as the Amazon beside him drew all attention. As was proper. Soon they entered the mostly full Audience Chamber, ignoring all stares as they moved to take their place at the side of the dais upon which sat two empty thrones. Their wait was short, as almost immediately a fan fare was followed by the entrance of the royal couple, both showing well-bred loveliness. Even the Emperor, though his was a strangely masculine form of beauty.

After his comments to Werther, Nilson was pleased to see that the Empress’s return from the planet of Vernigar, where she had been visiting her family. But now was not the time to think about bridging his relationship with the Emperor, for his tunic would too easily display those thoughts. Better to focus on the droning major domo.

Soon bored with this and the cases being brought forward, he joined in the activity of most in the audience, studying each other. Scanning the crowd his eye was drawn to a red cloak, but of course is was not Dugus von Majoriol, he existed only in Nilson’s past.

Of all his lovers, art loving Dugus had come the closest to being something, but like Werther he had ended up becoming more mentor than companion. Not in the arts of war, but in those of being a woman. It had been Dugus who seen that he learned the manner of a lady, who had planned and payed for the body sculpting that had given Nilson the face and body of what Dugus called a devilish angel. Yet these changes had caused the end of their physical relationship, Dugus had been more interested in the previously angular and still boyish Nilson. They had soon completely parted ways.

A year later Nilson had spent most of week red-eyed, after hearing that Dugus has died in speeder crash with his latest prodigy.

The sound of raised voices pulled his attention away from the man in the red cloak and to the case being argued and that was the correct word. Quickly he determined that it was a tax case, the boy who tried to be old enough to be a man, argued on his family’s behalf trying to explain away their arrears so they did not lose their farm. But despite his passion, Nilson could see that the prosecutor, who embarrassed the boy with a blatant description of his father’s drunkenness and gambling problems, would win the day.

Unless...

...and there it was.

“I seek final judgment.”

With those words, boredom faded from amongst the audience. This is why they were there, hopeing to see the champion at work. Even to just cut down some farm boy who played with the vibra-blade sword so common throughout the empire, a weapon of personal safety, yet useless in revolt against the blasters of the Imperial Army. While they leaned forward, Nilson sighed and reached up to undo the phoenix clasp. Not looking back, knowing it would be caught by Werther, he stuck out a hand waiting for that worthy to slap the hilt of his own blade into palm.

Moving forward, he stopped at the throne, when the emperor gestured, “Disarm him first, I would make an offer.”

“Yes Sire.”

Stepping into the open space in front of the thrones, Nilson studied the boy. Apparently shocked at his own actions he dully studied the swords available for those seeking justice. Finally he took one, sobbed a deep breath and moved in front of Nilson.

Looking across at the scared face Nilson knew that this fight would supply no personal mark to join the others in his hair, yet he offered the full duelists salute. It cost him nothing, while offering respect for the boy’s courage. But that was all that Nilson was willing to offer, he could not make what followed into more of a fight, that would be disrespectful to Werther and all those like him. Still the lightning strike that usually followed a disarming was slow enough to be interrupted.

“Hold my Champion. Young man, I am impressed by your passion and bravery, if not by your intelligence. Yet I offer you a deal, give yourself to my army for an enlistment of ten years and I will wipe out the arrears of your family. This time.”

Falling almost over himself in a bow, the boy could not agree fast enough. Then triumphantly he walked from the room with the Sergeant-at-Arms, off to his new life, while thinking the smiles of the audience were for him. Nilson wondered how long it would take the boy to remember the Emperor’s use of “this time” and realize that his family’s farm would soon be once more doomed by his father’s actions.

Another gesture brought Nilson to stand beside the pleased Emperor’s throne, instead of off to the side. This time with sword still in hand Nilson paid more attention to the next cases, that attention turning the cases quite academic. Soon his attention wandered back to the boy’s bravery.

It made him wonder if he had shown the same bravery, when first he had decided to seduce Werther, how different his life would be. Looking back, he now knew that at that point he had barely dipped his toe in the pool of femininity. Maybe he would have been able to return to the farm, find his own wife, maybe even be happy. Maybe...yes, tonight he would remove himself from his pouch, take Terise or Jelynn, possibly both, to bed and remind himself what it was to be a man. Smiling at the thought his eye was drawn to the couple entering the room and moving to a pair of seats.

The man’s type was obvious, even if he did not know his name Nilson knew him to be a duelist, like those whose marks adorned his braid. But it was the woman who took his breath away, petite and beautiful, he was shocked to see Valentina deBroge, the last of his lover mentors. It had been she who had raised him up to be champion and she who completely torn away the doors holding back his submissiveness in bed. Primed to her presence his response immediately manifested as twin points showing through the silk of his tunic.

Almost instantaneously vid cameras were focussed upon him. But those observant reporters were not the only one to notice the Champion’s reaction to the new arrivals. So too did the Emperor, who frowned before reaching out to possessively grasp and caress a gleaming thigh, below the short skirt of white tunic.

The surprising firmness of the Emperor’s touch, combined with Valentina’s presence, even the knowledge that his reaction would be broadcast into every home of the empire was heady stuff. Dreamily closing his eyes, he could not stop the purr that escaped between his parted lips. All thoughts of Terise or Jelynn were wiped from his mind, right then he could only think about being taken by the Emperor.

Tomorrow he would remember Valentina’s smirk as she studied his reaction. Remember back to when the two of them had come to observe Audience Day, while they had still been together.

Tomorrow he would begin to think about defeating her latest paramour.

The End

Afterward:

Sometimes a character pops into my head and seems so perfect, yet closer study shows gaps through which I can drive a truck. Nilson was such a character who marched into my thoughts a few days ago shouting at me to write a story about his life. Yet quickly I realized it would become repetitive within itself. Instead I decided upon this approach, hinting at instead of reliving. So in a night I basically tried to write a portrait. Caught in a moment, but somewhat distanced.

And in my mind’s eye the visual portrait is of Corson brenn Torisk, a character created by J.F.Rivkin and the blonde in the following picture, possibly by Luis Royo:

A Shootist Disarmed

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Forced into the wider world, Sascha must learn to make his own way. But should he take the easy route, acting as people expect him to act, being who people saw him to be? Or can he grow into something more, his own Sascha, without further diminishing the current Sascha.

A Shootist Disarmed
by Arcie Emm

You may wish to see prior Shootist stories:

1. The Shootist
2. A Sylph Protected / A Shootist Avenged

Thank you very much to Puddintane, Renee M, and Stanman for reviewing this concoction for me.

Chapter 1 - Ms. Dupensk

Bursting forth from Transition, the exploration ship detected a habitable planet, causing her pilot to begin dreaming about spending his discovery bonus. Drifting closer, as his ship’s sensors collected more data, those plans grew less ambitious. He determined that it held an abundance of minerals, yet few were rare and those were buried under deep seas. He had found a water planet, where the only livable space was islands, none of them large enough to hold a decent sized city. Bitter at his discovery’s apparent uselessness, particularly to himself, the pilot named the planet Pyrite, fool’s gold.

His judgement proved correct; few paid attention to his find. The main reaction coming from the clerk at the Interstellar Discovery and Charting Partnership while drafting the official chart entry, when he cursed the unimaginative predictability of exploration pilots and officially designated the planet Pyrite 23.

Its brief flirtation with civilization over, the planet returned to obscurity. The next period of forgetfulness passed in an eye-blink to the planet, but lasted over nine centuries for humanity. Not until another, more fortunate, exploration pilot found a nearby band of asteroids, dense in rare minerals, did Pyrite 23 find a purpose, at least to the mining companies intending to exploit the new find.

Recognizing how loneliness, danger, and the emptiness of space could prey on a miner’s thoughts, these companies operated ten day shifts before removing a miner for four days of R&R, which posed a problem for the frugal employers, where to send them. Transportation to nearby settled worlds seemed a reasonably priced option; however, it came with complete loss of control over the men. Instead of arriving for transport back to the asteroids, many ended up in jails, hospitals, or somewhere lost in drunken stupor. The second option involved contracting pleasure ships. This solved the control problem, but at greater expense. So whenever possible, they found a relatively close, uninhabited world, then built and operated their own facilities. Pyrite 23 fit those requirements perfectly.

Crews descended upon the planet, chose likely islands and built facilities. By the time any of the miners showed up, there was already a frontier port, complete with bars, dance halls, theatres, inns, restaurants, and brothels. Yet unlike most such ports, usually on planets that were empty due to inhospitable weather, beasts, pests, or foliage, Pyrite 23 did not require a protective dome. The temperate climate of the islands made the outside enjoyable, opening unusual opportunities for recreation and entertainment on what would otherwise have been an ordinary miner’s R&R haven.

These more wholesome activities kept the port from taking on the dingy and run down atmosphere so common amongst its kind. Soon people other than the miners started choosing Pyrite 23 as a place to visit. First came the management of the mining companies, and then those seeking adventure upon its seas.

Yet these advantages could not keep the planet going when the asteroid mining operations dried up. Pyrite 23 depended upon the operating funds from the mining companies, the money spent by the miners, and the fees paid by the few adventurous tourists. However, instead of allowing the planet to again fade into obscurity, an entertainment conglomerate purchased the entire operation. With free rein upon the planet, they built resorts and theme parks, often spanning multiple islands. Yet the massive casinos proved the biggest draw, turning the planet into a destination for the masses. And like that first pilot, most who broke free of Transition had dreams of fools gold.

Not all. For those who did not seek short-cuts to wealth, lucrative employment contracts existed, particularly for attractive women. Management recognized the temptation that the seeming availability of beautiful women offered to men, who hoped, though usually failed, to get lucky in more ways than one, even though they usually failed. Old school thinking perhaps, but nobody denied the profits. Thus the passengers aboard the Siren’s Cove Employee Transit Tram could cause a visitor from Darson to go into seizures, as he tried to decide at whom to look.

Even the more worldly would find it difficult not to gawk. So the casino minimized the gawking, here where nothing could be earned, by keeping tourists off the employee trams. As for male employees, most grew used to the feminine richness in which they lived, preferring to spend their commute like anybody else, anywhere else in the universe. This day, like most days, the tram’s passengers, male or female, engaged in sleep, reading, or quiet talk with seatmates. All except one, who sat upright, alone, and stared fiercely out the window at the passing seas.

Like many of the tram’s passengers, she required a second look. That look would show her older than first glance implied, but her beauty had a warmth to it, though somewhat cool at the moment. A frequent visitor or a fellow employee would think her a dealer, probably in one of the more expensive rooms, until she stood, showing her height, leanness, and grace, and then they would recognize her as a dancer, probably in one of the stage productions. At one time they would have been right. Nearly twenty years before, when Ellene Dupensk had first arrived on Pyrite, she’d danced as a chorus girl at Flickers, a small casino pulled down twelve years ago. From Flickers she had moved to larger casinos, until she’d reached Siren’s Cove, where they’d recognized talents of greater worth than those of a showgirl.

She provided a calming influence over her often high-strung colleagues, being a natural peace-maker, problem solver, and confidante. So despite never having had children of her own, they contracted to use her natural mothering instincts, first for the dancers but then, over the years, for all who worked at the casino.

Very much upper management now, she only rode the tram in order to allow employees to approach her with their problems, which was not happening on this particular day. Everyone saw the anger in her eyes and knew the cause behind it; the disagreement between her and the new head of marketing having served as recent grist for the rumour mills, a test of wills that everybody knew she’d lost. They also knew that today was the start of the new marketing gimmick dreamed up by the winner, and that Ms. Ellene rode along to judge its impact, harshly from all appearances.

Nobody would call her a prude, she had spent much of her time on stage wearing nothing more than a headdress, heels, and a smile. Nor did she complain about the costumes her girls wore at the casino, despite how little most covered. But both situations occurred under the watchful eye of casino security, not as the girls made their way to and from work, away from any real protection. She cared less that many of the girls wore similar things on their own, Siren‘s Cove‘s had no responsibility for those bad decisions. However, the casino did have responsibility for what she saw today as the tram crossed the chain of four islands housing the majority of the planet’s single women. Every time she spotted another example of what that smarmy pervert, Elston Dinwald, claimed would ‘showcase’ the beauty of their female employees, Ellene’s teeth clenched a little tighter. She admitted Dinwald and his staff had done a fine job of choosing candidates. Each girl wearing one of the new outfits numbered amongst the casino’s most beautiful, so none of them needed the garish styling of a tasteless pimp to showcase their beauty.

The new outfits were hideous.

Dinwald had started on the right track, the rompers and mini-dresses were the same as those worn by the waitresses in the casino’s premier nightclub, The Pearl. They hugged curves and she had always liked them, particularly their colour, a deep midnight blue . If they had stopped there, she would have dismissed most of her fears. Instead, the new ‘genius’ decided to make them sexier by cutting away additional material to show more skin. Even worse, they’d garishly emblazoned ‘Siren’s Cove’ in large, glittery silver lettering across the back of each girl. They embarrassed her, making her wonder how much of a bonus they’d had to pay to convince the girls to wear such eyesores.

So ridiculous were the outfits she found herself questioning if she had blown everything out of proportion, since the new outfits were so over-the-top as to minimize their actual allure. Such thoughts were brushed aside as they pulled into the next station and she spotted the dark haired girl waiting to board in a too-tight romper, complete with a belly button-exposing neckline and a bottom that gave only a half-assed effort at coverage.

Protests to the contrary, mothers often feel more protective of one child over the others and Ellene wasn’t any different from most. As much as she hated what the seasoned employees were wearing today, she had some confidence that most of her girls could handle the additional burden of their outfits. She felt much less confident about the pretty, little miss on the platform, proudly perched atop high-heeled boots like some junior member of the streetwalker sisterhood. Despite a personal history that had shocked Ellene to read, the child had the survival instincts of a lemming, seeming always willing to follow someone over a cliff.

Instead of the scowl she had directed at the previous bonus seekers, Ellene gestured for the girl to come towards her. Proving herself at least somewhat aware of the need for self-preservation, the girl hesitantly approached, nervously, saying, “Hello Ms. Dupensk, you wished to see me?”

“Hello, Sascha, won’t you take a seat?”

“Umm...okay. Thank you?”

“Tell me about your new outfit, it’s not your normal style.”

Glancing quickly downwards, as if she had forgotten what she wore, Sascha said, “Oh, it’s not, but Mr. Dinwald offered me a bonus to wear it on my way to work. To advertise for the Cove.”

“Sascha, you know, just because Mr. Dinwald asks you to do something, doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

“Yeeeah, I guess. Is he going to ask me to do something that you don’t want me to do? I heard that the two of you were having a disagreement about something.”

Reminding herself that they had not hired Sascha for her brains, Ellene said, “We were disagreeing about the outfits, I do not think they are completely appropriate for you and the others to wear.”

“Oh? Oh! Why not?”

“Do you think they’re appropriate?”

“Don’t tell Mr. Dinwald I said this, but they’re kind of tacky. I like the Pearl’s version better. They’re nice”

“Very true, and these are also rather skimpy.”

Giggling, Sascha replied, “Not when you compare it to some of my work costumes.”

“Well yes, but casino security makes sure that nobody bothers you when you are wearing those.”

“Nobody bothered me today, Ms. Dupensk.”

“You can’t be too careful, Sascha. So many visitors come from off planet who we are unable to screen. We can’t keep out the scum. And worse, some of them are wealthy and powerful. These people sometimes don’t believe the rules apply to them.”

“But when will any visitor see me? I came directly to the station from my apartment, got on the tram, and will get off at the employee station at the casino.”

Ellene almost blurted out a hasty answer before processing what Sascha had said. However, as the girl’s itinerary bludgeoned its way into her thoughts, she suddenly realized the meaningless nature of the argument between her and Dinwald. They had both overlooked the most important factor, perhaps not surprisingly, since neither of them were treated as a valuable resource like Sascha and the girls. They did not live on an island that had restricted access like those on the employee tram route. As Sascha had said, nobody would see her, well at least not the dangerous perverts she had feared, nor even the regular perverts the casino catered to and that Dinwald hoped to attract. She laughed at the silliness of the entire affair.

“Ms. Dupensk?”

“It’s nothing, Sascha, I guess it’s okay for you to wear Mr. Dinwald’s outfits. Just don’t wear it when you go out.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, people would laugh.”

Ellene quickly stifled an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle.

***

The grin upon Ellene’s face caught the staff in the casino’s offices by surprise, all of whom had planned to tread quietly when near her that day. But she did not explain the reason for her cheery mood. Still stinging from the lost argument, she eagerly anticipated the next quarterly review. By then multiple ‘advertising’ bonuses would have been paid and she could ask Dinwald how the fact that no one likely to be a potential customer had actually seen the girls in their expensive new outfits had affected his marketing strategy.

Petty yes, but maybe others would think twice before messing with her girls.

Chapter 2 - The Tank

Sascha also began work with a smile on his face. Even if Ms. Dupensk thought him a silly fluff-head who could not look after himself, it made him feel special to have her worry about him. Honest affection had not been something he had experienced in his life. Even his time with Foster now seemed more a case of shared need.

He felt happy that chance had brought him to this place.

Never could he have foreseen such a positive result during that grim period alone aboard the Lady Tramp, nor had rescue brought immediate joy and happiness, as many of the crew aboard the Commodore Tony Blaus had initially looked upon him with suspicion until they reviewed the video stored in the Lady Tramp’s systems. Their view of him was only slightly improved after seeing his exploits against the pirates, though, as he had learned when he overheard a female crew member, assigned to guard his quarters, refer to him as a psychopathic cock-ornament.

Those words confirmed the fear that had manifested itself when Lieutenant Bandle first broached the idea of escape from Darson, that he would be disdained by real women. As a result, the week on the Blaus caused more self-torture than the months alone on the Tramp.

Delivered, along with the ship, to the civilian authorities on the nearby planet of Aliston, Sascha underwent another round of investigation before being released, with his possessions (little more than clothes), to an organization supposedly meant to assist refugees. Pathetically underfunded, they offered only bad advice for the scared, new arrival, advice similar to his own plan to find a man to look after him, though more liberally applied. He may have taken it, if not for the stinging memory of the crew member’s slur.

This, in combination with a lack of opportunity faced by all refugees, led him to taking a waitressing job at a dive, charmingly named The Monkey’s Left Nut, where they limited his exploitation to the number of hours he worked. The owner’s wife keeping her husband far away from little Sascha, who served their customers dressed in his fantasy wardrobe, the sole remnant of his time as Foster’s companion.

A nervous and confusing period for Sascha, forced into the world, no longer locked away in the bubbles that had served both as refuge and prison, but he survived, as he had survived harsher challenges. He actually thrived, his temperament, appearance, and years as personal slave to Prince Fallan made him a skilled server. Quickly he found himself recruited to work at better quality bars and this appreciation of his skills, skills that had always seemed secondary in importance, provided a boost to his confidence. He grew independent, less frightened, more ready to believe that Sascha could exist as an individual, not just an extension of some man, be he kind like Foster, or a maniac like Prince Fallan.

So he ignored ample opportunities to become someone’s companion. Also, despite appearances, his mindset mirrored most teenage males and fantasy was a common habitant of his thoughts. However, he had a major advantage in making his fantasies a reality, since he expected to play the role not readily obtainable for most.

When he finally took back his own sexuality from the lingering insult he was working in his third bar, one that catered to navy officers. Sascha proved fortunate in his choice. He chose the Blaus security officer, who had led the boarding party that found him on the Lady Tramp, someone who had played an important role in a number of fantasies since the encounter and who Sascha felt deserved a reward. However, as eagerly as he desired the reward, Ensign Deng Hikona did not do so under false pretense, letting Sascha know he just wanted a good time. Appreciating the honesty, Sascha preceded to provide an extremely good time, before sending an exhausted ensign back to the ship at the end of his leave.

In the months that followed their friendship grew, but the relationship never took on a feel of permanence, need, or love. Instead they based it on games and play, mostly revolving around Sascha’s flat and bed. Hikona also learned that Sascha loved sports, a remnant of growing up on sports-mad Darson. There the sporting vid-channels often served as his sole company, providing opportunity to dream about playing the games himself. So, Hikona introduced the black haired vixen to sphere hockey, passing on his love of the Aliston Guardians as the two attended games whenever the Ensign could obtain tickets. And when Hikona he learned how excited Sascha tended be after a game, particularly a win for their team, he grew very proactive about finding those tickets

Yet Sascha gained more from their time together, learning that he did not need to be subservient in a relationship. It also offered him freedom from further pursuit, as no one seemed inclined to horn in on the security officer. The frequency of their bed play, since the Commander Tony Blaus was based on Aliston, even led Sascha to seek medical attention to see if anything could be done to heighten his own pleasure, reversing the negligence of Darson’s surgeons. There were procedurres, and though he never would be an easy partner to please, it definitely made things more enjoyable.

Thus life seemed fairly good, though static, when a finder, Joice Felit, approached him, selling him on the wonders of Pyrite 23. Near the top of the finder business, Joice freelanced for all the large casino chains. If one needed something obscure, maybe a cask of Delingern Wine, a Benflogian elephant, or a Frudilal dance troupe, they contacted Joice. But the bulk of her business involved recruiting girls to work in the casinos, finding them and then acting as their agent. In Sascha, she and her crew saw great opportunity. Artificially created though much of his beauty may have been, the work was extremely high caliber, the type found only amongst the wealthy. Combined with his wide-eyed sexuality and pre-existing expertise as a server, she felt that he could induce a bidding war amongst her clients.

Here Deng proved a true friend, recognized the opportunity for Sascha and pushed him to accept after Joice’s professional crew had subjected Sascha to a battery of tests, both physical and mental. The results determined he had the patience, attitude, appearance, and skills to wait upon the most demanding of clientele, the rich and powerful. A healthy auction followed, ending only when Sascha decided he liked the saucy wench costumes of Siren’s Cove better than the slave girl costumes at the second casino.

As important as finding him a job, Joice’s crew established his identity. An info-tech, combing through records, mined from poorly secured systems on Darson, determined Sascha’s birthday, which showed him to be just under nineteen standard years old. They assigned him the next step, choosing a last name, since there was none documented at his birth. He decided against taking the name of someone from his past, believing it might either be unfair to the person whose name he assumed or bring back bad memories. He reviewed fictional characters instead. This sparked a memory of his last wonderful moments with Foster, when he’d pretended to be Captain Keleesa Shronsdottor. So he became Sascha Shronsdottor.

The last step, his gender, proved more difficult and led to a disagreement between Sascha and Joice. In Sascha’s thoughts, he saw himself as a sylph of Darson, a feminized male, not a female, nor did he feel ashamed of that fact. Joice listened, but felt it would be easier to forget his past and to accept that most worlds would designate him as a female. When he argued that this would be dishonest, she asked why someone who had taken the name of a sex goddess and wore a pretty, pink dress to the argument would want to be considered male.

He did not deny that he appeared hyper feminine in his appearance and mannerisms, but he thought that it was due to nurture, not nature. Sascha accepted his situation, more importantly he allowed himself to enjoy it, but believed he would have taken the masculine path, given the choice. Still, he found himself unable to satisfactorily explain this belief and finally agreed to Joice’s plan.

However, for the rest of the trip, curious as to why Sascha thought of himself as male, Joice observed her find more closely. She noticed what Ivar Bandle had seen the first time he met Sascha, aboard the royal launch, an artificial aspect in the sylph’s femininity, though less so after months on Aliston. At the same time, she found his interests and sense of humour were stereotypically male. Though he giggled rather than laughed, his sense of humour often responded to the crudest jokes, nor could she ignore his interest in sports and gory vids. And while Joice knew women who held these interests, they were more common amongst the men and boys she knew. As a result, when Sascha received his identification, it held both his birth and current sex, a compromise he readily accepted.

Arriving on Pyrite, Sascha appreciated the fact that his first exposure to civilization was on Aliston, otherwise the crowds, sights, and sounds of the holiday world would have pushed him into sensory overload. Even with that exposure, Sascha eagerly accepted mentoring services from Joice’s company to help him manage. It left him further in her debt, which provided incentive to work extra hours, which resulted in the casino management eagerly extending his contract, after probation, even expanding his role to include two exotic duties. Yet it also turned him into a bonus addict, which would have made it difficult for him to turn down Mr. Dinwald even if he had not seen the flaw in the man’s plan.

Checking the assignment console, his smile grew larger. Instead of slinging drinks, the console showed him assigned to one of those exotic duties, the public and less dangerous of the pair. This morning he would be one of the sirens that gave the casino its name.

Hurrying to his locker, Sascha wiggled out of the ridiculous outfit and into a thick robe, before catching the employee tram, beneath the huge casino. Reaching his stop, he wandered into the special effects shop, returning greetings, the loudest from a large man who shouted, “Hey-Ho, it‘s my lovely Sascha Doll. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Hiya, Dickie, I’m on siren duty.”

“Ah-hah, a fortunate day to be a visitor at the Cove. Okay, into the canister.”

“There’s no need, Dickie, I’m feeling good.”

“So you may say, but I am happier to hear it from my toy.”

Sighing in resignation, Sascha stripped off the robe, ignored the expected, good-natured whistles of appreciation, and climbed into the med-canister for a claustrophobic health check. When the canister popped open with an all clear signal, he said, “I told you so.”

“Well, when it comes to your safety, I trust my machine more than you. After all, it won’t be earning a healthy bonus for a morning as a siren. Now over to Niessa, who will get you ready for the tank.”

Niessa, an older lady who had worked at the casino for years and seemingly found little joy in her job, gestured for Sascha to stand in a stall where she coated his body with a water resistant, sparkling spray, meant to reflect the light off his curves while submerged. Waiting for it to dry, Niessa gathered specialized makeup and accessories before having him sit in a chair. Beginning to work with his long, black hair, she muttered to Fara, her assistant. “Start on her hands.”

Smiling as if to make up for Niessa’s brusque attitude, Fara treated his nails like those belonging to any other siren, despite their chromatic treatment. After painting them with a quick-drying, pearlescent lacquer, Fara had him place each hand, fingers spread wide, into a mould with a thin, yet tough, membrane at the bottom. Folding the top of the mould down, he felt a splash of heat that melded it to another membrane, encasing his hand and leaving him with webbed fingers, perfect for swimming and realism. Fara then helped him on with his tail. Created from high-tech rubber, it appeared unspectacular, yet Sascha knew the mottled colouring would glisten in water and , like the webbed fingers, it would help him swim, though once strapped on, coming to his knees, it made him hopeless on land. Meanwhile, having finished his hair, pulling it back from his face with mother-of-pearl barrettes and fake pearl strings, Niessa painted his face in the overdone look common for performers.

They gave way to Elvin, one of the hardware techs. Taking the siren’s naval ring, he offered a barbell, in exchange, from which hung a decorative seashell and contained sensors to measure the stresses upon a body. Elvin also attached tiny speakers just inside Sascha’s ear canals, synching them with receivers integrated into dangling, seashell earrings. These would allow Sascha to listen to music or receive commands; in return his communication would be limited to ‘um-hums’ or ‘uh-uhs’ picked up by the subvocalizer patch the tech attached to his throat.

At Niessa’s wave, Dickie came over to check Sascha’s almost non-existent costume. Judging it satisfactory, he asked, “Everything good, Sascha Doll?”

“Yep,” he nodded.

Helping Sascha back into his robe, Dickie handed him a pouch and a bottle, containing a nutrient enhanced liquid meant to combat potential dehydration, before speaking to the muscular man, sitting by the door. “Okay, Flen, Sascha’s ready. Take her to the West entrance tank.”

“My pleasure, boss.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Grinning in response the man stood and sauntered over to Sascha’s chair, scooping him up with a moan. “Gah, someone needs to go on a diet.”

Used to this mode of travel and the accompanying complaint, Sascha said, “Oh dear, it must be terrible to grow old and lose your strength.”

“Old am I? Well, you just wait until my back goes out and you fall down, flopping about like some fish out of water.”

At the groan that this drew from the room, Flen said, “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be here all week, don’t forget to tip your waitress.”

“Not if you hope to keep your job you won’t be, Flen. You have a siren to deposit.”

“Righto. On it, boss.”

Leaving the room, he settled Sascha into the passenger seat of a cart before jumping into the driver’s side and zooming off through the tunnels. Arriving at a vaulted door, Flen scanned them into circular room with a conical bottom of a large tank for a ceiling and filled with numerous water tanks, air tanks, tubes, and piping. Leaving the cart, Flen hurried about checking the equipment.

In turn, Sascha began his final preparations. Finishing his drink, he took the dreaded rebreather from the pouch. Specially molded to snuggly fit within the cavity of an individual’s mouth, most found it triggered their gag reflex and so it weeded out the majority of siren applicants. Removing the inner workings, he checked to see that it held a brand new oxygen stick, supposedly good for five hours. Opening wide, he fed the rebreather into his mouth. He felt the expected moment of panic as it blocked his breath before he could breathe again. Satisfied with its operation, Sascha shoved a filter into each delicate nostril, and then waited for Flen to finish his checks.

Seeing the man approach with a dropper in hand, Sascha tilted his head back for the final step of his preparation. Eyes wide open, he felt Flen squeeze a drop of liquid into each eye and tried not to blink as is spread out, oozing across his entire eyeball, offering a protective coating against the water and chemicals in the tank. It also left him with blurred vision, which turned the man into a Flen-blob which reached out to grab him around his tiny waist before carrying him to the largest tube and thrust him through its hatch, settling Sascha upon a perch.

Reaching to find expected handholds, Sascha heard the clang of the door dogging shut, followed by the sound of rushing water. Soon he felt its weight moving his fin, before in began to creep up his legs. A bit cooler than the surrounding air, he acclimatized quickly. Immersed, he felt cocooned away from the world, something hardly impacted as he heard Flen ask, “Sascha, is everything a go?”

“Um-hum.”

“Very well, three minutes to start.”

He waited as the outer ring of tanks containing ordinary sea-life were lowered to expose the siren tank, listening to the music coming from the speakers in his ears. This music would be his main companion through the next hours, smooth and calm. He knew it would often seem he floated in its notes as much as the liquid around him.

“Ready, Sascha?”

“Um-hum.”

“Ok, then. In 5...

“4...

“3...

“And...

“Go!”

The hydraulics in his seat blasted him upwards into brightness, up, up, up, and then he felt air caressing his body. Slowing, seemingly coming to a stop, he gracefully folded the length of his body into a vee like that of a leaping pike, straightened, and fell, diving smoothly back into the blue of the tank, oblivious to the oohs and ahhs of those whose eyes were drawn by the flamboyant costume and motion in the tank.

Hundreds of attempts had gone into perfecting that entrance. Many late nights, hours after full shifts, spent at the practice tank, leaving his entire body sore from crashing down in a splat. Yet in spite of the pain he enjoyed the endeavour, as it kept him from running home to his little apartment immediately after a shift. The practice tank offered one of his main social outlets, where they did things, which he always enjoyed, rather than talking about things, which often left him feeling stupid.

During those nights of practice, amongst operators like Flen, wannabe sirens like him, or those who already were, Sascha discovered what it meant to be a siren. First, after more than a week of practice, he learned that nobody expected him to be perfect. Failure did not find him banished as had happened to his brothers, instead everybody assumed the new girls would struggle. Still he did not like it and felt others, who had practiced longer than he had, used it as an excuse to explain away, not overcome, lack of success. It triggered his competitive spirit, which had won him his horrible victory over those lost brothers, and so he returned, night after night, until his entrance was as smooth as drawing his pistols. Next he discovered the secret of tank, that one needed to let it do the work, flowing along in the currents created by the jets of air shot into the tank.

As with the rebreather, this was a go or no-go step on the path to becoming a siren. Most could not stop trying to conquer the tank, swimming where they wanted as opposed to accepting where they were taken. And that required a tremendous amount of energy, giving the lie to the five-hour guarantee on an oxygen stick. It also took great strength, strength that left an applicant muscled, not soft and curved like the preferred sirens for the Cove.

But for Sascha, it felt natural, little different than being caught in the currents of the powerful Prince Fallan. Just as when he’d been with the prince, Sascha knew not to fight, being bashed too and fro. Best to accept that he did not control his destination, to focus on what he controlled, the manner in which he arrived. In this he chose grace and elegance, recognizing how much those surrounding him, many who had little of their own, appreciated it. He accepted the conditions of the tank, even relished them once he realized its lack of malicious intent. Often he felt he could float within the tank forever, drifting along in its currents, flowing to the music piped into his ears. A simple twist of webbed hand brought about a lazy twirl. A flick of his tail caused him to tuck and roll, moving from one current into another. An arch of a back, a twist of hips, a spreading of arms, each and every movement stealing brief control away from the currents in the tank. Immersed, just as when playing games of violence in a Havoc Simulator, but without the pounding of his heart, Sascha found it peaceful, even knowing an audience would be watching, potentially hundreds of spectators.

Thus it required a special vanity to be a siren. In the tank one was laid bare for all to see, to judge, to want. A siren needed confidence in her appearance, for every doubt made her less desirable. And what is a siren’s lot, if not to be desired? To tempt, to promise, swirling and twirling gracefully about inside the tank, Sascha wondered who watched, who wanted? Was he young or old? Was he handsome or not?

Sascha never considered that nobody watched. In this, if in little else, Sascha had full confidence. Long had he grown used to men looking at him with hungry eyes, since before the prince had brought him to Taling. Now, no longer surrounded by Fallan’s goons, he had grown used to the propositions that followed those gazes. He expected it, even enjoyed it, more importantly he needed it. It was bad enough to be the result of an experiment driven by arrogance, how much worse if that experiment had been botched? Yet he would never have guessed that he would next be caught by another of the other wannabe sirens, Terese Compte, or could have expected the interesting two months that followed.

Despite his initial expectations that his male self would appear, he found himself very much the girlfriend in their relationship. Liking her as much as he did, that seemed a small price to be in her company and her bed. The latter being something he really enjoyed, finding her body absolutely fascinating, even though so similar to his own. But he also found himself baffled by her. He could not read Terese, so different than the obvious natures of the men who had been in Sascha’s life. He always made mistakes, leaving him confused as to what he had done wrong. It was almost a relief when Terese had broken it off, telling him that she wanted to be with a soft and beautiful woman, not a soft and beautiful man. And though not dense enough to believe that these words were a compliment, he secretly took it as such. It was, after all, a strange validation of his remembered argument with Joice.

The relationship over, it had not taken long for him to be seduced by Flen, who cut a swath through the casino’s siren population, into which group Sascha had graduated. With Flen it seemed natural, easy, maybe because its shallowness. Flen’s main desire was get the siren into bed, not into a relationship. Nor, Sascha realized, did he want one. Maybe that explained why he and Flen, unlike he and Terese, were still friends with favours.

Spiralling through the tank, Sascha decided to draw on those favours, it having been some time since his last fling. A few hours later, though, when he exited through the hatch at the bottom of the tank, that thought no longer lingered at the front of his mind. Not that anything else had pushed it aside, he had just achieved the state most sirens referred to as being blissed-out, when thinking did not seem important. By the time Sascha regained his senses, once more sitting in Niessa’s chair being divested of his costume, he found Flen already gone. Disappointed, he considered what he should do when he noticed Dickie approaching.

“Back with us, Sascha Doll?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Dickie.”

“Excellent, I was wondering if you have plans for the evening?”

“I was just trying to decide. Are you offering? Because I would say yes.”

“Dear me, I doubt my heart could handle it. Nope, someone else put in a request.”

“For me?” Sascha squeaked, eyes wide open.

“Don’t give me that false modesty, Little Miss Popular. You know all the floor captains compete to get you in their crew. Today it’s Kalen, he sent me a note to check if you are willing to work overtime.”

Kalen ran the Conquest Arena and Sascha always enjoyed working that room. Not only did it require minimal work, but he found the game fascinating. The problem was that a match could take hours, even days, and required stamina from both those who played and those who stood around looking pretty, when not fetching drinks or food. Shaking his head, Sascha said, “I wish I could, but after my stint in the tank I couldn’t manage.”

“Not a problem, the match doesn’t start until this evening. You have time for some shut-eye first.”

“Oh? Okay then, can you tell Kalen that I am free?”

“Can do. Now scoot and get some food and sleep.”

Chapter 3 - Conquest

Vacating the sleep chamber, one of many lining a wall of the change room, Sascha rubbed sleep-filled eyes and shuffled towards the shower area. Bypassing his preferred water showers, he settled upon the vibra-shower, knowing water would not wash away the sparkling spray from earlier. Finished, and in no hurry, he stopped at the canteen before returning to his locker. He found his hair wand, using it until his hair shone before curling its ends. Then, precisely following the criteria set forth in the waitressing guide, he made up his face, highlighting the result with large, gold hoop earrings.

Ready to dress, he donned a beautiful lingerie set before he stepped into a short, ruffled, ivory coloured, lace underskirt that matched it. Over this he fastened an even shorter, deep purple, velvet overskirt, cut away, in the front, to show most of the lace beneath. Then he pulled on a midriff-baring, bell-sleeved, lace shirt over which he fastened a cap sleeved, bolero jacket of the same purple velvet. Dressed, he pulled on polished black, synth-leather, stilleto-heeled boots, around whose tops he tied, with black ribbons, purple boot cuffs. Lastly, he took a purple, pirate hat, girlishly festooned in lace and ribbons, swept his hair away from his face and settled it upon his head.

Sascha stood up to check his appearance in the full-length mirror near his locker, sparing a moment to wonder how different his life would be if real pirates were no more than the fetishist‘s dream he portrayed. He shook his head to clear such thoughts and locked on the smile expected from the Cove’s servers and strutted out into the noise and lights of the casino proper.

In this outfit, the casino wanted him to be seen and he posed for numerous vid shots before stepping into the quiet emptiness of the Conquest Arena. Waving to the men, surrounding Kalen, who looked towards the entrance, Sascha surveyed the room. He stood at the top of a circular room with theatre seating, for a thousand spectators, circling a round stage at the middle of the room. There, six competitors would compete in a game as unique to Siren’s Cove as its sirens: World Domination. Based upon a model developed centuries before by the Texlaxian War College and constantly tweaked by the members of Kalen‘s team, each competitor, often accompanied by a full staff, chose a territory and through good government, force, guile, and diplomacy attempt to defeat their opponents. Amongst true aficionados, territories were assigned months in advance, allowing opportunity to prepare before coming to Pyrite to conduct the endgame here in the Arena.

Descending to the floor, Sascha studied the stage. Forty metres in diameter, it had empty space ten metres across in the centre, where a holographic world would be displayed, displaying the match’s progress, for all to see. The rest of the stage consisted of six colour co-ordinated wedges, with privacy barriers between white, black, green, yellow, red, and purple. In each of these a team would be located, one member at the front of the wedge, visible to all in a cockpit chair, as complex and confusing as Foster’s on the Lady Tramp. Meanwhile, the rest of the team would be located in the private team room at the fat end of the wedge, where they would act as general staff for the player in the cockpit. He, and his colleagues in colours matching their wedge, would stand in between the two positions, ready to serve both, while on display for all, and hoping the heated plate on which they stood would keep them warm in the air conditioned arena, despite their manner of dress and long periods of inactivity.

At the bottom of the spectator seating, Sascha crossed the short distance to the steps, clearly outlined with distinctive purple lights, that led up to his assigned section and climbed onto the stage. It being his responsibility during the match, he performed a quick check to ensure that everything was perfect, even though others would have checked it multiple times.

Patiently he waited for the competitors to arrive and greeted his colleagues, five women dressed as he, each in a different colour, before Kalen yelled out. “Okay people, ten minutes to start.”

Smile in place, he watched the wedge’s entrance. That smile grew bigger when he saw the couple that appeared. Dressed in matching, purple jumpsuits, the blonde pair were absolutely gorgeous, a perfect combination of genes and body sculpting. Towering above Sascha, even with his heels, the man lazily drawled. “Looks like someone is happy to see us.”

Eagerly nodding his head, Sascha remembered his place. Dipping a curtsey he said, “Vel Verissa and Vek Ventar, so good to see you once more.”

“Likewise, isn’t it, Verissa?”

Almost in a purr, the female answered, “Yes, Love, it is always good to see our lovely, little Sascha.”

Lovely, little Sascha shivered under their combined admiration, reminded how absolutely in lust he was with them, just like his first night he served them, initially at The Pearl but later, after they’d effortlessly seduced him, in their magnificent suite. Now, whenever they visited Pyrite, they treated Sascha as their favourite toy. Anxious to keep them happy, the casino willingly freed him up, providing ample opportunity for play.

“In fact, I have half a mind to say dash it all to this silly game and take Sascha back to our rooms and ravish her. It’s been too long since I had the chance to give a good ravishing.”

“Poor Ventar. But as tempting as that sounds, think of all the work we put into preparing, the amount it cost us to enter, and the possibility that Dailmbruk will think he won.”

“Gah, we can’t let that happen, Verissa. Sorry, Sweets, playtime will have to wait, you understand though, don’t you?”

“Umm...okay?” Sascha answered, having no idea who Dailmbruk was, but he knew the cost to enter a Conquest match. Each entry fee was significantly more than he made in a year, even with top bonuses.

Agreement reached, no ravishing, each found their place. Verissa moved to the cockpit seat, Ventar to the room, and Sascha to his plate, after serving the others a beverage.

Waiting for the other, larger teams and the small group of spectators to settle in place, Sascha wondered about the mysterious duo. Despite their having extracted his entire life story within hours of their first meeting, he knew little of theirs beyond likes and pleasures. He knew nothing of where they came from, the basis of their wealth, not even the relationship between the two. Nor could he find anything out, either through info searches or gossip, though he learned everybody found the pair fascinating and most had pet theories, ranging from the trashy to the inane, everything from a Prince and Princess banished from their home planet for incestuous love to clones who happened to be inter-sector master criminals.

Sometimes he wished they would take him along when they left, allowing him to answer all his questions, but knew he would lose his new Saschaness by entering their orbit. Better to bask in their light only for short periods.

Distracted from his thoughts by the countdown, Sascha turned to look over Verissa’s head, into the open space at the centre of the stage. There, when a bell rung to start of the game, a holograph of a globe appeared, each contender’s territory showing in a different colour. Briefly surveying the globe, Sascha looked at the betting boards ringing the stadium to see if his thoughts meshed with those betting on the game. Specifically, he studied Purple’s position which, in spite of loyalty, appeared only in the third best position for victory. It seemed others saw it differently, however, betting them to be first out. He guessed the size matters crowd was behind that betting, ignoring the defences and self-sufficiency of Purple’s territory.

Personally, he thought the sprawling mass covered in red appeared to be the weakest, almost an amateurish, position. Curious, he checked to see who played Red and was shocked to see General Bellon von Lurech’s name, a top Conquest player and mercenary general. Normally he liked a small territory at the start from which he could make quick strikes with mobile units, expanding into lands developed by his opponents.

Two teams identified, he quickly scanned the others. Yellow was McIddon, the Nalcon ambassador to the League of Planetary Systems and an aggressive player. Green was Professor Ack-chong of the Pring University, McIddon’s opposite, known for patiently waiting for mistakes upon which he could capitalize. The last two were new, one the afore-mentioned Dailmbruk, with Black, and an Isode Keling, with White. Everything seemed normal, except for Red, which meant the general controlled the pulse of the game. Everybody else was trying to figure out the trap.

Duty diverted him from studying the game, since he was summoned to the back room to prepare Ventar a snack. Still, he listened in while the pair tried to guess Red’s intentions.

“What’s he up to?” Ventar asked.

“Maybe he overshot?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“You’re right, the old fox would never screw up that bad. It’s definitely a trap, but I can’t see it?”

“And who’s going to spring it? My money is on McIddon or Dailmbruk. Of course whoever does will either be first out or win.”

Placing Ventar’s snack beside him, Sascha unconsciously spoke. “It’s like he is testing a theory.”

Turning, Ventar asked, “What’s that, Sweets?”

“Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“No, it’s okay, Verissa and I are just going round and round, maybe your thoughts can straighten us out.”

“Well, it’s strange that the general is doing something new. It’s like he’s testing something out and doesn’t care if he wins or loses.”

“Ventar, check to see if the General is between contracts.” Verissa said.

“Will do.” He consulted the data feeds accessible from his console, “Yes, yes, he is. Why?”

“See if you can find out who has been courting him. Maybe he’s conducting a feasibility test, before committing to a hire.”

“Interesting, I’ll get right on it.”

Sascha did not stick around to see what Ventar learned, but delivered a snack to Verissa. Based upon the appreciative way she squeezed his thigh, just below his skirts, she seemed pleased with something more than the food.

The next hours proved why the Arena seats usually stayed empty. Purple, Green, and Red were content to wait upon Yellow, Black, and White, all of whom jockeyed for position, feinting in all directions. The excitement sapped from the game, Sascha spent his time trying to ignore the cold, which was noticeable in spite of his heated position. Thus he, and apparently Isode and her team, missed the first significant move of the game when McIddon followed through on a feint and crossed into White’s territory, followed by reinforcements. White reacted by rushing forces towards the border with Yellow while Dailmbruk, as if inspired, pounced on the opportunity offered by Red.

The betting boards came to life, the two attackers receiving the majority of the action. Then, as White slowed Yellow’s advance and Black pushed deeper into Red’s territory, more money flowed in Dailmbruk’s direction. Many of the bettors seemed to be ignoring the possibility of a trap. Smarter money did notice Black’s supply lines stretching and its forces thinning out the length of the advance. For a time, Dailmbruk had the best odds, both to win and be first out.

As the black arrows pierced deep into the glowing red, all else seemed to pause. Those with money riding on or against Black held their breath whenever those arrows approached a natural barrier, unsure if Red’s defense would finally stiffen. Then, just before crossing into the heartland of Red’s territory, Black ran into well dug in troops - the available variables designating them fresh, fully provisioned, and with high morale. Furthermore, Purple and Green, evidently having made a secret alliance with Red, suddenly launched attacks upon Black’s home territory. Dailmbruk faced a difficult decision, whether to push through, hopefully defeating Red, or retreat and defend his territory. He made the wrong choice. His attempt to pull back left his troops spread out even more, his transports started running out of fuel and fell behind. The pursuing Red units gobbled them up like one snake eating another, so very few of Black’s forces made it home in time to encounter defeat at the hand of the two invaders.

As the last black markings were wiped off the globe, Kalen made an announcement. “With the first contender eliminated from the match, we will now take a one and one half hour break. That is one and one half hour. Please do not be late. We will start without you.”

At the announcement, Verissa bounced from her chair, scooped Sascha into a hug, and planted a kiss upon his lips. “Sweets, not only are you gorgeous, you’re brilliant. General von Lurech was testing a strategy for a backwater planet called Syble, where his potential employer, Trelifur, is set up very similarly to how Red started the game. When I approached him with this guess, I learned Professor Ack-chong had also made the connection and together we bullied him into an alliance.”

“And kicked Dick-head Dailmbruk’s ass.” Ventar laughed, as he arrived and gave both a victory kiss.

With his laughter still ringing, the three split up. Verissa and Ventar joined the remaining competitors for a first class meal while Sascha and his colleagues retreated to a warm break room where they sank into comfortable chairs and gratefully removed boots. Even Sascha, with his surgical enhancements, enjoyed the massager built into his chair’s footrest as he ate the lunch provided. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed, not being interested in discussing the game or anything else.

The break proved too short. An arena staffer popped her head into their room to announce that they had five minutes left. Sighing, the five remaining pirate wenches pulled on their boots, touched up their appearances, summoned their smiles, and headed back to the stage. Soon the Purple team joined Sascha, this time Ventar claiming the front seat.

As the match restarted it became apparent that the alliance stayed strong, resulting in a pause as McIddon and Keling, after forming their own alliance, protested the variables defining the strength of that alliance. But Kalen’s team of judges proved unresponsive to their protests, having decided that recent foes could not instantaneously become a united force. Thus, their alliance became little more than a non-aggression pact, and the two were forced to defend their own territories without close co-operation. This favoured McIddon, both because he had prepared a better defense, something required by his style of play, and because the alliance decided to deal with the less experienced player first.

White put up an admirable defense, dragging things out longer than expected, but her attackers stuck together and they proved too strong. Approximately four hours after the break, the second player exited the game. Having dragged things out long enough to give McIddon a stay of execution, the judges decided to end the game for the night, to resume the next morning.

As the other teams filed from the arena, the purple members looked between each other and Sascha. Ventar, as was normally the case, posed the question on all their minds, “Verissa, can we take the treat back to our room now?”

“Well, she is awfully delectable.”

“Delightfully so.”

“But we really should get some sleep.”

“Probably.”

“After all, we have to get up early.”

“Damn, sometimes I hate how you’re always right. This game better end tomorrow, because if I have to wait another night I may burst!”

“Agreed.”

Decided, Ventar smiled sadly at Sascha and said, “Night night, Sweets, see you bright and early tomorrow.”

Sharing their disappointment, Sascha wished them good night, tidied up, and headed back to the change room. He took a back way to escape vid requests, and soon found himself in the dark isolation of another sleep chamber. In the morning, his struggles to wake proved the wisdom of their prior night’s abstinence. Bypassing slumber for a playful romp, no matter how delightful at the time, would have made it nearly impossible to rise. Sighing, he repeated his preparations of the prior day, but he found a slightly different variation of his uniform in his locker. The hat and boots were the same but this time he wore a ruffled lace minidress over which he fastened a purple, brocade corset, not nearly as rib crushing as it appeared. Dressed, he quickly strolled through the quiet casino to the Arena and found it empty, none of the other players and staff having been quite so prompt.

He went through the same checks as the prior day and was cleaning the team room table, when he felt someone grasp him around the waist and he gave a startled shriek. However, he relaxed when he heard Verissa, amusement in her voice, say, “Unhand that wench, you ruffian.”

Not letting go, Ventar disagreed. “No way. I caught her. She’s all mine.”

Not averse to Ventar’s game, Sascha looked over his shoulder, eyes peeking from beneath the brim of his hat, to ask, “What dost thou have planned for me, cruel sir?”

“Gah, not you too. First that evil harridan standing there smirking at my plight offered me no relief last night.”

“Poor boy, I thought he would sprain his wrist before he could fall asleep.” Verissa said, the amusement even more evident.

“And now here is my captive wench who greets me while so fetchingly posed, first wiggling her attention-getter at me, then piercing my heart with eyes and voice of false innocence. Burst, did I say last night? Nay, it will be a veritable explosion.”

“We can’t have that, it sounds messy. You know, it’s still quiet out there. If Sascha is willing and, based on the lack of desperation in her escape attempts, never mind the actual non-existence of any such attempts, that appears to be the case, you may have time to defuse the situation.”

“Wondrous Verissa, forgive my earlier harshness, you are a veritable Goddess of Love? Or do you taunt me with lies?”

“No, Ventar, as you well know, it’s possible. Don’t think I didn’t guess why you dragged me from bed earlier than necessary. You knew Miss Diligent would already be here.”

“Bah, I plead innocence, Fate brought us together. Fate, I say. And one must never question Fate, so if it demands and Sascha is willing?” At this question, Sascha, who already had grown glassy eyed from the man’s roaming hands, lazily nodded agreement. “And yes she is, proving Fate loves the pure of heart.”

“You mean, Sascha?”

“Mock not the hands of Fate. Will you join us?”

“No, I think not, I will go speak to McIddon, who will surely approach with another desperate plea to break our alliance. Besides, us goddess types need time to enjoy our pleasures, unlike you barbarians.”

“Jealous?”

“Desperately. Now you two have fun, but don’t take too long.”

Ensuring that the room’s windows were darkened, Verissa slipped out to the sounds of rustling lace and Ventar’s saying, “No, hold there, Sweets, don’t turn around. Fate brought us together in this fashion for a reason, let’s not go against his will.”

Regretfully, Sascha watched the beautiful woman leave the room and spared a thought for the appropriateness of capitulating so easily. The he decided, based upon the casino’s tacit approval of his relationship with the pair, that it would be okay, as long as he did not keep Ventar from the restart. Besides, he had trouble thinking, what with eager hands reaching under the ruffled skirt of his dress. Sometimes Sascha liked to be manhandled, in fact had wanted this since his shift in the tank. And few beat Ventar in the art of manhandling, as proven when he jerked Sascha’s panties down his thighs.

That thin barrier removed and knowing what was about to come, Sascha still let loose a mewl of surprise at the sudden thrust that tilted him forward on the rockered toes of his boots. Then another and another, causing Sascha to grasp for purchase, with splayed fingers, upon the smooth table top. Yet, even in his eagerness, Ventar was never a greedy lover. Attuned to the body below him, he knew that though perfect for giving him pleasure, it treated Sascha with less kindness. Soon he settled into a rhythm that brought forth whimpers of pleasure and would leave his captive happily exhausted, a tempo where they easily lost track of time.

Thus the countdown clock had almost reached eight minutes before the start when Sascha noticed time ticking away. Suddenly their tryst had a rapidly approaching deadline and despite his enjoyment, he knew he needed bring it to an end.

So as Ventar pulled back for another thrust, Sascha slipped from his grasp, and, ignoring the man’s protests, spun about to take matters in hand. Ventar’s protests did not last long, for Sascha was just as familiar with his body, as Ventar with his. Crouching, he leaned forward, and finished satisfying his companion.

It barely left him enough time to freshen up before the match resumed. Though he did not have to hurry as much as his red-haired colleague in green, who shared a sheepish smile with him as she scurried into the break room to deal with the affects of her own morning tryst.

Like every other spectator, Sascha was curious as to whether McIddon had forced a crack in the alliance that had disposed of Black and White. Watching his starting move, Sascha guessed the answer to be no. But unlike Isode Keling, McIddon did not seek to delay defeat; instead he tried to once more become a player in the game. To do that, he needed to break a leg from the triad’s stool. So he did what he did best, he attacked. Unfortunately, he attacked Purple, not with malicious intent, he did not seek revenge for rebuffed entreaties, but Purple just happened to be the best target, being nearest to his own territory. Apparently Verissa and Ventar had expected this, had prepared for it. Yet McIddon was the master of the attack and a worrisome period followed before their defenses held and the attack finally bogged down and collapsed.

During the attack, Sascha noticed how slowly Red and Green reacted, delaying relief to their ally. Not a surprise, since it did not hurt to have an alliance member weakened, something understood by all and which resulted in a drop on the betting boards for Purple. Still, caught between Purple’s defenses and the tardy relief of Red and Green troops, things were bleak for Yellow.

“With the third contender eliminated from the match, we will now take a half hour break. That is one half hour. Please do not be late. We will start without you.”

The session had barely taken an hour, so nobody rushed to the lunch or break rooms. Ventar and Verissa huddled together, completely ignoring Sascha, trying to prepare a strategy for when the alliance ended. It would surely end, either naturally or induced by the judges, who would not allow an impasse amongst the three players. They tried to decide if they could gain more by waiting or acting first.

Verissa asked, “What is the chance that Ack-chong will make the first move?”

“A little less likely than me taking a vow of celibacy.”

“Yes, the idea is laughable. How about Lurech?”

“Possible, but his flanks are still not that strong, he won’t want to expose them in any attacks.”

“Also agreed. So either we break it ourselves or wait on Kalen and his team.”

“Well, you know how I feel.”

Smiling, Verissa said, “Yes, Love, of course I do.”

Frustratingly, Sascha did not know, but he did not ask, since it was not his place to do so. He accepted, as he always did, that though they welcomed him into their world, he would never be more than a guest. But patience was one of his strengths and he knew it would not be long before they answered his question since the break was almost over. Not that it stopped him from considering that, given the choice, he would attack; though he did not know who or how. Best to wait and see. Apparently, based upon the suddenly large crowd, many others wished to know.

As soon as the match restarted, they provided their answer. The alliance was over, at least for Purple. With the armies of their former allies still close, after wiping out Yellow, an attack proved easy to launch. They did, the bombardments of artillery that had stopped Yellow now fell upon Green’s troops.

As Green retreated under that bombardment, Sascha analysed the reasons behind choosing Professor Ack-chong, instead of the general. Firstly, it made little sense to attack both opponents, better to focus on one, doing as much damage as possible. Secondly, while that opponent retreated, his defenders might fall into disarray, offering an opportunity the third force could exploit. Lastly, the professor would never take such an opportunity, while the general might take it. So Purple targeted Green’s forces. As it turned out though, either they kept good order in retreat, never providing an opening, or the general decided against attacking.

The attack gained Purple space and time which they used to rebuild resources lost to McIddon’s attack. Eventually, the three players found themselves locked into defensive positions, driving the bored spectators from the Arena. It became a game of waiting, each nibbling at the others, fighting in the lands of the defeated. Stalemate had been reached, which was not good business for the casino. If nothing happened, then the Gods, actually a random generator of natural disasters, would come into play. It would be the moment when Chance, who lurked in all casinos, joined the game.

The expected countdown, to its arrival, began.

Time for the competitors to make another decision. Did they force the play, stopping the clock? Or did they welcome Chance, hoping it favoured them? As the seconds counted down, Sascha realized they all planned to gamble.

The clock struck zero. Chance joined the party, but...

“We will now take a half hour break. That is one half hour. Please do not be late, as we will start without you.”

...The Siren’s Cove recognized this as an opportunity to build excitement and to open another book on the game. Soon people, even those who did not understand Conquer, were betting on Chance. Gambling on who would be the recipient of the Gods’ judgment and whether they would be fortunate or not.

Again Verissa and Ventar proved anti-social even to each other during this break. Anxiously they waited for the dice to be thrown, ignoring the drinks Sascha placed beside each purple clad arm.

This time, as the match restarted, neither Ventar nor Verissa sat in the cockpit. Instead they stood in the open, like the members of the other teams. Waiting on Chance, which manifested itself first as a purple glow, then yellow, then red, momentarily lighting up each teams wedge. Flickering purple, yellow, red, purple, yellow, red, purple, yellow, red...building tension.

When it stopped, Sascha notice he was basked a purple glow. Immediately he looked to the holographic globe, hoping Chance had been kind, despite the hiss from one of the blondes. He saw defenses, that had withstood attack, now in shambles, destroyed by a massive earthquake. Turning away from the devastating sight, he saw Ventar watching Verissa, who icily stared at the globe. Seeing her stand, unmoving, like a statue, the man bustled forward, taking the cockpit, attempting to ward off defeat, as Yellow and Red instinctively reacted to Purple’s misfortune.

During the time that followed, Sascha’s attention moved between the globe and Verissa, then he only watched her. He knew what would happen in the match, but had never seen this side of her, frigid like some Winter Goddess, still beautiful, but untouchable. Sascha preferred the other Verissa.

“With the fourth contender eliminated from the match, we will now take a one and one half hour break. That is one and one half hour. Please do not be late. We will start without you.”

At these words, Verissa turned and strode down the steps of the stage and up those of the spectator seating. Barely glancing left or right, she soon left the Arena. Sascha turned to Ventar, who joined him in time to see Verissa exit. Offering only a shrug, he gently squeezed Sascha‘s hand and rushed to follow his soulmate.

Leaving Sascha all alone.

Chapter 4 - Crissum

Startled by their departures, it took Sascha a few moments to realize they were not coming back for him. Disappointed, he wondered why things had gone so wrong? He should be with the blonde couple, about to start an afternoon of fun, yet here he was, forgotten.

Back in the change room, he checked for messages. Finding none, he submitted a request for a job, but was rebuffed again. The system had decided that his overtime was maxed out for the shift. Frowning, he decided to head home, regretting that he had nothing other than the stupid romper. Opening the locker, however, he saw that someone had replaced hideous thing.

Looking at the new outfit, he guessed that either Ms.. Dupensk or Verissa were behind the switch, as both liked to see him as the innocent. One because she wanted to protect him, the other because she enjoyed playfully despoiling that innocence. Eagerly though, he accepted either role, the specific version of innocence to portray depended upon the audience. Fortunately the answer as to who wanted him so costumed became obvious when he spotted the new, black, high-heeled shoes at the bottom of the locker. Those were pure Ventar, who, being less complicated than his companion, always seemed satisfied by short skirts and high heels.

Dressed, he saw the result would suit both temperaments, as he naturally pulled off the cute, but sexy, look Verissa adored. And the short charcoal jumper dress over a black sweater with knee high stockings would definitely please Ventar, although he decided on a hair band instead of braids, side tracking the inevitable handlebar joke from the man. Satisfied that Verissa and Ventar would be satisfied, Sascha checked again for messages. Finding none, he headed towards the sport’s book to wait for contact.

Since it was early afternoon, the place was nearly empty, so he could focus on his food and a semi-final game, in the Valent Sector Sphere Hockey Champions’ League, between the Holken Fener Renders and the Sigline SuperNovas. Not a game in which he held rooting interest, as his own team, the Aliston Guardians, was in the other semi-finals, instead he cheered against the Renders, long time rivals of the Guardians. As with the Conquest match, his cheering provided little benefit, as the Renders opened up an early lead, extending it during the third period. Combined with the lack of contact from his hoped for dates, he decided to give it up as a bad day and go home.

Since the employee shuttle did not run between shifts, he headed for the casino’s main transit station, amusing himself by guessing each group’s destination. Although no guess proved necessary for the three youths around his own age who loudly declared their intentions to hit the Solintarno Isle Park. They only got louder, well, two of them, when they noticed him look in their direction.

Solintarno Isle Park was an amusement park tailored to those not old enough to gamble in the casino, even if they could work there. Sascha loved the place and went as often as possible, though with a busy work schedule he had not been there in more than a week. So when a tram, heading in the Park‘s direction, arrived, he found himself considering boarding. Watching the three youths, he noticed the noisy two rush to the back, leaving the third member to plunk down in a seat near the entrance. Hardly having time to think, ‘he’s cute,’ Sascha moved towards the open door.

Holding the door open for two men following, Sascha slid into the seat beside the youth, his short dress riding not-so-carelessly higher on his thighs. Not satisfied with the morning’s tryst, nor how things had ended with the blondes, Sascha decided to take matters into his own hands. And noticing the boy’s quick peek at his legs before returning to the game on his personal console, he realized Verissa was right; innocence definitely had its attractions. Waiting until they were away from casino’s station, Sascha looked at the game his seatmate played. Recognizing the holographic images in Fargonworld, a game he had spent hours playing himself, he none-the-less asked, “What’s that you’re playing?”

Flicking him a nervous glance, the youth said, “Fargonworld.”

The question, added to Sascha’s nearness, destroyed the rhythm with which he flicked his wand about the display. His fighter, battered from all sides, soon crashed to its knees and onto its face. Pursing his mouth in frustration, the youth restarted the game, trying to casually ignore the beautiful girl beside him. However, Sascha did not want to be ignored and decided to become an active spectator; offering unwanted advice, squeaking surprise at monsters, bouncing in excitement, and so forth. The act, conducted at his brainless best, proved great fun for him, but incredibly distracting for the youth, as shown by the string of deaths that followed.

After another, which resulted in a muttered curse, Sascha asked, “Is it hard? It looks hard.”

Still looking down, the game player said, “Kind of, but I’m usually better at it.”

“Oh? Oh no, am I distracting you? I’ll move to another seat?”

“No, no, don’t do that. Umm...I mean, that’s okay, you don’t need to move. I was just killing time on the way to Solintarno Isle Park.”

Offering a big smile at what he considered to be the correct answer, Sascha said, “Oh, that’s a fun place.”

The lines of communication opened, the boy shut down his game and turned his head, his glance roving over Sascha’s body in that fashion so common to most men or boys. His look settling halfway between Sascha’s breasts and face, allowing him to pretend to focus on the latter, though giving opportunity for darting glances at the former, he asked, “Are you going to the park as well?”

Unconcerned with his seatmate’s sneak peeks, Sascha could have smiled at the hopeful tone in the question. Instead he tried to lure his target into making the next move. “I’m actually heading home from my shift at the Cove. I hadn’t planned to stop anywhere.”

“You work at Siren’s Cove? What do you do?”

Though not the desired ‘Wanna go to the park with me,’ interest was better than dismissal. “I do a few things, mostly waitressing.”

Looking closer at Sascha, almost in recognition, he said, “You know I think I saw you working. Though, I’m not sure where.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Maybe at the Conquest Arena?”

“Bleh, Conquest! That’s all my dad cares about.”

At almost the same moment, the two figured out the answer. The youth, fighting a blush, realized that when he had last seen Sascha, she was gloriously naked. Sascha, in turn, felt no embarrassment. Quite the opposite, he felt thrilled to finally meet one of his imagined spectators, particularly one so cute. Excitedly grabbing one of the boy’s hands in both of his own, Sascha said, “You saw me in the tank. What did you think? Did you like it?”

“Umm...you were very beautiful. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s really quite a lot of work and I never know if I’m doing a good job. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Yeah, I liked it a lot.”

Smiling, even happier at the validation and the lack of struggle from his target to regain control of his hand, Sascha said, “I’m Sascha by the way.”

“Hi Sascha, I’m Crissum, but everybody calls me Cris.”

“I’ve never met anybody named Crissum before, can I call you that?”

“Sure, I guess. My parents named me after the founder of Nalcon, my home planet. How about you, Sascha, where are you from? Guessing not here.”

Sascha liked to get the truth out early on in a potential relationship, being warned by Joice that if he planned to stick with the truth, he should tell people in public, instead of waiting for privacy. “I’m from Darson, I’m a sylph.”

This moment always felt like gambling on one of the machines in the casino. Push the button, then round and round go the wheels, where they’ll stop nobody knows. Would there be anger, excitement, confusion (amongst the less worldly, who had never heard of Darson or its unique customs), or sympathy (which hated, as it tried to give lie to the belief that he should like himself). In this instance, he received what he considered the jackpot, amazement. “Wow, I never would have guessed. I once saw a docu-vid about Darson and none of the sylphs were as pretty as you.”

“Their owners were probably not as rich or organized as mine.”

Crissum’s nose wrinkled in disgust at this, but it did not bother Sascha, since it seemed directed at the prince, who he felt worthy of all types of disgust. “I’m surprised you were freed?”

“I wasn’t, I escaped.”

This, of course, led to a description of what had happened with the platoon of Dawson’s Bunch. Like most of the times Sascha had described his past, his audience appeared fascinated by his tale. Crissum particularly found the violent aspects intriguing and asked many questions. Sascha did not mind, it was better than those interested in the sexual part of his past. Besides, the youth had not reclaimed his hand, letting the former sylph continue holding it clasped between his own atop his short-skirted lap. The telling of the story kept the two entertained as they passed multiple stops, the tram slowly emptying as passengers reached their destinations. At the stop prior stop to Solintarno Isle, the father and son, sitting behind them, left the tram. The seat did not stay empty for long; the two other boys, who had been with Crissum, moved forward to occupy it.

“Hey, Crissie, introduce us to your friend.”

His seatmate did not quite snatch his hand away from Sascha’s grasp, but it proved a near thing, as a wary look appeared on his face. “Her name is Sascha, she works at Siren’s Cove. Sascha, this is my older brother, Tithen, and his friend, Dooger.”

The one identified as Dooger just leered, leaving Tithen to speak. “Heya, Babe, what are you doing with the dweeb, when you could be hanging with Doogs and I?”

Snorting laughter at this, his companion agreed quicker than a puppy dog. “You bet, Tithen, we could show you a real good time, Babe.”

“I think not, boys. I’m quite happy with Crissum’s company.”

“You work at the casino, do you, Babes? How much is Crissie paying you to be his friend?”

Such an insult, from someone he already disliked, had no ability to sting, but Crissum blushed a deep red and blurted out. “I’m not paying her anything.”

“Can’t afford her, ehh?”

“I rather doubt any of you could afford me, if I were for sale. But keep your fantasies in check, I’m just enjoying your brother’s company.”

With this, Sascha and Tithen shared a mutual glare. Fortunately the tram pulled into the Solintarno Isle station before anything more was said. As it stopped, the two stood and looked at Crissum, his brother asking, “You coming with us? Or are you going to go and play princess with your new friend?”

Starting back, as if slapped, Crissum said, “Shuddup, Tithen, I’m coming. Bye, Sascha, I enjoyed meeting you.”

“Umm...bye, Crissum.”

Watching the three leave, Sascha struggled to hide his surprise. He could not understand why Crissum would take the comment about playing princess, probably due to the next island being a pre-teen girl haven named Princess Island, as such an affront to his masculinity. After all, the fact that Sascha had done everything except straddle his lap and stick his tongue down the boy’s throat, to show interest, should have acted as balm to wounded masculinity.

Sometimes Sascha struggled to understand men just as much as he struggled to understand women.

Chapter 5 - Pursuit

Shaking his head, Sascha found his inability to get his itch properly scratched almost funny. It seemed cosmic justice sought to pay him back for all the times he induced someone else’s itch, intentionally or not, and had not satisfied it. After all, it hardly seemed natural for him to have faced all he had faced during the last day. Starting with his initial intentions concerning Flen, Sascha had dealt with the man’s quick absence, the arrival of Verissa and Ventar, their unabashed flirtation, his morning tryst with Ventar (which had hinted and teased, rather than satisfying), their casual dismissal of him, finding the nice but naughty clothing, before happening upon the yummy Crissum, only to have him pulled away by a bullying brother. It left him horny. And as a final joke, in his pursuit of Crissum he now found himself further away from home and his silver friend, than when he left the casino.

Thinking about transit routes, he realized that after Princess Island, the tram would continue on to Adventure Island, currently under renovation, before reversing course back toward the Cove. At the last island he would catch a cross route tram. But at Princess Station he instinctively left the tram.

This decision occurred when Sascha realized the only remaining passengers, beside himself, were the two men who had boarded behind him. Suddenly remembering them from the crowd in the Arena, during the Conquest match, he found himself thinking of Ms. Dupensk’s warning, about the rich and powerful. He decided he did not want to be alone with them.

For he knew Ms. Dupensk was correct, an underground movement existed amongst the rich, who sometimes kidnapped girls working in the casinos. What she probably did not realize and it would be outraged if she did, was that, like all forms of entertainment on Pyrite, the casinos sanctioned and monitored this activity. Anybody interested in his own, short-term, slave girl, only needed to be filthy rich and to have heard the rumours. Hinted desires would bring forward casino fixers, to negotiate the cost of an attempting capture. A fee, including factors such as; the popularity of the girl, her skill at evading capture, the length of captivity, the number of hunters, and possibly a reputation surcharge. If the two sides agreed to a contract, the customer could initiate the hunt at any point during the next week.

All hunts were subject to simple, standard rules. They continued until the hunters captured their prey or the girl made it to her home island. Nor could the girls enlist security, although if the hunters could run afoul of it on their own and ifapprehended, the girl had an easy escape. A hunt was a cat and mouse game where the hunted tried not to be caught alone, something made particularly difficult by the stations, near the islands on which the girls lived, being those used the least.

Unlike Ms. Dupensk, Sascha knew all this, because being a siren was not his only exotic duty. He’d also signed on to become one of the hunted, a decision he now regretted, despite taking home fifty percent of the contract fee for being the prey during five previous hunts which had proved unsuccessful for the hunters and very profitable for him. Yet he worried about getting caught and did not plan to renew his prey contract when it came due.

Experience, and a course conducted by the casinos taught him what to do when hunted. As a start, you surrounded yourself with people and evaluated the situation. Specifically, you confirmed you were being followed, that you did not imagine it. If yes, you formulated a plan.

The fact that the two men followed him off the tram with the same speed as they had followed him on, implied yes. Still, he did not jump to conclusions, even if the two stood out like wolves amongst kittens, they might just be waiting to pick up their daughters. It made for a crappy day to run only to find out no hunt had occurred and that your account had not grown. Having happened to Sascha twice, he did not plan to make the mistake again. So he used a trick taught during the course, he found a reflective surface in which to study the two men, watching as they pretending to look everywhere, but at him. Next, while still looking in the reflective glass of the Princess Night Show advertisement, he looked for one more thing, for final confirmation.

There it was. The flickering light of a vid-drone.

Casino management would not be living up to their nature if they did not exploit all opportunities offered by the hunt, finding more ways to extract money from their wealthy guests. Therefore, for those who desired and could afford it, a live feed of the chase was made available to draw them in, and to encourage them to bet on the outcome. Each participant (prey or hunter) would have a drone hovering overhead so Sascha knew that everything he did would be observed; he could only hope that rules would be followed and his hunters could not access the feed.

Deciding to not yet appear to have knowledge of the pursuit, his attention turned to transit system routes, which he had studied extensively, as did any prey worthy of the role. Sascha knew the simplest route involved waiting for the tram’s return, taking it back to the casino, and using the employee tram, at the next shift end; however, that would result in the cancellation of the hunt and unhappy casino management.

Knowing the station offered no escape, he headed towards the park entrance. Flashing his monthly all-access pass, he moved into the saccharine sweet world of Princess Island Park. A place of high pitched shrieks, giggles, lace, pastels, and over-the-top girlishness, inside its domain Sascha understand how Crissum could see it as a threat to his masculinity. Whereas he, judged for many other things, would never need to live up to such a male standard, which seemed to sap some of the fun from life. Thus he could wholeheartedly immerse himself in the fantasy of the place, even if his experience had proven princes less than charming, and had visited a few times. His knowledge offered him advantages over his followers.

In fact, he already knew the first part of his plan, getting off the island. But not yet, he needed to see if any more henchmen would show up, plus he wanted to see how uncomfortable these two would become, in a place they would never visit on their own. Moving through the crowds, he reached his first distraction, the stables, with their bio-engineered unicorns. He adored the softness of their fur and, despite his skirt’s shortness, soon found himself astride one, reminding him of his prior problem. His dalliance with the unicorns benefited his followers, who were replaced by two women, barely more comfortable than the men. This forced Sascha to re-evaluate his plan, as it showed the seriousness of the pursuit and took away some of his simpler tricks for escaping. Deciding to force them to underestimate him, he decided to wallow deeply in the syrup of the island.

From the stables, he led the short procession to the Faire, stopping along the way to watch and tip a puppet show, harpist, and a group of singers. Buying a Berry Blast, a pink, frothy concoction of ultimate yumminess he joined the line in front of a tent, ignoring the two women curiously trying to figure out what went on inside.

There, a lady dressed as a medieval serving wench greeted him, taking in his appearance with a sneer on her face. That sneer infected her vocal chords, as she asked, “What can we help you with, Young Lady?”

No longer the type to wilt under this judgment, Sascha answered with limited truthfulness. “I might try some rides and would like to get my hair braided so it doesn’t tangle.”

Looking at him, trying to sniff out a lie, the lady finally turned and called out. “Linda, customer for you.”

Linda turned out to be a pretty, though a bit plump, redhead, who guided him back to a seat, before conspiratorially whispering. “Great excuse.”

“It’s true, my first time here I learned what could happen to my hair if I don’t braid it.”

“I bet. It’s so thick, but I bet it gets tangled something awful. So, are you telling me that you regularly dress like this, not just to fulfill somebody’s fantasy?”

“Well, actually, I got stood up.”

“You? Maybe there’s hope for us normal girls after all.”

“Normal? I bet you’ve never been stood up.”

“Nice of you to say and so very right. Ribbons?”

“Yes please. The most luscious, dark pink you can find. I did not expect to visit and I feel a bit like a crow.”

“Now we can’t have that, can we? Want the matching barrettes? Of course you do.”

Linda’s hands moved with the speed of experience, Sascha enjoying the gentle tugs. Though less convenient, it always felt much nicer to have his hair styled by a person, rather than a machine. Soon, looking in a mirror, he saw how much younger he appeared, before using the mirror to look out of the tent at his followers, barred entry by the judgmental proprietress. Smiling, he gave Linda a large tip, then sailed through the exit on the opposite side of the tent.

Using this exit was the real reason behind getting the braids, providing an opportunity to test if a simple ruse would allow him to slip his trackers. Looking about, he saw none of the four waiting for him, nor any others of their ilk. But he did not take this as proof of escape and skedaddle for home. Caution was still necessary, instead he waited to see how quickly they found him, checking their efficiency and attempting to find additional members of their team. So he walked to a booth selling costume jewelry and began browsing. It proved a short wait before he spotted hunters, this time a men and women paired together, casually strolling along the street towards him.

That impressed Sascha. His separation had only lasted for a short time. Even worse, they did not look desperate, they had known exactly where he to find him, implying someone else watched, someone he had yet to identify. Probably someone not wearing a suit, like the others, thus harder to spot. Nor did it help that he always drew lots of attention, any of the gawkers could be another hunter.

Buying a pair of large, hoop earrings, matching his new hair adornments, he replaced his old pair, dropping them into his bag, along with the discarded hair band. Then he got underway, heading in the opposite direction from which the couple had come, spotting the second pair further along the street, pretending to look at unicorn pictures. Sascha dawdled, stopping often, but buying nothing, before reaching another tent, similar to the first. This time when he exited through the back, now with a pink flower painted on each cheek, a pair of hunters waited, not falling for the same trick. This current crop of hunters seemed more skilled and organized than most who had followed him in the past. Yet he did not panic, instead he tried the two door test once more, this time exiting with ten glistening pink nails, to learn that their short term memory could not be criticized.

Seeing the two share an eye roll as he studied his nails in the sunlight, he felt a moment of kinship with his hunters, wondering if he wallowed a bit too joyfully in the syrup. However, the moment quickly passed, as he reminded himself of their purpose. Besides, time had come to look into escaping from the island, though not all the way home. That, he still needed to plan.

Near the edge of the Faire, he entered a souvenir shop, disguised as a peasant hut. Unlike the prior booths, this store sold the true rip-off items, things branded with the park’s emblem and name. Sascha knew exactly what he wanted, but browsed while waiting to see if anybody would follow him inside. When nobody did, he looked for something to buy which would hide his real purpose in the shop. His face lit up when he spotted the silliest, gossamer, faerie wings, finding a pink pair large enough to fit, he took them to the bored till wench.

As he handed over the wings, Sascha asked, “Is the Swan busy this afternoon?”

Sighing, as if terribly put upon, the wench checked the schedule for the Swan Boat, before stating. “Some seats are available for the 4:00 time slot. You should not have trouble reaching it in time, if you want?”

“Yes, please, can you book me a ticket?”

Worried at how long this was taking, Sascha felt lucky that nobody entered to check things out, though he noticed some impatience on their faces as he returned outside. Hooking the wings over his shoulders and hiding the hooks under the straps of his jumper dress, he checked the time, 3:20. Plenty of time, the park being on one of the smaller islands, for him to reach his destination, even at the dawdling pace he had established. If he timed it right, he could board the Swan, and not leave them time to react.

The Swan, actually a large boat in the shape of a swan, sailed between Princess and Solintarno Islands. Big, slow, and stable, even on windy days, it and similar barges offered many all the exposure to the seas they wished to experience.

With the two couples shadowing him, Sascha drifted towards the harbour, pausing now and then, but never for long. Getting close, he saw one of the Swans (there were four in operation at any time) dock ponderously. Knowing it would be at least ten minutes before the boat would begin moving, he purchased a bag of feed and leaned against the seawall and tried to coax some real swans closer with the contents of the bag. Pleased with his success, he glanced at the orderly line boarding the boat. Still he did not move, not even when it shrunk to only a few passengers. Not until he heard the final boarding call did he move in that direction, drawing a start from the couple nearest him.

Scampering down the gangplank, pulling his ticket from his purse, he arranged an apologetic smile on his face, and, drawing heavily upon the credit afforded pretty girls, said, “Oh I’m so sorry, I was feeding the birds and wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t hold everybody up, did I?”

Annoyance drained from the boat operator’s face, though not from those of most of the irritated passengers. Ignoring them, he waited for the operator’s head-shake before finding a seat across from a little girl, complete with pig-tails, face-paint, and faerie wings. Sharing a grin with her, Sascha said, “I like your wings.”

Flashing a triumphant look at the teenage girl beside her, who showed no affects of Princess Island, the little girl said, “I like yours too!”

Not wishing to start another sibling conflict, Sascha shifted his attention to his pursuers, watching the operator explain that, no, he did not have tickets for sale, that they were available at the kiosks, and that another Swan would be heading out at the bottom of the hour. Feeling the waiting passengers’ growing hostility, the two finally gave up, trotting along the seawall away from the Swan. Not long after, the boat found its way out into open water and the boat’s operator give permission to move about the Swan.

Sascha did not need further permission before hurrying to the toilets below deck. His drink had made its presence felt, but, with women in the chase team, he could not use the park’s public restrooms. He be caught alone too easily, drugged, and coaxed to go along with them.

Relieved, he headed back on deck, moving to the back of the boat to watch for pursuit, something easily achieved at the slow pace the Swan travelled. Few craft were about and none traveled along the same path as the Swan. Yet he did not feel confident about shaking off his pursuers, so as they reached the three quarter point and he spotted a hydro-foil speeding from behind Princess Island, he guessed who were its passengers. He was correct.

Looking skyward, as if beseeching some God for help, Sascha spotted the vid-drone that followed him. Knowing that, after his little maneuver with the Swan, nobody would think he did not know about the hunt, he decided to mug for the vid. Looking directly at it, he smiled, and shrugged his shoulders as if questioning, ‘What’s a girl to do?’

The approach of the hydro-foil did answer one question, how they had found him so quickly after he had first given them slip. With the dark suited foursome, he saw a blonde woman, dressed like a tourist in a sundress. He remembered seeing her about Princess Island, including at the booth where he bought his earrings. However, their appearance did not change his plans. Sascha intended to leave the Swan at Solintarno Island, and while they searched for another dock, he would hurry across to the transit station, and catch the first tram for The Zoo. At that major hub, he would switch to a tram heading for his home. With luck, he could run ahead of them, maintaining his lead the rest of the way.

Ensuring he would be the first off the Swan, he hardly waited for the gangplank to be in place before informing the boat operator he planned to stay and hustling across, making for one of the railcars which cris-crossed the island stopped not too far away. Through less than impeccable manners he reached it before it started moving. Then he could only wait, silently encouraging the car to go faster and to ignore stops.

As it approached the station he heard an announcement for the tram he wanted. Jumping off and breaking into a run, he dodged those climbing the stairs, only to reach the platform in time to see red lights of the tram pulling away. Clenching his fists, he twirled in a circle, bringing it to a stop with a stomp of a high-heeled stamp and a frustrated growl. So close to perfect, he only needed to have arrived seconds earlier and he surely would have escaped. Now he had to wait a full eight minutes, and knowing his day‘s luck, probably longer, before the next tram would arrive. The delay would eat into his lead, maybe causing it to completely disappear. Annoyed, he sat on a bench, from which he could see all entrances and waited.

A few minutes later he spotted a familiar figure descending the stairs he had recently used. It was not who he expected, though, and when the new arrival approached, paying more attention to the console in his hands than where he walked, Sascha coughed to draw his attention.

Startled by the noise, Crissum looked up from Fargonworld, his eyes growing wide as he spotted the new version of Sascha, blurting out. “Sascha? Hey, I thought you were heading home?”

Patting the bench, in invitation, Sascha said, “I was, but decided to go play princess. Speaking of which, where’s your brother and Diggles?”

“Umm...it’s Dooger. I don’t know, they dumped me. By the way, I really want to apologize for them, they’re bozos.”

“Then you should have come with me, like I wanted. You could have been my prince, while I played princess.”

“What? You wanted me to come with you?”

“Of course, why do you think I put on the show?”

“When you were a siren? How did you know I was watching?”

“No, no, on the tram. You know, the brainless twit act. What’s that you’re playing? Eeek, a monster. Kill it, kill it. Ahh, too bad. Is it hard? All that.”

“Well I just thought that...umm...”

“That I was a brainless twit?”

“No, I just assumed you were like that normally. But why?”

“Why what?” Sascha asked.

“Why me?”

“Well, because you’re cute and don’t seem to be a loudmouthed idiot like your brother and his friend. Then when I saw you playing a fighter in Fargonworld, instead of drecking out and playing the magicker, I thought you must be interesting.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the character I played, for the last three months, when playing the game.”

“Then why did you ask what it was?”

Sascha didn’t immediately answer, his attention drawn to the station’s entrance and the two people running down the stairs. Helplessly, he watched his lead evaporate and knew that he needed a new plan.

“Sascha?”

“So, Crissum, are you heading back to Siren’s Cove?”

“Yeah, I was just talking to my dad, he said if I was all alone I should come back.”

“That’s too bad, because I don’t feel like going home and was kinda hoping that you would spend time with me.”

“I would really like to, Sascha, honest. But my dad seemed fairly insistent.”

Once more considering the straddle and tongue down throat method of convincing, Sascha settled on a slightly less devastating attack. He again grabbed the boy’s hand, leaned into him, and wheedled. “Please, Crissum? I really like you and would like to show you around the park. Besides, if you came with me, you wouldn’t be all alone and I know you would have fun, ‘cause I know all the best places. Please, Crissum, can’t you check with your dad and see if you could stay a little longer. Please?”

Shell-shocked by the all-out, pleading assault. Crissum barely regained his wits before he used his console to contact his father. “Hello Dad, it’s me. I was wondering if it would be okay if I stayed longer at the park.

“No, I didn’t find them, but I made a friend who wants to show me around.

“Her name’s Sascha. She works at the casino. We met on the tram earlier and just ran into each other again.

“She was the siren in the tank when we arrived.

“Daaad, how couldn’t you notice?

“She’s also as a waitress, like at the Conquest match, maybe you saw her there?

“Okay I’ll ask. Umm, Sascha, my dad was wondering what colour you were wearing at the Conquest match?”

Fascinated by the one sided conversation, Sascha took a moment before answering. “Purple, I looked after Team Purple.”

“It was purple, Dad.

“Dad! You better hope Mom didn’t hear that.

“Umm, okay, thanks, Dad. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to come home.

“Okay, I’ll be back by ten.

“Yes, I have enough money and I’m sure Sascha knows places to eat.

“Okay, Dad, thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

Sascha asked, “So you can come?”

Seeing Crissum’s nod, Sascha popped to his feet, pulling the youth to his, and said, “Oh goodie, we’re going to have so much fun.”

Chapter 6 - Solintarno Park

Not relinquishing his hand, even with Crissum on his feet, Sascha guided him towards the park entrance, using him as a buffer against the glares of the winded arrivals. Reaching sunlight, Sascha turned his head to look at his companion, spent a moment enjoying being only a little shorter than Crissum, and asked, “So Crissum, anywhere specific you want to visit?”

“I am in your hands, completely.”

“And literally.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Good thing too, I worked hard enough to get you to notice me.”

“I noticed you. In the tank, on the transit platform at Siren’s Cove, and when you boarded the tram I hoped you would sit by me, but was scared you would.”

“Scared, of little me?”

“Big time. I don’t know how to explain it, but before you were almost too perfect. You dressed young, but it seemed like a costume for a role. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“Kinda? But I’m not scaring you now? You seem so much more talkative.”

“Yeah, you’re less scary. With the pigtails and flowers and stuff, you seem more real. I like that. Plus, I‘ve always had a thing for girls with wings.”

“And apparently, those with tail-fins.” Sascha said with a smile.

“I swear, I hardly even noticed the tail-fin.”

This made Sascha laugh. Not the fake laugh expected whenever Prince Fallan had made a joke and which he still used, whenever on someone’s arm. Instead, he laughed for real, always finding that naughty humour tickled his funny bone. He wished he could have Crissum all to himself tonight, just for fun, without the nuisance of hunters. But that wasn’t to be, so he decided to make the best of it. Gaining a semblance of control, he asked, “Want to try some rides?”

“Sure.”

“Scary ones?”

After a quick pause, Crissum said, “Of course.”

“Great, let’s head for the Thrasher, it’s the perfect place to start.”

The choice took the pause into account and his own preference, the Thrasher, despite its name, ranked a step below scary. But the best thing about it were the seats, which wrapped you tight, either as an individual or as a couple, something Crissum liked as much as he, as hugged together they whipped about at high speeds. They enjoyed it enough that they rode it twice more. From there, they moved to the Plinkole, the Zip-Tight, and finally a roller-coaster, the Whirlygig, all with the same seats as the Thrasher. Soon they acted no different than any of the young couples waiting in line, the boy standing behind the girl, with her wrapped in his arms, keeping her warm, wink wink, nudge nudge.

Though none of the other couples, outside of a few with bodyguards, were trailed by five adults, four in suits and one, probably in need of a warming hug, wearing a sundress. Yet she, like her companions, was a professional. None left their post, though they did slump on benches, relieving sore legs and feet. Through all the rides, they waited, and pretended not to watch.

Their plight drew no sympathy from Sascha. Every time one sat, he convinced Crissum to move on, making them rise and follow him to another ride, where he would sit, cuddling with Crissum.

Finished with the Whirlygig, the two were once more on the move. Crissum having let Sascha know about his state of starvation, the pigtailed one headed for his favourite diner. During this walk, Sascha spotted a new form of menace, the approach of Tithen and Dooger. Worried about their affect on his new friend, Sascha decided to sink his hooks deeper into the youth. He asked, “Crissum, would you do something for me?”

“Hmm...what’s that Sascha?”

“See that bench? Could you sit for a moment?”

Looking curiously towards the bench, Crissum shrugged and walked towards it, Sascha ducking out from under his arm, causing him to protest. Ignoring this, Sascha pointed at the bench. Following directions, the youth sat and looked questioningly at his pretty companion, who moved forward to kneel astride his lap and plant a kiss on his lips. A kiss quickly accepted and returned, with more expertise than Sascha would have expected. Coming up for air, Sascha murmured, “I’ve wanted to do that ever since I saw you on the tram.”

“Fortune Sascha, why didn’t you?”

“Something this good needs to be timed perfectly.”

“Well, well, well. It looks like Crissie found his little friend again.”

Looking past Sascha’s shoulder, a thrilled Crissum said, “Oh, hey, Tith and Doogs. Yeah, Sascha and I ran into each other again, we’ve been hanging out and having fun.”

“We saw.”

“Ehh? Oh yeah. How about yourselves? Having fun?”

“Bleh, this place is boring. We’ve been looking for you, so we can head back to the casino.”

Sascha sensed the lie, knowing Tithen just wanted to ruin his little brother’s fun. Happily, Crissum also recognized this and said, “You guys go one without me, I’m going to stay here with Sascha.”

“Cris, Dad said we were supposed to stick together. He’ll be mad if we leave without you.”

“Don’t worry, Tith, I talked to Dad, he said I can stay until ten.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he told me to have fun.” Smiling, he offered Sascha a quick peck on the lips, before saying. “Lucky me.”

Unsure of how to answer this, but recognizing the difficulty of combating the distraction in his brother’s lap, Tithen said, “Come on, Doogs, let’s leave Crissie with his little friend.”

Watching the two walk away, Sascha offered a another kiss as reward. Crissum accepted it as his due and said, “The perfect timing?”

“Well, I didn’t want to lose you to the bozos again.”

“Fortune, was I that dumb?”

“Yes, Crissum, you were that dumb. But forget that, I really need to stand. I should have looked for a softer bench, this one is killing my knees.”

“Wait, Sascha.”

“What?”

“Well it’s just, well...geeze.”

“No need to explain, it’s not like I’m wearing armoured panties.”

“Oh Fortune, this is so embarrassing. I’m really sorry, Sascha.”

“Why? It wasn’t you who straddled my lap like some common tart.”

“You’re not a tart. What are we going to do?”

“Well it’s not going to go away if I stay here, is it?”

Barely holding back a groan, Crissum said, “Not a chance.”

“And I can’t kneel here longer or I won’t be able to get up. I know, I’ll stand in front of you, and you sit until it goes away.”

Doing just that, the waiting began until Crissum finally said, “Sascha, quit staring. It’s never going to stop if you keep watching.”

“Ooops, sorry about that, Big Boy.”

“Sascha!”

Turning away, ignoring both the youth and his grumpy looking hunters, he said, “You’re too much fun, Crissum.”

With this new arrangement, they soon reached the diner, each vanishing into a different, cubicle sized restroom. In no hurry, locked in the room by himself, Sascha took his time, checking his appearance and considering possible escape plans. No solution appearing, he joined Crissum, sliding into the booth beside him. “What you getting, Crissum?”

“I don’t know. How about you?”

“A shake and some chips.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, but you should get Platter B. Everybody says its the best.”

Recommendation accepted, they placed their orders. While waiting Crissum said, “Sascha, don’t turn around, but look into that mirror. Do you see the couple, in the booth by the door? I think they and two others are following us.”

Not surprised by Crissum’s discovery, his followers having grown sloppy, he wondered how he to answer. Settling on a modified version of the truth, Sascha said, “Actually there’s five of them, but the blond lady in the sundress blends in better than the goons and goonettes in suits.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they’ve been following me around since Princess Island.”

“They have? Why?”

“Likely because their boss wants them to snatch me for some reason. That happens on Pyrite sometimes.”

“That outrageous. Sascha why haven’t you told security?”

“Tell them what, Crissum? They haven’t done anything and likely whoever they work for is rich enough to turn any accusation back on me. The best thing is to not get caught.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m not sure, I’m still trying to formulate a plan.”

This revelation caused a quiet meal, both spending their time in gloomy thought. Finally Sascha said, “Let’s just forget it and have fun. Besides, following us around is wearing them out.”

Crissum accepted the offer with wan smile, but that was good enough for Sascha. Noticing that the other table had ordered food, he nudged his seatmate to hurry and finish. The timing, though not perfect, left the hunters time for only a few bites before Crissum finished, so the two on their way before their followers gained much sustenance, causing Crissum to smile nastily.

Deciding to let their meals settle before returning to the rides, Sascha steered them to the games area, where they cheered each other to loss after loss, lack of skill being no match for the rigged nature of most of the games. Finally Crissum said, “Fortune, I don’t think I am going to win anything. If I want to get you something, I should just buy it.”

“We’re having fun, what more would I want. But yeah, these are rip-offs. Ready for more rides?”

“Scrunched in tight with you? Yeah, I think I could handle it.”

“Is that so? Then it’s time for the Mega-Wheel!”

Hard to miss, the Mega-Wheel towered into the sky, serving as Solintarno Park’s signature ride. Though most of its fame was due to its unofficial name, Make-out-Wheel. Based on how fast Crissum agreed, Sascha guessed his companion knew about the ride. Planning to play their part in keeping the wheel’s reputation alive, they eagerly waited in line, Sascha wrapped in the accustomed hug.

Once on the ride, they conducted experiments. They determined how much space they really needed in the cage, and how long each could hold his breath. It was a sort of experimental biology where they made discoveries, some together, like their shared preference for Crissum’s tongue in Sascha’s mouth, but others as individuals, such as Crissum learning how nicely Sascha’s breasts filled his hands and Sascha realizing the bib of his dress provided an annoying impediment to roaming hands. Fortunately Crissum curiosity led him to discover how much less protection the skirt of Sascha’s dress provided his thighs. And, like the best scientists, they repeated their experiments, returning three, then four times to the Mega-Wheel’s cages, verifying prior findings. Sascha found himself wishing the wheel would get stuck, with them on top, so he could take their experiments to the next level.

While thinking this, a plan popped into Sascha’s mind. So, when once more on ground, he said, “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Come on, Sascha, let’s do the wheel again.”

“Please, Crissum. It’s my favourite place in the park and I really want to show it to you.”

“Okay, I guess. Where we going?”

“Pidwad’s Holoporium.”

“Pidwad’s?”

“Yeah, it’s the owners name. He’s kinda, I don’t know, unique?”

A genius who had never grown up was a better description. Pidwad, an insulting nickname of his childhood that he adopted with glee, had arrived on Pyrite soon after reaching adulthood and made a fortune before the casinos realized how often he won. When they did, he found himself approached by three large men informing him that he was banned from gambling on the planet; however, the good-natured manner in which he accepted the ultimatum charmed them and soon he found himself co-opted into the electronics division of the corporation owning Siren’s Cove, among other interests. When he left their employ, he opened the Holoporium, which consisted of theatres (large and small) for transporting people to other times and places.

Sascha had discovered the place by accident, wandering past one day and spotting a sign advertising combat simulators. His interest tweaked, he found going inside. Instead of the Havoc Simulators of his past, these simulators were based upon holographs. Sascha tried it out and found that all the moves came back, the comfort of having pistols in his hands returned, and he felt the rush of exciting energy. Sascha was instantly hooked, not just on the simulators, but on Pidwad’s in general, becoming one of those who lurked around the main counter. It provided Sascha a masculine offset to the feminine world in which he usually lived.

Admittedly not the most testosterone laden place, Pidwad attracted those who, like himself, were smarter than they were physical, but that suited Sascha. And the oddball group accepted him, first in awe at his appearance and his abilities in the simulator, then because they liked Sassy, their half tomboy, half girly-girl, champion of the simulators.

Thus he accepted the good natured ribbing about his appearance when he arrived at the Holoporium. Forced to introduce his date, he tried to ignore Pidwad’s scowl. It was not jealously, Pidwad had a gorgeous wife and knew Sascha saw none of the Holoporium denizens with the same eyes he saw Crissum. The look resulted from spotting the vid-drone, something he had done the one other time Sascha came in, to use a restroom, during an earlier hunt involving female pursuers. A few days later Sascha learned that working as a vid-drone operator had soured Pidwad’s view of his employers. He thought it pushed exploitation, so prevalent on Pyrite, too far, and worked hard to convince Sascha not to renew that clause of his contract.

Ignoring the scowl, Sascha pulled Crissum into the main hall of the building, a place crowded by the non-oddball customers, whose purchases funded the establishment. Letting his companion gawk for a moment, at the people and the doors leading to holographic simulations (only a few combat oriented), Sascha looked for a seat. Ignoring tables, he found them a semi-private booth. Keying in a drink order, he barely waited for those drinks to pop through the table before mimicking his peers and climbed onto Crissum’s lap to resume their pursuits from the Mega-Wheel.

The position also allowed him to sneak peaks out into the common area. It took some time, but finally Sundress and Shoulders appeared, awkwardly pretending to be a couple, and took one of the open tables. This served as Sascha’s next cue.

Wiggling from Crissum’s grasp, he stood outside the booth, and said, “Let’s visit one of the holograph rooms.”

Crissum did not argue this time, just glanced meaningfully downwards, causing Sascha to snicker and ask, “Ooops, did I do that? Okay, you wait for things to calm down, while I go pick a room for us.”

A few minutes later Crissum found Sascha at the menu console. “What did you find, Sassy?”

“Sassy plays shooting games with boys, Sascha plays completely different games with boys. Which do you prefer?”

“What did you find, Sascha?”
”¨
“I thought so. Do you have a preference between taking a tour of the Texlaxian Imperial Palace or a flight through the Sinlassialle Nebula?”

“Umm...”

“The palace takes twenty-one minutes, while the nebula is only twelve minutes.”

“Let’s do the nebula.”

“Why, Crissum, it’s almost like you’re in a rush to get back to the booth.”

“No, no, I really want to see the nebula.”

Smiling at the protested innocence, Sascha led Crissum to the room set up for the Sinlassialle Nebula show. Like most rooms, at the Holoporium, it only measured 4 metres wide by 6 metres long, and contained two soft, arm chairs. Each taking a seat, Sascha’s hand paused over the controls in the shared armrest. “Umm, Crissum, I lied, I’ve seen both the shows before.”

“You have? Wait, is there a way out? Is this how you’re going to escape from the goons following you?”

Pidwad having told him that his holorooms provided too much interference for vid-drones to record anything, Sascha felt free to explain and more. “Kinda. These rooms have another exit, I plan to escape using one of them.”

Crissum deflated for a moment, before putting on a brave face, and saying, “It’s been really fun tonight, Sascha...”

“Wait, wait, Crissum. I’m not going to run yet, I’m trying to lull them into complacency first. Can you help me do that, please?”

“Ahh, sure. I’d be glad to help.”

“Oh, oh, thank you. You’re so nice to me.” With these words, Sascha stabbed the start button with a pink tipped finger, before sliding out of his chair and onto his knees before the youth.

Watching the black haired beauty, Crissum’s eyes grew wide as hands took hold of both of his knees and pulled them apart. “Umm...Sascha...umm...you really don’t need to do this.”

“I know, but I was naughty, it’s not nice to tease and do nothing about it. Besides, I want too. Don’t you want me too?”

“Umm...yeah definitely, but here?”

“Silly, you don’t really think all these couples come here for holos, do you?”

“Huh?”

“Just sit back and enjoy the light show.”

As if Sascha had planned it, he had, the room suddenly became pitch black, a narrator’s voice saying, “The Sinlassialle Nebula. A natural wonder like none other, is a glorious light show almost beyond the imagination of man.”

With this brief introduction, a blast of light appeared, surrounding the two in the nebula. Though, it only partially caused Crissum’s gasp of surprise.

Twelve minutes later, Crissum slowly returned from his out-of-the-world experience. Looking down, he spotted a smiling Sascha digging in his purse, finding a wipe, and handing it to him. Taking the throwaway, he said, “Umm...on your left cheek.”

“Oops, that would have been embarrassing.” Sascha said with a giggle, before reaching to swipe at the spot with a finger. “Did I get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodie. And yummy.”

“Fortune, Sascha.”

“What? Oh never mind, we better hurry up, people will wonder what’s taking so long. Well, not really, they’ll know, but we should make room for anybody else interested in the Sinlassialle Nebula. It’s fascinating.”

Trying to ignore the smirking Sascha, Crissum did just that. After which the two exited, quickly finding empty restrooms to do a better job freshening up. Crissum, finished first, returned to their booth somewhat stunned, hardly believing how great the trip to the park, with his idiotic brother, had turned out. Nobody would ever believe him. Ordering new drinks, he watched Sascha approach, hardly believing he was here with someone as hot as her.

Reaching the table and seeing the fresh drink, Sascha could not stop himself from grinning impishly, taking a sip, and saying, “Yummy!”

“Sascha!”

“Oops, sorry, Crissum. I’ll be good, honest. Hey I know, they have a full-sized Fargonworld unit, how about we go try that for awhile?”

“Good idea. We need a distraction.”

It worked, both were good players, allowing them to monopolize the machine for the better part of forty-five minutes. During which, the other three hunters, in a fit of frustrated unprofessionalism, joined their colleagues at the table in the hall. Noticing this, and deciding he soon needed to vanish, Sascha asked, “So, Crissum, how much longer are you going to be on Pyrite?”

“We’re headed home tomorrow.”

Sascha did not get to express his disappointment, for at that moment Pidwad’s voice came over the speakers. “Miss Sascha. Miss Sascha Shronsdottor, time for you to release your boyfriend and come defend our honour?”

“Crap.”

“Huh?”

“Likely one of the doofii mouthed off, telling somebody that I am the Holoporium’s combat simulator champion, so someone now wants to take me on.”

“Coocool. I want to see that.”

“What, you do?”

“Yeah, maybe if we’re lucky it will be Tithen and you can humiliate him again.”

“Well okay, though it’s probably not him, likely some other bozo. Shall we see who it is?”

“Sure, but one question first. Like Captain Keleesa Shronsdottor?”

“Exactly! You should see, I have a uniform like hers, I even turn my hair blue. You wouldn’t believe how much I can look like her.”

“Oh Fortune, Sascha.” Crissum almost moaned. “Why couldn’t we stay another night?”

“I know. We could have lots more fun if we had an entire day together.”

The smirking teenaged challenger, performing for a group of lapdogs, was a wannabe Tithen. Disliking him on sight, Sascha agreed to the duel, opened the case containing his pistols, which were modified for use in the holo-simulators, and strapped them around his waist. Then he slapped Tweaker’s (another of Pidwad’s disciples) hand away, which was holding the sensor harness, evidently looking to cop a feel whilst ‘helping,’ and said, “Hands off, perv. I can do it myself.”

Unabashed, Tweaker said, “Just helping gird our faerie knight for battle.”

“Funny, hand it over.”

“Sure thing, Sassy.”

“So what’s the run?” Sascha asked, putting on the last of his gear and seeing the kid fully equipped.

“Agnar’s Maze.”

The maze was a starter run Pidwad distributed it to other holoporiums. Sascha had run it once, before realizing he could learn nothing new in it. So he asked, “Really? Don’t you want to do something good, maybe Friklen’s Tomb?”

Frowning at the dismissal of his idea, yet not wise enough to back down when over his head, the kid said, “No, I want to do Agnar’s Maze, it’s my right as the challenger to choose.”

“Well, whatever you want. Let’s go.”

Watching the kid stomp his way towards one of the simulators, Sascha turned to glare at Pidwad for wasting his time. Appearing as unrepentant as Tweaker, the man mouthed, ‘You’ll see.’

Trying to interpret the mystery behind Pidwad’s thoughts, he entered the second simulator. Inside, he performed the stretches he had learned when first introduced to simulated combat, while still Prince Fallan’s sylph. Feeling his body loosen up, Sascha suddenly understood Pidwad intent, he was preparing his champion to run. The scenario would be perfect for that, warming him up, but not tiring him out. Looking around the room, much larger than the one where Crissum had experienced his light show, Sascha took a deep breath and nodded his readiness.

Immediately the room disappeared, in its place he saw a greyish structure, an open door beckoning him onward. As always, he spent a moment amazed by the realism, knowing he would walk through seemingly endless tunnels, twisting and turning, never leaving this single room. Along the path would be defenders, randomly placed, waiting to fire imaginary laser beams at him, calculations and his sensors determining if he was hit. In turn he would take them out with his own pistols, shooting his own beams of light, to be caught by thousands of tiny mirrors, embedded in the wall, used to calculate what he hit. Finally he would encounter the scenario boss, in the case of a duel, his opponent, at least if both of them made it past the defenders.

What made this scenario easy was the quality of those defenders, poor shots and noisy, allowing you to figure out where they were. For instance, as he moved to the door, he heard breathing from the right side. Without even thinking, his left arm reached around the door frame, firing off a burst, drawing forth a shriek of pain. More interestingly, he heard a surprised shout from the left, which brought a repeat from Sascha’s right arm. Waiting a few more moments, he burst into the room, in a crouch, finding he did not need to worry about the first two guards.

The first encounter set the pace for the run. Slowly, steadily, he progressed, dealing with all threats in his way. Reaching and taking out the central control room, he slowed even more, not because of the imaginary defenders, who were now all facing away from him, but preparing for his competitor, who should be around any corner. Yet he did not see him. Then, almost having reached the opposite end of the run, he came upon the first defender he had not killed. Guessing the kid had met a quick end, Sascha still remained cautious, prepared in case of a clever trap, though he doubted his opponent had the patience to wait all this time. Yet you never took chance in a simulator and Sascha did not let down his guard, until he reached empty space, similar to where he started, the simulations end.

The congratulatory hug from Crissum felt nice, but he focussed on the laughing Tweaker. “Okay, what’s so funny.”

“It was pathetic, the kid just ran in firing his pistols on full auto. It’s shocking he made it as far as he did. He hightailed it out of here in embarrassment.”

“Yeah.” Crissum agreed.

Noticing that the conversation had drawn the tired attention of his hunters, Sascha decided the time come to escape. “Very funny guys. Thanks for wasting my time.”

Tweaker and Pidwad just continued to laugh, only Crissum, who had nothing to do with it, looked embarrassed. That embarrassment disappeared when Sascha asked, “Wanna to check out the nebula again?”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Ignoring his friends, pretending to be mad at them, Sascha allowed himself to be led to the room, where he found himself spared an unpleasant task. Crissum said, “Now’s your time to escape, Sascha. As much as I would like to see the light show again.”

“I’m so sorry, Crissum.”

“This has still been the best day of my life.”

“Yeah, I’ve really enjoyed it too. Thank you so much for understanding. Here, can you take my wings, I think I’m done with them, the bows and earrings too. Time to blend into the darkness, if I can.”

“Trophies.”

“Want my panties, too?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Perv, I think not.”

Handing the wings to Crissum, he placed the bows and earrings in his purse, then threw his arms around the startled youth. Kissing him one more time, Sascha said, “Thanks, Crissum.”

“Good luck, Sascha.”

With this, Sascha moved to the back door, blew Crissum a kiss, and slipped into a service corridor. Play time was over.

Chapter 7 - Flight

Sascha’s first task required him to exit Pidwad’s unseen, fortunately, having tagged along multiple times during holo-servicing and resupply, he knew the way to the loading dock in the basement. Finding the door unlocked proved that Pidwad had expected him to take this opportunity. Door opened, he waited, listened, just as in a simulator, before feeling comfortable enough to slip outside onto the dock below the seawall. In the dark, he doubted anyone could see him from above, but that darkness, along with the time seen above the counter after exiting the simulator, reminded him how little time was left, maybe forty minutes, before the eight minute gaps between trams became thirty minute gaps. He needed to move.

Yet this time he went not towards the transit station, where he had found Crissum, but towards a closer destination, the water taxis. Again he planned to leave the island by water. Sticking to the path, he passed four sets of stairs before climbing to the seawall, just before the water taxi docks.

There he experienced a moment of surprise, spotting the hydro-foil his pursuers had used to follow him from Princess Island. Dodging behind a pillar, he studied the boat, looking for the pilot, finally finding him slumped in the captain’s chair. Hoping that slump meant the man slept, he determining to chance it, though he walked as far past the boat as possible, before approaching another.

Ending his conversation with another taxi-pilot, a man approached, asking, “Looking for a ride, Little Lady?”

Glancing toward the unmoving form on the bigger boat, Sascha quietly responded, “Yes please, can you take me to the Zoo’s transit platform. I’m kinda in a hurry, if that’s okay?”

“Can do. Come aboard.”

Following directions, Sascha found himself in one of the boat’s seats, hoping to escape unnoticed. But when the boats engines roared to life, the pilot of the hydro-foil jerked awake. In curiosity he stood to look around, before noticing Sascha’s taxi pull away from the docks. As they coasted away from the dock, but still lit up by their lights, provided time for the watching Sascha to see the man’s eyes widen in recognition. Yet there was no time to see how he reacted before the taxi-pilot pulled back the throttle, bringing the nose of the boat out of the water and slamming Sascha back into his seat.

Taking Sascha at his words, the pilot made the taxi travel at speeds the Swan could only dream about. It made him truly feel like he fled. He could not help offering an answering grin when the pilot turned with his own smiling question. Taking that as approval, he coaxed more speed from his boat. Sascha did not care how his pigtails streamed behind or how the cold wind tugged at his barely held down skirt and goose pimpled his bare thighs. He felt fully alive.

He was a little disappointed when the ride come to an end, yet he was completely prepared as they pulled into the dock, quickly paid, adding a good tip, and began climbing the stairs towards the station, glancing backward to look for the hydro-foil and upwards in case the tram passed overhead in its tube. The first he spotted, though still well out to sea, but the second he did not, and that filled him with hope. With a burst of speed, he clattered up the rest of the stairs onto an empty platform. He waited, head on a swivel, looking from the approaching boat towards the empty tube in which the tram would arrive. Then, as the hydro-foil slowed, drifting towards the docks, the light, signally the tram’s arrival, lit up. Checking once more, he saw one of the men, it looked like Hooknose, leap towards the dock from the boat. One foot hit plasticrete, pushing the floating dock downwards, the second foot scrambling for purchase, while the first wobbling on its own. No gymnast, he could not maintain his balance, splashing into the water, causing the boat to reverse away so it did not run into him. Choking back amazed laughter, Sascha, turned and trotted towards the approaching lights and boarded as soon as the tram stopped.

Dangerously empty, except for him, it seemed satisfied to sit there, unmoving. Worriedly he watched the stairwell, not even noticing when the tram finally moved. Only when he turned his head to maintain watch did he realize the tram was underway. His focus continued to seek for his pursuers, spotting two of them suddenly stop running up the stairs, looking overhead at the passing tram, while the others helped their drenched companion back into the boat.

The two quickly weighed their options, before turning to bound down back to boat, thinking to follow in the hydro-foil. That did not worry Sascha, since even at the speeds it travelled, it had no chance of keeping pace with the tram. He felt as if he were almost home free.

Now his lone worry was that someone, an unknown, might be waiting at one of the three stops he still needed to pass before reaching his home island. With no control over that possibility, the worry ate at Sascha, causing him to restlessly prowl up and down the aisle, preparing to run for real if new thugs appeared.

The first station was empty, the wait stretching out unbearably long.

The second station was also empty, the wait seeming even worse.

Approaching the third and final stop, he fought against creeping hope, for as the tram flashed into the station, slowing to a stop, he caught a glimpse of a doorway opening, followed by the sound of men running and shouting for the automated tram to wait. Willing the tram to move, he froze, unsure what to do, but knowing he was caught. Hearing the door at the back of the tram slide open, he twisted in that direction, and slumped into a seat.

Hearing approaching feet, he looked up, past security uniforms and into the faces of two officers who kept tourists away from the island on which he lived. One of them smiled and said, “Sorry about the fright, Miss.”

“That’s okay, I’m really happy to see you two.”

“Was somebody bothering you, Miss?”

“No, nobody was bothering me.”

“Good to hear. Umm...I need to check your ID.”

“Sure thing. Let me find it. Here you go.”

“Sascha Shronsdottor? Employee of Siren’s Cove?”

“Yes.”

“That’s my favourite casino, Miss.”

“Yeah, I like working there.”

“Well, sorry to bother you. Have a nice night.”

“Thank you, officer, you too.”

Sascha took a moment to realize he was safe, before reaching into his purse for his vibrating console. Expecting it to hunt control telling him the hunt was over, he answered it. “Hello?”

“Bravo, Lovely Sascha , you were magnificent.”

“Vel Verissa?”

“Aye, I wanted to apologize before my earlier rudeness. I tried to do so earlier, but it was too late. Dailmbruk had already reserved you for your chase, all Ventar and I could do was watch and hope, after all, you are much too precious for him.”

“You saw.”

“Everything except while you were in the holorooms, though I know McIddon was happy that the vid blacked out during that period, after seeing the dazed look on his son’s face when the two of you exited.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Your Crissum is McIddon’s son.”

“Oh no, the Ambassador must be outraged.”

“Not at all, Lovely Girl. Though he did call his son an idiot when he spurned your earlier flirtations, but the Ambassador tricked his son into finding you once more.”

“What?”

“The order to come back to the casino was actually a way of manipulating your meeting, but then you handled things from there. McIddon is a proud father tonight.”

“Fortune.” Sascha exclaimed weakly.

“But enough about them, I really must know. Will you forgive me, Sweets?”

“Of course.”

“Now, Sascha Love, don’t sell yourself so cheaply. At a minimum you should demand that Ventar and I take you out to celebrate your victory.”

Verissa’s gentle tease cast a net over Sascha, in a way Dailmbruk’s thugs would never duplicate. Some dangers he could not deny himself, the golden couple being at the top of that list. Automatically Sascha slid into the role expected of him, petulantly saying, “I don’t know, you were really mean to me. Maybe if you took me someplace nice I would forgive you, but that won’t work ‘cause I have nothing pretty to wear.”

Epilogue

The Onindon High Command was engaged in their daily status meeting, discussing preparations for their invasion of Trelifur. As was often the case, these days, Quartermaster-General Udirl held the floor, updating everyone with the status of provisions, fuel, and transportation, for the three army groups poised at the border.

“Gentlemen, as our charts show, supplies and transport for Army Groups A and C, under Generals Oshta and Umurk, have doubled over the initial invasion plans. Army Group B, will take another three days to reach that point.”

“Yes, at the expense of the home guard.” A disgruntled voice complained.

“Now General Irlin, you are as aware as anybody that we need enough fuel to keep our vehicles moving apace through the deadlands, at least until we get to their refineries.”

“I still don’t like it, General Udirl, but I understand.”

“Very well then, as I was saying. It will take three more days before we can fully supply Army Group B, at which point we can...what the blazes is that noise.”

General Irlin did not need to be told, yet he moved to the window to check anyways. His fears confirmed, he turned to the rest of the High Command, and said, “Drop shuttles. Lots and lots of drop shuttles.”

“What?” Blurted Quartermaster-General Udirl. “But we don’t have drop shuttles?”

General Irlin could only sigh as he agreed, “No, no we don’t.”

The End

Adventures of a Merchant -1- A Start

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

So Grandma was wrong about all Sorcerer's being evil wizards. That doesn't mean that they aren't dangerous people to be around. Imps and demons, pirates and bandits, you just never know what you are going to run into as an apprentice of a merchant slash Sorcerer. Nor the impact it will have on your life.

Adventures of a Merchant: A Start
by Arcie Emm

Fair warning to you right from the start, I am no heroic figure like Igor the Wise or SanjI the Nose or even Alase the Sunderer. On the bright side, I am also not a black-hearted villain like Esther of Neruman or Darrel the Roamer. As a result, you may ask why you should read the saga of my life?

My answer, although I am not those figures, my path caused me to march in sync with their and other adventurer's paths. So while I caused little of the great history from our time, I did observe a fair share of it. So whether you asked the question or not, you could read this story to learn more about what you know. Or if you hope for some entertainment while visiting the little house out back, well I intend to provide that as well. However, even though it is about me, it’s a small story you should read only when you are without more pressing matters.

After all, that is the state in which I find myself while writing it.

That and because everyone says it would be cathartic to write of my life, which may make more sense if I felt the need to participate in such a cathartic exercise. Well, let us ignore that possibility for now, it requires deep thought, and I always struggle with deep questions. Instead we will deal with another less deep, but infinitely more important question for a writer. Where to start my story?

Many will think the answer is obvious, start at the beginning. However, some of you, specifically those who subscribe to the Asthelhorne Monthly Biography Journal will know the current approach is to define the end and walk back through time. A strategy that works well for someone near their end, but I personally hope for many more good years that will lead to additional chapters of my life, even if not my story.

With the end out of the way, we are back to the start. The problem, my start is too damned boring for the beginning of a saga, even about me. Do you really want to read about how the seven year old me stole apples from Nan Fickles’ orchard? Not bloody likely. Therefore, my editors and I decided to start with the beginning of the middle.

Don't worry, you will not miss much and my writings may wander further into the start at different points of my rambling. After all, the straight path rarely led me where I needed to go, which sometimes turned out back at a beginning. So why tell my story differently? And if this does not work, maybe my editors at the Greater Asthelhorne House of Publishing can survey a proper road for my story.

So on with the start of the middle, actually early-early-middle for those who value the precise.

--SEPARATOR--

"You’re what?" My shouted question to the Master rang louder than respectful, but he seemed not to notice as he calmly answered.

"I am a sorcerer. And you will learn this art as well, while apprenticed to me."

"Umm...I thought you were a merchant? For the last three months you’ve been teaching me how to be a merchant. And...and do my parents know you’re an evil wizard? They never would have apprenticed me to an evil wizard!"

"I'm not an evil wizard, Drake. I'm a sorcerer, and it’s my sorcery that is one of the secrets to my success as a merchant." Master Elladoo answered, rather primly for someone who just defined himself as a sorcerer or evil wizard or whatever.

"You are too. If you're a sorcerer, you’re an evil wizard. My Grandma told us stories about sorcerers and how they summon demons and imps and all sorts of nastiness to bring plague and plight and badness to all of us innocent types. I thought you were nice, but now you're not. You're an evil man!!"

By now my voice reached a level that could only be described as shrieking. Most parents would recognize this sound, but poor Master Elladoo and his wife never had the fortune of children, which caused his eyes to bug out in panic while trying to control a twelve year old going berserk. That response, in itself, should prove his unlikely candidacy for evil sorcery, as anyone with those abilities would smack me down without a second thought. But he just stood, completely flabbergasted, watching me rant incoherently. This continued for a short time until I felt a cuff to the back of my head, a cuff I recognized and one shut me up immediately.

"Hoy, what's all this bloomin' racket?" Turning to the grizzled and disgusted face of Sergeant-of-the-Guard Torin Hussel, a man scarier to me than any evil wizard, froze my vocal cords. "I asked you what your blasted caterwauling was about? Tell me!"

"Mas-master Elladoo said he is...he is a evil wizard." I said, stuttering and wilting under his glare.

"He's not an evil wizard you little twit. He's a sorcerer. Even more so he is a very good merchant. And you should thank your lucky stars he decided to offer your father an apprenticeship for you. After all, you either joined Master Elladoo or ended up with the life of a pig-herder."

Well that left me taken aback, both by the spittle flying out of the Sergeant's mouth and the concept of being a pig-herder. After all, if not for my apprenticeship, I would follow in my father's footsteps to become a baker. But my mother did not raise me dumb enough to say that to the raving lunatic berating me, just dumb enough to challenge a non-lunatic sorcerer. No, instinct kept me standing there with head bowed as he continued his rant. "Betcha your Granny told you that all sorcerers are evil wizards, crazy old bat! And don't give me that look Mr. Whiney pig-herder, I may not know your Granny, but every single one I’ve met is crazier than an outhouse dog after being locked in a closet full of bumble-bees for a fortnight with a some bitch in heat outside howling her desire the entire time. You shouldn't listen to no old wive's tales, boy. If you do your head will end up full of rotten crap, not just the regular manure that resides between your ears currently. Do you understand me?"

"Umm..."

"And another thing ya little tear-splattering turnip, this is the chance of a lifetime for you. Master Elladoo is a wise man who has offered you something amazing. Why if I had such an opportunity when I was a lad I would have dived in head first like a holy hermit coming into town after spending 30 years in the desert when he finds the local whore house. So I think you should take some time to consider your future and decide if you are going to stay as Master Elladoo's apprentice or leave and become your town's snot-pickin', village idiot!"

"Yes, sir."

"And boy, apologize to Master Elladoo."

More stunned than chastened, I nonetheless apologized, "Sorry Master Elladoo!"

"Apology accepted Drake. I am sure you felt quite a shock, I remember feeling so when my Master first informed me his sorcerous abilities. I am not sure I handled it much better than you. So run along and give some thought as to whether you want to stay as my apprentice. If not I will see that you get home to Corels safely. Give me your decision at supper."

With a quick, "Ok sir." I escaped as quickly as possible from the Sergeant's glare and headed to my favourite spot at the post, the docks. There, all alone, anyone could do some thinking about their life. Looking back, it is easy to come up with counter arguments for every thought that made me stay, but I am older now. And with age comes not necessarily wisdom, but an experienced eye. Now I would not be drawn in by Master Elladoo's niceness, after all evil often hides its true face from the innocent. Also, Elladoo Post did not provide a welcome rustic relief from fishy, dirty Corels, instead it served as a beacon for bandits and raiders and thieves. Furthermore, continuing my apprenticeship did not offer a great opportunity to learn reading, writing, trading, weapon skills, geography or even mystical arts, it actually offered an opportunity for an evil wizard to bend me to his will. And it wasn't an opportunity to travel and...well you get the picture.

The long and the short of it, Elladoo Post remained my home. And though my experienced self likely would not make the same decision, I would not be myself with a different choice.

--SEPARATOR--

And so my apprenticeship began anew, but actually very little changed. My days were spent brushing up on reading and math with Mistress Elladoo, the Master's pretty and pleasant wife upon whom I developed a major crush. Practice with a crossbow, sword, shield and spear under the insane eye of Sergeant-of-the-Guard Hussel and his corporals with the post's guard. Lessons in horseback riding and animal husbandry, for the oxen and mules we used to haul our wagons, fell to Gergen Bleke. And most importantly, the time spent reviewing the Annals of the Glanlies Trading Commission with Master Elladoo and his journeymen assistants, Clara Holnd and Durk Norset. The Annals, an ever growing set of books that encompassed topics such as geography, history, laws, tax and tariff information, supply and demand concepts, trading hints and lists of products, buyers and sellers. They proved fascinating and gave me a feeling of pride to realize that we on the Glanlies Peninsula forsook rule by nobility, instead we elected Commissioners to sit upon the Glanlies Trading Commission and run the affairs of the peninsula.

Outside of the training, I received multiple opportunities to take part in trade missions around the local area. Our outpost usually dealt in the purchase of commodities we transported to the one of the cities for use by tradesmen. In turn they produced goods from those commodities which we sold back to those who farmed/mined/hunted what we bought. Over the next year I went West across the Rillian to buy wool and grain. Went North East of the post to meet with some of the Northern Plains tribes to obtain skins and furs. Even a trip on river craft to the North to collect iron, silver and gold bars along with some gems from the Hanglish Mines. The people varied, but each daily proved their hardiness, able to take care of themselves, though always happy to see someone from outside their community. A great adventure for a young boy just into his teens.

But one thing remained on the back burner, Master Elladoo's aspect as a sorcerer. Likely a result of my initial reaction, combined with the numerous other tasks and lessons that deluged an apprentice, but for a year and a half nobody mentioned it. Then one night, when the moon turned full, well actually one sunny afternoon, Master Elladoo approached and asked, "So Drake, are you ready to begin learning about sorcery?"

By this time I quite liked Master Elladoo and thought him a very nice man, but my Granny's warning still rung, so there remained a bit hesitation when I answered, "Ok."

Smiling at this response, likely one he expected, Master Elladoo said, "Well I planned on doing some sorcery this afternoon, so how about you watch me and hopefully you will see it is not all that evil."

This offer seemed fairly honest so I nodded my head and followed as he went into teacher mode. "Honestly, my skills in sorcery are minor. In fact I can only perform the first and second level spells. The first level spell is one that allows communication with others. While the second level spell is used to gather information. It is not perfect but it helps me scout our territory and determine who is ready to sell or buy. In fact both spells are considered so helpful in the art of trade that the Commission will not fully support a postmaster unable to perform them. And the communication spell is vital in the protection of our peninsula."

By this time we approached one of the stone bins where we stored grain before milling and transportation South. At least I always assumed we used it like all other bins, but Master Elladoo unlocked and opened the door, then with a welcoming gesture he said, "Welcome to my workshop."

If you are like me at that point in my life, then you expect a Sorcerer's workshop to contain jars full of bizarre things, walls and walls of books, strange candles and flames, bizarre symbols all over and just a general sense of strangeness. It is true this strangeness can be found in the workshops of high-level sorcerers, but Master Elladoo's place rather let me down. When lit, the normal looking wall sconces showed a plain round room with 5 pieces of furniture; a desk with a large comfortable chair against the wall just to the left of the entrance, right in the middle of the room stood a smaller version of the chair with a little table beside it, and the last piece, not part of the set, a regular kitchen chair about a quarter of the way around the room, to the right of the entrance. Outside of the furniture, what the floorboards stood out the most. Some craftsman having place the boards at the middle of the room into a diamond shaped pattern, with each width of board in the pattern showing a darker wood. All in all, the room under whelmed.

Gesturing me to sit in the plain chair, my Master took the chair at the desk and said, "The first and second level spells may not appear that spectacular, but only a limited number of people in the world can perform even the most minor of spells. First off, you must be left-handed. Secondly, you must be born under a Waxing Crescent Moon. And lastly, you must be the 4th child born to your parents. When Master Chenester in Corels learned you met those conditions he informed the Commission in Glanlies he found a potential apprentice. And since I sought someone to fulfill this role and with my post’s proximity, they informed me of your existence. This led to my initial offer to your parents to take you as an apprenticeship. And I am happy to report that, even without your stepping upon this new path, I would be more than happy to keep you on as an apprentice Merchant. But if you choose to follow me down this path it will open many more potential paths of success."

Above all else, the Master never forgot that the heart of a merchant belonged to a salesman. Feeding me a double handful of praise and promise wore away most of my last defenses and led to me listening more attentively, even nodding my head now and then.

He said, "Success, because these spells provide the ability to gather and exchange information. And as Sigger Dulles wrote in Book 3 of The Annals, 'A forewarned merchant is a successful merchant.' The first level spell keeps the Commission forewarned about everything that happens at their posts. As it is a spell we use to pass messages back and forth to Commission Headquarters in Glanlies."

Well this did not seem evil to me, in fact it made perfect sense. "Is that how you know when the crafters are running low on wool or skins or ore or wood? And when to purchase and forward a shipment?"

"Exactly. But it also helps with security. I can be informed of scouting reports about bandits or make a request for support."

"Wow, how does it work Master Elladoo?"

Smiling the smile of a successful fisherman he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a bowl and a water jug. The bowl, glazed blue ceramic, held three handles, one in the shape of a mouth, one in the shape of an ear and the last in the shape of a bell. While the matching jug showed no distinguishing marks. After I ran out to fill the jug with water, Master Elladoo poured that water into the bowl before he placed the jug back in its drawer and led me to guess it did not serve a magical purpose. A good guess, as the Master gestured at the bowl and explained.

"This bowl has a twin in Glanlies, through it I can talk and listen to one of the Warders on duty at the Hall of Bowls in Glanlies."

"But how does it work?"

A rather bizarre explanation involving spirals and invocations, gestures and hand placements and general magical mystical type of things followed. I am sorry I cannot go into further details, but rules state, and the penalties are quite harsh, that a student of the sorcerous arts cannot pass them on to a non-practitioner.

However, you can be assured I finished that day impressed and interested in learning more. So during the next seven month period, in addition to the various tasks and learning already described, my afternoons now involved a short, half-hour trying to replicate the spell using a set of practice bowls. That is until the day I talked with a Warder myself. A big day for me and in celebration I pulled out one of my Father's favourite recipes and baked a celebratory Apple-Pecan Bunt Cake.

Being a first level sorcerer brought pride to my heart. And the cake brought goodness to my stomach. Yum-Yummy!

--SEPARATOR--

Excitement at this new skill completely washed away all childhood fears of magic and replaced it with teenage confidence. It caused me to approach Master Elladoo and ask about taking the next step to learn the second level spell. But he put me off, saying he wanted me to practice the first spell until would offered no further learning. For, despite believing my skill with the spell, he disagreed. So for the next few months I practiced, until I handled the majority of the Post’s communication with the Commission in Glanlies. Finally he decided to teach me the next spell, though my excitement dimmed when he uttered the following words.

"Although the first spell is harmless, the second spell is the one that can start a sorcerer down the path of evil if he is not careful. For it is this spell which allows us to communicate with the demon world." Seeing the old doubts return to my face he moved to smooth the fear. "But I am wise enough to know my strength is not enough to walk too far down this path, so I only summon and talk to the lowest demon, the imp. Why don't you observe such an encounter tonight?"

"Umm...ok if you think it’s safe?"

"Aye Drake, it is safe."

That night after supper, and well before the summer sun came close to setting, Master Elladoo collected me and went to the kitchen where Cook Winset prepared him a tray including a kettle of tea, accompanied by a pot of honey, and a plate of sugar cookies. When I looked curiously at this tray he just smiled and shook his head as if to say, not now, before we headed out to the non-bin bin. After I lit the candles in the wall sconces, he took and set the tray on the table in the middle of the room, beside the small chair. Soon afterwards we sat in our respective chairs and he entered explanation land.

"It is not widely known but the world of demons is unlike our world of rock and earth. Instead their world is one without substance, one which encompasses the world in which we live, yet is not part of it. In fact, if we are to believe the imps, many worlds exist like ours, all encompassed by their own. This means they can observe things within our world, but are unable to partake in these events. That is unless we, the residents, invite them into our world. Therefore, we must take care, because they are powerful and capricious, and so we use protection such as the rhombus."

"The rhombus?"

"Aye the rhombus. It is the pattern on the floor, within which we are able to create a portal into the demons' world that allows us to see and talk to them, yet serves as a barrier they cannot cross over from their world in order to wreak havoc."

"Oh you mean the diamond? But I thought you need a pentagram as protection from summoned demons?"

Frowning at my questions, Master Elladoo answered, "No it is not a diamond. That is a poor description of the shape, since it connotes a gemstone that is not naturally shaped as a rhombus. Best to call it a rhombus. And its simplicity of form provides a much better barrier than the overly complex pentagram. It reflects the four directions that define the world and is much easier to draw or make. All in all it is safer and better than a pentagram, though some do take the more elaborate approach. No the rhombus is the answer for the smart sorcerer. But enough of the fine rhombus, let me explain what I plan for tonight.

"I am going to summon an imp named Parfalamew. A treacherous little weasel, but also extremely curious and so is full of information. And fortunately for us, I learned his weakness. That is key, remember to always learn their secret. Parfalamew loves tea with honey and sugar cookies. So while munching and slurping away he will happily tell us, poor pathetic humans that we are, everything he knows. For tonight, I ask you just observe and do not talk. There are certain things I wish to learn and if you send Parfalamew in a tangential direction, I may not be able to get him back in line. Understood?"

"Yes sir,." I murmured, more than a little perplexed about what would happen. But though perplexed, my curiosity kept me there, fully intent on learning about imps and their summoning.

Soon his actions quenched my curiosity about imps, well at least about the imp Parfalamew. A small, incredibly thin, grey, mannish shaped figure, who, despite his size, Parfalamew spoke in a deep voice and loved to hear himself speak. Master Elladoo only needed to form a question about an area of curiousity and the imp would go on and on, always in a condescending tone, describing what he, The Great and Wise Parfalamew, knew.

By the time the tea and cookies disappeared, I felt ready to drop the smith’s anvil on Parfalamew. But not Master Elladoo, who skillfully prompted the imp to learn that the sheep in Favern Valley would soon be sheared, that the Northern Tribes traveled South hauling travois loaded with winter skins, that the Semplel Forrest Marauders imploded when their leader died of food poisoning and a myriad of other interesting facts about what occurred within a couple hundred miles of Elladoo Post.

And so began another part of my apprenticeship, sitting in and observing my Master converse with Parfalamew, or Dingledrol the happy lover of roast beef sandwiches, or Serrasellie who remained entranced by the smell of flowers, or a variety of others who may or may not know some information that would help our trading efforts in the region. We knew when communities harvested or mined commodities and learned when villages ran low on goods. We learned of river pirates or bandits that crossed through the post’s territory and passed this information on to the garrisons at North Fort or Corels. No wonder Master Elladoo's post proved so successful, for he definitely fit the category of forewarned.

--SEPARATOR--

About four months after my introduction to imps and only a couple weeks after my fifteenth birthday, Master Elladoo planned another session with Parfalamew, who served as both the most obnoxious and most well informed imp amongst those with whom we dealt. He sought information about rumours of crofts, North West of the Rillian, being raided and burned out. Worrisome enough for the Master to attempt learning the truth.

So once more, with a tray of tea and cookies prepared, the Master began his summoning. Meanwhile, I settled into my chair, now equipped with a cushion, to watch. But we both sprung to our feet when Parfalamew appeared not on the ground as normal, but floating five feet in the air.

Actually floating is not an accurate description, instead a tall, blonde demoness held him by the scruff of his neck. Though not sure what Master Elladoo thought when he saw her, my fifteen year old brain immediately found itself distracted by her overwhelming femaleness and minimal amount of clothing. With a sneer on her face she looked around the room and shook Parfalamew questioningly.

"Yes, Mistress. These are the nasty humans who made me poke my unworthy nose into your business," said our sniveling friend Parfalamew.

"Are they, my sweet? Well how kind of you to point them out to me. Still, the next time I find you sneaking around in my business I will bake you over a fire with a nice honey marinade and serve you to my friends Ido and Odi. Now begone." Suddenly, with Parfalamew disappearing, she turned towards Master Elladoo and said, "Hello there, lovely man, I bet you want to be Sandrelessa's friend, don't you?"

In a nonchalant tone, one worthy of much admiration, Master Elladoo replied, "If you are Sandrelessa, my dear lady, then I don't think I do?"

"Not only inquisitive but rude as well, this really won't do. Why do I feel this is going to turn ugly?"

"Because both you and I know the Carthanan are capricious, vicious and untrustworthy? And since you are a Carthanan anything you say only delays the inevitable struggle which cannot help but end badly for one of us?"

"Oh poo, so you know about us do you?" Giggling like a schoolgirl, she spun to point at me and ask, "How about instead of the two of us fighting, you give me the young one? Heck, just to show you how nice I am, I won't even tell Darrel the Roamer about your spying on him and his fun."

"Ahh so that is who you work for? I should have known one such as he would keep one such as you in his service. I warn you to leave now or meet your doom." With those words my normally mild Master took a deep breath and almost appeared to grow larger.

"Do I take the young one, then?"

"No, foul demoness, you don't take the young one. Drake, get out of here, now!"

Hearing his command I moved towards the door, except that my feet remained planted where I stood. Instead my gaze locked on the Carthanan, who smiled at me as she tittered and cooed. "Hello, Drakey-poo. Don't you want to come and play with Sandrelessa, sweetheart?"

I really didn't. In fact the happy thoughts in my brain, once so enthused to see so much of her, found themselves chased away by the creepy-crawly feeling brought forth by her sickly tone. Yet she held me with her gaze. Then my feet unconsciously moved me in her direction and, not even, the Master's shouted invocation stopped my forward momentum. Nor the suddenly glowing rhombus, which shrank inwards. Nor the action of Master Elladoo ducking behind his heavy, oaken desk. But Sandrelessa found them distracting, for she glanced in his direction and lost part of her hold over me. However, she quickly returned her gaze, a gaze that now held something close to fear and shouted, "Come to me, Drake!"

Like a stone out of a catapult, I suddenly found myself leaping towards her. But just before reaching her the rhombus finished its rapid shrinking into nothingness. This resulted in an explosion of light from where Sandrelessa stood, an explosion of light that hit my leaping body full on.

I remember no more.

--SEPARATOR--

Of course, you probably know the result of my first encounter with Sandrelessa, if for no other reason than the cover the publishing house plans to use when including my biography in their monthly journal, but please forgive me if I do not jump to the obvious. Instead let me relate my next memories in the manner in which I remember them. The first of which involved me waking sore and exhausted. The second memory consists of the realization I did not want to wake and caused me to mumble. "Leave 'lone. Wan' sleep."

"Drake sweetie, we need you awake for a few minutes."

"Don' wanna. Sleepy."

"I just want you to drink something before you go back to sleep, honey."

The voice finally penetrated as Midwife Nerise's, who looked after the care and well being of the citizens of the post. And with recognition came a grudging, reluctant realization she would win the battle, since Midwife Nerise, polite and sweet as she always appeared, never lost an argument with someone in her care. Opening my eyes proved a chore and a half, and success resulted in the agonizing light from her candle making me slam my lids shut once more. But she saw the blink and said, "That's a dearie."

Some sort of broth, but she did not get much into me before I fell back to sleep.

--SEPARATOR--

Upon my next awakening, I felt much better. In fact, I did not require any prompting to do so; though, when I did, I immediately remembered the disastrous encounter with the demoness. Another difference at this awakening, the scent of lavender filled the air to inform me someone shared the room with me. Based on the scent, I knew, that instead of Midwife Nerise, it Mistress Elladoo waited for me to wake.

As previously mentioned, the lovely Mistress Elladoo held my heart in thrall. Furthermore, despite the respect the post felt for Master Elladoo, none felt he would ever make a better deal than the one that resulted in winning her as his wife. As a Deglace, one of the premier families of the peninsula, she could pick her suitors, but none of them realized she did not seek the soft life of a merchant princess, tucked away in a pristine townhouse within the City of Glanlies or a manor outside the capital. No, the Gods made Esselde Deglace of sterner stuff and she craved adventure. She wanted to see the borderlands, learn of the wild tribesmen, test herself and not be coddled. So when somewhat gawky, yet visionary, Hiram Elladoo came calling upon the Deglace for financial backing to open a post in the North, he fortunately found Esselde acting as her father's assistant. She decided they were kindred souls. Before he knew it, a thoroughly bedazzled and ecstatic Hiram Elladoo found himself heading North with the means to build a first rate post but also a beautiful, new wife.

But I digress, which is an easy thing to do when on the topic is Mistress Elladoo. No it is not time in my tale to dwell overlong on that fine lady, though as time passes I will find opportunities to tell you more of her. For now, let me say that one did not normally find her in my quarters, which I shared with the post’s bachelor. In fact it proved downright shocking.

In surprise, I found myself scrambling out of bed and hurrying to say, "My apologies Mistress Elladoo, I should not be abed at this hour..."

At this point, the thought that something might be drastically wrong barged its way to the front of my mind. Not waking in the bachelor’s quarters the least of these surprises. Everything felt different, from the way my body moved as I jumped out of bed to an unusual presence under my nightshirt. The strangeness I felt resulted in a muttered question, "What?"

Lowering my gaze left me struck dumb, or awed, or something unexplainable at the sight before my eyes. A sight, that when combined with the blood that rushed to my head at jumping out of bed, caused me to plop right back down in dizziness and ask, "Is this a dream?"

"No Drake, sadly it is not a dream. Hiram is not sure what went wrong, but he surmises that just before the rhombus' protection spell destroyed the demoness she realized her last tie to reality consisted of the spell she held over you. In her panic at approaching death, the spell overcame her control and drew much more from her than she intended. Thus when she died, the spell, including her very essence, flowed down the link towards you as would a rope to an anchor. It makes no sense to me, it seems so very impossible, but look at you!"

At this statement, she covered her mouth in embarrassment, but continued to stare at me with wide open eyes. I understood why she reacted in this way. The form that sat where I should sit would not make anyone think of the old Drake. What she said, bizarre as it sounded, could not be denied. I said, "I look like a girl."

"More of a young lady than a girl. An extremely pretty young lady at that."

"But I don't want to be a pretty young lady!" I said. And if that sounded like whining, don’t blame it on my new higher pitched voice. My state of mind, at that moment, would make anything I said, even with my old voice, sound like a whine.

"I know you don't, Drake."

"Everybody will think I am a freak!"

"No they won't. Hiram and I won't let that happen."

"How about my Mom and Dad, they won't recognize me!"

"Don't worry Drake, we will let them know what happened and that although changed, you are healthy. They are good people and nothing will stop their love for you."

"But I’m a boy."

By this point I found myself on the Good Ship Emotion after it has wrecked upon the Shore of Despair."

(Editors Note: I apologize for making you read one of the worst metaphor-like combinations of all time, but Drake refused to let me change it. He explained that when writing it, it felt like he road a canoe through a river's rapids, sucking him in and making him hold on for dear life until making it safely through to the end. And yes, that makes no sense.)

Seeing the tears run down my face, Mistress Elladoo rushed over to sit beside me and pulled me into a hug. And though only a day before I could only dream of such attention, on that day I needed the comfort to bolster the thin barrier of sanity keeping me from turning into a bawling babe.

"Don't cry, sweetie, Hiram and I will do everything we can to make sure you can be changed back. And if not, we will ensure you always have a place here."

Not wanting to think about her second statement, I found myself latching onto the first and asked, "Where is Master Elladoo? Can't he do something to fix me?"

"Well we thought with your condition, it would be better if you woke to Nerise or myself. Also, Hiram is very busy and..."

I would like to interject some context before explaining my reaction to this statement. So far my writing glosses over much of my life at Elladoo Post and focused upon the non-mundane, all of which included exciting events or times of high stress. Therefore, I may not come across at my best, appearing disrespectful to my elders and bordering on spoiled. Honestly, that’s not a fair picture. I usually acted the attentive kid, followed orders and rarely found myself in serious trouble. Ok on with the story.

Before Mistress Elladoo could continue with her explanation I shouted, "He's busy? I've been changed into a girl and he's too busy to see me? What is so important that it’s keeping Master Elladoo busy?"

"Well, Drake, we learned Darrel the Roamer and his band of cutthroats are in the region. Besides the demoness mentioning his name, one of the local hunters arrived two nights ago with the reports of a camp just west of the river. Where Darrel and his men gather for an attack on the post."

This got my attention and hijacked my thoughts into an entirely different direction, "But both Clara and Durk are out with caravans. We’re missing half the guard complement. We’re not ready for an attack."

"Aye, Drake. We definitely are not in shape for an attack; furthermore, we have been welcoming many of the farming families within a days walk, who are afraid of bandit raids, which leaves us crowded. Fortunately a number of them are capable with a bow and can augment our defense. But everybody is busy preparing defenses, particularly Hiram."

I could easily imagine how busy both Master Hiram and Sergeant-of-the-Guard Torin Hussel would find themselves. Plans existed for defending the post, but they relied on enough defenders to man the wooden wall surrounding the post. And even with our full complement of guardsmen, we still may not stave off an attack by Darrel the Roamer and his merry band of murderous thugs. They owned quite a reputation, not just for brutality, but also for skill.

Part of that could be explained by Darrel being a product of Glanlies, born into a gentry family and trained by the Commission Militia. A natural with the sword, a gifted leader who felt a voracious appetite when it came to tactics and military history. Only one problem, he proved himself batshit crazy.

Like all the top-notch psychos he kept the truth hidden for quite some time; however, about twelve years before he visited the post, the City of Glanlies experienced a rash of abductions, rapes, and murders. Until one night when a patrol of watchmen caught Darrel, red-handed, trying to bundle a struggling young lady into his carriage. Fortunately for the young lady she escaped, but Darrel killed the rescuing patrol and some others while escaping from the city. For a few years nobody on the peninsula heard anything more of him. Then, even though everybody hoped him dead, rumours told of him joining a mercenary band somewhere on the Simolean continent. Every once in awhile a new rumour would make its way north concerning his adventures, each bloodier than those before. Until eight years after he escaped Glanlies his mercenary band tried to commit a coup in the city state that hired them for protection. However, their employers actually engineered the plot in order not to pay the band and once more Darrel proved lucky to escape with his life. After that point he earned the eke-name "the Wanderer", deciding to give up all attempts at respectability and embracing the life of a maniac. From that point on he and his remaining band of now cutthroats found themselves linked to nearly every villainy about which you could think and the bounties offered for their heads spread across the nations and places they wandered.

Recently he started a brand new game, going after his old colleagues of the Glanlies Commission. He raided a couple of smaller outposts, a mining camp and a number of caravans. Apparently he now decided to target Elladoo Post and picked worse time, at least for the post’s inhabitants, to do so.

It is amazing, but the fear of death pushes lesser fears into the background. For instance, the knowledge of Darrel the Roamer's closeness took a more urgent place in my mind than the incomprehensible change of sex. Change pushed further into the recesses of my brain when the alarm bell started to ring and we heard a shouted, "Riders Approaching!"

Mistress Elladoo's glance jerked toward the sound, although she could not see anything through the walls, before returning to me with a look that seemed to ask permission to leave. Somewhat in a daze, I nodded approval and she hustled out of the room, leaving me unsure of what to do. However, no sooner did her footsteps disappear before I heard another set, which soon resolved themselves into Midwife Nerise. However, unlike Mistress Elladoo or myself, she did not focus on what happened outside, but upon her patient, me. Placing her hand upon my forehead, she said, "You look a lot better, Drake. How are you feeling?"

With less than my full attention I provided that old standby answer, "Good."

"Are you still feeling tired?"

Slowly she drew me back into the room and this time my answer involved thought, not just reaction. "Actually I am not feeling tired at all, I feel wide awake."

"Ahh...that is interesting. Master Elladoo was correct not to consider you sick, just exhausted from your transformation. How about hunger, are you feeling hungry?"

"I'm starving. And I'm really, really thirsty."

Smiling at this answer, she said. "Well Drake you are in luck, I brought a tray of food with me, but left it in the hall in case you did not want anything. Why don't you move over to the chair and table while I get it.”

Moving over to the chair caused certain things to come into focus. Of course, as a guy, the most noticeable thing were the breasts on my chest, they definitely seemed noticeable. Though not as large as I originally thought. Next I realized my hair now made me a towhead, although not quite the pure white of the demoness. Still, an unusual colour in an area of black and brown hair. Outside of the colour, there seemed quite a bit of it though tied in twin, thick braids hung most of the ways down my back. Realizing someone had taken the time to do the braiding made me ask, "Ma’am, how long did I asleep?"

"A dreadfully long time, dearie. It's almost 3 full days since you and the Master faced the demoness," she answered, more than a hint of disapproval in her face and voice. "Everybody felt awfully concerned. But you never experienced a fever, you just slept the sleep of the exhausted. I mostly worried you would dry out, which explains why you are as thirsty as you say. But enough of my nattering. Eat your meal."

Standing close to the Midwife I recognized the third thing about my change, I stood taller than before. I could see out of the high window with no difficulty and the top of Nerise's head now reached my chin. This both surprised and weirdly pleased me, since my previous height found me only a few inches taller than the midwife.

Taking Nerise’s advice to heart, I sat in the chair beside the table now bearing the tray. Sitting on the wooden chair brought about the next difference, one less noticeable on the bed's mattress. I now came equipped with more padding on the back side of my lap than in my prior incarnation. Gulping down a cup of fresh well water and beginning to eat my meal of tasty venison stew and fresh baked bread; I noticed the last few items possible to see without a mirror or a full disrobing (something I don't think I could handle on an empty stomach). The colour of my skin no longer matched the olive common on Glanlies peninsula, instead it now appeared a pale, peachy cream colour. Lastly I noted my wrists and hands. More finely boned, a narrow wrist attached to a slender hand with long fingers. The end of those fingers holding long finger-nails, strong and well shaped, but almost hornlike in consistency.

Trying to ignore the observations of my new self, I distracted myself both by eating and noting the worried way Nerise peaked out the window. Fighting the battle between my hunger and the desire to join her observation, I asked, "What is happening, Ma’am?"

Glancing quickly back at me, she replied, "Now, Drake, don't worry about it. Just eat your meal and then we will get you back into bed."

"Ma’am, Mistress Elladoo already informed me of the approach of Darrel the Roamer and his crew. Furthermore, I realize we are missing a large contingent of our guard. I also know both you and the Mistress are worried. Even ignoring what has happened to me, the situation seems bleak. How can I not be worried? Please, won't you tell me what is going on? Otherwise, I will quit eating and see for myself."

With a sigh, she nodded and said, "There is a great, bloody gaggle of the blood suckers, but they stopped a good ways away from the post. Maybe they are surprised to see the gate closed and men on the walls, as they likely are used to surprise on their side. Wait, one of them is coming forward with a white faced shield to speak to Master Elladoo on the wall. Oh, it doesn't appear a happy conversation, in fact they just exchanged rude gestures. Now the rider is returning to his friends and talking to someone in black, who I guess is that beast, Darrel. Oh my, here they come. Actually not all of them, just some with bows and others with shields to cover them are coming forward. And the men on the walls are shooting back. Someone is going to get hurt, I need to prepare in case it happens."

By this point I did not need her description of events. The last of my meal sat forgotten on the table and I used my new height to stare out the window to watch the arrows and bolts fly to and from the post. With a quick "get to the basement." in my direction, Midwife Nerise hurried out of the room. As she left to do her duty, I wondered about my own duty?

Those who did not fight would hided in the basement warehouse, but did I belong there? Before my change, I’d trained to to play my role in the defense of the post. I drilled regularly with the guards and most considered me a good shot with a crossbow. In fact, for my fifteenth birthday Master Elladoo gifted me with my own crossbow and sword.

Did my run-in with Sandrelessa change my duty? I knew nobody would feel surprised to see me down in the basement, but......it would make a statement. It would say I accepted this change, that I no longer considered myself Drake. This left me only one choice for me, which I put into action by running downstairs to the second floor and the bachelor quarters and my regular bunk. Meeting no one on the way or inside the large room, I threw open my chest and pulled out some trousers and a tunic, unconsciously pulling off my night shirt which struck me dumb.

Now I’d never seen a naked woman, outside of my dreams, and nothing prepared me for the sight that met my unclothing. Let me start by saying the obvious. Oh my gods. Just as my hair did not meet the norm for this part of the world, neither did my new body seem to conform. Whereas most of women stood shorter and more curvaceous, I stood tall and willowy. Not lacking in curves, just a less pronounced hourglass. Much of the height difference appeared due to my legs, which appeared disproportionately long, but very nicely formed. I fought the desire to explore, but...

...but I had no time. My friends needed my help. Shaking my head in denial, I pulled on the trousers, encountering slight resistance as I pulled them over my hips before finding myself unable to fully tighten them on my thinned waist . Hoping my hips would keep them up, I pulled on the tunic, finding it provided little support for my new attributes. Though pulling on my leather jerkin and wrapping my sword belt bout my waist did offer some of what the tunic missed. Thus covered, I pulled on my boots, now somewhat large but there seemed no danger I would step out of them. Lastly I place the now somewhat loose pot helm on top of my head. Thus clothed, I scooped up my crossbow plus two quivers of bolts and ran from the room.

--SEPARATOR--

In the gap between my running out of the bachelor quarters and arriving at the wall, let me describe what we were In the time between leaving the bachelor quarters and arriving at the wall, let me describe what we defended. Elladoo Post stood as a good sized frontier fort, but it still just a frontier fort. That meant a wooden wall, made by embedding logs, side by side, upright into the ground, surrounded three sides of the post. These logs stuck out of the ground to a height of around 10 feet, made higher on the outside by a stake filled ditch dug around the outside. The longest wall, of about 70 paces, held a gate at its center and wooden towers, 15 feet high, at either end. While the fourth side, the river side opposite the long wall, consisted of the main building of the fort, a combination of keep, hall, warehouse, inn, barracks and general all purpose building. In this impressive structure the residents of the outpost lived and worked. Three stories tall, four if you counted the basement warehouse, with all but the top floor and roof being stone. It made that side our most secure and pushed any attack towards the gate wall.

Another thing about the fight, it would not be a battle of great numbers. The post's population stood at 78 people, with 32 of those away in the two caravans. And of the remaining 46, only 26 of us would fight on the walls, although I did later learn the refugees augmented our defense with 10 hunters and farmers. Meanwhile, Darrel's bandits numbered 57 men.

You would think, with the wall, even though outnumbered we could easily defend ourselves. But Darrel and his men counted themselves veterans at this type of raid. Professional soldiers, who wore chain mail armour, making them hard to kill. If we could keep the fight at a distance, using our bows and crossbows, we stood a chance, but once it became hand to hand, only a few of the guardsman would not be at their mercy. We hoped to keep them away from the walls for a long enough period that reinforcements, requested by Master Elladoo, could arrive from North Fort.

Ok, back to me running out to help with the defense. I do not know what would happen if someone stopped me in my dash through the Main Hall. In fact, something deep in my soul wanted this to happen, for someone to send me to the basement, but then I exited into the yard and passed the point of no return. Running to a section in the wall with a gap between defenders I loaded my crossbow. Once complete, I looked through one of the vertical slits cut in the joint between logs to find a target. But before my eye found the slot, a hand grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me about.

"Hoy! Who in tarnation are you, girlie? And what in the Name of the Allfather are you doing out in this mess?"

Being confronted by Sergeant Hussel and his not knowing me felt bizarre. That combined with my general fear of the man resulted in a squeaky voiced answer, "I'm Drake, Sergeant. I’m here to do my duty."

Treating me to my first look of appreciation from a man, he replied, "By Sera's Sacred Womb, the Master told me you’d turned into a girlie. But he didn't mention you looked good enough to demand the little man in a gent's pants stand up and took notice."

Well didn't that hit me like a blackjack between the eyes. Trust the Sergeant's brutal honesty to take my mind in directions best left, particularly in the middle of a battle, unexplored. As I felt a blush spread across my face, he continued. "A beauty like you shouldn't be out here. You should head back to the big house and down into the basement with the rest of the women."

Thankfully this brought my mind back on a safe path, duty. "I can't. I know we are short handed on defense, every bow can help. I’m able to load my crossbow, so I don't see why I can't shoot it."

The Sergeant frowned at my answer, but could not deny the need. He said, "Ok girlie. You can stay, but if it appears they are going to make it into the yard you better hustle your cute little behind into the big house. You don't want to let those assholes get their hands on a pretty little morsel like you."

Then glancing past me, he yelled, "What in the name of Caling's Sword are you idiots looking at, the enemy’s on the other side of damned fence. Ya knuckleheads, think about it, you will get all types of opportunity to stare at our new chickie-poo in the future, but only if you survive."

With that last jab, he ran along the fence towards a tower. However, in this brief encounter he re established the basis of our relationship. One that left me feeling both; accepted despite and horrified by my change. In that particular instance, he left me blushing at the men nearby, many who knew me as Drake the boy, who returned looks that ranged from frowns to leers, nods of acceptance to head shakes of bewilderment. But the looks proved quick and fleeting, before they followed the Sergeant's orders and focused their attention on the outside of the post. To my surprise we spent much more time looking than shooting.

Looking through my chosen slit, I figured out why. The enemy did not make themselves ready targets. They held a position about thirty paces away, which put them within killing range, but mostly remained hidden behind the large shields carried by one member of each pair. In turn, the bow man would intermittently attempt shots at the slits through which we watched. I say try, because we met every such attempt with a number of bolts or arrows from our side. Basically a stalemate, though I could see two bodies laying on the ground amongst their ranks, showing where we found the mark.

This cat and mouse continued for a good hour with little changing, though we did get two more of them, but they lucked out and took out one of our men when he spent too much time looking out his slit. Personally I only took two shots the entire time and both of them embedded in a shield. For my first battle, it turned out less exciting than expected. Still everyone remained pessimistic enough to realize this calm would not last, despite how much we hoped and every moment of delay brought relief that much closer.

The bandits realized this as well, for in my quick looks through the slits,I saw a pair of men, likely Darrel and his lieutenant, in earnest discussion beyond the range of our bows. After their discussion, the lieutenant yelled something at the bandits who exchanged arrows with us. But though he spoke in a language I did not recognize, three quarters of their shield and bow pairs reversed towards their leaders told us what he yelled.

Corporal Deagel dashed my surge of hope as they retreated, when he yelled, "Sarge, looks like they're moving to stage two!"

Sergeant Hussel only gave me a moment to wonder what that meant before he started yelling instructions.

"Hoy, listen up! Damn it to Ardente's Antechamber, I said listen, not look. Keep an eye on the pricks who are looking to bugger you. That's better. Now the bastards know the post is not an easy place for them to get into; therefore, they are going to try and get rid of the walls. So heads up for grapnels overhead and try not to let them catch in the wall's cross-bracing. If one does, cut the damned rope before the assholes pull the wall down and jump on us like a horny dog on the mayor's wife. Also the candy-livered, turd-eaters will be easier to hit while throwing grapnels, so make them pay for attempting to pull down our lovely wall.

"But if the they do yank the horseshoe out of their ass and get a chunk of the wall down I want the civilians and the beautiful Miss Drake to high-tail it to the big house and get upstairs to the windows on the third floor. Bostly, when that happens I want you to take a couple of the lads, grab some pikes and hold the door. 'Cause when the rest of us cannot hold the walls any longer we will retreat to the house ourselves. And, Bostly, my boy, you better keep the door open for us or my shade will never give you a moment of peace. Everybody got that? Good. Let's kill us some bandit bastards."

So the next stage of the Battle for Elladoo Post began. Unlike before, the bandits grouped together as they moved towards the wall, except for four pairs who kept sniping at the wall. Unfortunately for me the big group ended up on the side of the gate where I watched. Understandably most of their throws did not make it to the wall. I say understandably because it takes a certain type of man to stand there long enough, leaving the cover of the shields, to really get away a good throw. After a few attempts, one of them became that sort of man. Maybe driven by bravery, impatience, anger or stupidity, but one big devil came closer than his brethren. One of his tosses even made it over the wall, though luckily it did not catch on anything when he pulled it back. Still sooner or later he would prove successful, so I decided to make him my target. Aiming to the spot from which he threw, II waited for him to show himself again. Waited and prayed that one of their shooters would not notice me and bring a sudden end to my plan.

As you likely deduced, fortune smiled on me while I waited. It seemed like minutes, but probably it took much less time before I spotted a spinning grapnel where my target would likely appear. Ready for it, I still felt surprise when a large figure appeared. But my surprise lasted barely a moment before I shifted my aim and let fly. I did not see what happened, focused on ducking away from the slit, but a yell did rise from the other side of the gate.

Later I learned I’d killed Duncan Smyte from Delos Village on the Isle of Curns. A murderer many times over, with combined bounties of 2300 gold on his head, and owning the dubious honour of the first person I ever killed. But at the time I could not know I’d hit him or if he just let out a bellow as my bolt whipped past his head.

However, it did seem to put fire in their belly. For more of them became the type of man who would stand and make a good throw. They paid for this bravery, but there arose the sound of steady thunks against the wall. Not just the outside, but inside, until finally one of them hooked on a cross-brace and with a heave of their desperate muscles they pulled down a seven foot section of wall.

At this break through, Sergeant Hussel’s orders went into effect and we scrambled back to the post building. Well I began the scramble, but only the others actually made it to their destination.

Me, well I fell victim to another indignity. When I turned to run, another grapnel, heaved over the wall, struck me square upon the melon. Sure I wore a helmet, but only of hardened leather and it did not provide enough protection for a half-stone of lead falling from the sky. Heavy enough to knock me unconscious to the ground. There I lay unnoticed, until everybody made it back to the big house.

If I wrote this story immediately after it happened, there is no way this embarrassing tidbit would be included. But in the time since it occurred, the incident became a watershed moment in the history of the post. Of all the strangeness that happened to me around this time, the grapnel to the head is the one that entered the post's folklore. Not unusual to hear something like, "not that long after Drake took the grapnel on the noggin" or "wasn't that around the time Drake got knocked out". Friends! Don't you just sometimes want to hold their head under water for an hour or two.

After a few years, even I saw the humour in the happening. But when it happened, I felt mortified by the whole thing and wished for a more heroic explanation as to why I slowly regained consciousness (dang, doesn't it seem like that happens a lot in this story) to the sound of a couple of unfamiliar voices talking.

The first voice spoke with an accent, the same voice that shouted orders earlier, "This better be worth it, Darrel. We already lost nine men and another twelve are injured. It’s pissed the men off."

"You better believe it's worth it, Gunther. The monthly shipment of from Hanglish Mines will pass through Elladoo Post in three days and by that time we will own it. When the barge docks for the night, we will catch them unaware. Its prize will provide more than enough loot to keep us in wine and women for years to come." This second voice answered.

Smoother and more cultured. Outside of its base tendencies, the rhythm matched Mistress Elladoo's cultured sound. This and the Gunther fellow calling him by name lead me to guess I lay in the presence of Darrel the Roamer. Not a good thing.

"Will we be able to take the post in time? It took us a whole day to gain the wall and push them back into their warehouse?"

"Today offered us the hard challenge, Gunther. The wall offered their archers more cover than our own, but now we are in their yard. All we need to do tonight is keep the fire banked at their door, so it’s ready to come down tomorrow. Then it’s time for hand to hand and the boys will slaughter them."

"Are you sure we aren't going to face any Glanlies' militia?"

"You really do worry like a Grandmother. Of course I am sure, my contact in Glanlies intercepted Elladoo's call for help. And I am sure of my contact in Glanlies, because I hold him by his short hairs and he knows that not even death will loosen my grasp." Darrel said, laughing as all civility disappeared away from his urbane voice.

Gunther joined in with a heartier laugh than his master, but still asked more questions, "Isn't that dangerous for your contact, what if someone finds out?"

"Who will know they sent a message? They’ll think we surprised the post, since these Commission fools are too confident in their communication system and would never send a physical message. So we’ll kill the only people who know about the message before tomorrow night is over"

"Kill them all?" The way the question ended all positive thoughts I may feel for Gunther. The toneless, indifferent manner in which he asked showed him no different than his leader.

Darrel's laughter grew colder as he replied, "We’ll let the boys have some toys. But save Elladoo's wife for me, I’ve heard the Deglace bitch is be quite the looker. Actually, only save her for me if she didn’t turn into some fat farmer's wife. And if we are lucky, we may find more tasty morsels like the blondie over on my cot."

By this time I found myself fully awake and trying to ignore a terrible headache, while keeping my composure and not moving. But hearing tasty morsel, almost the same descriptor used by the Sergeant earlier shook me to my core. It showed, because the awful laughter stopped and Darrel said, "But enough for now, Gunther. Leave me while I play."

Sensing someone approach I did not move, but it proved useless. Like a beast sensing his prey Darrel knew I no longer slept, "Really sweet meat. We both know you’re awake, so open your eyes and let's have some fun."

Ignoring him, I lay there trying to fall back into unconsciousness. But he slapped me on my thigh. Both the sound and the feel made me aware of my lack of clothing. No clothes and being in the presence of a rapist like Darrel caused my eyes to jerk open while I attempted to cover myself with my hands. The attempt only caused pain when my wrists came up short, held in place by ropes holding them to the cot. Staring into the soulless eyes and leering grin, my fear transformed into shudder.

"Hello, sweet meat, I did not realize Elladoo dealt in exotic goods until I saw you. If a curious man, I would want to hear your story, but alas...I am not a curious man. I am a simple fellow just interested in slaking my thirsts and you my dear are like a crystal pond in the middle of a desert. But before that happens, pretty girl, I must ask. Will you lie still for a moment and let me untie your arms without trying anything?"

Not believing my luck I could only nod at this bizarre request. Though doubting it would offer me the escape that immediately sprang to mind, it did seem to make escape more possible. However, Darrel remained wise in his evil ways, before he untied me, he first secured the entrance to his tent. Then making everything unabashedly real, he removed his clothes. I could describe what I saw, but that would humanize him and he does not deserved of that. A vicious, cruel beast feeding off of society like a rabid dog, worthy of nothing. Instead I will tell you that in his nakedness I saw a terrible fate, one that did not improve when he untied my wrists and stepped away from the cot.

Hesitantly getting to my feet, my glance bounced from him to the tent's entrance, then back to Darrel when he asked, "Do you know why I untied you sweet meat?" Not waiting for my head to shake, he answered, "Because I want you to fight. I want to hear you scream."

Those two statements solidified something within me beyond fear. From deep within me I felt something struggle to get out and it took me a moment to recognize it as rage. Rage at what happened to me. Rage at what was about to happen to me. Rage I did not want to hold in. And when the rage released, I no longer maintained control.

Darrel noticed something happening, as he stared and asked, "What?"

Finally I could respond to one of his questions, but someone other than I answered, "Don't you remember me, Darrel honey?"

"Who?"

"Darrel, you make a girl doubt herself. It's only been a few days, how could you forget?"

A switch went on in his mind as his eyes opened wide and he said, "Sandrelessa. I thought you left me? How are you...what are..."

With a giggle I heard myself answer, "Oh goodie! You do remember."

Before I realized what happened, or before Darrel could react, my body glided forward to snap his neck. As his body crumpled to the ground, my other self said, "Oh poo, I broke my toy. Well I guess I will go find another."

A horrific time followed, maybe even more horrific than what would happen if Sandrelessa did not lurk deep in my soul, ready to rescue me from Darrel. Even as a passenger, without any control over what occurred, I felt tarnished. Admittedly it left me alive and untouched, yet filled me with nightmares almost impossible to totally shake. This is one instance where writing could prove cathartic, but I don't want to remember what happened and am unwilling to write it down. Instead let me say the night rang with screams, all of them male. I remember moving fast, I remember talking in that little girl's, chirpy voice. And mostly I remember death, lots and lots of death.

Until nobody remained. All the bandits in the camp dead or fled, no one left for my rage to target. As quickly as she came, so she quickly departed. That other self, Sandrelessa, recognized her fate as it happened, but could only shout ‘No!’ before being sucked back into my soul.

She left me alone.

Naked, surrounded by death. Covered in the gore of that death and blood from cuts all over my body. Raising my hands to cover my face it appeared my earlier thoughts proved true. The long nails on my, claw like in appearance, served that purpose well.

Suddenly shock set in, combining physical exhaustion with pain and mental anguish. Falling to my knees, I tried to vomit. But the huge dry heaves could not expel any of the bile I felt. Not knowing what to do, the post beckoned me. Hardly noticing the mostly missing wall, I only could think, ‘I want to go home. I want my friends. They will help me.’

I tried to stand, but it required too much effort. So I crawled. It turned into miles and miles. And I just about made it. Almost at the tattered gate when...

...you guessed it, I passed out.

--SEPARATOR--

My promise to you dear readers, this is the last awakenings about which you will read, at least for the near future. I cannot say none will ever appear in my writing, at some point, after all I’ve experienced many awakenings for me since that point, but few are worth writing about. This awakening however is worthy of note.

It shares aspects with my prior two awakenings. It took some time for me to transition from slumber to awake, but something immediately told me I lay safe within the safety of the post. My guess, I slept once more in the bed in which I awoke before the fight. Similar to that time I could tell I wore my nightshirt. However, unlike that time, though similar to the awakening in Darrel's tent, my arms appeared tied to the bed frame. And again two men talked to each other, in the room with me, though this time I recognized the voices. Not that recognizing friendly voices made me less nervous with the binding. So once more I lay in place, letting no movement to betray my wakefulness, while I listened.

"Tell me how the shares work again, Stork?"

Based on Stork’s answering sigh, I suspected I missed the first, second, and maybe third attempt at answering this question from the less than sharp witted Jimi. "Ok, each man that took part in a defense will get a full share of the loot from the bandits and the bounties we can collect on their heads."

"The farmers too?"

"Aye the farmers too, they took the risk just as much as we did. And one of them bought it, just like Eddie and Mort. Speaking of the three of them, they will get a bonus share, both granted in their names to their families. So that adds up to 35 shares. When you add in the double shares for Deagel and Bostly, plus Hussel's 5 shares and we reach 44. Does that make sense so far, Jimi?"

The wheels likely turned, but Jimi sounded somewhat sure when he answered, "I got that part, Stork. I don't understand the next part."

"You mean the half shares? Well the guys out with the caravans get a half share. So since there are 22 guards and 2 corporals out with Clara and Durk, they’ll get 13 shares which takes us to 57."

"But why do they get anything, they weren't here?"

"I'm not sure of the exact reasons. It's just the way it's always been."

"Well I don't like it," Jimi said, almost in a pout.

"It does make sense when you think about it." Stork said, gathering his thoughts before continuing, "It could have just as easily been them here instead of us. I guess that implies that half the bounty we receive is the reward for just being ready, meanwhile the other half is the reward for the actual fight. And think how much it would suck to see all our buddies getting a reward and not get any ourselves."

"Yeeeah," Jimi begrudgingly agreed. "What about the rest of the shares, you only told me about fifty seven?"

"Well we will need to hire a factor to dispose of the goods in their camp. Armor, weapons, horses and so forth. The factor will also manage the gathering of bounties for the turds that we killed yesterday. I heard the Sergeant reading from a ledger he found Darrel's tent and it appears he kept track of the bounties on all their heads. He likely used it as a threat over his men, but if we can believe the ledger, they’re wanted all over the place. The factor will do a fair amount of traveling and will keep 10 shares for himself, which takes us to 67. That leaves 23 shares for the officers."

"Officers? What officers." Jimi stated categorically.

"Sure we do, Master Elladoo and Drake."

"Wow they sure get a lot, Stork. And I didn't know that Drake is an officer."

"Aye, and even if she wasn't an officer can you think of anybody who deserves the bounty more?" Stork stated. In the statement I gleaned a couple of things, both good and bad. Even though he’d known me for years, the use of 'she' proved the switch flipped in his mind that designated me a female. That I considered the bad, while the second item made me feel more positive. Even though tied down, he seemed happy with me and my actions. Hopefully in this he reflected the thoughts of the community. Much better than their thinking me some sort of monster, even if they might be right.

"Aye, I can't believe what she did. I went with the Sergeant when he scouted the camp after the screaming stopped. Remember that trapper who got attacked by a bear a few years back? It reminded me of that; as if someone let a bear loose in their camp. Nobody killed by weapons, just torn and broken. And not a single one of them injured, every one of them dead. However, the Sergeant hardly noticed as he frantically searched for something."

Stork broke in on the longest speech I’d ever heard spoken by Jimi, "Likely looking for Drake. You know how super pissed off he felt upon learning she did not make it inside with us. Blamed himself for letting her stay outside. And when the screaming started, you could see the anger on his face."

"Aye, he looked for Drake. We actually found her just outside of the gate. You should have seen her, Stork, all covered in blood and cuts. She scared me. Can you imagine? Scared of a pretty, little thing like her? But I knew she’d killed all those men in their camp. Of course, Sergeant Hussel felt worried about her, not scared. And he told me to carry her back into the post. She hardly weighs anything. How could she kill all those men?"

By the sounds of movement, one moved over to look at me. The closeness Stork’s voice when he spoke, confirmed by guess. "Are you still scared of her, Jimi?"

"No, Stork," he replied with conviction, which he explained with his next words. "I realized how she did it. It was the work of the Gods. Darrel and his men were terrible people, they needed to die. The Gods decided to use Drake to carry out the sentence."

Well that put a most positive spin on what happened. Stork agree with me, for he could not hide his disbelief when he asked, "Are you sure?"

"Course not. Who can know the Gods. But it makes sense. Why else would Drake turn into a girl before the attack? I bet Jiringel, the Goddess of Justice, possessed her. A Goddess could kill all those men, while a little girl couldn't, heck any single person couldn't."

"I don't know, Jimi. It seems like a stretch."

This time the footsteps that approached the bed sounded heavier, Jimi's footsteps. "Look at her Stork, she's beautiful. Not a mark on her. Yet three mornings ago, when I carried into this room she bore cuts and bruises all over her body. Where are they now, Stork?"

"They're gone Jimi."

"Exactly, they're gone. You and I both know cuts and bruises don't heal this fast. I expect the Goddess healed her in reward."

Well past the point of things getting a bit freaky, particularly since I knew the truth. And while his thoughts seemed so positive I wanted to believe, the direction of their conversation made me uncomfortable. I decided to awaken. So I let out a little cough.

This got the reaction, as Jimi blurted, "She's waking, Stork."

"You watch her, Jimi, I will get the Master and the Midwife."

I decided to draw out my awakening until the arrival of those two named worthies. However, it took some time, long enough that I realized even Jimi would wonder why it took me so long to awaken. Finally I opened my eyes to see Jimi looking at me with a gaze that held both worry and trust.

That might not seem like much to many people. But to someone possessed by a demon, it meant a lot. It made me smile, a smile he returned as those who Stork sought, along with the Mistress and Sergeant, came clamoring into my room. The room made only a bit larger with the dismissal of Jimi and Stork.

Jimi never convinced Stork of his beliefs. And in time Jimi I never served as Jiringel's instrument of justice. But from that day forward, both proved my friend and often my protectors.

With the guards gone, nobody for a few moments, until Master Elladoo stepped forward and asked, "Drake are you there?"

A simple question, yet full of hidden meanings.

"Aye Master Elladoo, it's me. Although, somewhere inside Sandrelessa still lurks. Which I am guessing is the reason I am tied up."

"Basically, but we didn't do it. No, you’re tied because Ensign Elfos Tillindal insists we tie you up." Based on the way he said that name, this Ensign did not exist as Master's favourite person.

It required me to ask, "Who is Ensign Elfos Tillindal?"

"He's a smarmy little git who is more impressed with himself than anyone else." Burst out Sergeant Hussel, showing he shared the Master's feelings. But then again, the Sergeant did not like many people.

Before he could get further into his rant, Mistress Elladoo interjected, although even she displayed a tinge of dislike in her voice when she said, "Ensign Tillindal is the commander of the militia detachment guarding the Hanglish Mine's barge. They arrived this morning and once he learned of the raid he decided to take control of the post. When he heard the stories, both of your change and what happened to the bandits, he immediately determined you a danger to everybody. He nearly clapped you in irons and placed a squad of his men to watch over you, but we convinced him we could secure our own. I am so very sorry, Drake."

"I understand, it’s not your fault. And it may be a good idea. I am possessed by a demon. I really don't know when she is going to push me aside, like she did in the camp, and take over. If it’s like in Darrel's camp, I couldn’t imaging. She took control and did terrible things."

Seeing tears in my eye, Mistress Elladoo reached down to grasp one of my hands, but Master Elladoo waved dismissively, "Bah none of that, Drake. I talked to one of the mages back in Glanlies and she guesses the protection spell, from the workshop, is still working upon you and will keep Sandrelessa at bay."

"But, Master Elladoo, she took over in the camp."

"Well the sage believes the spell released her since you faced greater danger than from the demoness. Were you in danger before she came out?"

Call me a wuss or a girl or whatever you want, but the question brought some fairly awful thoughts to the foreground of my mind. I did not know how to respond, did not even want to think about how close I came to being raped by that bastard, Darrel. I did not want my audience, even though friends, to know how close. In particular, I did not want the Master or Sergeant to know. Only days ago, I numbered one of them, but no longer. They would not understand, hell I didn't understand, but neither man would ever find themselves in the position in which I found myself in Darrel's tent. They could not even imagine themselves in that position, they could not understand the fear. I wanted to feel strong.

But I wasn't strong. I felt like a scared little boy and a scared little girl. Too much had happened to me. The past seemed horrific. The future appeared bleak. I could only cry.

My crying caused Mistress Elladoo to take control. Pointing at the Sergeant, she firmly stated, "You will untie this child right now, then go about your duties. Nerise, can you look after Drake while I talk to my husband."

She grabbed Master Elladoo by the arm and dragged him from of the room. As they left her voice scornfully mimicked, "Were you in danger before she came out? Hiram Elladoo, what kind of stupid question is that to ask? Of course Drake was in danger. You saw the poor thing when Jimi and Jimi brought her in. Naked, why do you think that...."

Meanwhile Sergeant Hussel, with the speed expected from one of the guards when he barked, untied my arms and stepped out of the way of Midwife Nerise who sat on the bed and pulled me into a warm, tender hug. He looked at us for a moment, then awkwardly patted me on the shoulder before apologizing, "Sorry Drake, we shouldn't have tied you up. I don't know why we listened to that fool Ensign; a wet behind the ears little twerp without an ounce of experience. I am embarrassed at myself. Call if you need anything, Nerise."

I really didn't notice much of this by-play, being wrapped in Midwife Nerise's arms and emotionally wrapped in my thoughts.

They say a good cry can do wonders for a person, but I am not sure that is true. Every time I find myself bawling, it seems more exhausting than helpful. Even when your stomach and lungs and throat want you to stop, your mind is not willing. Maybe it is different for other people, maybe it helps them. But for me it did not make me feel better, instead the crying became more painful than my memories. It forced me to compartmentalize those memories into a place to deal with later, which allowed me to focus on stopping crying.

It sounds easier in writing then it in real life. Still my control slowly returned and I could stop. Well either that or I just drained myself and could no longer continue. After stopping my bawling, I noticed the Mistress returned, watching me with worried eyes, and tried to smile at her.

Probably a horrible smile, yet she responded to the attempt by smiling back at me and asking, "Are you feeling better, sweetie?"

"Not really, Ma’am, but I don't feel like crying anymore."

No I didn't want cry anymore, nor did I want to sleep. I didn't want to stay in this room. And I really wanted a bath, I felt dirty. And like a normal fifteen year old boy, I wanted food to combat my starvation. I wanted creature comforts and did not want to think. I told them this and they obliged.

--SEPARATOR--

After I ate the meal delivered to the room, Mistress Elladoo offered a treat when she took me to her and the Master's quarters where a steaming bath waited my arrival. Confused she allowed me into previously forbidden territory, I looked questioningly at the lady.

She answered, "I suspected you are not ready to deal with the common bath house, so asked Mary to prepare my bath."

Curiosity about the quarters did not last, though larger and better appointed than most, they still belonged in an outpost. However, its inhabitant, Mary, the Mistress's maid, did not. An older lady, long in the employ of the Deglace family, she volunteered to join the Mistress after she lost her own husband. But everybody suspected she regretted that decision, as she never hid her disdain for us peasants. Once more she proved unable to hide her disbelief when Mistress Elladoo deigned to allow me to use her room, worse her tub. She made this crystal clear when she said, "The bath is ready, Milady. I will see she is bathed and sent to her room as soon as possible."

Luckily Mistress Elladoo consisted of sterner and kinder stuff. She said, "That is not required, Mary. I will look after Drake, but can you look through my things and find something for her to wear?"

Now that statement startled me. It maybe should not, but it caused the following thoughts to scramble around in my brain, 'Gack, what did she say? Everybody seemed much too sure about me being a her. Finding me something to wear from the Mistress' things could only mean, dresses. I'm not ready for that.'

"Milady, that is not appropriate. I will check amongst the post's women to find something for her to wear," Mary replied.

Pissed off, annoyed at the entire direction of my life, internal Drake decided to take this as the insult she meant and roared, within my mind, I am good enough to wear Esselde Deglace's dresses. Meanwhile rational, yet freaked out, Drake clamored agreement that guys don't wear dresses, even to prove themselves good enough to wear someone’s dress.

The Mistress, unaware of my inner debate, focused on the one with her maid. Pointing at me, she said, "Look at the girl, Mary. Is there anybody on the post with such a tall, slender figure? I know I don't, at least not no longer. But if you look in my old things you should find something that will almost fit Drake."

"Yes, Milady." Mary said. And with that surly response, she headed further into the Elladoo's suite.

With her exit, rational Drake took the opportunity to say, "Really, Mistress, Mary is right. It’s not appropriate for me to wear your things."

"Nonsense, Drake, what else are you going to wear. You can't really wear your old things, can you?"

I wanted to respond with a yes, after all Clara wore trousers and a shirt as often as she wore a dress. But I didn't, for I heard something in her voice, the same thing Mary heard, the voice of a Deglace. In this, Esselde Deglace would get her way, despite what we may think. Therefore, I sheepishly nodded my head in agreement.

Seeing this, she walked to the tub, a nice sized bronze affair transported from Glanlies, and tested the water. Frowning, she moved to a dresser and pulled out a polished wooden box. From which, she took a bottle and poured some of its oil into the bath, causing the scent of lavender to fill the room. Turning to me and seeing my stare of surprise at the bottle, she smiled and purposely misinterpreted. "I know you don't want to share the scent with an old woman, but for now it is the best we can do. Now take off your night shirt and get in the tub."

Smiling at her attempt at humour, I disrobed. This time my new form did not disturb me, not when I realized what covered my skin. Someone had made an attempt to clean me, after my misadventures in the bandit camp, but a damp cloth cannot completely clean one of the mess that is violent death. And though my cuts appeared magically healed, leaving no scars, they left signs of their presence in dried blood and gunk. Now even at my young age, the slaughter of pigs, cattle and fowl made me no novice to blood and gore, but animal’s blood is different. It does not offer terrible reminders, such as those that happened to me two days before. Suddenly, I wished my meal came after bathing, as I struggled not to throw up.

The Mistress sensed something of my thoughts, likely not that difficult when seeing me doing the fish face, and came over to guide me to the tub. "Here, sweetie, get in the tub. A good soak will wash everything away and make you feel good as new."

Stepping in, the heat of the water startled me, being used to the bath house’s lukewarm water. But I found this a good hot, it burned away my thoughts, made me focus on the act of sitting and concentrate on not crying out before my skin grew used to the heat. At that point, it felt lovely. The tub allowed me to mostly stretch my legs out and the higher end, at which I sat, allowed me to lean back so the water almost reached my chin. Did I mention it felt lovely?

"Ok, sweetie, let me get those braids out, we likely should not let them get wet. I’m new at the lady's maid business, but let’s not tell Mary and upset her professional standards." After some tugs and pulls on my head, hardly noticeable in the wondrousness of the hot water, she said, "Your hair is a rare colour, at first it seemed washed out, but it's not. I bet it will shine when we get it clean. And is it ever thick."

Until that moment, I noticed little more than its heavy weight and strange colour. Now with my focus turned on that feature, I found myself mumbling, "I'll get someone to cut it for me."

I heard a frown in the Mistress' voice as she asked, "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"MMmmm?" Ok, not the most respectful reply, but about then my brain stopped working, the heat of the water shutting it down.

"Well it is very rare to see a young lady without long hair. Even Clara, keeps her hair long. I am thinking you would look strange with short hair."

Well you can't deny her sales abilities matched those of her husband. Preying on my insecurity at being noticed worked perfectly in making me see the validity in her recommendation. But for the moment, Mistress Elladoo point seemed valid and such remained her hold on me that the temptation rarely returned. Not that it would matter in any case.

After removing my braids, she reached in her wooden box and pulled out a chunk of lavender scented soap. When she handed the perfumed chunk of soap to me, she said, "My bath is the one area in which I allow myself to spoil myself, Drake. My family regularly sends me soaps and oils and even this magnificent tub. If there is one thing I miss from about Glanlies, it is the bathing facilities in my family home. This soap is made using hemp oil instead of the tallow with which we make the soap used around the post. I admit, it is silly how much it costs to ship it here, but you will see it is worth every copper. Now, put it to good use. And don't be shy Drake, it is your body. Clean everywhere, and I do mean everywhere."

She probably noticed my initial hesitancy. My urge to explore my new form lurked in the back of my mind, but not something I planned to do in her presence. Still her permission proved needed encouragement to wash myself, yes everywhere, while trying to block out the strangeness I sometimes encountered. A few of which I noted deserved some focus at some later, alone time.

Let me tell you, it felt fabulous to be clean, and the Mistress words proved correct, good soap is so much nicer to use. Even if it did make me smell like her. Then again she always smelled nice, though very feminine. Well I could live with that for the moment if it meant no longer feeling icky.

While diligently bathing, I maintained enough presence of mind to notice Mary’s return with an armful of colourful clothing. Mistress Elladoo went over to talk to her about the selection and though Mary talked too quietly to hear, the Mistress did not attempt such subtlety. Therefore, I heard at least one side of the conversation.

“Good idea, Mary. A bodice and skirt will be easier to fit than a dress...They are kind of musty smelling. They should likely spend some time on the line first....Ok, before you leave, where are the towels?...No don't be silly, I own quite a few. You will just need to do some extra laundry....Ahh, in the armoire in the bedroom. Could you get us two or three before taking the clothes down for airing....Yes, that's a good choice, the blue will look good on her. And it is in the best shape of the things you found."

As Mary hustled off, Mistress Elladoo returned to the side of the tub, rolling up her sleeves as she came. Taking a last bottle from her magical bath box, she asked, "All clean?"

"Yes, Ma’am, I feel much better, just as you thought."

"Aye, you cannot beat the healing power of a hot bath. Just one more thing left, time to clean your mane. Hold your breath and close your eyes, I'm going to give you a bit of a dunk. Ok, now some of this hair soap, keep your eyes closed, it will burn if you get any in them."

Then she kneaded my scalp, followed by more tugging and pulling as she washed the long lengths of hair that hung from my scalp. It really did feel incredibly nice. With another warning, I experienced an additional dunk, plus some water scoop and pours before she deemed my hair free of soap. The last part of the hair washing procedure my least favourite part of the bathing experience, as the Mistress wrung as much water as possible from my hair as her strength allowed. With my hair washed, my bath came to an end.

When I stepped out of the tub, she handed me a big, quilted, linen towel with which to use for drying off. Body mostly dry, I tackled my hair as I would normally do, but the Mistress stopped me with a comment that doing so invited all sorts of knots. Instead she instructed, before helping me wrap my hair in another towel. We then found ourselves in a quandary as I had nothing to wear. When she left, Mary took even my nightshirt, without attempting to conceal a look of disgust at its filthiness. But as with everything else, Mistress Elladoo did not remain stumped for long.

Bustling into the next room, she quickly returned with a woolen shift. "Here you go, Drake, you will need a shift. And while it won't fit the best, it will do until we find something better."

Acting so nice to me, I could not fight when she helped me pull it over my head. After all, it did not seem too different to my nightshirt, although of a softer material and a longer length, covering me to just below my knees. But it felt clean and comfortable.

The question became what to do now? In Mistress Elladoo's mind I could not leave her rooms wearing nothing but shift, yet she needed to run some other errands, ignored while looking after me. She solved the problem by wrapping me in a blanket, despite the pleasant warmth I still felt from the bath, and sitting me in a large stuffed chair. Then handing me Annals #8 she told me to study chapter 12 to 14, which I found to focus on the perfume trade.

She said, "I need to leave you alone for a few hours, Drake. Longer if I need to spend too much time calming that idiot Ensign. When Mary returns, she can help you with anything you need."

Well I didn't hold out much hope about that, but kept such thought to myself. Instead I tried to read the book; however, I constantly found myself needing restart at the first page. Nothing penetrated my mind. I could not maintain the focus required to read from the Annals, many parts of which nobody mistook for exciting. No, my mind wanted to dwell on thoughts about getting changed into a girl and possessed by a demon.

Giving up on my attempts to read, I tried to focus on the first of these changes. Though more obvious, in many ways I found it the less disturbing metamorphosis. Yet I could not ignore the second.

My mind started a pitying debate as to which of the two things would cause people, specifically my friends and family, to dislike me the most. The turned into female thing made me a freak, while the demon thing made me a dangerous freak. Not much of a debate when I really thought about it, lots of people liked girls, especially pretty girls. And all indications pointed to me being a pretty girl, which reminded me I still needed to get my hands on a mirror. Meanwhile, very few people liked someone who might go insane and tear them apart.

Closing my eyes and concentrating on not thinking about what happens when a person is torn apart, almost resulted in a head-ache. Luckily, well kind of luckily, the hallway door opened and `caused a distraction. No surprise to see Mary, but I felt less prepared to see Dougie and Marcel, two of the warehouse workers, with her.

Mary, in that so kind fashion of hers, gave the two men their orders to take the tub downstairs, empty it and clean it out. When the two men kept glancing at me bedecked in a blanket and a towel, she actually made me grateful with a barked, "Pay attention to what you are doing, I don't want you to slop water all over the floor. I have enough to do without cleaning up a great spill."

After the two of them left with the tub, we experienced a few moments of uncomfortable silence, me watching her clean up the bathing supplies and she regularly frowning in my direction. After repacking the Mistress' box and returning it to the dresser, she looked around the room, as if hoping to find something else to do. When unsuccessful, she sighed and turned to me to ask, "How long has that towel been wrapped around your head?"

Deciding politeness would likely be the best approach to keep her sharp tongue at bay, I replied, "Since my bath, Ma’am. Should I take it off? I never had hair this long before."

"Yes, you may as well. From its appearance, it is too wet to offer any more help. Here let me help you."

"Thank you, I needed the Mistress' help putting it on." With the towel off, I said, "It's still damp."

"Of course it is, it takes longer than a glass turn to dry hair like yours naturally." She then ran her fingers through it as she went into teacher mode, "After washing your hair, or when you get up, you should run your fingers through it to make sure there are no knots. It is not fun when you catch a knot with a comb or brush. Speaking of which, do you own a comb and brush?

"I think there is a comb in my chest in the bachelor's quarter, Ma’am. Though, I usually just use one at the bath house."

"Hummph, well that won't do, I will take a set from the supplies, from those we trade to the Northern tribes.. Every girl needs her own comb and brush."

Admittedly I felt less ready to take the girl stuff from Mary than the Mistress, but Mary never treated me this nicely. But at the moment she seemed to enter her lady's maid mode, which meant she decided to pigeon hole me as a lady in her charge. Ack! Actually now, in hindsight, she probably saw herself my governess, which meant she saw me as less as a lady and more as a girl, or a maiden. Double Ack! Still at the time it felt natural to follow her orders.

"What should I do now, Ma’am, shouldn't I brush my hair?"

"No it is best to let it finish drying before brushing. When I go to get your things off the line, I will stop and pick up a brush and comb for you, so you can brush it out. Now stand up, I need to take some measurements. Lady Elladoo is right. Nobody's clothes will fit you properly, we will need to make some."

Somewhat hesitantly I stood and unwrapped myself from the blanket for her inspection. When she saw me in the shift her face flowed into a frown of disapproval.

"Now that won't do, the shift is much to short on you. Another thing we will need to make you. Let me get my tape for some measurements."

She measured me from my shoulders to the middle of my shins, the length and around my arms, and finally around my torso in a multiple places. Noting the measurements down she said, "Ok, I can make something work today, but tomorrow we will look into getting you some of your own clothes. I will check with Nan and see if she and her girl can fit you in."

Not able to add anything to this one-person conversation I stood there mutely, only partially listening to her muttering. Instead my thoughts returned to mirrors and the need to see myself. Guessing one existed within the Elladoo quarters, I worked up the courage to ask, "Excuse me, Ma’am. Is there a mirror I can use? I need to see what I look like."

"You mean you haven't seen yourself yet? It would be the first thing I would want if I went through a change like yours."

Shrugging in response, I said, "Other things seemed more important, plus I am kind of scared of what I will see."

"I don't know why, you really turned out quite spectacular. Still I suppose you need to see for yourself, so I will get the Mistress' mirror."

Once more she disappeared into the next room. I found myself curious about what I would find beyond the door, but not as curious as I felt about my appearance. When she returned, she lost some of the nice points recently earned when she asked, "Now you aren't going to faint or anything when you see yourself, are you? I wouldn't want you to break the mirror, it is very expensive."

Readily apparent by looking at it, with a frame done in silver. Still, I knew I would not faint and so I told her. Not fully taking me at my word she made me return to the chair before she handed the mirror to me. When she did, she regained some nice points with the kindness in her voice when she said, "Here, dear, why don't you get to know yourself."

And there she sat. It took some time to convince myself that actually, there I sat. As multiple people implied, well actually stated, I appeared quite pretty. But nothing remained of Drake in my appearance. The reflection in the mirror did not show a female Drake, nor did it look like either of my sisters, in fact, it did not look like anybody I knew. As with my hair and skin, my face continued the theme of light colouring. My eyes, overly large and round, stood out as a light grey, almost smoke-like. Above my eyes existed thinly arched eyebrows, whose colour left them almost invisible. My lips also fit the theme, a pale rose though they hid bright, white teeth as perfect as any I ever saw.

Outside of colouring, the other continued theme consisted of my fine bone structure. I possessed a narrow, petite face with high cheekbones, a small upturned nose and a somewhat pointed chin. All of it framed by a great mass of tow hair.

A refined face, not coarse like my previous, peasant face. And completely unrecognizable. I found myself staring into the mirror, trying to recognize something of myself. When that failed, it became time to try and get to know my new self. Oblivious to the rest of the world, I did not notice when Mary left the room.

How long did I stare into the mirror? Who knows, but based on my almost dry hair, it likely measured in turns. Not until Mary's return did my inspection end, but by that time I almost burned the new me into my thoughts.

Returning Mary said, "Hand the mirror over, Drake. That's enough vanity for one day and it is time for you to learn how to brush your hair."

What followed seemed almost as complicated as sorcery, though it did make my hair shine nicely. Once combed, she created two tight little braids from the hair hanging over my eyes. Wrapping these around the back of my head and loosely tying them together kept the rest of my hair out of my face. A simple style, one regularly worn by others around the post and in Corels. And simple enough, that with some practice, I could do myself.

Then came the moment of dread. Time to get dressed.

At least I remember dreading it. Reading back through the last number of pages, it seems I did not put up any fight along the path to girlhood. It does seem a valid recollection of the time, but it does not surprise me I fought so little. After all, two strong willed women, used to getting their own way, guided me along the path. Plus my mind remained in a strange place, too much already happened, all too quickly. It felt good to follow along for a time, to let others make the decisions.

Specially when the decisions made sense. And they did make sense. At the moment I looked like a girl. Why wouldn't I wear girl's clothes?

My hopes, that girl's clothes would not feel different from my boy clothes, quickly became dashed. It proved more complicated than just pulling on some woolen, shapeless robe. It started with the information I wore the wrong type of shift. Who knew different kinds existed? My initial guess that 'wrong type of shift' meant Mary wanted to get me out of Mistress Elladoo's things, but she proved me wrong. There are different types of shifts, different necks, different sleeves, different materials, different decorations, basically just different. The new one Mary retrieved for me met the different criteria in many different ways. Instead of getting me out of the Mistress' things, she soon dressed me in a fancier shift than the first. Finely woven, pure-white linen covered with silver threaded embroidery around the neck and the cuffs at the end of enormous, draping sleeves. And unlike the previous shift, which came to my neck, this one showed off my throat and more of what extended below the throat than I really wanted.

After I removed the first shift and before replacing it with the fancier one, Mary said, “Such a tiny waist”.

She wrapped a cloth belt around said waist and tied it in the back. The six holes, three per side, each held long ribbons. And though not recognizing such a belt, I easily guessed its purpose when I saw the pair of stockings in her hands, stockings differing greatly from those I wore in my boots during the winter. Instead of scratchy wool, they consisted of the same white, tightly woven linen as the shift. They also came much further up the leg than did those woolen stockings, completely covering my knees and reaching even higher. Instead of tightening them with a garter below my knee, each contained three holes in a thicker piece of cloth sewn to the top, through which Mary tied the ribbons hanging from the belt.

I can see your eyes rolling at this, and admittedly a full paragraph is likely more than such a common contraption deserves, but on that day the belt and the stockings both fascinated and scared. Something that simple confirmed how different my life now became.

Stockings secured and feeling much stranger than any worn before, I pulled on the shift and notice how one shoulder kept slipping down my arm. But the skirt, which Mary now offered, distracted me from this annoyance. Original thoughts of a normal skirt disappeared when I saw the velvet and dark, rich blue dyed clothing item. Definitely not a normal skirt, especially for Elladoo post. The other unusual thing about the skirt, a five inch width of white lace attached to the hem.

When Mary noticed my wide eyes, she said, "I realized the easiest way to make one of the Mistress' things long enough for you is to add some length, but did not want it noticeable. Then I remembered the lace I ordered last year, but which the Mistress never allowed me to add to any of her dresses. I don't know why, look how pretty it is with the skirt. Although you will need to take care when you walk. I just pinned it in place, what with no time for a proper sewing job."

What do you say to someone who never said a kind word to you, who suddenly changes her stripes and goes out of her way for you, when she makes a statement to which you don’t know how to reply? Well if you are a well raised young man like I me, you answer with a stunned. "Umm..yes."

"Here let me help you, as I realize how new this is to you. Bend over, your shift is too wide for us to pull the skirt overtop, so we will pull it down over your head. Ok, turn around and let me tighten with this belt. Just as I thought, your waist is even smaller than Esselde's at your age. There, that's all settled, time for your bodice."

Well the bodice matched the skirt, being the same blue velvet. Noticing the silver embroidery on the front panels of the bodice also made me wonder if the shift also belonged to the set. The bodice consisted of a full back connected to the two front bodies by silver ribbons, more of the ribbons would tighten it to my torso. However, before the tightening Mary adjusted the neck of the shift so it centered on my neck and each side barely rested where the shoulder straps of the bodice could keep them in place. When tightened, the bodice did not prove as unbearable as expected.

The fit did not particularly bother me, but I felt alarmed by what it did to my bosom. The front panels of the bodice only come to the bottom of my breasts and the uplifting effect it provided combined with the lowered neckline of my shift provided fleeting glimpses of my recently arrived charms. Now don't get me wrong, you wouldn’t call it a hey-boys-look-at-these type of show, but it more than proclaimed here-be-a-woman.

While I contemplated this, Mary stood back, looked at me with a smile on her face, and said, "You look beautiful, child. Lovely as she is, Esselde couldn’t do the same justice to the outfit as you. It's likely your colouring, it's so different from anyone I know. So fresh, so wintry and so lovely."

Didn't that draw out a deep blush and a mumbled "Thank you, Ma’am.".

Suddenly Mary smacked herself on the forehead and hurried into the magic room next door. This time she did not immediately return and left me standing there in amazement. Fidgeting with my skirt brought to my attention the shift’s huge, draping, totally impractical sleeves. It made me wonder how would I accomplish anything.

Of course it proved impossible to look down at the sleeves of the shift without noticing what my top did not completely cover. Trying to distract myself from this, I fiddled with the bow Mary tied to join the two bodies together before running my hand across the velvet. It oozed luxury. I knew of the material, a few rolls passed through the warehouse, but I never saw anybody but the rich wear garments of such a fine, expensive velvet. Heck, I never wore anything not made of the roughest wool, leather or linen.

Mary returned to the sitting room with a pair of boots dyed a blue to match the skirt, which, amongst all the strangeness of the day, struck me as the most extravagantly strange. Who goes to the expense of dying boots? Apparently the Deglaces of Glanlies, that’s who.

Mary said, "I cannot believe I almost forgot the boots. I can remember being with Madame Deglace when she browbeat the cobbler into dyeing them. He tooled in the pattern to match the one on your bodice, but Madame insisted on them also being dyed this dark blue. Poor man, he really did not stand a chance. Madame Elaine is a strong woman, and when decided what her daughter Esselde would wear on Tournament Day during Turin's Faire, no petty cobbler, even a Master Cobbler like Kloster Chance, could stop her.

And the gown made for Esselde to wear during the Last Day Fete, oh you cannot believe how lovely it looked. Of course I didn't bring it, I took a chance packing this outfit, but I thought that because it is a walking about outfit, Mistress Esselde may get some use out of it at this Godsforsaken post. Alas, she never wears it and when I realized it would no longer fit her I felt so sad that such a lovely outfit would never get anymore use, but look at you. It is like it was made for you and not the Mistress. I just hope these boots fit, cross your fingers."

Caught up in her outburst I actually crossed my fingers, not that she would be able to see my hands, still hidden by my sleeves. It must brought the needed luck, for the boots fit me almost perfectly, being just a tiny bit loose. While I adjusted to heels slightly higher than those on my riding boots, Mary once more took a step back to observe. This time a frown of concentration came to her brow and she began muttering to herself. Reaching a decision, she suddenly knelt and grabbed the bottom of my skirt, making me take a wobbly step backwards.

"Stand still, dearie. I don't think we need this lace hem.. All it does is hide those lovely boots. Weren't we lucky that I didn't sew it on?"

"Um...yes?"

"Most definitely. The boots are a work of art and with you being so young, it's not inappropriate for you to let them show. If the Mistress agrees to this look, it will make it much easier to fit you into more of her old clothes. Much easier on me," she said with a chuckle.

The surprises continued, who would guess Mary could laugh. But she really seemed to enjoying herself and I milked some positive vibes out of offering her this outlet for enjoyment. Though I did not doubt I would strip it away from her with nary a thought, if given the chance. Still you sometimes need to make do with what you are offered, not what you want. At that time it meant dressing as a merchant princess leagues away from where you would normally find such an individual, while entertaining a lady's maid. Absolutely bizarre.

It became more so when she decide to teach me how to walk in the skirt, something she called it the art of being graceful. For the next while I moved all about the room, in between every chair and up and down from every couch, with her constantly stating things like ‘tiny movements’ or ‘graceful, graceful’. Honestly, she proved a terrible teacher. With no idea what she wanted me to do, I learned in a similar fashion to finding the thimble. Where Mary spoke louder, the colder became my attempts. Based on the longer periods of this occurrence, I did learn a few things. Still I decided to observe and mimic those more used to their skirts.

Speaking of which, my number one role-model returned during a mostly silent few moments of my sitting and standing in the big, cushioned chair. When she saw me, Mistress Elladoo could not stop herself from clapping her hands in glee and squealing delightfully. "Why look at you. Aren't you just a gorgeous young lady?"

"Isn't she just, Milady? And such a joy to get ready, just stood there and let me do my job."

"Mary, I do believe you are implying something negative about me?"

Shaking her head, Mary answered, "Well not really, it is not like you ever wear anything nice. A blind scarecrow could get you dressed."

Laughing at the response, the Mistress say, "Now I know you are, Mary. Luckily for me, you can now ply your skills on Drake. He will definitely need help navigating his way."

The two of them just stared at me with goofy smiles on their face until Mistress Elladoo said, "Something is missing, Mary. What is it?"

"Milady?"

"Oh I know, didn't that outfit come with a matching choker? And did you bring it with you?"

"Ah yes, it did. And of course I packed it, just let me go get it."

With Mary out of the room, the Mistress made a spinning gesture with her hand. Guessing she wanted me to turn around, I slowly, kind of gracefully, spun in a circle. Once more she clapped and said, "I know you won't want to hear this, Drake, but you do look stunning."

How much can a person blush in one day? Is it possible to blush so much you burn your skin, similar to a sun burn? Well I did not quite find out that day, but she did deserve a reply.

"I guess, Mistress, though I would prefer to remain my old self. But thank you for lending me an outfit and allowing Mary to spend so much time helping me. And thank you so very much for being so kind to me earlier and now."

I am not sure why I felt so much more emotional around the Mistress than Mary. Maybe because Mary treated me like the Sergeant treated the old me, as someone expected to follow orders. But from the Mistress I wanted hugs and sympathy, possibly because she readily offered both. And this time she acted no different, flowing across the room to hug me and murmur, "Think nothing of it, child, you are like family. How can I not help family?"

Returning the hug, I barely stop myself from starting to cry, though a sniffle made it’s way into my voice when I said, "Thank you so very much, Ma’am. I really would not be able to handle this on my own."

"Good thing you aren't on your own. Isn't it?"

"Yes, Ma’am, very much so. And don't think me ungrateful, the outfit is very lovely, but is it not out of place at the post?"

"Oh, Drake, it is terribly out of place," the Mistress laughed, staring at the returning Mary who bore a somewhat sheepish look on her face. "I remember explaining so to Mary every time she brought it out for me to wear during the last couple of years. There is no doubt it is lovely to look at, but it is not an outfit in which you can do chores. The velvet is hard to clean and the sleeves of the shift, well I am sure you can guess how impossible it is to do anything with those hanging from your arms?"

Nodding at this last, I jumped into the opening and asked, "Then why am I wearing it, when it is so inappropriate?"

"Because my dear, you are going to play a role."

Mary proved quicker on the uptake than I and asked, "A role? What type of role, Milady?"

"First put the choker on her, Mary. I want to see the full effect. Ah, yes even better, you are dressed perfectly in the role of the innocent, young maiden. You see. Ensign Tillindal is quite a handful, sure we are hiding some raving lunatic from him. He is bound and determined to place you in irons. It is all Hiram and Torin can do to keep him from storming up here to get you. It is growing tense between his men and the Post's people, especially with Jimi spreading his beliefs."

"You mean about how Jiringel possessed me?"

"Yes, how did you hear about that? Mary, did you tell her?"

"No, Ma’am, it wasn't Mary," I protested. "When I woke earlier today, I overheard Jimi and Stork talking. Realizing I was tied up, I decided to listen in on what they were saying before I let them know I no longer slept."

Both Mary and the Mistress laughed to hear this, and the Mistress said, "Why, you little minx..."

Not something normal to call a fifteen year old boy. Dearie, sweetie and the like almost appeared like general terms, but definitely not minx. But then again, they also planned for me to play the role of the innocent, young maiden. Also not something meant for most fifteen year old boys either. Thinking of which, I asked, "Why will my playing the innocent, young maiden be of help, Ma’am?"

"Well, Drake, looking like you do, it would be very hard for anybody to see you as a threat."

Mary said, "We could use some makeup available. With those big eyes of yours, you definitely look the innocent. But with some makeup I could make it so not a single man would realize you ever allowed a thought into your pretty little head. Is the Ensign a young man, Milady?"

"Aye, Mary, I would guess he is just out of his teens. Likely the cause of much of his officiousness, not confident enough in his own position to not try to push it upon others. But if more confident, we might not be able to stop him. Why do you ask?"

"Well if he is a young man, Drake could flirt with him. Looking as she does, she could make him see her with the one eye, not the other two."

I don't think the Mistress even needed to look at me to feel the tense fear that suddenly overcame my body, she stood close enough to feel it emanate from my core. So she nipped Mary's proposal in the bud and said, "I don't think that is necessary Mary. Nor do I think our Drake is ready for such a task. Instead I will keep her close to me. She only needs to look pretty and pale, something which comes to her quite naturally."

Thankful for the reprieve, it did start another of those mental debates. 'They sure seem set on the she and her thing, don’t they. Hey, wait a minute, did she say stick close to her? Did that mean I would need to leave these cozy quarters? Let other people see me? Well of course I would, why else would they dress me up? Why would I act a role amongst people who knew everything about my situation? Of course I would leave this room and join the rest of the world.'

While my thoughts raged, Mary acquiesced and asked, "May I be excused, Milady. I need to see to the rest of your things that I believe will fit Drake. I should also prepare chambers for her, the bachelor quarters is no longer appropriate."

"Definitely not. She has been using number 3 guest room, why don't you prepare it for her."

After all the other things I meekly accepted, this is something I would fight and said, with significant authority, "I do not like that room!"

This time Mary’s empathy kicked in and allowed her to realize the room held strange and bad memories for me. She came to my support. "Actually, I do not like it either. It is rather inconvenient for me, since it is at the opposite end of the building from here and my quarters. How about I prepare the maid's room next to mine, it is not used and it will keep me close at hand to help Drake if needed."

With a nod of agreement from Mistress Elladoo, she strode off purposeful, leaving me surprised at how diligent she took her duties. In fact she left me feeling ashamed I always thought of her as grumpy, old Mary.

"One more thing, Drake. Your name does not really suit the new you, we must think of a better one for now."

Flush off my victory concerning the room, this battle felt even more important for me to fight. "Oh, please no, Mistress. My name is all that is left of me! Please don't take it away from me. Please!"

I think my vehement response surprised both of us, though the passing moments only made the desire firmer it in my mind. So the delay while she considered my response left me nervous, knowing she likely would win the battle if she disagreed. Such a relief to hear her say, "I never thought, Drake. Please forgive me. Of course we won't take your name away."

So I kept my name, although from that point both the Mistress and Mary seemed to silence the K in my name. I couldn’t really argue much, particularly with how much they did for me, that when they spoke my name it sounded more like Dra’e.

--SEPARATOR--

The evening that followed would best be described as surreal. It started with the Mistress deciding she too would dress for dinner, which resulted in a great deal of bemoaning the fact she owned nothing decent to wear. When she, with the returned Mary's help, finally decided on a red gown, she continued to complain, although rather halfheartedly. Mary offered no sympathy, stating that the Mistress decided, not her, to not bring or make any pretty dresses. Nor did she gain much sympathy from me, I thought she looked beautiful and told her so.

Once dressed, the Mistress provided much needed support, both emotionally and physically, when she linked her arms with mine and guided me into the hallway. We met nobody as we moved to the stairs, but during the descent, me carefully with a hand on the balustrade, the noise from the main hall made its way up to us. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, an unrecognizable voice shouted above the rest.

"I am becoming tired of your insubordination, Sergeant. You will speak more respectfully to me as an officer in the Commission Militia. If you are not careful, I will place you under arrest."

I could almost feel the communal cringe at these comments, nobody got away with talking to Sergeant-of-the-Guard Torin Hussel in that manner, the explosion did not take long in coming.

"Listen here you little puke. I am in charge of security at this here post. You can take your threats and shove them up your ass, if there's any room not taken up by your thick skull. As to the Commission Militia, where were you wondrous heroes when we actually needed you? You know, when the stinkin' bunch of savages attacked the post. If not for us, particularly Drake, you and your men would be feeding the vultures right now. So it's you Mr. Ensign of the Commission Militia who should talk respectfully to us!"

This brought about memories of the conversation between Darrel and his lieutenant concerning their contact in Glanlies, the one who intercepted the message from Master Elladoo. Nobody knew about the conversation, but maybe they already knew about the intercept? Did the Master contact someone Glanlies and together they realized something seemed fishy? If he hadn't, I might be the only person who knew why the Militia never arrived. Even if guessed, my information might provide corroborating information. However, it would draw attention from the argument to me, and I did not want that. Still the fire needed put out, and since the fire involved me, I could not do anything but try.

Entering the room, still upon the Mistress's arm, I pitched my voice to carry enough to cut through the arguing, as I said, "Excuse me Sergeant Hussel, I believe I can answer your question as to why the militia did not arrive before the attack."

Wow, my new voice cut through the sound of others better than expected, maybe because it rang out in a clearer pitch. And my words definitely brought a pause to the argument, in fact it brought a pause to everything happening in the room. Everyone's focus now drawn to me and the Mistress, well mostly me. Shock seemed the common response from those who never saw me in my new form, but I received welcoming smiles from the rest.

One of those, the Master, asked, "Drake, don't you clean up nicely? Why you almost challenge my beautiful Esselde."

So saying, he stood, crossed to us and kissed his wife. Then to various catcalls he guided her, who in turn guided me, to chairs at the table in which he and Hussel sat with an unknown young man, presumably Ensign Tillindal. A masterful show by him, deflecting much attention away from me by attaching normalcy to my presence. The majority of the post's citizens, good underlings all, recognized it for such and went about their business. They realized they could satisfy their curiosity at a later point. But the one person not distracted was the Ensign.

If you, like me, expected some sort of fop or a fool, then, like me, he would leave you disappointed. A perfectly normal looking, young officer; from the cropped hair on his head to the hobnail boots on his feet. He didn’t even look at me with a leer or with disdain or anything outside of an appreciative once over. In fact he remained all business when he asked, in a much calmer tone than the one he used to challenge the Sergeant. "So are you the demon-possessed?"

Taken aback by the bluntness of the question, Sergeant spared me a reply when he interrupted to ask, "What do you mean, that you can tell me why the militia didn’t arrive?"

The easier question to answer. "While held in Darrel's tent, I heard him and a Gunther fellow talking about a contact in Glanlies. Darrel said the contact would intercept any message from Master Elladoo."

My statement seemed to bring the three men to agreement, a surprised and disturbed agreement causing the Ensign to say, "That's not possible."

However, the Master proved not quite so ready to dismiss and said, "You know, that may explain my strange communication with Glanlies after the bandit attack. I didn't think anything of it at the time, relieved by our victory. But thinking back, the warden on duty seemed surprised to hear of the attack, he also proved vague in explaining why the militia did not show up."

Ensign Tillindal turned to the Master and asked, "Haven't you heard from the Fort yet?"

"Well the Warden asked if I still needed their presence. When I said no, he let me know he would stop their march. I am sure Glanlies can communicate with the militia in North Fort?"

"There are a number of members with the skill, though it is rare for them to go into the field with smaller units. I never patrol with one. Maybe a relief column could communicate directly with the capital."

Admittedly selfish to feel happy that a fairly serious breach in the peninsula's security took me out of the center of attention. Though my curiosity did need one question asked.

Happily Hussel asked it for me, keeping me on the side. "Hiram, did you talk to the same warden before and after the raid?"

"I can't say, Torin, they are basically face less entities, only a few allow their personality to show through. The ones I talked to before and after the raid belonged to the face less group."

Doh, I knew that. Better to ask, "What do we do, Master?"

Tillindal answered, "It's obvious, girl. We let someone know in Glanlies the problem with the communication system."

"And how do you propose to do that, Ensign?" Hussel sarcastically asked. "We can't very well use the communication system to do so."

Master Elladoo answered, "No the Ensign is right, we do need to contact the city. But as you say, Torin, we cannot use our regular channels. Luckily another channel exists for me. I will contact my cousin Sharlese, who I already talked to concerning Drake. She is a sage with the College and can initiate an investigation. I also think we should dispatch a rider to North Fort with a report of the raid and our speculation about the communication issue. Torin, can you prepare the report?"

"Yes, sir!"

"And, Ensign, you should also prepare a report about your findings. And if you feel there are any issues with the security of my post or with Drake, include them there. I heard your arguments, I disagree with them and am tired of them. And on this Post I am in command. Don't forget that the militia is just a wing of the Commission, a subservient wing. Remember that and it will go better for your career. Both of you are dismissed."

The Sergeant actually saluted before leaving on his task. After a moment a somewhat chastened Ensign followed suit, he said, "Yes, sir. And I will think on your advice."

With the two of them gone, the Master turned to me, sitting between him and the Mistress to say, "I do wish to apologize for my earlier insensitivity, Drake. Totally unforgivable."

"Apology accepted, Master. We have all been under a great deal of stress."

"Still, I will try to be much less of a lout."

"Well you may try, Hiram, but you are a man and it comes so naturally," his wife said with a smile.

"Likely true, my dear. But for now, Drake, please be aware that Esselde and I will do everything in our power to help you out of this...difficulty? As I said, I contacted my cousin Sharlese and her opinion is you need to see the experts at the College."

"In Glanlies, Master?" I asked, feeling a bit of awe at the thought of going to the big city.

"Aye, Drake, in Glanlies," said the Master, his smile showing he likely guessed my excitement.

"And don't worry, Drake, you will not travel alone," said the Mistress. "Hiram and I talked it over earlier today and decided I should provide your escort."

"Thank you, Ma’am, but you really don't need to do that," I said, though even I didn't believe me as I said it.

"Nonsense, sweetie. I wouldn't let you go to Glanlies alone even before your change. You most definitely need a chaperone. Plus there are other reasons to go. It is over a year since I saw my family, as their letters of mention. Plus, Hiram is not happy with some of our suppliers, so I can meet with them or find new ones while in the city."

"I'm going to Glanlies," I murmured.

"Yes, but it will take some preparation. Hiram does not want us to travel with the Hanglish Mine’s barge."

"I should think not, that idiot ensign will place poor Drake under lock and key in a heartbeat."

"Yes, dear, we all understand your feelings about Tillindal, but you should let it go. You more than put him in his place a few moments ago. Still I agree, lets wait for the next supply barge to come, it should be here next week. Hopefully, either Clara or Durk will return by then, because I would like to take a couple of men with us as guards. And of course Mary will come along and look after us. She will need some time to prepare. Are you ok with the plan?"

"I'm going to Glanlies?"

"Yes, sweetie, but we will pass through Corels first, which will allow us to see your family. They need to know what happened."

"My family? Gods above, they will never understand."

"Don't you worry, I really don't think you are giving them enough credit. And before you know it, we will get you right as rain. Though I am sure Mary will miss you, she quite enjoys bossing young ladies around."

I barely heard this last comment. Thinking about fulfilling a dream, going to Glanlies.

--SEPARATOR--

This writing is definitely harder than I guessed when I first started this project. My belief that a few days work would bring everything to fruition. Yet now, after a good month, my story has barely started. Maybe I should hire an assistant to help with the rest. But for now, what is written will serve as my first submission to the Asthelhorne Monthly Biography Journal.

Because I need to pause my writing and return to my real job. I am part of a Glanlies' trade mission to the court of Snaguine, a tough market we’re trying to crack. Particularly since they are such a hub for exotic goods from the south Simolea continent and offers us so many opportunities. I am happy to take part, except for the need to travel there on a ship, forgive me, my poor stomach. Maybe writing will provide a distraction from my woes? Well not likely, I am sure I will spend the two weeks on the boat in misery.

Hopefully when we arrive there will be time to write down more of my memories, there are so many more. My first journey to the jewel, that is Glanlies, a tumultuous time in Corels, meeting with my family, getting to know the Mistress' family, the strangeness of the College and so much more. Heck, I may even spend some time talking about trade. Otherwise, my chosen title is kind of meaningless.

‘Til then, enjoy yourself!

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Adventures of a Merchant -2- A Pause in Corels

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Sometimes a guy just needs his Mom, even when scared to face her. But if she is worthy of the name Mom, then she is worthy of knowing the truth. After his prior adventures both are true of Drake and luckily the last is true of his mother.

Adventures of a Merchant: A Pause in Corels
by Arcie Emm

See Prior Adventures:
1. Adventures of a Merchant: A Start

...being continued...

Hello once more and apologies for the delay. But the trade mission to Snaguine did not offer me any time to write and it took much longer then we had planned. In fact it became down right annoying, we spent a good two months trying to get the ear of someone at court; however, they were too caught up in entertaining themselves to talk business. And for the court of Snaguine, entertainment meant hunting. So we tagged along with falcon on arm, or boar spear in hand, or with bows after stags, or even upon boats with lines to fish for sharks. And if we did not attend the hunt, we were there for the midday picnics and nightly parties. It was insane, those people never met an honest day's of work they were not willing to ignore.

When we finally made a break through, it was more good fortune than intelligence. It appears that the nobility just didn't give a damn about trade and that they were only offering lip service. Instead there was an entire class of gentry, kept parceled away in the city of Veilenes, who dealt with all trade for Snaguine. It is actually unfair to say good fortune was the cause of the break through, it was actually good underlings. The Militia officer's who commanded our guards had found themselves a nice brothel that had become their unofficial home. Luckily it was also the unofficial home for merchants visiting from Veilenes. After some discussions between the two groups, our mission moved to the proper city and negotiations proceeded along nicely.

Let me tell you, it was nice to once more deal with professionals after spending all that time trying to see as many creature's innards as possible. And outside of the general mission's purpose of creating a trade treaty, I was able to set up a number of side deals that should serve myself and my patrons, the Deglaces, well in the long term.

Now I am home and once more it is time to write.

Let me start by saying that it is good to be home in Glanlies, every time I return it is with thoughts that it may be time to stop the travelling and buy a home. That it is time to stop living in apartments and tents and inns and sometimes on the ground. Whenever I am in the city, there is a house for sale that catches my fancy. Yet before I can make an offer, I begin to feel restless as there is always another caravan forming or a mission that could use my skills. And if I did settle down, it would mean the end of one of my great pleasures, that first moment of spotting Glanlies on my return.

It always makes me remember the first time.

Wouldn't this have been a great point to have jumped into the second part of my story? To bad I had not planned the end of the first part better to have meshed properly with that line. Instead we left off with my having learned that Mistress Elladoo was taking me first to Corels to visit my family and then on to Glanlies. Enough stuff happened in Corels so that it would not be good to skip the destination and jump all the way to the second destination. Well I suppose I could, after all I did warn in my first submission that my story telling would not always follow a straight path, but in this situation the logical path really does make the most sense. Therefore, I propose we follow the straight path, lacking in panache though it may be.

And since I am the one that wielding the quill, it will actually be a more than a proposal. So as the play masters are want to say, on with the story.

-------------

After learning about the planned trip to Glanlies, the rest of the evening passed in a bit of a haze. When Ensign Tillindal returned, he seemed to have taken the master's advice to heart and decided to ignore me. He did not even glare angrily at me. As for everybody else, the fact that the mistress and Midwife Nerise bracketed me at the head table kept most people away, though they could not keep away the stares directed my way by just about everybody in the room. Those who braved my guardians were quite sympathetic, coming forward to ask how I was doing or to express support for me. Not once did anybody ask me anything like, "So what's it like being a girl?" Likely because the type who would do so were scared away by glares from the sergeant who also sat at the table.

Still not many people got the opportunity to even try to talk to me, before tiredness once more set in. Even though I had spent most of the previous week asleep, it soon became apparent that it was not enough, as my body and mind had been through a lot in the periods when not asleep. So after the third time Nerise stopped me from nodding off Mary came and gathered me up for bed. As promised, she had prepared a new room for me. It was basically the same as the other room that I had been using, but it still felt more comfortable. Before getting into bed Mary assisted me in removing the strange apparel that I was wearing and into a new nightshirt, one that was distinctly feminine, but so very soft. After this she had me brush my hair, then tuck it up under a sleeping cap before allowing me to climb in and go to sleep. Sleep which was quick in coming.

The next few days followed a pattern different than my days of old. When I awoke Mary was there to get me ready for the day and she was there to put me to bed at night. In between, I was never left alone, except the few minutes in the privy. But though never left alone, I was also quite sheltered, usually being chaperoned by either Mistress Elladoo or by Mary or in a few rare instances when neither of those fine ladies were available, with the master or midwife. And based on the way everyone else, even the sergeant, avoided me, it was easy to guess that there was an order to keep their distance.

It is a good indication of where my head was at when you realize that a fifteen year old boy did not chafe under all the mothering I received during those days. Though it was not all nurture-type of mothering, there was also a fair amount of idle-child-not-good-type of mothering. This was most probably the result of them recognizing how easily evil thoughts could darken my mind. And there was a lot to prepare before we would be ready to head to Glanlies. Most importantly for me to be able to travel, they determined I needed more clothing. As even Mary recognized that what she had dressed me in first was not appropriate for all instances.

So the first morning found me still in my room, still in my nightshirt as a member of a sewing party consisting of Mary, Nan Washan and her daughter Cecile. My role was defined from the start with Nan's words, "Mary is right you are a pretty thing, aren't you? Well don't you worry, we will have a wardrobe made up in just a jiff. Now be a good girl and put on this dress so that we can start making the necessary adjustments."

Yes, my role in the sewing party was that of dress maker's dummy. But I was a good dress maker's dummy, while I would have been horrible at any other task, so I couldn't really complain.

By the afternoon I had two new linen shifts, two stocking belts and two pair of linen stockings. For outer wear they had modified two of the mistress's every-day dresses, one brown and one blue, and were well on the way to finishing a fancier one made of a tightly woven, dark green wool. The collection also included another skirt and bodice that had also belonged to the mistress. All in all, as someone who had always made due with at most two pairs of pants and shirts, I thought it was definite overkill. When informed of my opinion Mary just laughed and said, "It will do for now, though we will likely need to get a few things in Corels to tide you over until the mages in Glanlies can do their magic."

"What else could I need, Ma'am? This is way more than I have ever had."

"Well, first off you will needs some new boots."

"Can't Alphonse make me up a new pair of boots?"

Frowning at my mention of the post's cobbler, she replied, "We will see if he has some moccasins already made that will serve you til we reach Corels. But I don't think he is the right person to make the boots for you."

This was surprising to hear. I had thought that Alphonse was quite a proficient cobbler, in fact the master had been quite pleased to have hired him when the old Cobbler had moved back to Glanlies last year. Well the reasoning behind Mary's dislike became apparent as soon as we visited him to measure me up for a pair of moccasins. Alphonse was a lech. Being the first one I met in my new form, he made quite the impression on me. Well actually his greasy paws trying to fondle my calf made the impression. After we left Mary was only half-hearted in her attempt to calm me down when I started tromping back to my room planning to get my crossbow. Not finding it, she finally put a stop to my plan when I started off to the guardroom to find a replacement.

"As much as it would please me and every woman on the post for you stick a bolt into that man, I just can't allow you to do it. And if you did all the men would think that the demoness was lose and you would end up in shackles. Its just something you have to deal with as a pretty girl, Dra'e. All you can do is grin and bear it, while consoling yourself that the best he will ever do is console himself. After all, no woman he doesn't pay will ever do it for him."

"He's a pig!"

"Yes dear, he's a pig!"

-------------

A couple of days later I was with Master Elladoo working on some book-keeping, enjoying immensely the normalcy of the task. In general, normal seemed to be the best way to describe how the master treated me. Both the mistress and Mary seemed to be enjoying the experience, though not in a malicious way. They did support my desire to return to myself, they just felt that as long as I was in a female body that they would treat me as the daughter that the Elladoo's would never have. But the master, he just decided to treat me like nothing was different. Well that's not quite true, he was a bit more solicitous towards me, much like a few years earlier when I had broken my arm. Still he seemed quite confident that the mages in Glanlies would fix me up soon after my arrival, which lead to my confidence in the same.

So there we were working away when a recognizable racket of shouts and animals and carts came from down below. With a nod of permission from the master I moved over to the window to see what it was, "Master it is Clara returned with her caravan from Meeting Point."

Commission Map of the Peninsula of Glanlies

"Ahh that is good, I had expected her to be the first to return. Hopefully the tribes had good fortune with their trapping over the winter and that Clara had better fortune in trading for the results. The monthly commission report has listed furs as a need item. I am sure Clara will be up soon to give a report and I am sure that she will want a report from me. So let's hurry and finish this up before she arrives."

True to his prediction, it was only a few moments before the door swung open with and Clara rushed in asking, "Hiram what's this craziness I am hearing about bandits and Drake being..."

At this point her glance fell upon me and suddenly her speech stopped. If you knew Clara, you would know how improbable it was for her to be made speechless. Clara was an extremely confident lady, she had to be in order to be a female trader on an frontier post such as ours. But she was very successful, much of that had to do with her ability to talk, but this was only made useful as a result of her being a good listener. Beyond that men liked to hear her talk. It was not that she was beautiful like the mistress, though she was a fine looking lady, it was something else that made men want to be around her. What she had is hard to describe; therefore, I will parrot what I once overheard Stork tell some of his fellows, "Clara is so very alive, isn't she?"

Yes, she was very alive. Her eyes danced, she laughed with the best of them and she entranced men, or in my case boys, wherever she went. So to see her struck dumb was definitely unusual, but it did not last long. Another of her strengths, one shared by many on the frontier, was adaptability, "So it isn't all craziness, is it? Drake?"

At my nod, her eyes widened somewhat and she quickly turned to the master for confirmation, "What happened, Hiram?"

As he told her of Sandrelessa and of Darrel she kept glancing in my direction and shaking her head. At the conclusion of the story, she stated, "You know this is the first time that I haven't envied the extra training that you receive Drake."

"Aye Clara, it can be a dangerous path, but usually the one I walk is quite safe. Drake, I am so sorry that the one time it was not, you were the one to be caught in the crossfire."

"It is not your fault Master. It was bad luck combined with me not being strong enough to withstand Sandrelessa's lure."

"Still, I should have done more to ensure your safety."

"If I had been able to follow orders, then nothing would have gone wrong. Though the experience has definitely driven home your lesson that one needs to be careful when dealing with the demon world."

Chuckling at this response, he replied, "Well I wish you had just taken my word for it. But the mages will fix things up when you get to Glanlies. And as you say it will be a good lesson."

"Are you going to reverse the spell Drake? You seem quite comfortable," Clara teased.

"Most definitely, I want to be myself. As for being comfortable, well I think it is more a matter of following the instructions of my tutor, while biding my time."

"Tutor? Ahh, I bet Mary has gotten her hands on you, she must be ecstatic to have you in her clutches?"

The master laughingly agreed, "Aye, she hasn't been piercing me with any of her 'why have you brought us to this Gods-forsaken hole' looks since she got her hands on Drake."

Not really liking the tone that was being used when talking about my new friend, there was a primness in my voice, a primness that would not have sounded so fitting only days before, when I stated, "Mary has been exceedingly kind to me. If she is getting some enjoyment out of the situation then I am happy for her, since she has been working so very hard preparing for the trip while spending so much time with me."

Correctly interpreting the tone of my answer, the master moved the conversation back to business, "Well now that you have heard our story, let's hear about your travels. How went the trading with the tribes, Clara?"

"Well there was good news on that front. Their hunting and trapping went very well during the winter, so they had lots of nice pelts for sale. As per normal the flour and spices were the hot commodities in any exchange, I only wish we had the logistics to carry more of it. Cloth and blankets weren't that big of traders this time around, I brought back over a third of what we took with us."

"Aye, they are always cyclical. If they didn't take much this time, they will want more in the fall. How about the other goods?"

"Well you know they just aren't that into hauling much crap around. So it went about as well as could be expected. Things they use daily sell okay, but luxury sells were rare. Though I actually sold a fancy mirror and brush set this year to one of the war chiefs who got himself a young, new bride. Oh yeah, the knifes traded really well this trip, that new Corels' supplier really came through. They aren't as fancy as the ones we used to get from Glanlies but they are the good every-day knifes and that's what the tribes want. I recommend we use him to restock, though maybe ask for more variety in blade size and type."

"Noted. How about the pots and pans?"

This question brought a sneer of disgust to both his and my face, while Clara's face turned red in anger, "The newest shipment are complete crap. Luckily we had some left over from last year, to fill the few requests that we had. But the new stuff isn't worth the space it takes away from stuff we could actually trade. I was close to dumping it on the ground and leaving it there."

"I don't know what went wrong with them, the Bandleua's always supplied good quality before."

"Course you do Hiram, you're just to nice to say it. The old man knew what he was doing, but since he died his idiot son has been left in charge. I grew up with Furnie and while he was a great partier, he was useless for anything else. Hell I don't even think he knows you can use a pot for a purpose other than for pissing in, and after a night of drinking he doesn't even know that. We definitely need to find a replacement."

"Esselde is going with Drake to Glanlies, I will ask her to find us a new supplier. Heck, I will load up the crap we already have and have her get our money back from the drunkard. I hate losing money because of idiots."

Shaking her head wryly, Clara responded, "I don't think it is even worth the effort. The last letter I received from my sister makes it sound like he is close to receivership and that was a couple months back. Our family dodged a close one there, she was sweet on Furnie, there was even talk of marriage. Happily it didn't happen, I wouldn't want to see good Holnd money keeping idiot Bandleua business practice going."

"Dammit. I won't even get my money back. What are we going to do with a batch of complete shite pots and pans?"

"The Militia is always looking for pots and pans, their patrols are constantly losing stuff so they don't really care that much about quality. I will be passing through there when delivering the pelts to Glanlies and will load up the current stock to take with me. We should at least be able to recoup our losses and if Turin smiles, we may even make some profit."

"Well profit would be nice at this point, but mostly let's worry about cutting our losses. Well enough of the pots and pans, is there anything else I need to know?"

"Actually there was one more thing I found interesting."

The gleam in her eye showed that, like a performer, she had saved the best for last. The master was not quite as eager an audience as I was, as he did not lean forward in his chair, but there was a smile in his voice as he asked, "And what friend Clara, might that be?"

"Well I had a meeting with the High Chief and he was wondering if we had hand tools stock. When I asked about the type of tools, he mentioned saws, hammers and other building supplies. When I replied that we usually did not have them with us, he implied that it would be a good idea to have them on hand next time we meet up for trading."

"Very interesting, Clara. What reason would a nomadic tribe have for building tools?"

"My question exactly Hiram. So I did some asking around and heard the most delicious rumour. Apparently there is a move afoot to establish a permanent camp where we usually meet them for trading."

"That is very interesting. What do you think the possibility is that they may allow someone from the outside to establish a presence at their camp?"

"I would say very high, otherwise I wouldn't have found out as much as I did. I think it may be a good idea for you to head out and visit the chief, boss-to-boss. If you did, we may be able to get a jump on the Fork Post crew. Currently we have better relations with the chief and his people, but he will have expectations of us. One that I caught the implications. Two that you will come and talk to him, he likes me but always asks about you."

"Very good work, Clara. With Esselde in Glanlies, now would be a good time for me to head off for a visit. This could very well lead to a permanent warehouse, which would definitely be a coup for us. But I am going to need someone to run any new post that we set up, would you be interested?"

"I thought you had to be a sorcerer to be a post master?"

The master must have heard the hidden anger in her voice, because he was quite tactful when he replied, "Admittedly the commission only offers its full support to posts with a master, but truly the commission gets more out of us than we get from them. After all, when I made the call on them last week we didn't get any help. Besides which the vast majority of posts are run without any sorcerer present and run quite successfully. No the most important thing for most post-masters is to understand the clientá¨le with whom they are dealing. You know the tribes as well as anybody, that will serve you better than any sorcery. Honestly the sorcery requirements for post masters are not that big of thing."

"Unless you are trying to convince your apprentice to learn sorcery," I could not stop myself from blurting.

Laughing unabashedly at this statement, the master replied, "Exactly, that's the best use I ever found for the requirement. Honestly Clara, you have what we need to run a new post amongst the tribes."

"Aye Hiram, I know I do. I was mostly just pulling your leg." She then lapsed into a moments thought before answering, "But no, I am not ready to leave the road quite yet. It's best to look for someone else. Plus you have to find out if there will even be a post, before you offer its command to anyone."

"Well I have a feeling that you read the situation correctly. But on to other things. Is there anything else to report? If yes, it will have a tough act to follow."

"No, that is all."

"Very good, now it's time to see if my apprentice was paying attention or was just here for comic relief. Drake, what assignments have come out of the discussion between Clara and myself?"

Expecting a question like this I had been trying my hardest to keep track of the discussion, "Yes Master, I believe the following are the assignments. The first is yours, you will be travelling North to talk to Chief Many Song about establishing a post within his territory. Clara is to deliver the pelts to Glanlies via North Fort, while at North Fort she will try to offload our current pots and pan supply. Mistress Elladoo will be tasked with finding a new supplier for pots and pans. She will also talk to the knife supplier to get him to expand the range of items he provides."

"Don't forget that the chief mentioned tools to Clara, we will have to have Esselde look for a supplier for those as well," Master Elladoo reminded.

"How about finding a post master," Clara queried?

"Let's hold off on that for now, as you said it is best not to weigh our catch before we pull in the net. However, if needed, I plan on talking to Eric Soldin. He has really good relations with the tribes, is a hardworking and honest fellow, but he has never been able to bankroll a large operation."

"Good idea, Hiram. Plus I know that his wife is tired of the road. She knows she will never get him to settle down in a real town, but she would be willing to accept an outpost."

"Okay, I think we've covered everything?"

"Actually Master, may I add something?"

"Sure Drake, what is it?"

"It concerns the new cobbler, I do not believe he is working out."

"Alphonse? But he's an excellent craftsman, we are lucky to have someone of his skill at our post. What's wrong with him?"

"Umm, well the women don't like him."

"Huh?"

Luckily Clara came to my rescue allowing me to just sit there blushing that I had brought it up, "Hiram the man is a pervert. I am guessing the reason why you were able to get someone of his skill, way out here, was because nobody wanted him wherever he was before."

"Has he done anything?" the master questioned with quite a bit of fierceness in his voice.

"Not anything of which I am aware, it is more the way he looks at us. Now you know that I am no prude, and enjoy the attention of a man with the best of them, but he makes me feel dirty with his stares. There are dark thoughts lurking in his eyes. Since I am on the road so much, I always can always find another cobbler to help me. But those who are here, year round, are not as fortunate."

"Well I hate to condemn a man who hasn't done anything, but he's useless to me if a good portion of the post is afraid of him. Let me talk to some other people about him, if necessary we will add finding a new cobbler to Esselde's tasks. Now, let's call it a day. I am going to go down and check that the warehouse has the salt ready to ship once the river boat arrives. Then I am going to spend the rest of the day with my wife, from whom I will soon be parted by our separate missions."

-------------

Sorry all, I need to interject something about the last section of my story. When my editors at the Asthelhorne Monthly Biography Journal read my first draft of this submission, they recommended that I leave it out. They felt it doesn't move the story along nor that it is really all that interesting. They may be correct, but they completely missed the most important reason for it to exist, that section more than stories of demons, bandits or even my change reflects who I am. It is the reason my story has the title, Adventures of a Merchant. No matter what has happened to me over the years it has always been based around my mercantile experience. I love the art of the trade, or the moment when you get a lead that may blossom into something beneficial hopefully not just for you, but also for whomever which you are dealing. After all, as Salend Voctor writes in book two of the Annals, 'If you want to make the big score one time, become a con-man. But if you want to have a lasting partnership of benefit, become a merchant.'

Yes, much of my time, even to this day involve discussions such as the one just described. Sure the setting has changed, now it is more often to occur in a salon or fancy office, but the same truths apply. A ten minute conversation may lead to a year of work and years of benefit. And since I am not going to delve into the master's negotiations resulting from the conversation outlined above, let me tell you now that it definitely led to years of benefit for the members of Elladoo post, though it did require quite a bit of hard work.

So the section needs to stay in. Plus I did mention at the end of my previous installment that there would be some merchant talk, so you cannot say I didn't warn you.

However, just to be nice to my editors, who work hard to interpret my scribbled hand writing, we will skip over the meeting with Durk when he returned from his trip a couple of days later. He had been west of the Rillian travelling from farm to farm trading for spring sheared wool, as expected it went very normally and he did not bring back any news of the magnitude obtained by Clara. But his arrival did initiate some frenzied work by the the warehouse crew as they worked all night re-bundling the wool for easier shipping. Once done, it was reloaded, along with the pelts from the North and the crappy pots and pans into a new caravan which Clara had on the road the next day.

A few days after Clara headed out the river boat on which our party was to head South arrived soon after and was quickly unloaded of supplies and wares before being reloaded with salt for a return trip. The evening before we left involved a get together between the Elladoos and myself, where we reviewed the itinerary and purpose of the journey. Parts of which I was looking forward to, such as; being returned to myself and assisting the mistress in negotiating deals with suppliers. For even though she had no official ranking within the commission, she was a master in her own right. Likely it was her birthright as a Deglace. However, there was one task towards which I was not looking forward. That being the visit with my family.

Now it may seem that, since I have mentioned this fear multiple times, that my family and I were not that fond of each other. But that has never been the case we have always got along quite well. But like many successful relationships, one hundred percent honesty is not always the best policy. Not saying that lying is the key to good relationships, but sometimes omitting to tell loved ones everything can prove to be beneficial. The risk with this approach is that one day you are forced to reveal that omission when explaining something that is even worse then what was hidden. At that point all you can do is hope the omitted truth does not bite you too hard. Well this was one of those cases where I was caught omitting a truth and my worry was that the bite taken would be rather large.

There had been fairly regular contact with my parents, mostly through monthly letters explaining my life as a merchant apprentice. Beyond that, there had been visits to Corels at least once, usually twice, per year. But in none of those letters or any of those visits had I mentioned that my apprenticeship involved learning sorcery, minor though it may be. Though unaware of my parents' feelings about sorcery, I could guess. Based on their never disputing Grandmother's beliefs, who had believed that magic was the work of evil, it was easy to surmise that they held the same belief. Furthermore, Corels was the home to the largest congregation of Furigal worshippers in the peninsula, and those who worshipped the God of the Sea were also the most anti-sorcerous group in the peninsula. Sailors tended to be a superstitious lot who spent much of their time out on the realm of their God, who was capricious and demanding. Furthermore, more than any other god or goddess in the Peninsula's pantheon, Furigal was a god of nature. And sorcery is anti-nature. Since my parents, despite not being sailors, were worshippers of Furigal, it was my guess that they too were leery of sorcery.

So my fear was that, though they may not lose their love for me, they may also not be that sympathetic to my plight. They may even believe that my fate was deserved. Thus, for the first time since my encounter with Sandrelessa I was unable to get a good night's sleep, resulting in a rather bleary Drake who boarded the river boat in the morning with the mistress, Mary and our guard, which consisted of Jimi and Stork. The two of them had been chosen for the same reasons that they had been chosen to watch over me while I slept off the results of my demoness inspired rage. Those reason being that they worked well together, were patient and calm, were good at their job and had been retainers with the Deglace's long before they had followed the mistress to the North. However, before they joined us, the master and sergeant had taken them aside to explain my whole story and to try to convince Jimi that I was not possessed by Jiringel. I say try, because he was not quite ready to be convinced. Still it mattered little with Stork along, since he would handle any talking that was necessary.

We had not been on the river for long when all of a sudden we were attacked by river pirates. Well not really, at the time it just seemed that being attacked by pirates would have been preferable to what I was experiencing. For even though the Rillian was calm that day, I was quickly feeling as sick as could be. This was a new experience for me, I had made the trip via river boat multiple time before with not even a hint of sea-sickness. Yet soon I was hanging over the side of the boat getting rid of my breakfast.

It definitely was not an auspicious start to our journey.

The only thing that made the trip bearable was that the river boat did not travel during the night. We spent two of the nights during our trip in outposts similar to ours and one night tied up to the shore, though even then I ended up in a tent on shore since the rocking gentle rocking while tied up was still to much for me. One benefit to this sickness was that I was so caught up in my misery that there was little time to worry about my meeting with my parents. Even when we arrived in Corels, just before dark settled in, all we did was get to one of the better inns, find me a bath so that I could feel human and settled in for the night.

-------------

The next day we were up early, with me feeling much better. My nervousness had returned and as we were getting ready Mary had to chide me rather sternly to stop my fidgeting. When we were ready, she once more had me done up quite fancy. I was decked out in the in the dark green woolen dress, which fit tightly to my body and had yellow embroidered vines up its sleeves. Matching the colour of the dress was a ribbon that Mary used to tie my hair in an intricate series of lose knots. Once more, I was in that bizarre world where I become maiden personified. The only thing was that the garments no longer felt bizarre to wear.

As we were eating breakfast, I could not help but wonder why I had been dressed the way I was, was it part of the plan? For that matter, I did not even know if we had a plan, "Mistress Elladoo, is it part of the plan to have me dressed up like this?"

Looking up from her meal, the mistress smiled at the question before answering, "No, it is just a lovely day and since we are in no longer out in the wilderness, it just seemed appropriate to dress up. See my dress is a similar colour to your's, we're a matched set."

Until that moment, I had not noticed how nicely both she and Mary were dressed, embarrassment from this resulted in a hastily mumbled, "You both look very nice."

Mary, with a smile on her face, to remove any potential sting replied, "Well it is difficult for us old maids to gain notice when we are in your presence, but yes we do look good today."

With a blush, I apologized, "I am sorry for being so addle pated, but I am very nervous."

"We know you are sweetheart," Mistress Elladoo answered. "But you can be sure that both Mary and I are here for you. And unless I have completely lost my ability to read people, your family will also be here for you."

"Thank you so much for the support, both of you. I would have been an even bigger wreck without your guidance and support. But I still wonder how we go about telling my parents what has happened to me. Even I find it is such a hard story to believe and I'm living it."

"I have actually given it quite a bit of thought, Dra'e. I hope to catch them when nobody else is in the bakery at which point I will go in on my own. I will then break the news to them, both of your possession and how that possession has changed you. In addition I will tell them of our plan to have you returned to yourself. Most importantly, I will stress that these changes have not affected who you really are. Once I determine if my read on them is correct I will either come and get you or come out so we can continue on with our task to talk to the knife supplier."

"What will I be doing while you are in talking to my parents, Ma'am?"

"You and Mary will be waiting outside in a carriage that I have ordered. Speaking of which, my ears tell me it has apparently just arrived outside. Let's finish up our breakfast and head on out."

By mutual consent we decided that we were done and stood up to move to the door. Before getting outside we were joined by Stork and Jimi, who preceded us through the door. When outside we all stopped in sudden shock, for though there was a carriage waiting, it was not what we expected. Nor were those who escorted it expected. Before our surprise had a chance to abate one of those escorts, none other than Ensign Elfos Tillindal, moved his horse forward and stated with authority, "Drake of Elladoo Post, you are under arrest."

I am not sure what it says about me that my immediate thought in response was, 'I really need an eke-name', but luckily Mistress Elladoo was there to do my thinking for me.

"Ensign Tillindal, what is the meaning of this?" While the ensign had made his statement with authority, she made hers with fire. Still he was not cowed.

"Mistress Elladoo, we are no longer on your post, you and your husband are not in charge of security in Corels. Instead it is the Militia's responsibility, and it is our belief that security is undermined by allowing a demon possessed individual such as that to run lose," he finished with a gesture in my direction.

"Ensign Tillindal, we are on the way to Glanlies to have Dra'e cured by the Mage's College."

"Then you should have gone directly to Glanlies, Mistress Elladoo. However, you came to Corels and I have a arrest warrant from the Magistrate's Office of Corels for the arrest, please let me do my job."

At his insolent tone Jimi reached for his sword, but just as the guards with Tillindal began to swing their crossbows in his direction the mistress clamped her hand on his to stop his. "May I see the warrant Ensign?"

"Of course Mistress. But you will see that everything is in order."

I watched her with a hopeful eye as she scanned the document. When she frowned my hopes began to be dashed, confirmation of the dashing followed when she turned to me with a sigh and said, "It looks like everything is in order, Dra'e. You will have to go with them for now, but I will have you out of their clutches as soon as I can. For now say nothing until I can obtain a solicitor to advise us."

It was hard to tell who was more nervous, myself or the young soldier who came forward and clamped irons around my wrists. After they were attached it was no longer hard to tell, it was definitely me. The Militia members then surrounded and herded me to the carriage that was not a carriage, being a wooden box, with only a small grating in the door. No not a carriage, just a cart for transporting criminals, apparently the class to which they deemed I belonged.

The ride was hot and smelly, but still shock had not disappeared before the cart pulled into the courtyard of the Militia headquarters. Climbing out was quite difficult in my long dress and with arms clamped together. Luckily one of the men, a corporal by his markings, reached up and helped me down. However, when I murmured my thanks he only looked at me with those opaque eyes common amongst under officers when they did not want their underlings speaking to them. Instead he grasped my upper arm, and none to gently guided me in following the ensign into the building where we soon ended up in a large office housing a Militia colonel.

With a short bow of respect, Tillindal reported to the man, "Colonel Sir, I have returned with the prisoner. Where shall I imprison her?"

The man basically ignored the ensign, instead he focused his attention upon me. After a thorough head to toe inspection he smiled and stated, "I find it rather hard to believe that you were the death of Darrel Haubanks, he was one of the deadliest men I ever met. While you, you appear to be many things, but deadly is not one of them."

Frowning at the colonel's doubting tone, the ensign hurried to explain, "Well Sir, that is what Elladoo explained to me and stated in his report. And that insubordinate, bastard sergeant agreed."

"Hussel agreed did he? I don't know Elladoo from a harem guard, but I remember Hussel. If he stated that she did it, then he believes it. The insubordinate bastard, as you call him, is not smart or slick enough to pull off such a lie. So how did she kill Darrel?"

"They said she is possessed by a demon Sir. That's how she did Darrel and a bunch of his followers in."

"Demon possession you say. Based on Darrel's reputation I think its more likely that she stabbed him while he was sleeping off raping her." He then returned his attention to me to ask, "So which is it girl, were you his victim before you surprised him? Or are you really possessed by a demon?"

I was really beginning to hate the sound of an Glanlies' upper-crust accent. Though the colonel's voice did not have the cruelty that had been lurking in Darrel's voice, its very indifference was not that much better. It caused the fear of my situation to bubble up over my shock and surprise. I forced myself to remember the one voice of this type with which I did not associate fear and latched onto the last thing that voice had said, "I would prefer not to answer until I have a solicitor present."

He just smiled at my response, "Likely the smart thing for you to do, in fact it is the same approach I would take. However, since you won't talk, we will have to return to Ensign Tillindal's question."

"Sir?"

"Your question as to where we should imprison her."

"Yes Sir."

"Well I am not really convinced that she is possessed by a demon, one would think she would be spitting mad if so. Instead she is standing here the pretty little lady. Still I cannot ignore the the possibility that she is demon possessed, so our cells here may not be strong enough to hold her. Therefore, deliver her to the old donjon."

"Yes, Sir!" Tillindal answered with a smile.

If his accent had not already proven that he was not from Corels, then his use of the word donjon would have given it away. Locals, which I still was at that point, always called the old donjon the Hole. It had been given that name about forty years earlier when it had been replaced as the headquarters of the Militia and turned into a prison by the mayor at the time. Since then it had become the home of the most serious criminals; murderers, rapists, rebels, heretics and so forth.

It had received its nick-name, the Hole, as a result of a reputation that once a prisoner went in they never got out. It went beyond being escape proof, anyone sentenced to the Hole was going to live there for the rest of their life, which sometimes could be quite short if they had a dance scheduled with the hang man. Even after death a prisoner's body would be burned and the ashes discarded into the nearest garbage pile. It was and continues to be a very bad place. And that was where they were delivering me.

The entire time that it took to travel from the headquarters to the Hole, once more in the same cart, I was trying to convince myself that I would only be a temporary resident. That I was not going to be one of those who never got out. That the mistress would be able to hire a solicitor to get me free. But that hope was less easy to grasp as the cart rolled through a massive, closing gate.

The same corporal once more helped me down from the cart, but this time he did not immediately lead me anywhere, instead he looked in the direction of Ensign Tillindal who was talking to a captain in a slightly different uniform. Based on the man's advanced age, and his relatively low rank, I surmised that he was the commander of the prison. After all he had the look of the steady, but non-ambitious (which means without political backing) officer who would end up in a relatively dead-end post like Commander of the Hole. The captain showed none of the animation that was in Tillindal's gestures during their conversation, since to him I was just another prisoner. After the explanation was complete he nodded his head and gestured some of his guards in my direction and passed set of orders to one of them. Upon reaching the corporal and I, they took me into their custody with the corporal seeming to be only to happy to hand me over to their control. I guess he was no more excited about heading inside the donjon than me. The difference was he could leave.

Soon a group of four guards were taking me down into the cellars of the keep, which I am sure that you can guess were a dark and dreary place. Walls seeping moisture, proved that digging a hole this close to where a river merged into the sea was not the smartest idea. It also led to the smell of mold and mildew permeating the air.

Much of what I saw was to be expected, but there were some surprises. The first being that we really did not climb that deep into the ground, there appeared to basically be a basement, used for storage, and a sub-basement which held the cells. The second thing that I noticed was how quiet it was, you expect that there would be lots of chatter, yelling and cursing from all these hardened criminals, but there was none. The last surprise was the number of cells. My impression had always been that there were hundreds of murderers lurking underground in the Hole, but if there were actually half a century of cells I would be surprised.

Seemingly at random, at least to me, they led me to one of the numerous cells whose door was open. Looking inside at the grubby cubicle, barely larger the a closet, I was dismayed to see it contained only a filthy pallet laying on the rush covered floor and a vile bucket in the corner. When I stood at the door, looking inwards with horror, one of the guards stated, "What are you looking all disgusted about Missy? This here is one of the better cells."

I turned my head to look at the voice, with disbelief apparently evident on my face, since he continued, "Yep, you are just an accused prisoner so you get one of the nice cells. If you're convicted then you get one of the crap ones."

One of his colleagues chimed in his agreement, "Yep, cells like this one that have no outside walls are the best. They are warmer and don't have the dripping walls. We save the corners for the real bastards."

The first guard continued, "And the rushes are fairly new as well, no other prisoner has been inside since we replaced them."

Hardly believing their bizarre sincerity, it only required a small push to get me the into the cell, then with a warning that I better be quiet if I wanted be fed the door was closed. Leaving me alone in that terrible box, in a darkness that was almost as black as my thoughts.

-------------

I have described the events leading to my imprisonment to a number of people over the years and it has always amazed me how often I am asked, 'Why didn't you fight them? How come you were so passive?' And it has always been difficult to explain the answer. Partially because the type who ask are either the ones who cannot even begin to comprehend being in trouble with the law or they are the ones who do not know me very well. They look at me and wonder how the slayer of Darrel the Roamer could so easily have been made a prisoner. The other thing that makes it hard to explain is that they constantly interrupt and ask additional questions. Maybe I will have better luck explaining via quill than via voice.

Any explanation must start with a few truths about me. Despite my adventures in the bandit camp and some other examples I hope to detail to you at some point, I am not a violent person. Sure if attacked or in danger I will defend myself, but never in my life has it been me who started the violence. In conjunction with this I must admit that violence is not my forte, sure I have had some training, but outside of the crossbow my skills are barely above average. My chances of success against professionals would have been exceedingly small, as to not even being measurable.

What about my demon, you ask? Well honestly, outside of being changed into a girl, the possession did not measure. When you think of possession, or at least when I had thought of possession before it happened to me, you think of it as a constant presence that whispers things like, 'Kill them. Kill them all.' But that was not my experience with Sandrelessa. Outside of the bandit camp and maybe the sickness I had felt on the river, she had never made her presence felt. Still even if it was possible for me to bring her to the forefront, I did not really want to have her in control. It was not a good feeling to be a passenger in my own body, allowing something as insane as a demoness to hold the reins. Who knew what she would do if she was in charge, my belief is that none of it would be good.

Which leads to the second truth about me, I am an orderly type. My belief in the Commission and its rule of the peninsula is rather unshakable. The Militia troops that arrested me, even Ensign Tillindal, and the guards that locked me in the cell were representatives of that organization. They were just doing their jobs, how could I bring myself to attack them? Furthermore, along with my belief in the system that they represented, I also had to believe that the system would find no reason to punish me.

The last big truth was my age. You must not forget that I was still just fifteen years old, and a fifteen year old who was not rebellious beyond the norm. At that age my life revolved around following the orders of my elders, which included darn near everybody. It definitely included the Militia and prison guards.

So those are the reasons, at least the ones I now believe, as to why I did not put up a fight. Actually when they are written down I cannot see why it is so difficult to explain. It may be due to one other reason that rattles around in the back of my mind, one which I have just about convinced myself that I do not believe. The cause of disbelief is that this last reason grew out of the first hours inside that darkened cell, after my arrest, when I asked myself the questions I am now trying to explain away. At that time, the reason that leaped to the forefront of my mind was that I deserved any punishment I received. There was no doubt in my mind that I was demon possessed and having seen the results of that demon possession first hand, there was even less doubt that it was evil to be so possessed. Hence, how could I not be evil? It had only made sense that they should lock me away in some foul hole like the one they did.

Once coming to this cheery conclusion, I had latched onto it and began to explain away other things. I concluded that the real reason for being scared of visiting my parents was not because I was worried about their opinions, no it was because I was not worthy of their good opinions. For it was as obvious as the back of my hand, which at the time I could hardly see, that my becoming inhabited by this evil force was not an accident. No, it was because I was a natural vessel for evil. And the reason for my comfort in the female form was due to some perversity lurking in my soul. My prior belief that it was due to the support and teaching from Mary and Mistress Elladoo actually disguised my taking advantage of their good nature. And...

Damn, thinking about that time is depressing me. Of course endeavors in self hatred are never enjoyable experiences. So in an effort to stop me from wanting to jump off a bridge and to stop you from wanting to gouge out your eyes, let us skip over those hours of personal condemnation. Instead we will focus on the efforts of my would be rescuers.

Now you should be aware that instead of participating in these events, I only learned of them after the fact from those who actually lived them. So I cannot fully vouch for them as whole truths, but those whose descriptions I use are trustworthy. Besides which, there really is no reason for them to lie or exaggerate.

This signals the need for me to take a step away from the role I have played so far in the telling of this story. Until this point I have felt that my role has been that of the host, welcoming you into my home. But for the next short while, at least until we can get through the rest of that day, let me change my hat to the more humble one of narrator.

-------------

Well that did not work out at all well; therefore, I am going to change my mind. I did try and tell the story of my friends. Pages were written about Mistress Elladoo hiring a lawyer and speaking to my parents, of Stork's journey to Glanlies, on their speculations about what was going on and all their efforts to free me. Yet every word was a chore, what they had told me no longer seemed clear. Maybe it is because when they first told me what they did and what went on, while I was locked away, it all made sense. Being closer to the time their stories were more believable or I was much more ready to believe. But now, now there are so many questions that spring to mind as I try to write down their words. How did they reach that conclusion? Why did they do that? Where did they obtain that piece of information?

I suppose I could ask them. Yet will they be able to answer? These questions did not spring to my mind until years later, maybe they never asked the questions of themselves. And how would I ask them? Only Jimi and Mary are readily available, everybody else lives far away or are acquaintances at best. For those who are far away, I suppose I could send a letter. Yet, if I could not write their story, how could I write the proper questions? And though I will visit them in the near future, now is not the time.

No, it is best if I stick to that with which I am comfortable, my own recollections. Even when they involve very little happening, but don't worry we will ignore most of the nothing time. For example, let us delve not to deep into the hours immediately after my imprisonment. How many hours I am not sure, since it is hard to tell time in a basement cell.

You may wonder if my situation improved in those initial hours after my imprisonment. Well I could provide the simple answer, but though that works well in teaching, it is not always the best approach for story telling. Instead let me outline a number of the thoughts I thought and experiences I experienced over those hours.

With the cell door closing my thoughts had settled into a dark mode, and the passing of time did not suddenly turn them sunny. Adventures in self-loathing continued to be the mainstay of my emotional imbalance. Though every once in awhile another thought would creep in to take the foreground, at least for a moment or two. Sometimes they were even semi-positive, such as; being glad that I was not forced to share a cell with some violent criminal or my surprise that there was soup with my bread and water. Then at other times they were not so positive, such as; realizing that I was was actually sharing the cell with a multitude of fleas or that the soup was basically made of water and bread.

There were also periods where I wished that all of this craziness had never happened to me, which was either followed by me promising the Gods anything they wanted if they got me out or by my cursing Master Elladoo for leading me astray. At other times I convinced myself that it was all a mistake, that Mistress Elladoo would be there to save me, but later I would begin to question where she was and why it was taking her so long. I would retreat into worrying that the Elladoo's would wash their hands of me or that my friends would not be my friends or that Mary would be so angry at me getting my dress dirty.

In turn this would lead me towards thinking about being changed into a girl. For such a major change to my life, it was amazing how little of an impact it had on me. Much of this was due to an understanding that it was only temporary, but I had to admit that everyone being so nice to me played a large role. Since my apprenticeship, outside of my training, I had basically been on my own. But after my transformation it had almost seemed like I was part of a family and that felt good. Plus as a fairly plain looking fellow, there was definitely an attraction to all of a sudden being pretty, even if it involved the strangeness of wearing dresses. Though some of the dresses were kind of nice...Pervert!

Sadly even non-negative thoughts could not survive long in the environment in which I had been placed when combined with the state into which I had forced my mind. The doubt and anger and fear had to have their place of prominence. They greedily drove away things that did not put me in despair or turned a sneer on my entertaining ideas that I was dreaming and just needed to wake up or that I should try to figure out a way to escape or that rescue was close at hand.

But if you still prefer the simple answer, then please feel free to ignore the previous four paragraphs. Instead, let me tell you that no, things did not improve. In fact the only change was that at any moment the urge to begin itching would overwhelm me as my cell-mates made their presence known.

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Though one could not tell the time of day in the Hole's cellar, there was a rhythm that had been created to mimic what went on outside. I assumed night had arrived when every second torch in the halls outside of my cell were extinguished. This provided a momentary distraction as I digested how mistaken it had been to think the cell had already been as dark as it could get. But again it was not a strong thought so was quickly pushed away by the other negative things that had set up their squatter's camp within my mind. They squabbled amongst themselves, with each trying to gain ascendancy, though each time one was successful it would soon be pushed aside by another. So rapid were the shifts that I cannot say which held the high ground when I finally, please don't stone me for this, drifted into uneasy sleep.

When I awoke, the number of lit torches was still low, so I guessed that my slumber had not lasted long. Nor had it been restful, since I remembered what had been going on in my dreams and dream memory for me only occur in those moments before I fully awake. The reason for my awakening was readily apparent when I realized that I was freezing. But though cold I was happy that it had woken me, because it was not what had made my slumber restless, no that honour was reserved for my dreams. In them I was back in the bandit camp, Sandrelessa was once more back in control and my memories of the event were extremely vivid, either that or my mind was doing an incredibly good job of creating details. And where the event itself had seemed to flash by in a horrific haze, the dream moved slowly in perfect clarity letting me relive every attack, allowing me to study every face. As they attacked and before they were obliterated each and every one of them wore a face that I did not recognize, but when they lay on the ground shattered and broken their faces turned to those I knew and loved. Yes I was quite happy that the cold awoke me.

But once awake the cold, moment by moment, became worse than my nightmares. Soon I sat with my knees drawn up to my chin, with arms wrapped around my legs. Still it did not help, the cold had sunk in too deep. Finally I found myself needing to get to my feet hoping that moving about would restore some heat. And so I began doing laps around my cell. Two steps, left turn, two steps, left turn, two steps, left turn. On and on I walked, and when I began to think I forced myself to count steps to override thought. And when I lost count it was time to start over again, until I was mindlessly lost in two steps, left turn, two steps, left turn, two steps...

There was no more beating myself up, no self hate, there was just the pacing. It surely would have petered out on its own, but on one of my frequent trips past the door I thought I heard something. After more laps I realized that it was voices, and after even more laps I began to wonder why the voices were whispering. Finally it clicked within my head that it was actually prisoners talking amongst themselves. Wondering what could cause them to risk punishment from the guards finally brought me to a stop by the door. Without the beat of my feet on the ground it was soon possible to make out what they were saying and with understanding the first smile in a long time took up residence on my face. They were actually telling jokes, well not jokes, they were actually taking turns telling the joke.

You know the one, it starts with, "A peg-legged pirate with a parrot on his shoulder walks into an inn. While the pirate is looking about the bartender asks, 'Hey Joe, where have you been and who's your friend?'" It then gets rolling when the parrot answers.

It's a joke that I have heard told in many places by many people and never once has it been the same. But though different there are a number of commonalities. The most important being that it is never in good taste, in fact you can determine a lot about the people you are with by seeing how low the joke sinks within their midst. There is often sex involved, usually either involving a siren or a mermaid, heck I even heard one telling that involved a lobster that night in my dank cell. And in general there is no bodily function taboo in telling the joke, though during that night in the Hole I heard taboos broken that I did not even know existed. Yes my fellow inmates were willing to sink very low indeed, definitely making the joke an entirely different species than the first version I heard it in my bedroom one night from my elder brother. My brother's version was mild compared to those I had heard in the bachelors' quarters at the post, but they in turn were mild compared to the ones I heard that night.

In turns I was shocked, stunned, confused, outraged, thrilled and sick from laughter. Now in the first installment of my tale I dissected an experience with crying, how it made me feel and what it did for me. Now laughter, true belly laughter affects me in a much more positive fashion than crying. The tears from laughter seem to wash away my fears and angst, while tears from crying make them blurry but does make them go away. And after a good laugh, everything is funny, not sad. If I had my druthers, I would always prefer the laughter. Alas, there is usually not a choice, you just deal with what you experience and hope that everything works out for the best.

On that night, the laughter most definitely worked out. The laughter chased away much of my darkness and stood guard against its return. It allowed me to judge myself in a much more positive light, question why I felt bad about what happened in the camp. After all neither Darrel nor his followers would have felt a moment's guilt over anything they planned to do to me or my friends at the post. So what that Sandrelessa lurked inside my body? Based upon what Master Elladoo told me of how the spell worked, it was I who possessed her not the other way around. And true, I was not gnashing my teeth and pulling out my hair about being turned into a girl. But being adaptable was important to us frontier dwellers and honestly it was far from being horrible, some of it was quite nice in fact. Yes I would be glad to return to being a boy, but until then I would make the best of it.

I was going to get out of the Hole, and I was going to go to Glanlies. Despite what that idiot Tillindal may think.

-------------

The laughter served me well over the next number hours, both in sleep and while awake. When I saw the guard whose job it was to empty the buckets I immediately recognized him from one of the jokes and began to giggle. When he did not take kindly to this and threatened me, his rather squeaky voice pushed me into a full-fledged laughter. And when he was about to enter the room and his colleague said, "Leave her alone Clem, she's demon touched," I laughed even harder. Yep the tiniest thing could start me off again; like how silly the intricately tied knots from the day before looked as they loosened in my hair, or the off key whistling of a guard and most definitely the limerick that, though barely readable, had been scratched into the wall.

My guess is that with the amount of cackling I did that day, there was little doubt that anyone who heard would be sure that demon possession was driving me insane. And of course even that was funny. Still by the afternoon laughter was beginning to lose its charm and I found myself trying to figure out something new with which to occupy my mind. First off I tried to remember every song I knew, but though they had put up with my laughter, the guards were unwilling to put up with my singing, they apparently found my voice was just as unable to carry a tune as it had when it was my boy's voice. With this avenue of entertainment discouraged, I fell back on a proper task for any young apprentice merchant, I began testing my memory of the Annals. It is truly amazing how much material is covered in those books and it pleased me how much I remembered. My review also proved how much I did not understand, which led to wishes for paper and a quill to note down questions for the master when next I saw him.

I was in the midst of an internal debate concerning what additional items, which were currently not included on our caravan, we should supply to any outpost opened in the tribes' territory when the door opened. My first thought was that it was time for another tasteless meal, but when I saw multiple men at the door none with a bowl of food, my curiosity was peaked. When one of them gestured for me to approach my positive viewpoint continued and my immediate guess was that I was being released. However, that guess was dismissed when I saw them holding wrist-shackles that they quickly fastened to my arms.

Curiosity got the better of me when instead of leaving the stairwell at the point I had entered yesterday we kept climbing. So working up my nerve, I asked, "Where are you taking me?"

The man who was guiding me with a large hand around my upper arm answered, "We didn't know you were of the Deglace when we put you downstairs yesterday. You high mucky-muck types are to be kept in one of the Tower's cells."

Digesting this explanation raised a number of questions in my mind, but the rather rapid climb up the steep, winding steps in the long skirt of my dress forced my attention to focus upon not stumbling. We passed four more exits before the guards stopped, unlocked the landing door and pulled me through onto a level with four doors similar to those in the basement.

The same man who had answered me originally looked around and stated, "Well you're the only one up here girlie, so take your choice."

After my random point at a door, they took me over, opened it up and in that same not-totally forceful way as the day before pushed me into the cell. Actually it was more of a room than a cell, not a particularly nice room, but not a hole either. The most important difference, the thing that further lifted my spirit, was that there was a bar covered slit in the wall through which both light and fresh air was able to stream. Hardly noticing the rest of the room I quickly moved over to this slit and though it was above my head I could look out and see the sky and more importantly breathe in the fresh sea air. Only after refilling my lungs did I look around the rest of the room and noticed that much had not changed. Sure the room was a different shape, maybe slightly larger, but it still only had a straw covered floor, a flea-infested pallet and a bucket, though maybe not quite as vile as the one in my old cell.

As I leaned against the wall under the slit the guard's statement about being 'of the Deglace' repeated itself in my mind and the questions it had raised earlier now were able to take the place of prominence.. Did he mean it in the general usage? If so, then it meant that Mistress Elladoo was most likely trying to get me out of this prison. But could he have meant it not in the general usage, but in the Glanlies' manner? If so, then she was definitely trying to get me out of prison.

What is meant by in the Glanlies' manner? Well let me delve into the Annals to provide that answer. Not long after the formation of the Commission a bell maker in Freenjie named Edgar Karsen had an apprentice whom he felt should one-day follow in his steps and become the Master of Karsen Bells. If the old master had a daughter he would have married her to the apprentice, but he and his wife had only had sons, two of them. Sadly both had died at a young age in the Sailor's Plague that had devastated Freenjie a number of years earlier. This meant that his sister's eldest son was Edgar's legal heir.

Now while he liked his nephew, and even had him working in the shop, he knew that Paul would never be a master bell maker. He just did not have the gift and most everyone in Freenjie recognized this, including Paul. The only one who could not see it was Paul's mother, Edgar's sister. She was bound and determined that her son would be the master of Karsen Bells. As time passed the apprentice, Sigfri, became journeyman and then as Edgar grew feeble served as master in all but name, meanwhile Paul had settled in as the manager who dealt with supplies and sells. Finally the old master realized that he must do something otherwise it would be to late; therefore, one day he gathered up Paul, Sigfri and his solicitor and went to visit a magistrate.

Initially they had no success, but then Edgar struck upon the idea of adopting Sigfri. At first the magistrate had dismissed this idea due not only to Sigfri being a grown man, but that his parents were also alive and well. Still Edgar was beginning to think it was a better and better idea, so he explained to the magistrate, "Ya see your Honour, it's not so much that I am wanting to make Sigfri my son, its that I want to give him a place in my family similar to what he would have if he married the daughter I don't have."

The judge, who happened to have married into a family wealthier than his own, saw the logic behind this statement and told the group that he needed to talk to some of his colleagues. A decision would be provided at the end of the week, at which time they once more all returned to hear the magistrate's ruling, "You raised some interesting points Master Karsen, causing my fellow magistrates and myself many hours of deep discussion. We felt the key to your request was the concept of how a family survives, grows and renews itself. In fact we asked ourselves, what defines family? Well the traditional answer has family defined by blood; however, as you yourself described, marriage can bring one into a family and blood is only shared with offspring. So if marriage does not join one to their spouses family via blood, then how do they join? This same question can be asked of those children adopted into a family. Therefore, we found that family involves more than just blood.

"So there are already two legal means by which to join a family that does not involve shared blood. This leads to the question as to whether there can be other ways, such as the one that was proposed by you Master Karsen. We recognized that though adoption of a child is possible for all households, marriage is not. This puts families such as yours into a competitive disadvantage. We believe that this can be an unfair disadvantage. Therefore, we rule that a family can contractually choose an adult to join their family."

As a result of this ruling, Karsen Bells passed into the joint hands of Paul and Sigfri who saw that it was brought back into one family when they wed Paul's son to Sigfri's daughter. However, the precedent set in Freenjie was rarely followed, until about seventy years before my imprisonment it made a come back within the wealthiest families, like the Deglace and the Vannigans, when they began to utilize it as a means to broaden their reach. Though before renewing its use, they had redefined the contract into what it now has become, with those being contracted known as the Chosen. The changes had them no longer being seen as members of the family or even equal to those who joined via adoption or marriage, still a Chosen was much more than an employee. The best description of the relationship I ever heard was from a fellow who had been chosen by the Nurnigovs early in his life, when he told me, "You know Drake, rarely have I made important decisions for the Nurnigovs. But by the Gods, rarer even still is one of those decisions that I have not had a hand in implementing."

Those of you not from Glanlies are likely wondering what this all has to do with the guard's use of "of the Deglace". Well it is because that is how the Chosen were often known, at least it was the name they would use when acting for the family. Still I was not sure if the mistress had the authority to make a choice for her family. Or if she could would she able to complete the choosing without me? These and other questions about the Chosen filled my mind for much of my first evening in the tower cell.

And though I was not able to answer, only speculate, it provided me much comfort. Mistress Elladoo, actually I am sure in this situation she was going by her other name of Esselde Deglace, had established the Deglace blanket of protection around me. This was good, for even though the laws of Glanlies applied the same to everyone, the pace of the application was much slower for the privileged.

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Being imprisoned is so very very very very very very boring, it's like being sick without the fun of throwing up. Over the next four days and nights nothing occurred to break up the monotony of my existence, not even the jokes that knocked me out of my funk during my first night. In fact, outside of the food deliverer and the bucket emptier I neither saw nor heard anybody during this time. Even a resumption of my singing endeavors brought about no censure. Still the loneliness was offset by the temperature in the cell, it was not real good, but it was much better than down below. I still had to go for regular walk abouts, but the cold never returned to my bones.

Outside of thinking and singing my entertainment was fairly limited. There was the good ole stand-bye, count the number of stones making up the walls and floors, but seeing as how the number never changes you can only do this so many times before it loses its allure. When that happened I created a new game with the same stones, this involved picking two stones and then placing a finger on the mortar near the first stone I would begin tracing along the mortar from stone to stone until I reached the second one. At one point during this game I actually came upon some lose mortar, which caused some excited scratching in the hopes of finding escape. However, after a bit I realized that even if I removed the stone it would open into the next room, which was not much of an escape. This lead to some searching on the outside wall hoping to find more lose mortar, but it was it was in surprisingly good repair, nor had I looked that hard. After all I wasn't exactly able to fly, so it would not have been much good if I could create a hole. The endeavor did waste a fair amount of time and prove that my new nails were quite strong.

The other thing that provided quite a few hours of distraction was, somewhat embarrassingly, my hair. There is an amazing number of things a bored individual can do with a full head of long hair, specially when that hair is fairly new to the individual. My favourite hair activity had to be the hair waterfall, this is where you gather your hair up up over your head and then let it fall, either in one big batch or let small amounts loose in a continuous cascade. However, hair does not really appreciate this type of abuse, and it resulted in my spending a fair amount of time trying to comb it with my fingers. I also decided to try and copy some of the things that Mary had done to it, specifically braiding. Admittedly I started out doing a fairly crappy job, but hours of free time in which to play with it meant I slowly began to get the hang of it, even with regular stops to rest my arms and fingers.

By the fifth day all these glorious pursuit had lost their thrill. Or in the case of my hair, became to dirty and yucky with which to play. In fact I was finding myself just feeling dirty overall, so much so that I spent quite a bit of time dreaming of bathing. I was in the midst of one such dream, on the morning of my fifth day in the tower cell when the door opened to once more display a group of men, with the one in the lead holding the arm-shackles that implied I would be leaving the cell. The man with the arm-shackles spoke up, "Come over here girlie, time for you to go in front of the magistrate."

Finally, something was happening. So pleased was I with this end to my boredom that I actually hurried over with my arms held out ready for the shackles, then almost skipped down the stairs. Well actually that would have ended with me falling down those stairs, but the guard did not have to do the dreaded upper arm drag. Although it did become necessary when we made it outside and I stopped to just glory in the experience, but soon they had me in another cart and off we went to Corels' court building.

My happiness at the freedom from my cell took a sharp turn downwards when the cart arriving at the court building brought about the realization that I had no clue what was going on. Until this point my entire hopes of freedom had been placed in Mistress Elladoo's hands, an approach that maybe was not all that smart. Still what more could I have done, until they brought me before the magistrates there would be no way for me to know fully against what I would need a defense.

Once at the building they soon had me locked in a room, containing a glorious pitcher of water and bowl with which I tried to wash up. It was of limited benefit, the grime had set in to my clothes and hair, but it did feel good to clean my face, neck and hands. I wished for more, but just as in my cell, even though alone, I was extremely rather about even loosening my clothing. As there was no way for me to control when or who could walk in.

Not long after my wash they came to take me to the court room, a rather plain room with a table and chair at which would sit the magistrate and his clerk, a number of chairs in which a number of people sat and a chair near the door through which I entered. The guards led me to this chair before reaching under my skirts to attach a shackle, chained to a nearby eye bolt in the floor, around my ankle. A new indignity that barely registered, instead my attention was focused upon the chairs and who sat in them.

My eyes, upon entry, had immediately been drawn to my parents and I watched as the shock showed on their faces at my appearances. My mother's shock showed in a her covering much of her face with her hands, though she still peeked over her fingers in my direction. My reaction in turn was one of embarrassment, which caused me to look down at my hands in my lap as I sat, not even acknowledging the smiles of encouragement from the mistress and Mary which I had barely noticed. The room was silent for a couple minutes until the door once more opened behind me, causing a guard to prod me into a standing position along with everyone else in the room.

The figure who entered was shapeless and faceless in a neutral grey cowled robe and leather mask, for the person inside was not to be seen as an individual, instead he or she was an interchangeable Deacon of Jiringel. For it was the deacons of the Goddess of Justice who served as magistrates in the courts on the peninsula of Glanlies. This individual would conduct the trial, ask whatever questions were necessary and would make the final judgement. Solicitors at a trial were there only to provide information to the magistrate or to request a line of questioning. They played a bit part while the sitting magistrate was the conductor of the court room, which was seen as the manifestation of Jiringel's church.

This arrival did drive away my embarrassment with nervousness and I found myself saying Jiringel's Prayer of the Innocent in my mind as the figure took its seat. When the rest of us followed suit, the trial started. There were no preliminaries, instead there was immediately a question from underneath the cowl, in a voice that was rather sexless, even though I assumed the magistrate to be female from height and what little of the form that could be seen beneath her robe, "Who speaks for Corels in this manner?"

"We do your Honour," stated a man in the front row of chairs, standing in conjunction with Ensign Tillindal.

"Administrator Kalok, before we go any further I have questions concerning a number of irregularities concerning this case."

"Irregularities your Honour?" oozed the greasy bastard standing beside the ensign.

"Yes irregularities Administrator. Starting with who issued the arrest warrant for the defendant?"

"I did your Honour."

"Is it normal for you to issue an arrest warrant without first consulting a magistrate Administrator?

"No your Honour; however, law allows the Administrator of the Magistrate's Office to issue an arrest warrant in the case of an emergency."

"What constitutes an emergency Administrator Kalok?"

"There are a number of initiators your Honour. Most of them deal with danger to the city from attack, either from within or from outside. The other type deal with danger to the citizenry of Corels. It was due to these dangers that the warrant was issued."

"All valid initiators Administrator. And we will deal with them in a moment, first we need to finish discussing the irregularities. If as you explain, this is an emergency situation, why did the Magistrate's Council only learn of it yesterday, days after the arrest occurred."

The questioning was definitely making me feel good, but Administrator Kalok seemed not to be bothered in the least as he continued to answer, "Apologies your Honour, there was an issue that arose around the defense of the prisoner which needed to be dealt with before we could proceed any further. As the prisoner is a not of age, it was necessary to determine who should provide a solicitor in support; however, we had two separate claims. The first claim was presented by Esselde Deglace who is the wife of the prisoner's apprentice master. The second claim was presented by the parents of the prisoner, Barmir and Julia. We determined that this issue needed to be resolved before we could proceed."

"Interesting," intoned the magistrate in a manner that actually made Kalok flinch. Then turning to face the side of the room in which my parents and friends sat, asked, "Master Chone I guess that you are here to speak for the defendant. Which party do you represent."

One of the two men whom I did not recognize, sitting with my parents and the mistress stood up, bowed to the magistrate and answered, "Your Honour, I have actually been contracted to represent both parties. The issue that the administrator mentions was resolved the morning after Drake's arrest. Any other delay was totally created by his office..."

"Your Honour," the administrator spouted in outrage.

"Is that true Administrator? Were the two claims put forward by the same solicitor? If so, what was the issue to resolve?"

"They were your Honour. However, we needed ensure that there was no conflict of interest before we could allow Master Chone to speak for both parties."

"Master Chone was there a conflict of interest?"

"Your Honour..."

"I was asking Master Chone, Administrator."

"No your Honour. Both parties were working together through me, almost from the beginning."

"Almost from the beginning? Please explain."

"Yes your Honour. I was initially engaged by Mistress Deglace to determine why Drake had been arrested. However, my queries to the Magistrate's Office were turned aside when they informed me that the mistress did not have standing in this issue. This despite her being the wife and a designated agent of Master Hiram Elladoo, to whom Drake is apprenticed. After this rebuff Mistress Deglace and myself contacted Drake's parents, Barmir and Julia, to explain what had happened. As a result of this discussion they also retained my services. However, when I presented myself at the Magistrate's Office the next day, they still would not provide me any information."

I was pleased to have my guess about the mistress using her birth name validated, but then it did not require much thought to realize that she would use Deglace in this situation. After all, even though we of the post saw her mainly in the context of Master Elladoo's wife it did not mean that she was no longer a Deglace. And it was the simple truth that anywhere outside of a small range surrounding Elladoo's Outpost the name of Deglace carried much more weight than did Elladoo.

While I thought this, the magistrate continued her questioning of the solicitors, "Administrator Kalok, if the issue was resolved so soon, what caused the rest of the delay?"

"Your Honour, when Master Chone presented himself on behalf of the prisoner's parents he also submitted an application from Mistress Deglace requesting that the prisoner be granted Chosen status to the Deglace family. Since this had a role in determining whether Mistress Deglace had standing or not, we felt that it needed to be resolved first before proceeding."

Well that answered the question that had monopolized my mind during the first night in the tower cell. The "of the Deglace" had been in the Glanlies manner. The new question was as to whether it was just a tactical part of my defense, or if it would be pursued if I ever obtained my freedom. I was hoping the second was true, for I was young enough to think it would be wonderful to have such a close tie to one of the families of power. I felt that it would place me in good stead as I pursued my career and rather fun.

"Was it necessary to delay informing the Magistrate's Council until this manner was dealt with Administrator?" the magistrate asked once Kalok finished his explanation.

"I am not sure your Honour. I felt it was best that we ensure that the issue be dealt with properly in order for the prisoner to receive a fair trial."

Yep he was a smooth bastard. Everybody in the room were able to guess that he was not telling the truth, yet there was no way to prove that he lied. The magistrate must have realized this as well for she started upon another line of questioning. "Thank you for your explanation of the irregularities Administrator Kalok. I believe it may be necessary for the Council to review some procedures, but that is for another time. Let us now focus on the case before us. You stated that the arrest of the defendant was the result of an emergency, what was the emergency?"

"Yes your Honour. Six mornings ago Ensign Tillindal of the Corels detachment of the Commission's Militia presented himself at our offices and provided information that a dangerous person was in the City of Corels. He was of the belief that this individual was a great risk to the citizenry as a result of being possessed by a demoness. The ensign was very persuasive in his explanation and being aware of his and the Militia's desire to ensure the people's safety, I issued the warrant."

"So you issued the warrant based upon the testimony of Ensign Tillindal?"

"Yes your Honour."

"Thank you Administrator Kalok, you and Master Chone may sit down while I question the ensign."

"Thank you your Honour."

"Ensign Tillindal is it true that you were the one to request the arrest warrant against the defendant?"

"Yes your Honour."

"What led you to believe that the defendant posed a threat to the community Ensign?"

"Well your Honour about three weeks ago I was in command of the escort for the monthly Hanglish Mine's pickup barge. During our return trip we stopped one evening at Elladoo Outpost at which point I learned that they had recently survived an attack by Darrel the Roamer and his band. During questioning of the Outpost's Master I learned that the reason for their survival was the result of the defendant having killed Darrel and many of his bandits. I found this shocking because they had a well-earned reputation for being a hard-bitten group and for a single individual to wipe so many of them out was rather hard to believe. When I expressed my doubt, Master Elladoo informed my that he believed that the prisoner was able to perform this feat as a result of demon possession."

"What did you do at that time Ensign?"

"Your Honour, being aware of the dangers posed by the demon possessed I immediately offered to take her into custody; however, Master Elladoo and his rude sergeant did not allow me to do so. Something that was their right, poorly thought out though it was."

"You mention the dangers of the demon possessed, what are these dangers Ensign?"

"Well your Honour everybody knows how violent they are. How they are all about killing and based upon Master Elladoo's report this demon possessed girl is all about killing horribly."

Well he was close to the truth, I definitely wanted to tear him limb from limb at that point. And it was not the demon talking. Luckily for the ensign it was the magistrate in charge and not me, for that worthy continued in a slightly scornful tone. "Ahh, everybody knows? Tell me Ensign, has the defendant committed violence against anyone else?"

"Not that I am aware of your Honour. Though it is very possible that something has happened between the point of my leaving Elladoo Post and my arrest of the prisoner."

"Mistress Deglace, has your charge committed any violence other than against the bandits?"

"No your Honour."

I will admit that I wished for a stronger endorsement from the mistress, but as the magistrate's questioning continued I realized that it was not needed and may have just slowed Jiringel's Deacon down, "Ensign did the defendant resist you during her arrest?"

"No your Honour."

"How about during the time in prison or transportation?"

"Well your Honour..."

"May I remind you of how much I like the truth Ensign."

"No need your Honour, the prisoner was not violent in the prison or during transport."

"What you are telling me does not seem to be consistent with your concerns leading to the defendant's arrest Ensign."

Tillindal nervously looked back at Administrator Kalok but that unworthy was looking away and would not meet his gaze. After a questioning 'ahem' from the magistrate he turned back and gamely answered, "I will admit that I am not an expert on possessions your Honour; however, based on the extreme violence the prisoner committed against the bandits I still believe that the prisoner needs to be locked up behind bars."

"Do you really want to go there Ensign?"

"Your Honour?"

"Do you really think the defendant should be kept behind bars for defending herself from rapists and murderers?"

"Umm...well your Honour...um...I guess not?"

"Of course not Ensign. Darrel and his men were scum who deserved to die. Do you have any other reasons for keeping the defendant imprisoned?"

"Umm...no your Honour."

"Administrator Kalok do you?"

"No your Honour, it appears I was overly quick to reach my conclusion."

It took some self control on my part to not blurt out 'Yeah, I believe you,' though I did roll my eyes. While Ensign Tillindal seemed shocked by what had happened, it was easy to tell that it was all expected in the game that Kalok was playing. Nor did he show any surprise when the magistrate stated, "Then I will have to find against the City of Corels, they have no right to continue the imprisonment of Drake of Elladoo Post."

You can likely guess that I did not jump up in glee at this statement, after all things had gone much to easily. Plus everything so far had seemed scripted, with each person playing a rehearsed part in the play. However, in this play not everybody had yet performed, for me the two who I assumed had a major role during act two sat on the side of the room with Kalok and Tillindal. Almost as soon as I had spotted them it had jumped into my mind that they were the two who wanted my head, the others were just their pawns. This was confirmed when the male member of the pair, wearing the sea green robe of a priest of Furigal and decked in the insignia of someone holding a high office, stood and approached the front of the room.

When the man came to a stop he gave a little bow to the magistrate who returned it in kind before knowingly asking, "Father Igtanigus is there something that you would like to add to the proceedings?"

Recognizing the name I guessed that the man would be miffed that the magistrate had used the lesser honorific of Father as opposed to Your Worship. My guess was confirmed when he likewise addressed the magistrate, "Thank you Deacon Smoiners. I would like to bring forward a point of precedence that is important to this case."

"Please go on Father."

"Thank you Deacon. While it is true that the city and the Militia are tasked with providing security and protection to the citizenry, there is actually an ancient compact between the City of Corels and the Followers of Furigal for the latter to provide protection from sorcerous and demonic attack."

"I am aware of the compact Father Igtanigus; however, I do not see how it would apply in this case since there has been no attack."

"True Deacon Smoiners, still the compact allows us to be proactive in ways that is not allowed to the militia. It is our duty to study this child to determine if she is a threat to herself and others. Luckily we have an illustrious visitor in Corels who is able to conduct such an evaluation." Bowing in the direction of the hard faced woman whom had been sitting with him, Father Igtanigus performed the introduction, "Abbess Deanile of the Sisters of the Sea Convent has spent most of her life helping those afflicted by demons. I recommend that we place this child in her care for evaluation."

Well there was another name I recognized and felt likely explained why the administrator had delayed informing the Magistrate's Council about me. As a high ranking official within Corels there would be a very good chance that he was a member of the Followers of Furigal and would not be adverse to providing them a favour; such as, delaying my trial until their chief bully girl could arrive on the scene. My grandmother had often talked about Abbess Deanile, although Grandma had always referred to her as Inquisitor Deanile when extolling her good works. The name caused a thread of fear to wrap itself around me heart, making it so I had to force myself to pay attention to the continuing verbal jousting between the priest and the deacon.

"That was a lucky chance to have the Abbess visiting Corels while this was happening. Still if I understand the compact correctly, is there not a provision for the defendant to have her own expert present during any evaluation?"

"Most defendants do not choose that option Deacon Smoiners."

Which I interpreted to mean that the Followers usually forced the defendant to waive that right. It was a moment in which my faith in Mistress Elladoo was put to the test and rewarded, for that wonderful lady had her solicitor stand, move forward and wait for the magistrate's permission to speak. When granted, he firmly stated, "The defense definitely would like to implement this right your Honour."

Without waiting for permission Igtanigus offered, "We will be happy to provide access to one of the our other experts. I am sure that Abbess Deanile can recommend an able assistant."

"Will that be acceptable, Master Chone?"

"Actually your Honour, the defense will be providing their own expert."

Neither of Furigal's clergy members were pleased to hear this and once more the father jumped in with his reply, "We will not accept any charlatan as an expert. And I would like to remind the Deacon that the College of Mages' application is still waiting approval; therefore, if the defense is hoping to foist one of their members upon us he should know now that it will not be acceptable."

Like a tumbler in a lock, the final component fell into place for me. My arrest was not about me at all, I was just a skirmish in the ongoing battle between the Followers of Furigal and the College of Mages. Approximately every five years the College would apply to establish a presence in Corels and every time the Followers would fight the application. Usually they found it an easy fight, just marshalling the members of their congregation to voice disapproval and having the City Council vote it down, it also helped that council members were often Followers. That they were actually going after me raised a question as to whether their defense was not going as well as normal this time around causing them to see my persecution as an important component in their plan to stop the College. After all, what had happened to me was the result of magic gone wrong, I could definitely serve as a fine object lesson.

While these thoughts raced through my head, Solicitor Chone responded to Father Igtanigus, "Well aware are we of the Followers of Furigal's concerns with the College of Mages; therefore, we submitted a request to the Temple of the Allfather in Glanlies to see if Magister Bewlmon would be willing to journey to Corels to participate in an evaluation of Drake. Happily for all of us he accepted."

This time the name did not mean anything to me, but based on the lemon sucking look upon the Father's face and the eye squinting of his she-wolf, the name was recognizable. Additional confirmation of this was provided by the looks of glee on the faces of my supporters, showing that they felt they had pulled off a great surprise. In turn, my face broke out in a smile when I realized that my parents' faces held the same glee as all the rest. For in that moment I realized that it was aimed at the discomfort of the two members of Furigal's clergy, members who my fears had made me feel my parents would support instead of me. How could I have been so wrong about them? They had never given me reason to doubt, instead I had just jumped to the most negative conclusion.

So yes I smiled at them. A smile that they returned even though it must have been rather bizarre for them to return such a smile from their son, a smile that Mary later described as my fair damsel's smile of delight. The way I felt at that moment I would not have been surprised if Asolde's Angels all of a suddenly appeared singing arias of love. Of course this did not happen, but you must admit it always feels rather excellent to learn that those you want to love you, truly do love you. It is even true, maybe more so, when it occurs while your very life is in danger.

While my side were sharing smiles Father Igtanigus was marshalling his thoughts and soon presented his next objection. "While we recognize and honour the skills of Magister Bewlmon, we fear that if we do not hurry in dealing with the demon inside this child it could turn out to be disastrous. Therefore, we believe it would be unwise for us to wait until the magister can arrive in Corels from Glanlies."

"Master Chone, Father Igtanigus raises a valid concern, do you know when Magister Bewlmon will be able to arrive in Corels?"

"Yes your Honour, he should arrive sometime tonight or tomorrow."

"Well that is hardly any time what so ever after the delays already experienced in this case. Father Igtanigus, will tomorrow be early enough for you?"

With bad grace the father accepted, "Yes Deacon Smoiners, the time frame is acceptable. However, we believe that it would be the safest for us to take control of the possessed until the tests can be conducted."

"Why is that Father Igtanigus?"

"Though this possession has shown limited acts of violence, one can never know when the demon will gain control. In that case it would be much safer for everyone if Abbess Deanile was nearby in order to provide a defense that is beyond the skills of the Militia or prison guards."

This point brought about sour looks on the faces of my supporters as we all realized that it was well reasoned. This was confirmed when the magistrate answered, "Yes that makes good sense Father Igtanigus"

With those word the play came to an end. And though it had started with me believing I was the central figure, it ended with a realization that my only role had been that of a prop.

-------------

I was not immediately placed into the hands of the Followers, but neither did they give me a chance to talk to any of my supporters. Instead, after unshackling my leg, the same guards led me out of the courtroom and back to the chamber in which I had been held upon arrival. Then the wait began, even though there was little doubt in my mind that they were already prepared to take me wherever they planned to take me, nobody immediately showed up to take me where ever they planned to take me. And though I was sure that the Followers were dragging things out to increase my fears, the knowledge did not help. Actually the waiting may have not done it, but when combined with the stories that I remember my Grandma telling me about the inquisitor, I really did become incredibly nervous. They had been tales of warnings meant to teach my siblings, cousins and I what would happen to us if we did not stay on the proper path. It had alway made me feel that she wished that one of us would stray so that she herself could report our wrong-doing and thus prove her faith.

Yes I held no doubt about which side of the room that she would have been sitting on if she had been alive to attend the earlier play. In fact it crossed my mind that maybe the whole affair was her revenge for my not returning from the post to mourn her passing a few years previously. And my guess was that if she was watching from beyond that realizing one of her granchildren was a magician possessed by a demoness would have her spinning in her grave.

After a significant period of this nervous waiting, with my thoughts flipping between hunger and worry, the door was finally flung open and six crossbow wielding, chain armoured men in the sea-blue surcoat of Furigal rushed into the room. When each had his weapon pointed at me they were followed by the inquisitor and three of her sisters all dressed in the habits of the Sisters of the Sea. And though unarmed it was these ladies upon whom my attention focused, for though they were different shapes and sizes they all shared that same hard-faced hatred that I had noticed on their leaders face earlier in the day.

For a few moments the eyes of the quartet studied me, until I lowered my eyes to escape their stares at which point Abbess Deanile said, "Sisters Gertrude and Erene secure the demon-spawn for transport."

At this command, the two burlier women stepped forward, one of whom carried a clanking sack. Walking behind me the one without the sack grabbed both of my wrists and wrenched them behind me back. When I struggled in response the second woman dropped the sack before grabbing a handful of my greasy hair to yank my head back so she could hiss into my ear, "Try something Demon-bitch. Please try something. I don't want to waste my time studying an abomination, it would be so much better if we could just kill you now."

I believed every word she said, her voice hels so much conviction that I just stood there, trembling and saying nothing. She held my head, pulled uncomfortably back, for a few more moments waiting for a response, but when I offered none she finally let go. Reaching into her sack she pulled out something that I assumed by the metallic clanking was wrist shackles but soon proved to be a chain that she wrapped around my lower arms as the other sister forced them to cross behind my back, once the wrapping was complete the chain was kept in place with a heavy lock. As the weight of the chain forced my shoulders to sag she knelt down and attached a pair of leg shackles, joined by a short length of chain, to my two ankles under the hem of my skirt. As a final step in my chaining a last length was hung from those wrapped around my arms and connected to the chain between the leg shackles. Immediately I knew that there was no running away, walking would be difficult enough and every step would be painful.

Finished with their task the two sisters rejoined the inquisitor and once more the four sets of eyes burrowed into me. In that moment the fine hairs on my arms began to stand up as I felt a power emanating from them, though mostly from the sister who had stayed beside the inquisitor. The strange thing is I recognized that this was not the first time that I had felt this, it was just that during the first time there were so many extraordinary things occurring that it did not register. What I felt from the sisters was similar though slightly different to what I had felt from Sandrelessa. It held much of the same anger as had hers, but where Sandrelessa's was tinted by capriciousness, the sisters' held only purpose. A purpose that saw me as an enemy who needed to be destroyed. More than their looks, this power proved to me who was in charge and I did not have the bravery within me to dispute this as truth.

Inquisitor Deanile must have read my understanding of the situation, because she suddenly turned to leave the room while shadowed by her three puppets. Once they were out the door one of the men, whose face held no more kindness than the sisters, gestured at me to follow. So began my long and uncomfortable journey. My earlier expectations were almost immediately proven correct, rare was the short step when my arms and shoulders were not wrenched and the stairs outside the back door were tear inducing. Never had I been so glad to reach the end of a walk, even if it occurred at another prison cart, similar in form to those used by the Militia but bearing the trident emblem of Furigal. Of course there was no chance that I would be able to get in on my own, though they forced me to try, resulting in even more pain and laughter from the men as I struggled and dripped in sweat from my efforts. This went on for a few moments before two of them set down their weapons in order to grab me, each to a side, and toss me head first into the wagon.

Now I did not fly far through the air, just far enough to get my full length through the door, but I had absolutely no way to protect myself upon landing. Due to my flight being head first the landing was rather horrible. The first thing to hit the floor of the cart, not surprisingly, was my face upon which I bounced and slid a couple of feet. And though it had become rather petite, the first part of my face to hit was my nose, which could do nothing except be crushed beneath the pressure even as the wood scraped and cut the rest of my face.

It hurt, but not nearly as much as the pain caused by the next part of me to hit and bounce along the floor. This horrible pain was the result of my breasts being slammed underneath my weight, which resulted in some of the worst pain I had ever felt. Possibly even worse than that time when my neighbor Sammie and I were having a snowball fight and he hit me in that place just under my belt. It was definitely worthy of a bellow, shout, or screech but such an outlet was denied as my stomach also made its impact and knocked the wind completely out of me. By that point I was in such bad shape that the bruising impact of my knees and toes did not immediately register. By the end of my graceless entrance I was lying face down on the floor that when combined with the other factors (broken nose with blood gushing out and the wind knocked out of me) made breathing a most difficult task. Finally, struggling with my bindings, I was able to wrestle myself onto my side and through wheezes and whines able to get some air.

All of this was done without a bit of assistance from my captors, who showed absolutely no concern for my plight. Instead they just closed the door and soon I felt the cart lurch into motion. It was definitely a much longer cart ride this time around, long enough that my nose-bleed had almost stopped on its own by the time we rumbled to a halt. Wrapped up in my misery as I had been it was no surprise to be yanked out into the courtyard of a building on the outskirts of town, a building which I soon learned was the Sisters of the Sea's home within Corels. This learning came about when Sister Erene, or was it Gertrude, stepped forward with her sack and pulled it over my head while stating, "The holy sights within our convent should not be profaned by the eyes of one such as you Demon-bitch."

This shroud did nothing to help my breathing, with which I was still struggling, but worse it made any movement almost impossible as I found when a hand in the back pushed me forward. Before we even made it to the entrance my crashing to the ground had my skirts torn and trickles of blood running down my shins from knees that were scraped raw. That neither of my shoulders was dislocated was a miracle that became a mercy when two of my captors, in their frustration at my pace, each grabbed a hold of an upper arm and began to drag me forward, which in turn resulted in my feet and lower legs bouncing along in a bruising fashion. Irrationally this brought about a surge of anger towards Alphonse the Cobbler, who I had been unable to trust enough to measure and make me sturdier boots. Boots that would have done a better job protecting my feet.

My very helplessness and pain pushed me from worry and fear all the way to hatred. Even Darrel, when he had held me in his clutches, had not earned my hatred to the extent earned by those hypocrites in sea-foam who hid behind a facade of concern and respectability in order to feed their desires for the pain of others. My hatred had a wish, a want for Sandrelessa to come to the forefront and destroy my tormentors. To tear them limb from limb, to see if they enjoyed experiencing the pain in the same fashion that they enjoyed inflicting it.

But I also realized that they wanted Sandrelessa to appear, that it would give them reason to strike me down. Both they and I knew that it would not be the same unfair fight as the one in the bandit camp, yet still it was a chance that I was willing to take at that moment. But the wish itself did not manifest itself into existence. The hatred was not a ploy by the demoness trying to gain control, it was totally my own.

When we finally came to a stop it was in a room full of heat, making me guess that they had taken me to some fiery torture chamber. Vowing to myself that they would not break me, I forced myself to stay on my feet when my arms were released. I even forced my chin up, planning to meet my doom with head held high. Thus when the sack was finally removed from over my head I was somewhat taken aback to find that we were actually in the convent's laundry. Seeing my reaction burly sister number two stated, in a voice that made the first's voice seem like a dulcet tone, "You're disgustingly filthy spawn of evil. It is bad enough that you stain our home with your presence, we will not have you befouling it with your vermin."

They did spare me from one indignity when the inquisitor dismissed the men from the room. Though I doubted that they did it for my sake, it was more likely that they wanted to deprive the men of seeing my naked body than to spare me from their gazes. Once the room held only us girls the burly twins approached, each with a pair of shears, and began to cut away my once pretty dress and shift. After they had completed the removal of my clothes burly number one mentioned that I likely had lice and soon they had shorn me in the most haphazard fashion. They also made the decision, for their safety, to cut my claws. Finished with their shears, they lifted me into a trough at which point they began to douse me in bucket upon bucket of cold water, ignoring that which had been heated. As the next step in my cleansing they scrubbed me with the harsh lye laundry soap and bristled brushes until they determined that it was time to rinse me once more in the cold water.

It was a far cry from that lovely bath that the Mistress had supplied when I had woken after my ordeal with Darrel the Roamer. And what they dressed me in was nothing like the festival garb I had worn that day. Instead, after they temporarily removed my arm chains amidst harsh threats, they supplied me a tight shift made from goats' hair over which they draped a shapeless brown dress. Immediately the shift began to make my skin itch, but before I could try to combat it with a scratch the burlies once more had my arms chained.

This time they did not even make me attempt to walk, they immediately began dragging me to our next destination. While they did this I found myself silently offering an apology to Alphonse as the moccasins he had supplied were still more protective than bare feet. Luckily they did not have far to drag me, soon we came to a small cupboard like room in which they placed me, once more with dire warnings against escape, before leaving me huddled all alone on the floor.

Alone in my self-pity I struggled to breathe through my broken nose and wished I was back at the Elladoo Outpost. I feared the future while hoping that this Magister Bewlmon fellow would be able to save me from the terrible paths of the sisters, the paths I did not want to travel. Meanwhile my vanity forced me to mourn the loss of my hair and my beauty. But I did not go into the black funk in which I had found myself immediately after my arrest, no there was not any self-blame this time, there was just little hope. Once more I found myself turning to the one ray of light available and struggled to my feet to shuffle over to a barred window. Yet this provided no relief, instead I struggled to interpret the meaning of what I saw immediately outside the window.

Finally understanding forced its way through my fuzzy thoughts. It was the stake at which they planned to burn me.

-------------

At some point, despite hunger and pain, I fell asleep. As with the times immediately after my change or after my hurts from Sandrelessa's rampage it was another of those deep, lasting sleeps. When I awoke it appeared that many things seemed to have occurred, the first of which I noticed before even being fully awake was that my breathing came much easier. This brought to my mind something overheard from the conversation between Stork and Jimi after my last such awakening, about how my injuries disappeared during my sleep. It appeared that maybe I was once more the recipient of this supernatural healing.

The next thing that I noticed was that they no longer had me wearing chains, nor was I still dressed in the cilice. Admittedly my hands were still bound, but now they were tied with a length of leather and my wrists crossed in front instead of behind. These changes and the pallet upon which I had been placed meant that I was borderline comfortable. The final piece of good news occurred while I struggled into a sitting a position and a number of strands of hair fell over my eyes. Yes my hair was back, just as long and healthy looking as it had been the morning of my arrest. Maybe this shouldn't of thrilled me as much as it did, after all many consider vanity a sin, but dammit was I happy. I really liked my hair.

Now I am sure there is a sneer or two out amongst you, my readers. Likely at least one of you has thought, 'Well how convenient it is that you can magically be healed and have your hair grow back.' Well to those, I will say that yes it is convenient, but there are drawbacks. Starting, but not ending, with having to be possessed by a demon. Still when I awoke from my not-so-gentle dealings with the bitches in sea-foam, showing minimal signs of their actions, I was once more feeling quite positive. Though quite hungry and thirsty.

The hunger and thirst was dealt with when I noticed a jug of water and hunk of bread beside the door. Initially I began to crawl the few paces towards them before deciding that it insulted my dignity to crawl to my meal like a dog, so I forced myself to my feet and moved the three paces to my meal. And though it was somewhat awkward to eat and drink with my wrists tied I was able to get most of the water and all of the bread down my gullet. Admittedly the bread was somewhat stale and the water rather brown, but it served its purpose well enough. During the meal I furthermore noticed that my nails had also returned to their full, claw length.

Somehow they must have been keeping a watch upon me for I had barely finished when there was a noise at the door and a surprisingly polite, "Please move away from the door."

Curious about the unrecognized voice I stepped back by the window, well actually curiosity combined with fear of what disobedience may bring caused the step back. Once I moved the door opened up and two figures stepped in, one was the silent sister who had oozed and still oozed the most power of the four Sisters of the Sea. The second, also female, was dressed in a brown robe signifying she was a member of Durnst the Allfather's clergy and she too wore an aura of power, hers implying calmness and confidence. And yet, though it did not hold any specific anger towards me, I knew it too would willingly end my existence if I stepped out of line.

It was she who spoke, and who had spoken previously, "Good, I see that you have eaten and drank. You will come with Sister Jeunille and myself to the privy. Then we will take you to see Abbess Deanile and Magister Bewlmon so they can finish their studies of your condition."

That definitely stirred my curiosity making me wonder how long I had been out, as it did not feel as long as my two prior long sleeps, so I worked up my courage and asked, "Excuse me Ma'am, how long was I out?"

The sister pegged me with a scowl, while the lady in brown did not even look at me, though she must have followed my train of thoughts as she answered, "Just since yesterday, the Abbess and Magister looked in on you this morning."

"What about..."

"No more questions, please follow," she interrupted as she walked out of the door.

Taking her at her word I followed, though the sister waited for me as she apparently preferred not to have me at her back. After a stop at the indoor privy, they guided me to a plain room holding a long table behind which two individuals sat. One was my Grandmother's hero, the other I guessed was Magister Bewlmon. He was not as expected, instead of some studious type mouse he was man who carried himself with the bearing of a soldier in the prime of his life. He also proved why it was unworthy to ever question why the clergy of the Father of the Gods wore the dull colour brown. One only needed to see the lustrous brown robe he wore, which made the brown sack I wore look truly like, well a sack. Impeccably groomed as he was, I might have at one point dismissed him as a fop, but I had recently become a bit of a fan of nice clothes and good grooming. Therefore, I took a second look.

What I saw behind a smile, that likely would have caused many a non-newly minted girl to melt, was power. Similar to his companion's in feel, but vaster and more encompassing. It was no surprise to see Inquisitor Deanile appear almost shrunken in the chair beside him, in fact the anger in her eyes no longer seemed to be focused completely upon me. She was not pleased to be so eclipsed and it must have been even worse to have it occur within her own convent. Needless to say, my heart did not weep for her hurt feelings.

Magister Bewlmon did not even pretend to acknowledge her as an equal as he immediately took charge. "Drake of Elladoo Outpost we have some questions for you."

It would have been nice if they had provided me a chair, for the two peppered me with questions for quite a period of time. Well mostly it was the magister asking the questions and he covered a broad range of topics; such as, reviewing every imp summoning I had witnessed, the training that the master had provided in magic, the room in which we committed the summonings, the summoning of Sandrelessa and the aftermath of that summoning. Every once in awhile the inquisitor would try to jump in, like when my description of Sandrelessa set her off on a rant about the evilness of Carthanan demons. I did have to give her credit, my belief that she was just persecuting me as part of a maintaining Furigal's power in Corels was proven to be wrong. She truly was a believer and felt that she needed to protect her flock from my evil. However, as the interview continued, it was also proven that she had little idea about what she was talking. Time after time the magister ended up correcting her, each time she would quickly look past me at her sister, and each time she would not receive the answer she sought. But that did not stop Inquisitor Deanile from battling on. It would have made me uncomfortably embarrassed for her if I did not hate the bitch.

One particular nasty exchange occurred between the magister and inquisitor when I told about Sandrelessa taking control. The magister was quite surprised that the primary emotion I had felt at the time was fear, as opposed to anger or hate. Inquisitor Deanile stated that fear was just an offshoot of hate, so it was not that big of deal, while the magister argued that it was quite different and that he had never heard of a case where fear, instead of anger or hate, caused the demon to take control.

There was one topic about which both seemed to have a number of questions, specifically how I was able to heal so quickly. Each felt this was an abnormal side effect to demon possession. Revelling in his curiosity the magister questioned me about the extent of my injuries after my fight in the bandit camp. When he learned that I had little memory of the event, beyond my exhaustion and being covered in blood, he moved to my injuries from the day before. After another verbal spat about the cause of those injuries between the two senior clergy members, he stood up and approached me before stating, "Hold still please, I wish to confirm you have healed."

I tried to follow his command but did start back when he reached out to touch my face. Shushing me, like one would a pet, he placed a hand over my nose and then moved it to cover the area of my face that had been cut by the cart's floor. He did it in such an impersonal fashion, yet I could feel a whispering thread of somethingness from his hand. As he examined my face he began to frown and then asked, "Her nose was broken and face scraped up?"

"Yes," the inquisitor replied, apparently just as confused about what he was doing as was I.

"Did you injure her in any other way?"

"She was bruised on her lower legs and her knees were scraped up," was the indifferent reply. Even though the question had held an accusation, their earlier spat had proven that she cared not at all that I had been injured, in fact she even appeared to think I was deserving of everything that had happened.

"And you cut off all her hair."

"Yes!"

"I wished I knew what your previous injuries had been young lady. But since I don't I will have to be thorough in my examinations; therefore, I will have to ask you to disrobe."

Well didn't that cause an immediate warmth to grow on my cheeks, yet what could I do? The magister seemed to be on my side and I did not want to anger him. So I decided it was in my interest to obey and sheepishly held out my tied hands. Magister Bewlmon quickly recognized my problem and untied me, after which I slowly pulled the sack dress over my head.

He made it easier on me when he made no acknowledgement of my nakedness, proving if nothing else that he was not like any of the men I knew or the boy I was not that long ago. Instead he visually inspected me head to toe, then slowly circled me to get a close look from every direction. When next he was at my front I noticed that he wore a look of confusion. He took a step closer, held out a hand and asked, "May I."

When I nodded my permission he reached out to brush my torso. Despite my nakedness and the fact that he was a male, the touch was chaste and so soft it barely registered outside of some goose-bumping of my skin. He held his hand in place for a moment before allowing it to glide to another spot on my body, he repeated these steps again and again. If you ever seen a person studying a statue, running their hands and fingers across the stone, then you can visualize how Magister Bewlmon appeared in those moments. Though that image likely does nothing to help you understand my role as statue. His hand never lingered long, nor did it ever seem to be in full contact, yet even with only the slightest touch I felt linked to his hand. Slowly I began to realize that the linkage did exist, that the magister was casting some sort of spell with which he was examining me.

Soon after I began to fight the need to fidget the magister took a step back, told me I could put my dress on and looked towards the inquisitor, "As far as I can tell, she has never had an injury in her life."

"What do you mean Magister? I saw them myself.", Inquisitor Deanile snapped.

"That is as it may be Abbess, but there is no sign of those injuries. Her nose is not misshapen, nor does she bear scars. Furthermore, there are ways to see beneath the skin, to see where bone and tissue has mended itself, yet I was unable to find any indication of such mending. This does not happen, even the smallest child soon experiences hurt. It is as if Drake has been kept in a bottle away from all hurts, but we know this is not the case."

The inquisitor's tone was full of condescension as she replied, "Of course there is no sign, the demon-bearer was magically healed."

Magister Bewlmon responded to her tone and statement with a large heaping of scorn, "Do you know nothing, woman? Only the best magical healing can remove the visible signs of wounds and injuries, but I have never seen even the best remove the hidden damage."

If things were not so serious it would have been funny to see the inquisitor look past me to her sister for a sign of disagreement. And once more, based upon the frown that came over her face, she did not see what she wanted. Still Inquisitor Deanile was not the sort to let a minor thing like facts get in the way of her beliefs, "Well then it is a new style of magical healing."

"I agree that it is something new, but I don't think it is healing. I do have a theory, but I must think on it some more."

"I too have a theory Magister. And unlike you, I do not need to think on it, a demon-possession is a demon-possession. When it occurs, the victim must be killed so that the rest of us in turn do not become victims."

"Well I guess we will just have to present our theories to the Magistrate Smoiners and let her decide which is to believed, won't we?"

"We will, will we?"

I had been happy to have them ignore me as the sparred with each other, but the phrasing and tone question brought the importance of me back into the equation. Happily Magister Bewlmon most have caught the same undertone as did I, because he stated, "Yes we will. And just to see that we do, I will ask Priestess Ellisel to stay the night with Drake to see that no harm comes to her."

This actually caused the inquisitor's nostrils to flare in anger, "I do not think I like what you are implying Magister Bewlmon."

"Oh I am not implying anything Abbess Deanile, I am stating that this child need protection in this house of worship," he answered with a voice full of sarcasm.

"Well I don't extend an invitation to Priestess Ellisel and I command in this convent."

"Then we will just have to take Drake with us, when we leave."

"You can't do that. Magistrate Smoiners placed the demon-bitch in our care to protect the citizenry of Corels."

"And who will protect Drake?"

"We will of course."

"So noted," the magister intoned, in a voice that was much different than he had been using. If I had not seen the look of consternation upon Inquisitor Deanile's face with this intonation, his giving in would have filled me with apprehension. However, her look told me that he had some how tricked her into ensuring my safety.

As I was taken back to my room, I could only hope that she in turn did not come up with a trick to get around his.

-------------

Based upon the passage of time until the next morning, she apparently had not. Actually it would have been quite a relaxing evening, except that I was never able to relax, sure in my expectation that they were not going to let me make it to the next day. Every time there was a noise, it would jostle me awake or draw my attention to the door. Yet the only time there was ever anybody there was once when the silent, powerful Sister Jeunille brought me some bread and small beer (I think more water would have been tastier) for a meal. She also stopped by to take me to the privy a couple of times. And though I expected them at any moment, the burly sisters never came to provide their expected harassment. Even the stake no longer lurked outside of my window.

So it was a rather blurry eyed and tired Drake who greeted the dawn the next morning. Even then I was unwilling to let myself nod off, remembering stories told by Sergeant Hussel that showed the benefit of dawn attacks. Still as the dawn became full morning nothing happened. Instead I began to feel upset with myself for not taking the opportunity to sleep so that I would be at my near best on this important day.

That day started, for real, when a rattle of a key chain signified someone was about to open the door to my room. Expecting one of the sisters as I was, it was definitely surprising to have a group of guards, some the same as before, show up instead. Unlike that last time, they were not nearly as confident looking. I guess they found it easier to bluster and taunt when standing behind their mommies' skirts. Some of my scorn must have shown upon in my face for suddenly their leader's face hardened and he became quite forceful as he grabbed my two arms to tie them together. He then gestured for me to lead them out of the door.

For a moment I considered resisting. My guess is that this was brought about but my sleep lacking brain combined with my suppressed teenager belligerence. Better sense prevailed when I thought that their plan might actually involve me acting up so that they could fall down upon me like an avalanche; furthermore, the men were just lackeys and it was not through them that my freedom would be obtained. So out of the room I walked, being the very image of obedience as they led me once more to the courtyard and a waiting cart.

This ride started out much better, as even though my hands were tied, their being in the front still allowed me to crawl up and into the box by myself. When the door closed I continued my crawl up to the front wall where I shuffled around to sit in a corner. And though the cobblestones made the ride somewhat choppy, the swaying motion of the cart soon started to play upon my tiredness. Causing me to drift in and out of sleep.

In that state one really does not control their thoughts, instead the strangest combination of things can run together creating bizarre adventures in your mind. Dream interpreters will tell you that it is your mind trying to tell you something, trying to warn or remind or convince. On that day my mind was trying to warn via a dream where I found myself walking through the wilderness. Maybe it was more of a float, for though my vision moved past object after object, whenever I tried to see if I was male or female there was nothing of myself to be seen. Soon my movement was interspersed with attacks by tiny carved figurines like the rich buy their children as toys. At first I was able to brush aside the attacks with ease, but continuously there were more and more of those figures between me and my goal, unknown but constantly further away. Just as I began to distinguish where I was heading the figurines all disappeared.

And with their disappearance I jerked fully awake with a head full of questions. Where were the sisters? Why had none of them been along with the guards this morning? Were they not to be protecting the citizens of Corels from Sandrelessa and myself? What were they up too?

Wishing to know what was going on outside of my box, I scrambled over to the door and looked out of the tiny grated window. But the opening was so small that I could see no one or nothing, nor could I hear anything above the rattle of the wheels over cobblestones. Neither of these calmed my mind, for I was sure that Followers of Furigal had something planned. So I stuck to my post, trying to see or hear something. Yet even with this watch, it was not until the cart exited a street into one of the numerous squares, scattered about Corels, that their plan began to take shape. One which would allow them to circumvent the promise that Inquisitor Deanile made to Magister Bewlmon the day before. No they would not cause me any further harm, instead they would allow others, maybe even prompt those others, to do the dirty work for them.

The cart did make fully into the square before it came to a stop. With the end of the noise of the wheels I suddenly heard a murmuring mixed with shouts of anger. Though I could not see anybody, I automatically recognized the sounds.

It was something that was embedded in my memory from the days before my apprenticeship to Master Elladoo. It had been one of those nice summer days where young boys become a bother in any house and I had been set free to roam and find what mischief I may. After meeting a few friends, each making the group braver, we found ourselves moving towards the somewhat forbidden harbour where we planned to do some swimming. We had not gone far when we began to hear many shouts of anger. By unspoken consent our little herd turned in curiosity towards the direction from which the noise came. In a short time we found ourselves staring at a mass of people in a square, much like the one in which the cart had stopped. We had stood and watched in stunned silence as man, who many cursed as a child-slayer, was dragged crying from a house by four large men in the garb of dockworkers.

I had wanted to leave, but the closeness of my friends, forced a bravery that made me stay. On that night and many nights after I had bemoaned that bravery, for it was often an image of the child-slayer rising, kicking and flailing into the air with a rope around his neck that started my nightmares. And if not that image then it was the aftermath, the body swinging beneath the the rocks that were thrown at it.

From within the cart I heard the sounds I had heard on that day of the child-slayer's hanging. It was the sound of an angry mob seeking to inflict their judgement upon someone. Because of my lack of sleep I was unable to immediately make the jump to who was that someone, instead I found myself swearing at our bad luck to happen upon such a group. But a shout of, "There's the cart with the demon-bitch," shattered my calm, making me realise that the mob existed for me.

This was confirmed when I saw, out of the little window, Furigal's guards run past the cart and down the street from which we had come. Their abandonment of me to the mob's mercy brought a clarity that had me curse Inquisitor Deanile to the depths of Aredente's realm. She would not allow Magister Bewlmon to free me, no she would not stand for such a loss, instead she would have her blood. If it was my blood, that would be a minor victory for her. But even more sinister was the other option, most likely her true plan, where Sandrelessa was released to rampage through this mob. Their deaths would be a great victory for her and her cause, so much so that the College of Mages would take years before they could gain a foothold in Corels. At that moment I promised that I would go to my death without fear, for I could not let Sandrelessa ride the waves of that fear. In the next moment I immediately began to doubt my ability to keep that promise.

There was a moment after the guards fled when the mob quieted, but soon that quiet was broken by the thud of stones pelting the side of the cart. One of the stones must have missed its target as suddenly there was a screech from one of the cart's horses and I was flung away from the door at the resulting lurch. This movement reanimated the crowd as someone shouted to stop throwing stones, followed almost immediately by a number of angry, bearded faces appearing at the back of the cart. Already upon my backside from the sudden lurch, I scrambled even further from the door as hands tried to reach through the grating. And though they shouted and cursed I did not hear a word they said, blurring as it did into continuous, angry sound.

When they found the cart's door barred with a heavy metal lock their frustration led to a group of them starting to rock the cart back and forth. Again this brought about a reaction from the horses and based upon a man's yelp that reaction resulted in someone being hurt. Cooler heads took over for a moment as the horses were unhitched and soon they were back to rocking, causing me to slide back and forth across the floor, bouncing off walls as the cart's wheels began to lose their grip upon the ground. As more men added their weight the rocking motion became steadily more extreme until finally it tumbled over onto a side and rolled onto its roof, causing me to fly about bruisingly. However, the cart and lock were well made and they still had no access to me.

Stymied for awhile, they continued to shout and rock the cart over onto its side once more. Again I heard the loudest voice, the commanding voice shout out for axes and not long after that they were obtained and began hacking into the walls, roof and floor, whatever they could reach. Well made as it was, the cart did not put up much of a fight against these blows and soon there was daylight shining in from all directions. It would not be long before the holes were large enough for someone to come in and get me. I could only hope that it would be quick, that there would be no time wasted on talk, such as with Darrel. It had to be quick, or else I would lose all. Yet I was already afraid, my hands trembled, my teeth chattered and I wanted to cry. Nor did closing my eyes to lock away the sight of axe heads breaking through provide any escape. No my attention focused upon the largest hole, as it became larger and larger. I knew it would be soon.

It was. But not from the hole upon which I focused.

Someone must have been attacking the lock for suddenly I caught a flicker out of the corner of my eye as the door swung out, followed by a rush of men, likely more than really fit into the cart, as they grabbed and began to drag me out the door. Trying to remember my promise not to hurt anyone I once more did not fight my captors as they pulled me out into the open.

Blinking in the sunlight, I was finally able to put a face to the loud-mouth as he shouted to drag me to the square's center, which was inhabited by benches and a tall tree, a good hanging tree. As they followed his orders I realised I recognized the man and had seen him recently. However, the last time he had worn the uniform of the Militia and he had been with Ensign Tillindal during my arrest. But not just him, at least two of the men dragging me were also recognizable. It confirmed that this was no random happening, not that this knowledge would do anything for me.

Even though they were about to hang me they displayed none of the cruelty of the burly sisters. Outside of some bumps and bruises I had received while the cart tumbled, I was not hit or dragged or hurt while four large men carried me behind the militia member giving the orders. Admittedly my temporary safety was owed in large part to the proximity to my bearers and one of them shouting, "If any of you bilge-suckers hit me with a rock I am going to tear off your arms and take you swimming."

Still it was not the potential rock throwers who drew my attention, no that was focused upon a man at the centre of the square. Older than the majority of the men, and while the rest of the mob was in a frenzy, he was the picture of calm. Unlike the rest he paid no attention to me, instead he was intently studying what he held in his hands. Yet in that study he was similar to me, for my sight was drawn to him and the rope that held. I knew its purpose.

And I realized my earlier promise could be damned.

And I did not care how my actions would affect anybody, including the Followers or the College.

And I knew that I was not ready to die.

So Inquisitor Deanile got her wish. Suddenly I was no longer a helpless child, girl or boy, at the mercy of an angry mob of men. No I was suddenly strong, I was dangerous. Where seconds earlier I was being carried to my doom by strong men, I now stood alone amongst a suddenly quieting crowd. Those strong men were now on the ground, lying where they had landed after being flung aside by my shaking free of their grasp. Many had their eyes drawn to those groaning figures, before snapping back to stare at me. In those eyes was shock, for though I may have been tall for a woman, each of those men were taller and much heavier then I, nobody could believe that they could so casually be handled by someone as small as I. Recognition of the truth began to show on some of their faces, followed by wariness or fear. Silent questions were asked as to whether they were being payed enough or if this lark was no still worth the entertainment. They had heard the stories of what the demon-possessed could do, maybe even what had happened in Darrel's camp. The men were frozen.

Yet the stories they had heard and my adventures in the camp did not tell the full truth. Maybe it was because it was expected, maybe it was because it occurred with my blessing, maybe it was because of my promise, maybe it was because of who knows, but this time was not like the last time. Where before it had been as if I vacated my body, allowing Sandrelessa to pour in like water into a pot, this time I was still there. Sandrelessa was not alone; furthermore, she was not in charge. I felt her anger and frustration at her confined existence boiling just below the surface and realized that it could easily overflow the top once more. But my initial release of our anger had been as a pot blowing its top, blasting away my bearers in the steam of my fear and Sandrelessa's anger had relieved some of the pressure. The boil was manageable and there was space around me as the mob had taken backward steps. Yet I as well did not know what to do and was also frozen.

Over the next few seconds I glared at those around me, watching as some of the men hesitantly slunk away. They included the disguised militia members, the man with the rope and those who I guessed were in on the plot or were wiser or less brave. Still that left quite a few, many fueled with liquid bravery and nary a lick of common sense amongst the lot of them. Though leaderless for the moment, soon they would notice the rocks in hand or gain confidence in their numbers. Bravery would cause them to spring into action and blood would flow. Most of that blood would be theirs, for I knew that it would require only a little more heat for Sandrelessa to bubble completely to the top.

The question was what should be my next step, would running away cause them to chase or would it be better to threaten attack. And where to run, this was not an area of Corels with which I was familiar. But a decision was required and quickly, they were starting to mumble, to grumble, to regain their frenzy. So I charged, but not to attack, just to scatter. And scatter they did, for bravery had not yet fully regained its grip. With their cohesiveness temporarily torn apart I took my opportunity to plunge down the street from which we had come, at least it did not have a dead end lurking just around the corner. For a moment or two there was only the slap of my bare feet, then they regained their wits and offered a chase.

The street was straight and quite empty, good for running even with bare feet. The sack in which I was dressed was loose and billowy, not really that good for running but better for it than anything else I had worn since the mistress and Mary got their hands upon the new me. And the new me turned out to be a very good runner and not easily winded. Slowly my pursuers fell further behind and slowly I began realizing that it was time to determine a destination. I settled upon the convent, hoping that from there I could hopefully make my way to safety.

No sooner had this plan solidified in my mind before it was pushed aside by the appearance of a group of men upon horseback cantering towards me along the street. My immediate guess was that it was the militia or a group of the Followers' guards and with my confidence in those two organizations being quite dim I looked for a side alley to escape from both them and my chasers. Spotting an opening not too far ahead I pulled more speed from my tiring body and sprinted towards it. With this extra effort I was able to make my target just before they came upon me, yet when it sounded like they road past the alley I had entered my curiosity made me slow and glance back. This showed that not all of them had gone past, at least two had turned to follow behind me. So once more I turned back to focus on my running.

The two who followed were shouting something but it was not until my mind told me that they sounded familiar did I actually listen and hear, "Dammit Drake, slow down. We're trying to help."

These words finally penetrated, telling me that it was Stork who was doing the shouting and even though Sandrelessa was whispering not to trust him, I did. Coming to a stop I turned to see that the other rider was Jimi who looked much less comfortable on his mount than did Stork. Though both of them looked rather marshal, each fully bedecked in armour and bearing a shield and lance, with sword sheathed at their waists. Furthermore, each wore a tabard of a dark blue with silver piping and a emblazoned with a silver vines. It bore a striking similarity to the first dress that I had worn and unlike that time I was able to do the math, put two and two together and recognize the colours and the vines as the Deglace colours and symbol.

However, their appearance though noticeable was of little importance when compared to trying to determine the reason for their presence. "Stork, Jimi, what are you doing here?"

"Supposedly rescuing you, but it looks like you don't need us," Stork answered with a laugh.

It was the laugh that made me suddenly feel safe, driving Sandrelessa back to wherever she lurked while I was not in danger.

-------------

My chasers had not wanted to have anything to do with the members of the Deglace Household Troops. I could see their reasoning when Stork and Jimi escorted me back to the troop, for despite the fancy tabards they were not ornamental, instead they were seasoned veterans commanded by a lieutenant who reminded me of Sergeant Hussel in age and demeanor. When we slotted ourselves into the troop, me uncomfortably riding behind Jimi on his horse, the lieutenant was cursing at and offering dire warnings to anyone who thought they could get away with attacking someone under the protection of the Deglace. Noticing our arrival he continued to vent for a few moments until he was sure that he had the mob cowed, then he gestured for his men to turn horses and head back the way they came.

With all that had befallen me over the last days I was more than willing to put my faith in my rescuers and instead of worrying about where they were taking me, I focused upon staying on the horse behind Jimi, while trying to ignore my now noticeably sore feet. Finally I got my skirt placed so that there was minimal rubbing, though a fair length of my leg showed, and held on tight. Once sure that my next destination was not upon my bum behind the horse my curiosity could be satisfied as I questioned Jimi about what was going on.

Fom him I learned that immediately after my arrest the mistress had sent Stork to Glanlies to obtain assistance, which had resulted in the arrival of Magister Bewlmon, this troop and the family solicitor. Furthermore he informed me that the rescue attempt was the result of information from a local named Falster, the man who was with the mistress and my parents during my court appearance whom had not spoken. He was a member of the Steel Brotherhood, the local supplier of unattached caravan guards, who had been hired to help protect the mistress and Mary while Stork was gone. With the arrival of reinforcements she had kept Falster on to provide local information and it was this channel that had gotten wind of a large sum of coin being offered to anyone willing to participate in a riot. The mistress had made a guess as to the purpose of the mob and had dispatched the troops to ensure that my cart made it to the court house.

Even though they had almost been too late, forcing me to perform the first part of my escape on my own, it was good to be in their midst. The last thing Jimi told me was that even though this was a rescue they could not free me from all harm, they still needed to take me to see the magistrate, to get the decision about what would be done with me.

We received a lot of space as we travelled to the court house, though a number of curious stares were directed at me, so slovenly in was I in appearance compared to the men. Yet we had no trouble until we got to our destination at which point we were confronted by a ten men dressed in the uniform of the guards who had abandoned me to the mob's mercy. When their leader approached the lieutenant and demanded that they turn me over to them. The lieutenant, whom I had learned was named Kelton Saldian, was having none of this and stated that he would keep me in custody so that the Follower's men could run away unhindered if anything scary happened. From that point the conversation went downhill.

I don't think it would have reached the point of violence, but it was not looking like there was going to a resolution when the court house guards decided to take an interest. Since their interest was expressed in significant numbers and punctuated with crossbows both the Deglace troops and Furigal's guards were willing to listen. The compromise that was reached, actually imposed, was that they would take me into their custody, while the two arguing groups would stay outside and do nothing. Seeing as how my dealings with both the prison and court yard guards had been fairly good, and that neither group had seemed to have an hidden agenda, this was acceptable me. Soon I was once more locked in the room in which I had been locked twice before.

Honestly, it was a much happier and positive Drake that was there this time then the last time. I was rather thrilled with my escape from the mob, and particularly ecstatic that I was able to do so without killing anyone. Sure they had given me some bumps and bruises, while adding to my nightmare collection, but it went as good as it could have gone for me. My hope was that my luck would continue to be good for the rest of that day.

Soon I was settled into, what I now see had become my new favourite position, the corner with my arms wrapped around my legs. Drowsy as I had been during my cart ride, my state of excitement made it impossible to nod off. Good thing they did not leave me alone for long, since I had a desperate need for something to happen other than sitting in a jittery heap. But not long after the door had closed it once more opened and the guard who had backed down the arguers out front entered into the room with a couple of others carrying a chair behind him. When I began to stand up he gestured for me to stay where I was.

The reason for the chair was made apparent when a middle aged lady, with short brown hair made her way into the room and sat in the chair. My curiosity about who she was did not last long, for as soon as she spoke I recognized her voice as that of the magistrate, Deacon Smoiners. She studied me for a moment, causing me to fidget under her stare, before stating, "Well child, I have heard many people talk about you over the last number of days, both in my courtroom and in my time away from this building. Yet the one person I have not heard from is you. It really is time for you to speak, including describing what happened today."

Well I won't bore you with repeating what you just finished reading, so let us skip my answer. Though one thing to mention is that I found myself emphasizing that I had killed nobody and had kept my inhabitant in check despite her desires and my situation. I even blurted out my suspicion that I had been set up to do something horrible and that the Militia was involved.

When she heard me state this her eyes hardened, making me think that I had gone too far, letting my mouth run ahead of my mind. Therefore, I felt a fairly large draught of relief when she turned to the guard officer and said, "Captain, see that a request is prepared and sent to the Glanlies' Militia headquarters asking for an inspector to come and see if their is any truth to this young lady's accusation."

It felt good to see that she did not immediately dismiss my suspicions. Yet I had little time for relief as she soon had me describing my experience in the bandit camp and then she had me try to describe why the results were so different this time compared to that time, "I do not know why it was different your Honour. The only thing that comes to my mind is that in Darrel's camp I did not know what would happen. Whereas today I expected it, was prepared for Sandrelessa to make her presence felt. Thus when she arrived, she did not push me completely to the side and take over. We were both there, but I was controlling her strength."

"How about the men of the mob, did you feel the same way about them as you felt about the bandits?"

That question took me aback for a moment, before I realized it was easy to answer, "Well your Honour, I was annoyed with the men in the mob today, but I never really hated them. I felt they were payed off or duped by someone, but I did not feel they were evil. I did not feel they deserved to die. Whereas, I admit that I felt that way about Darrel and his thugs. They were going to do terrible things to my friends."

"So you thought that the bandits deserved to die, while the men in the mob did not?"

"Yes your Honour."

"Well I cannot say that I disagree with you. In fact at least two of the bandits you killed existed under a death sentence signed by myself."

Grasping at that straw and remembering something overheard from Jimi, I said, "I overheard someone guess that maybe it was actually Jiringel's hand guiding my hand in the camp."

Looking back that was an incredibly stupid comment to make to a Deacon of Jiringel, but luckily it only caused her to laughingly explain, "No child, you definitely were not acting for my Goddess or even driven by justice, instead you were driven by fear. That you were not driven by justice is a good thing, because it is not your role, just as it was not the role of those idiots in the mob, to dispense justice. That is the role of my peers and myself who do act for Jiringel."

"Yes your Honour," I answered somewhat sheepishly.

"Yet in your case, neither am I serving justice. There is no justice to be served, it is about potentially stopping the need for future justice. And I am not a seer to see into the future, so I am forced to guess. I don't like guessing; therefore, you need to answer one question for me. Are you a danger to others?"

Despite the magistrate's protest that this case what out of her area of expertise, her question held weight beyond the words. It implied that lies would be so interpreted that only the truth would do, it was as if her Goddess was behind the question. And even though I wanted to answer in a fashion that would place me in a better light, I ended up answering, "Yes your Honour. I am a danger to others."

"Then you understand the truth more than any of the others with whom I have been talking. Better than your friends and family who love you and want you safe. Better than His Worship who sees you as a pawn in a fight for the hearts and minds of his flock. Better than the Abbess who also knows you are danger, but her knowledge is based upon faith instead of truth and she does not fully understand the danger. Better even than Magister Bewlmon who postulates that you are actually a conjoining of the most stable component from Sandrelessa, yourself and the protection spell. That your mind remains because it is not tinged by the madness inherent in demon-kind. That your body is a humanized version of her body, one that has already matured and no longer in the flux that common in a young man such as you are or you were. Meanwhile the spell ensures consistency, ensuring the stability between body and mind does not change.

"It seems like a rather far fetched explanation to me, but his genius is renowned in this field. Yet even with his brilliance missed the most important thing. Within your mind, human and not demon as I believe it is, lurks danger. All of us are a danger to others. Nor have most of us been in a situation where we chosen to be dangerous or control that danger, today you were placed in such a situation and you passed. Therefore, how can I give into the demands of His Worship or the Abbess? I can't, you will be set free Drake of Elladoo Post."

Before I could begin my celebrations, she continued, "However, my judgement does introduce a problem. Can you guess what it is?"

"The Followers?"

"Exactly, they really cannot afford to be seen to lose in this case."

Her phrasing gave me sudden insight into being a commodity, realizing my case could easily be boiled down into a regular deal. As with any deal there is something, let us call it a Drake, that one party wants and the other party owns. In this situation The Followers of Furigal were the buyer and Deacon Smoiners was the seller. But what made it difficult was that when the buyer was powerful and outside of the realm of trade, like the Church, they often expected to get what they wanted with a price that would cause the seller to lose. Non-merchants often see dealing as win vs lose. Just as the con-man was dangerous for the buyer, so is this type of buyer dangerous for the seller.

Salend Voctor whose quote on con-men has already graced the pages of this part of my life also recognized, in his treatise, the dangers posed to merchants by such a buyer. 'Be careful of those who think they deserve to much, for if you let them win they will continue to take from you everything you have. But take even more care to ensure that you don't win either, for that will require them to lose. And if you force them to lose, they will take from you even more.'

No the Followers of Furigal could not accept losing. If they lost, they would not go after the magistrate, that would put them into a conflict with someone as strong as themselves. Instead they would be forced to go after me, ensuring that the evidence of their loss would not flouted for the world to see. It was no longer about justice, instead there was only one answer to the problem, the merchant answer, "Can we offer them a deal your Honour?"

Deacon Smoiners, despite her path in life was still a child of Glanlies, smiled at me as a teacher does when her student answers correctly, "Yes child, we can offer them a deal. But it will mean that you will still have to face some indignities and it will be expensive, though your patron has offered to cover the cost."

"Could you explain your Honour?"

I was not completely happy with her plan and found myself arguing against some of it. But in the end I think we built a deal of which even Salend Voctor would be proud.

-------------

Four days later my bargaining skills found me living like a princess out of a story book. Admittedly I was not a princess in some castle, no I fell under the category of princess held captive at the top of an ugly tower. The part of the magistrate's plan that had raised my hackles the most was her plan to turn me back over to the inquisitor until her plan could be fully realized; however, I had convinced her that this would only lead to bad things happening, like my death or Sandrelessa running amok. She had argued that they would not let me walk free, even if only temporary, while I pleaded for any other solution. We had finally compromised upon sending me back to the Hole, although seeing as how I ended up on the top floor, even higher than my last cell, it could not very well be called the Hole.

My disappointment at still not being free and being sent back there was significantly diminished when I found the cell on the top floor of the tower to actually be nicer than any room that I had ever called my own. It was supposedly set aside for the rich and famous, such as; Ingar Fulstead when he was convicted of killing his wife or General Dessan after he was convicted of treason or apprentice merchants possessed by demons backed by a rich family like the Deglace. You know, the hoitiest of the toity. The room had a four post bed, a book shelf, a desk and oil lamps that I could use well into the night. It was during my time locked in that room where I truly gained an appreciation for the size and breadth of the Annals, which filled much of the book shelf. Since still mostly alone, I found myself voraciously reading through multiple books.

Meanwhile at night, in the soft and clean bed I found myself sleeping like a babe. This was also due to peace of mind, knowing that there were always five of the Deglace troopers on the floor below me, which had been another thing negotiated with the magistrate to help ensure my safety. So I guess I was not like the regular story book princess, locked away in a tower. After all they usually did not have their own guard contingent unless they could sway one of their captor's with their loveliness and charm.

And that wasn't going to happen! Nor was I waiting for some handsome hero to come to the rescue before an evil sorcerer conducted a spell upon me. In fact there was a spell to be cast, but not by an evil sorcerer, no it was to be cast by a Magister of the Allfather Durnst. And I wanted the spell to be cast, the sooner the better. It was high time that this whole sordid affair ended, time for me to get to Glanlies and find someone who could make me become me.

On the fourth day after my run in with the mob and at the top of the tower my wait came to an end with the appearance of a welcome face. It was just after I had finished another bland breakfast of porridge when there was the sound of the key in the door. Expecting it to be the guard coming for my breakfast tray I did not look up from the edition of the Annals I was reading. To be honest my initial excitement about being set free had waned into teenage sullenness as my actual freedom had not materialized. But my attention was grabbed upon hearing a voice exclaim, "Well aren't we just the impolite young miss."

Immediately recognizing the voice I jumped up shouting, "Mary!" Then running over, I enveloped her a great big hug, one she happily returned. I kept her locked in this position for a few moments, thoroughly enjoyed the human contact until she finally muttered, "Sweetling you need to let me breathe."

Embarrassed I quickly backed away with a mumbled "sorry", though I could see by the smile in her eyes that she was not mad. Then seeing that she had a couple bags with her caused me to ask, "It's lovely to see you Mary, but why are you here? Is it time?"

"Well just about Dra'e, but first we have to do something with you."

"Umm...what is that Mary?"

"We have to make you look like less of a street urchin, what are you wearing?"

Looking down at the brown sack dress I had been wearing since my time in the convent I stammered an apology, "I'm so sorry I lost the green dress Mary. But even though it was originally so pretty it became so filthy and I was scared of the inquisitor so I completely forgot about it. Then I awoke and I was wearing this and..."

Guessing how close I was to tears, Mary held up her hand and said, "Peace child, peace. Don't worry about the dress, we are happy that you are safe, or soon to be safe. But the Mistress wants you more than safe, she wants you representing the Deglace in full glory."

"But shouldn't I continue to look meek and humble?" I asked, being a bit concerned about where "in full glory" would lead.

"I carried all this stuff up these many stairs, you will wear them down for me. Besides, it is time for us to show our colours, prove to the Followers of Furigal that they are challenging something bigger than you. That they are challenging the Deglace family."

"Why though Mary, why would the Deglace protect me? Why would the mistress choose me?"

"I can think of four reasons Dra'e, the first being that you were under Mistress Esselde's care when you were arrested. Duty means that she had to do everything she could to assist you, including fully placing her mantle of protection over you. However, it is not completely a thing of the moment, she also recognizes that she owes you for what you did in protecting the post from Darrel. And there is a recognition of your special skills, those that Master Elladoo teaches you alone. Those of you who possess those skills are rare and fewer still are those within the Deglace sphere of influence that have them. It is advantageous to the Deglace to cultivate more Chosen with that skill. But the most important reason is that she likes you, she wants you to be safe."

That suffused my cheeks with the warmth of happiness tinged by embarrassment. Not knowing how to respond I found myself hugging, though more gently, Mary once again. Yes it felt good to be liked.

After our moment she pushed me back and stated, "I wish we could get you a bath and wash your hair, but we will have to make due. Let me request some warm water and a basin at the least, so we can get you somewhat clean."

After she had made that request to one of the guards outside of the door, she attacked my hair. Without the proper tools it had become a bit of a rat's nest and there was much yanking and pulling and hollering. Trying to take my mind off of this I told her about how my hair had grown back, which led to a full story about what happened. This turned out not to be the smartest idea on my part as in her anger at what had been done to me she became even more forceful with the brush.

By the time that she had completed brushing it my hair out so that it once more hung smoothly, water had come. Hanging a cloth across the door grating to protect my privacy, something that I had completely given up since my capture, she had me undress and begin washing while she unpacked her bags. Mary was correct, a bath would have been nice, but at least I was less dingy though the water was much more so.

When I was cleaner Mary wrapped my in the cover from the bed and had me sit in the lone chair and once more started in on my hair. Describing the magic that Mary performs with hair is a daunting task, specially since my understanding does not extend beyond the basics, so lets jump forward a glass turn or two. Nor will you get a description our conversation during that time, for I do not remember it. And conversation may even be misleading, since it basically involved Mary listen to me chatter away about what I had been reading in the Annals. Now normally I am not super talkative, but there is something about solitary captivity that makes a person want to have someone listen to them talk.

Anyways, at the end of our separate endeavors I was in need of a drink and Mary had finished with my hair. My needing of a drink was quickly resolved, while Mary's work was not nearly as quickly admired. For the first time in days my hair, well outside of when I did not have any, no longer hung into my face. She had weaved Deglace blue ribbons into it to create a crown of braids, which still leaving a cascade hanging well down my back.

With her work done on my hair she dug into her pack and pulled out a number of small lidded bowls, which for some reason made me nervous in a completely different way than did imprisonment. Hesitantly I asked, "What do you have there Mary?"

"Just some cosmetics Dra'e."

"Do we really need to use those?"

"Well I did wander all over the market place looking for cosmetics that would best suit you. With your pale complexion it was not an easy task, let me tell you. But if you would rather not, then we don't need to," she responded with a sigh.

Knowing full well what she was doing, I still could not stop myself from giving in with a, "No Mary that is okay; whatever you think is best."

With my grudging approval she attacked me with brushes and smells, leaving my face feeling strange. Truthfully it was not that onerous of experience, there were only a three bowls and one little bottle whose contents she held and used upon me. There was kohl that she used to hilite my eyes and lashes. Then a bowl of a rouge for cheeks and lips. My favourite bowl contained a blue-black lacquer that was used to cover my finger nails, changing them from scary claws into to something much more ornamental. The final container, the bottle, held a perfume smelling of cinnamon which she dabbed at my wrists and throat.

Thus painted and perfumed it was time to get dressed and the outfit she pulled out was not surprising. Though I had not made the leap in logic the first time I wore it, there was no doubt it would be perfect for showing the Deglace colours. And the second time around the shift, boots, bodice and skirt felt much more normal than my first time so dressed. It appeared I was becoming comfortable, or at a minimum used too, my no longer so new form. I did wonder why there were no stockings, but did not say anything because I had found them rather annoying.

Though now ready to head out we found ourselves waiting once more. I queried Mary on what was to happen but she told me that she knew little, though Mistress Esselde had informed her to tell me to trust the deacon. I did not reply that I was already trusting Deacon Smoiners, having placed my life in her hands. My hope, my belief was that her word was good. We spent some time in small talk, but neither of our hearts were into it, both of us were ready and anxiously waiting for the next step, the final step of this bump on our road to Glanlies. There would be time to enjoy each others company when nothing hung over my head; therefore, we found ourselves constantly glancing towards the door, until we were finally rewarded.

It was another sign of my increase in status when it was an officer of the guard who entered the room, accompanied by the Deglace lieutenant. Nor did they place me in irons, though their lack did not make my trip down the stairs noticeably easier. When we did reach the ground floor, with no accidents, and made it outside my final bargaining point with the deacon was on display. No more would I be forced to travel to and from in a prisoner cart, now they transported me in a carriage, not the fanciest but still better than a box on wheels. Once they had Mary and I, along with Jimi and Stork still in their tabards, ensconced within and surrounded by men of both allegiances we rattled out of the Hole's gate for what I hoped was the last time.

Stork who was never one to let an audience go to waste had his appreciation for my appearance quelled rather quickly by Mary. However, he could not stay quiet for long and started to regal me with a tale of his epic ride to Glanlies and back. This time it was Jimi who brought it to a stop when he complained that he was sick and tired of the story. We sat in silence for awhile as Stork pouted, until his face lit up as he thought of something that we may allow him to talk about, "Did you hear about Ensign Tillindal?"

Not surprisingly I had not heard anything about my least favourite Militia officer, but neither had Mary and before she could stop herself she shook her head no. Taking the gesture for approval to continue, he stated, "Well he was killed last night in a duel."

I think I may have smiled when I heard this, but Mary was much more surprised, "A duel? That doesn't make sense. Militia officers don't duel, who did he fight?"

"It was Jocco Wadgins"

"I thought Jocco usually works for the Vannigans?"

Stork nodded his head saying, "Well the official story is that Jocco caught him cheating when they were playing hazard. Supposedly Tillindal was using weighted dice. However, the rumour that is floating around is that Colonel Vannigan was behind it. Supposedly the ensign was the one who bought the mob that attacked you Drake. Speculation is mixed that he may have done so with the colonel's permission, but now that there is an investigator on the way and in either case the ensign would have proven to be an embarrassment or worse to Vannigan's ambitions. The additional benefit for Vannigan is that with the duel's result and Jocco still walking about there well be nobody brave enough to give the investigator any information."

This information made me wonder who truly had been pulling the ensign's strings, and why? It had seemed personal, it had seemed that he was a pawn of the church, and it appeared that he may have been acting for his superior in the Militia. I would never know the truth, but it did confirm the need to pick proper patrons, ones who would shelter and not abandon. Hopefully that was the way of the Deglace.

And so my second enemy, my first true personal nemesis exits the story of my life. His last impact upon me was to provide further understanding of myself, for though it may have made me a better person, I felt no sympathy for Elfos Tillindal. Instead I considered it a good start in my vengeance against my persecutors.

Stork must have sensed something of my thoughts as he became quieter after his report of the news, leaving us to ride in companionable silence, each thinking his or her (place me where you will) own thoughts. Mine fantasized about revenge against the inquisitor or her lackeys while I found myself watching the passing buildings. When I recognized one of those buildings as being the Temple of Asolde my thoughts were jerked back to reality. Being in the Temple District, near the Cathedral of Furigal made me rather antsy. A quick study of my friends showed they shared none of my fears, which did re instill my confidence, but it was a wary confidence. Further confidence was gained when we rumbled past that structure under the icy stares of guards in their hated uniforms. Soon our destination was reached, and seeing that Magister Bewlmon was to conduct whatever was to be conducted, the Hall of Durnst was a logical place.

Giving me a hug of luck Mary murmured that she would stay outside, that magic and Gods unnerved her. So it was Stork and Jimi who escorted me inside the building, one that seemed like a perfect home to the magister. Like the garments that he wore, the Hall was bedecked in a simple yet elegant fashion. Marble was everywhere, from the floor to the ceiling and the pillars in between. Ornamentation was minimalistic, there was a mosaic of grey rocks formed a mountain on the floor and alters in alcoves about the room, each and every one covered in a brown cloth fashioned from the material that had been used to make Magister Bewlmon's robe. It was so very different than the church of my childhood, the Cathedral we had just rode past. Unlike the Cathedral of Furigal it was not a place of ordered benches, a place you went to be preached towards, no this was a place that an individual could come and commune with the Father of our Pantheon. It was a place worthy of him, worthy of what he had allowed us to accomplish. It made me feel safe despite the colour of some of the robes upon those who were there when I arrived.

I was taken aback for each colour signified either a different God or Goddess or allegiance, its wearer a priest or priestess or member in their service. Some of the figures or faces in those robes were familiar; Mistress Elladoo and my parents all in Deglace blue, Deacon Smoiners faceless in her grey, Magister Bewlmon and Priestess Ellisel in their browns, and Sister Jeunille, the one with the power, of Furigal. There were also those I did not recognize as individuals, though I recognized who they represented. There was a middle aged lady dressed in the straw gold robe of Sera the Allmother. A man who could be her brother wearing the green of Turin, God of Merchants. He stood by an older man, the oldest in the room, wearing a pristine white robe signifying his attendance upon Aredente, God of Death. Separated slightly was a beautiful woman, as was to be expected from a Priestess, in the Rose coloured gown of Asolde, Goddess of Love and Beauty. Rounding out the number was the lone figure not in a robe, instead he wore a polished chain mail signifying him to be a Battle Monk of Caling, God of War.

It was a awe-inspiring group, representing all the major players of Glanlies' pantheon. Each and every one of them, outside of my family and friends, imbued with that aura I now recognized was common with magic users, even the Deacon though I had not noticed before. Their presence made me doubt the wisdom of her plan, whatever it may be. However, there was little time to linger on this thought, for with our arrival Magister Bewlmon took charge. Gesturing to a door towards the end of the building he asked everyone to follow him.

The next hall we moved into was much smaller than the first, with only the one door through which we had entered. It too was marble, though a marble that had veins of pinks and reds as opposed to blues and greys. Nor did it have any any alters in alcoves, no the purpose of the room was implied by the mosaic on the floor, a pentagram of pink stone. Remembering Master Elladoo's comments about the superiority of the rhombus over the complexity of the pentagram I had a sudden fit of further nerves wondering what they were going to do. However, I immediately tried to convince myself that a pentagram of stone would offset the problems the master had warned about, additionally I was sure that those in this room controlled powers well beyond those of us who could only perform two spells. Well at least I hoped that was the case.

Upon entry the magister turned to me and asked, "Drake, can you please remove your boots?"

Baffled though I was by this curious question I none the less soon had my boots off and was left feeling the coldness of the marble flooring upon my feet. Looking towards Magister Bewlmon he reached out to take my hand and guide me to the mosaic in the middle of the room, before having me lay down upon my back within the pentagram. When I was positioned in the manner he deemed appropriate and the fall of my hair arranged in a wreathe above my head, he waved Priestess Ellisel forward to kneel on my left while he knelt to my right. Reaching into a pouch that hung at her side she pulled out what appeared to be two chains and handed one to the magister, who looked at me questioningly and asked, "Are you ready Drake?"

At my nod, he intoned, "Father Durnst I call upon you to witness this Chaining of one of your children, beset from within by the unnatural from beyond your realm. I plead for your strength to assist this child in living within your rules for your and your people's glory."

Then both he and the priestess grasped one of my hands and slipped a chain upon each wrist. Immediately after I felt the cool metal upon my arms the two clergy members pulled upon each hand so that they soon had me reaching almost horizontally to the points of the pentagram on either side of me. Not fully understanding I still did not fight their pull as they both held a wrist, with palm down gently near the points. Magister Bewlmon once more spoke, "Father Durnst I beseech you to bind your child's hands so that with them she cannot commit harm upon any of your innocents."

Suddenly the once cool metal of the bracelets began to give off a warmth hotter than that which my wrists could impart in such a short time. It did not burn, but I had little doubt that something had happened, which was further confirmed when Bewlmon and Ellisel released my hand and my arms did not sag from their stretched out position. Surprised and somewhat uncomfortable I tried to move my arms, yet still they did not move, trying once more unsuccessfully the panic must have begun to show in my eyes for Ellisel placed her hand upon my brow, leaned towards my face and whispered, "Calm child, everything is all right."

It may have been my desire for everything to be all right, possibly it was because of her demeanor and my trust for her, or maybe she was channeling her God; whatever it was, with those words and her touch she soothed my panic away. Having already experienced it to my arms, there was little surprise when they repeated their motions at my feet and ankles, wrapping them in an anklet and stretching them to the lowest points of the mosaic before Magister Bewlmon chanted, "Father Durnst I beseech you to bind your child's feet to the earth, to have her walk the paths you desire her to walk."

This time I was prepared for the warmth and my legs being firmly attached to the ground, in fact the only thing in my mind was that with my legs spread apart it was good that my skirt was draped in the fashion it was, because I definitely was not in the most lady like pose. This thought was pushed aside as the pair moved together to my head, close to the topmost point. Knowing what was to happen did not lessen my appreciation for the calming hand that the priestess once more lay across my brow as her colleague fastened a choker around my neck and made one more request, "Father Durnst I beseech you to protect your child's thoughts, to drive away anger and hate, to maintain peace and calm."

Then rising to his feet and offering Priestess Ellisel a hand to help her stand, he looked towards his audience to state, "Brothers, Sisters, Friends and Loved Ones, the Chaining is now complete. Father Durnst, in his wisdom and love, has granted his protection upon this child and upon all innocents from this child. Would the Rusticates confirm my statement."

At this invitation the Priest of Aredente and Sister Jeunille approached to study me and my bindings. I don't know if their God's granted them sight that allowed them to see the invisible tethers holding me to my stone bed, but I do know their God's did not change their touches to dampen the warmth emanating from bracelet, anklet or choker. No their hands held human warmth, not the cold of death or of deep sea. When either looked me in the eyes, I met their glance with open eyes, trying to open my soul to show my innocence. Finally they turned towards Magister, nodded their heads and moved once more to stand near the door.

Smiling his thank you at the two Magister Bewlmon continued, "The Chaining is complete. But though Father Durnst is willing to clasp his children to his chest in time of need and fear, he knows that we must walk free to experience all that he and his family have to offer. But in order to walk free, one must always have a place to return, a place to heal and rest. Who will provide hearth and home to which the child may return no matter how far she walks?"

At this question the Priestess of Sera clasped my mother's hand and guided her to my left side, while the Priestess of Asolde mimicked the action with my father to my right side. After they knelt my parents each reached for a hand and looked me in the face with eyes of care and concern.

Together my mother and the Priestess of Sera the Allmother slid a ring upon the pointing finger of my left hand as the priestess whispered, "The Mother clasps her child to bosom knowing she must let go, yet fearing where her child will walk. She let's go, but with arms outstretched, alway ready to welcome the child's return."

With these words my hand and arm were suddenly free of its binding, soon to be followed by my other hand as my father and the other priestess also placed a finger upon my right pointing finger followed by her saying, "The Father teaches his child duty and honour, love and hope. He allows the child to leave, to grow, in order for the child to return an adult."

Though the priestesses returned to their place by the door, my parents remained with me, each holding a hand. Smiling benevolently at all of us Magister Bewlmon asked his next question, "There are obstacles and dangers on many of the paths upon which Durnst's children walk. But they need not walk alone, who walks with this child?"

This time it was Deacon Smoiners with Jimi and the Battle Monk of Caling with Stork who walked forward to kneel at my feet and place a ring on my littlest toes. The deacon spoke first, "The Friend provides companionship and a helping hand to the child when the path grows steep. He also provides guidance and direction so the child does not stray from the way of the just and true."

Then it was the Battle Monks turn to state, "The Friend provides protection, guarding the back of the child. He also is worthy of protection, and has his own back over which the child must watch."

Unlike my parents, Jimi and Stork did not stay kneeling, instead they moved away with the deacon and battle monk. And though they were friends, I was more than happy to not have them holding my feet. That would have been creepy and if Stork had stayed there he likely would have tried to look up my skirt. But maybe he deserved the honour since he was here for me?

Nah!

I was almost free, only one tether remained, the most uncomfortable of the lot. Thus it was good when Magister Bewlmon asked his last question, "But where does the child walk? Does she walk aimlessly or does she stride with purpose? Who will help the child choose her path?"

By process of elimination I am sure that you can guess that it was Mistress Elladoo and the Priest of Turin who stepped forward to answer. They knelt at my head and wrapped what I later learned was a diadem, matching the rings, under the crown of my hair and centred on my forehead, before the priest spoke, "The Patron provides the path for the child. She points and the child travels, she requests and child finds."

Like my parents, the Mistress stayed kneeling with me, gently rubbing her fingers on my temples beneath the diadem. I felt safe being surround by these three and happy to be the centre of their attention. So focussed was my attention upon them I barely heard the magister finish, "The Chaining is complete. Though the child is free once more, she is bound by the rules of Father Durnst and by the will and wishes of her friend and family."

He allowed a few moments of silence before turning to look at me with a smile, "You may now rise Drake."

Happy to follow his instructions, the marble floor was far from comfortable, and with the help of my father I scrambled to my feet. No sooner had my state become vertical when my mother flung her arms around me to give me a hug as big as the one I had given Mary earlier that day. And just as that hug had felt wonderful, re-establishing contact with the outside world, so too did this re-establish contact with my family. Something that was needed, after all sometimes a boy just needs his mom. My father joined in briefly, awkwardly, but I could not blame him. One thing my change had given me was a greater understanding for the healing properties of a hug, something I never appreciated as a boy. After he let go I saw tears in my mother's eyes, and based upon the black smudge on her finger after she wiped my cheek, there must also have been tears in mine.

When she finally pushed me back so she too could look up into my eyes, I heard her wonder, "I cannot believe how beautiful my son has become. Is it really you Drake?"

"Yes Momma, it's me. I'm sorry."

With that extra sense that mothers have, she was able to interpret my sorry in all the fashions in which it was meant; the worry I had caused her, my doubting of her love, doing magic behind her back, being turned into a girl, not being what she expected me to be and all the other ills that a teenage boy unintentionally bring a mother. Therefore, with that understanding, she was able to both temporarily absolve and let me know that it was not over, "That's okay Sweetie, you didn't mean any harm. We will talk about it more later. But for now you need to thank Mistress Elladoo for all that she has done for you, she has spent a fortune on your freedom."

Turning to that worthy lady I was once more was gathered up into a hug. When she held me close and nobody else could hear, she whispered with a smile, "Oh we will find something for you to do to pay me back."

-------------

After my freedom from imprisonment I was ready to make my escape from the town of Corels, but everyone else was convinced that it was to late to start travelling. Besides which we needed to celebrate, so the mistress hosted a party at The Dancing Dolphin, the inn in which she had been staying and from where I had been arrested. All my family were there, including my parents and my siblings and their families. The oldest was my brother Albert with his wife Sondra and their children Nicole and Annie. And my sisters June and Ester, June with her daughter Jillian who was enthralled with my looks, my new jewelry and particularly my hair. Both of their husbands, whom were sailors, were out with their respective ships and unable to attend. Seeing all the womenfolk of our family in the room Albert had joked to my father that I had joined the other side. Father had laughed, but you could see a wince in his eyes.

In general it was a night for laughter, often at my expense. Outside of Albert's joke, much of the humour was supplied by Stork who had numerous complaints that he finally got to attend a magical ritual involving a beautiful virgin and he did not even get to see her naked. He was constantly spouting, "Take off your boots. Her boots? What's with that?"

That was usually the queue for Jimi to spout, "And her feet, has she ever heard of water?"

Aye it was a good night had by all, many a time I found myself just sitting back soaking in all the good will and humanness surrounding me, being warmed by it all. When my thoughts did turn bleak there was always another joke, another song or a niece climbing in my lap to push the bad away. And then there were the private talks.

The first of these was the one promised by my mother earlier in the day. I found myself in the corner with her, my father and Mistress Elladoo having my parents convincing both myself and the mistress that they really had a right to know what was happening to me. They rather surprised me when they informed us that they had known of Master Elladoo's special skills before they had approved my apprenticeship. Apparently Master Chenester, who had recommended me to the master, had known of my Grandmother's prejudices and had ensured that my parents did not feel the same way. He had learned that they were not completely trusting of it, but that they were aware of its potential benefits. And since then my father had almost swung completely in favour of it when he looked at how much prominence Kumil had gained at the expense of Corels on the West coast of the peninsula.

That conversation taught me that hidden truths are dangerous and that instead of guessing what people think it is better to just ask, even if you do not receive the answer you expect or you do expect it and it is not what you want to hear. And over years there have been many more conversations that have taught the same lesson. Maybe one day I will actually learn it.

The second of conversation was with Mistress Elladoo after I had sneaked away by myself to find her mirror to get a look at the new pieces of jewelry that adorned me as a result of my Chaining. The pieces were custom made, extremely high quality and likely each piece cost more than the yearly salary of any of the post's employees. The bracelets, anklets and choker were copies of each other, varying only in size. They were made of flattened, rectangular links of silver with every link engraved with a different marking commonly used to symbolize each of the members of the pantheon; the mountain of Durnst, the sheaf of Sera, the scale of Turin, the rose of Asolde, the eye of Jiringel, the gauntlet of Caling, the hourglass of Aredente, and even the trident of Furigal. I experienced a moment of panic upon realizing that none of them had a catch, before realizing that they truly were really chains. And though ornamental, my suspicion was that they were also highly functional.

Still they were not as ornamental as the other five pieces. The rings on my fingers and toes, had settings also made of silver, but they were not solid bands instead they were circles of silver wire painstakingly meshed by a master into the appearance of a vine, the silver vine of the Deglace. Further linkage to that family was presented by the dark blue, faceted, oval sapphire mounted on each. The diadem about my forehead took the non-simple design of the rings and took it a step further. Instead of wire, the vine was made of beaten silver that was maybe two finger widths thick at the front and tapered thinner towards to the ends, which were hidden behind my hair. It too held a blue sapphire, a rounded star sapphire of a size that likely cost more than every other piece combined. Like the chained pieces none of them budged when I tried to remove them, making me realize that I was now well worth stealing. Just as Magister Bewlmon had made me feel like a statue in the inquisitor's den, so did having ornamentation attached. And statues were not robbed, nor kidnapped, they were stolen.

After I had gained full appreciation for that in which I was bedecked, my conversation with Mistress Elladoo was based completely around my shamed, groveling embarrassment at being such a burden and thanks for doing so much for me. For her part, great lady that she is, the mistress tried to ease my discomfort by dismissing my thanks and saying that she only did what was expected as a friend and patron. Finally she calmed me down, only to once more make me nervously wonder what she planned for my future when she said, "Don't worry Dra'e, you are worth it. I know my investment today will pay off in the future."

That conversation taught me that the chains created during the Chaining were not only physical. My attachment to the Deglace, with or without a Choosing, was unmistakable. My freedom was not completely my own. Nor was it completely a burden, I was quite happy being linked to the mistress, though still unsure about the rest of her family, none of whom I had met. Yet all their employees and retainers I had met seemed to be happy and loyal, which was a good sign. Still I now had more incentive to end my demon possession and get changed back to myself, for when that happened I would be able to dump the jewelry and return it to the mistress so that she could recover some of her expense.

My last memorable conversation of the evening was with Magister Bewlmon, whom also had been staying at the Dancing Dolphin as a guest of the mistress. It was he who initiated the conversation, joining me in one of the times when I was not surrounded by family. Again the conversation was about the jewelry, but not about their cost nor about their decorative qualities. Instead he told me their role in the Chaining he had performed. They would not end my possession, nor would they stop Sandrelessa from taking control; however, they would limit my body's use to her if she did. First the bracelets and anklets would tighten, causing my hands and feet to become useless. If that did not stop her then the choker would actually begin choking me until I passed out or died. Rather daunted by the role of the Durnst Chains, as he called them, I asked the purpose of the rings and diadem.

Smiling reassuringly at the worry he saw in my eyes, "Worry not child, Father Durnst does not want you in his son Aredente's halls. He will not be capricious in enacting the power of his Chains, but you and through you, the demoness, know what they can do and that will make her extremely cautious. However, neither Father Durnst nor his son Caling would see you at the mercy of the evil of others or unable to provide righteous protection to friends, for they know as you have learned that the world is not always a safe place. You and the demoness have leeway in what the two of you can do together, but it is limited and depends upon your being in control as you were with the mob. Understanding if you are within your leeway is the purpose of the gems in your rings. The stones of your four rings will begin to glow when she rises up from where ever she lurks within your soul, this is okay, it provides warning. However, if she takes control the stone on your forehead will begin to glow and the power of Durnst Chains is likely to become active."

That conversation taught me to fear my pretty chains. Actually it would be truer to say it confirmed my fear of the chains. I had felt their warmth, had tried to remove them from their resting places and remembered being unable to move arm or leg during the Chaining. It had been real, not a sham performed by a group of shysters, though I wished that it had been.

After talking to Master Bewlmon I was in no mood for further conversation, instead it was time to focus on food, drink and song. The specialty of the inn was a spiced, boar stew that was wondrous after the bland prison food upon which I had survived. And the wine, though heavily watered, made me slightly silly. It allowed me to sing, though everybody agreed that they could do without that torture. And it even allowed my niece Nicole to convince me to join her in a dance she had learned from her mother, whose dancing had been one of the things that had attracted Albert.

We would have partied late into the night but a bakery opens early and we planned to be on the road early in the morning. A round of good-byes were made and then interrupted when my mother decided that she needed to come to Glanlies with us in order to protect me. It took a great deal of convincing by myself, the mistress and even my father, but only after I promised to stop and visit for a longer period of time on my return trip was she willing to listen.

And so our pause in Corels, during our journey to Glanlies, came to an end. The next morning there was no unexpected surprise after we breakfasted and moved outside to the carriage, which had brought the magister and his assistant from Glanlies and which we would share on its return.

One would think that a carriage holding five people, we must not forget Mary, would be rather uncomfortable. But if one had ever spent much time in the prison cart, they would not have minded the ride at all. Admittedly there were periods of rocking and bouncing, since we travelled on a lesser road that led directly from Corels to Glanlies, rather than taking the Great Trade Road through North Fort, the path taken by the public coaches. But Priestess Ellisel informed us that the sedate pace at which we travelled made things much more comfortable then their hurried trip in the other direction.

Taking much of four days to make the trip, I came to appreciate the hurry in which they must have been travelling. Even more so, I appreciated the ride that Stork had made to seek assistance. So regularly during the trip I felt myself heaping thanks upon everyone. Stork lapped it up as a kitten did milk, after all he found it so much less work to have someone do his praising then doing it himself. Everybody else finally force me to stop, in fact the magister told me that he had not acted in a totally altruistic fashion, that a large part of his willingness to help was due to his guess that Inquisitor Deanile would be involved and his quest to prove to the world that she was an dangerous idiot.

Even though my thanks were minimized after awhile I found that, just as with the morning when Mary came to prepare me for the Chaining, my chatter would just not stop. Everyone showed great patience as they answered all my many questions or listened to me talk about nothing at all.

On the third day the road improved as we began to travel through the land that directly supported the city of Glanlies. It was very good earth, much of it either tilled for food crops or covered in orchards of fruits and olives. And the vines, they were everywhere. Mistress Deglace could talk about them endlessly as grape vines were the foundation of her families wealth and power. Based upon the number of great estates we passed, they were also the foundation of power and wealth for a number of other families. A day later, during one of these lectures on vines, grapes and wine that the carriage came to a gentle yet surprising stop.

When I tried to gawk past the mistress, being in my customary spot between her and Mary, to see what I could see out the window she said, "Why don't we get out and stretch our legs for a moment.

Always ready for some fresh air I nodded my head and followed the mistress, priestess and magister out the door with a helping hand from the lieutenant, whose troop had stayed with us. Wrapping her arms around one of mine, Mistress Elladoo led me to a rise not to far away and said, "Look Dra'e, you can see Glanlies."

-------------

So even though I was not able to start this part of my tale with the symmetry that would have been so smooth from my previous tale, I now feel that it works just as well to keep the symmety completely within this single writing. And it signals a good place at which to pause my story, as this installment has gone on for a much longer length than I had expected. Surprisingly, those who said that writing about my life would prove cathartic were more correct in this part than the first. I have never shared many of my dark thoughts from my time of imprisonment. I had always felt it would be an unfair burden to place upon my friends. So I thank you all for acting as the vessel in which I could pour some nasty memories.

For now I do not want to dwell any more in the past. It is time to take a break from the quill and the parchment. Instead I think I will spend some time living in the the current and dreaming about the future. Time to make a deal and earn some money, maybe even to visit my family or friends at Elladoo Post, since writing of them makes me feel their absence.

But I will be back, there is more of my story to be told. Also there is a contract with the Greater Asthelhorne House of Publishing that needs to be fulfilled. And I would not have any success as a merchant if I did not live up to my contracts.

Until then, enjoy yourself!

...to be continued...

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Adventures of a Merchant -3- Choices

Author:

Arcie Emm

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Mature Subjects (pg15)

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Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

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Medieval Times

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Posted by author(s)

What happens when Drake first arrives in the City of Glanlies? Will Sandrelessa be banished once and for all? What will Drake wear and how will his hair be styled?

Adventures of a Merchant: Choices
by Arcie Emm

See Prior Adventures of a Merchant:

The Start
A Pause in Corels

...being continued...

Greetings once more friends. At the end of my last tale I mentioned that it was time for me to spend some time in the now and I took my own advice. After a stay in Corels to visit family, I continued on to Elladoo Post for my first visit in a number of year. As it always does, the visit served to remind me of who I am, for people who knew you when you were young often continue to see you as you were, as opposed to who you have become. Though this can be annoying when making those first steps into adulthood, it is relaxing when you are comfortable in yourself.

Comfortable as I have become in my skin, it was very relaxing. Allowing me to follow instead of leading, whether it was helping with paper work, assisting in inventory or even taking out a caravan to make the rounds of the nearby farmsteads.

Still escape can only last so long, at some point responsibilities will call you back. For me, that call occurred just over five weeks after I left Glanlies. The responsibility, that called, was not one I cherished. The Commission, who besides extracting fees, also expects members to provide labour. This labour is compensated at the appropriate clerk rate, but usually involves work no contractor would perform at such a sum. You can refuse a task, but everyone knew that without a good excuse the next work offered would be even worse. Enough refusals and you could lose your membership, which usually led to bankruptcy.

I did not have a good excuse, in fact with the project being at North Fort and my being at Elladoo Post it was completely logical for me to be assigned, no matter my dislike for the task. Thus I found myself travelling there to examine the books of the fort. And like every other time I have performed this task, I hated every minute of it. On the positive side, it made me quite ready to lock myself in a room away from everybody.

And that made it easier to write this next episode of my life, in which I found myself in the City of Glanlies for the first time.

Now the way that I talk about the place, it would be easy for you to assume that the City of Glanlies is some wondrous place. As beautiful as marbled Venwick, the capital of the Simolean Kingdom, and as majestic as far off Newlbourne in the Yasper Mountain range. Yet anybody who has ever been to the city knows that it is neither. Instead they will comment on how orderly it is or how clean or even regimented, meanwhile they will be thinking that the proper term is boring. At least that is what they will think if they are not of the peninsula, but to those of us who are it's children, the city is perfect. Yes it is all those things that others see, but that is the way we want it.

The city itself is located in the middle of a plain where the vine and farming lands are intersected by numerous streams, though most of the water for the city comes from deep wells. It is built entirely of stone from a near-by quarry, which gives each building a solidness, but also a likeness to each other. In fact many of the buildings are the same, long, three story structures used either for offices or for apartments. The only buildings that stand out as unique are the temples of the Gods and the manses of the wealthy.

At the centre of the city is Heart Park and spanning out from this centre are rings of buildings. The inner most ring holds the temples and churches of the eight gods and goddesses whose clergy had participated in my Chaining in Corels. These temples and the park existed long before the rest of the city, having first been built to service the land owners and farmers of the plain. However, those land owners did not stint, instead they poured great wealth into the creation of those temples and soon Glanlies became the spiritual hub of the peninsula, home to the major deity and seasonal festivals. These festivals soon became the meeting points for all the merchant families from across the peninsula and the four coastal centres who made up the Commission. This continued as the norm for over a century until the coastal city of Freenjie was raided by a force from Jewel, which resulted in the razing of the old Glanlies Trade Commission headquarters.

After much politicking by the land owners, a decision was finally made to build not just a new headquarters, but a new, inland city to serve as the capital. And so about 200 years before the writing of this tale, a project was started to implement Chief Architect Reginald Banskine's vision of the perfect capital for the Glanlies Peninsula, more specifically the Glanlies Trade Commission. And after 14 years (14 years, 3 months and 22 days to be exact) the project was complete. Since then little has changed about the city, it had been built to serve a purpose and it does it very well.

Therefore, what I saw when Mistress Elladoo had me step out of the carriage was little different than what I would have seen at any time since the birth of the city.

-------------------------

"It is smaller than I thought." I murmured while looking out at the walls of no-longer distant Glanlies.

"Aye Dra'e, smaller than any of the port cities, Glanlies has less than 20000 citizens. Nor does the Commission allow it to grow, for it was built with agreements that it would not be competition to towns that already existed. Instead it is a place of trade and administration."

"But don't many of the goods we sell come from here? Like the crap Bandleau pots and pans?"

"Aye Drake they do, but they are not made here. Instead they come from factories found in the towns and villages that dot these plains or from one of the other cities, even though they are distributed through Glanlies."

"So, is that what keeps the population down? In order to follow most trades, you have to leave Glanlies and go elsewhere?"

"Mostly. But some are drawn to adventure or change and move away on their own. Such as those who go out to establish outposts on the frontier." Mistress Elladoo added with a smile.

"Then you don't miss Glanlies? You don’t regret living out on the frontier?" I asked, with a familiarity that would have been unheard of not too long before.

"There are aspects and people that I miss. But they are outweighed by my life at the Post, where I feel I make a difference. Honestly I prefer life as Mistress of Elladoo Post to the role of a Deglace lady," she answered with equal candor.

"But when I am here, it is the second of those roles that I must play," she continued. "And I must warn you that being the dutiful daughter causes me some stress, so please forgive me if I am not myself. However, today I will spare you Esselde Deglace."

"Milady?" I asked in confusion, showing Mary’s influence was affecting more than my appearance..

"Yes, sadly it is back to milady for me. But let us ignore that for a moment while I tell you of my plan. And a plan is needed for I am unsure if my actions in Corels overstepped my authority. Therefore, I think it is best that I go alone to speak to my parents first."

"But it was me who caused the trouble, shouldn't I be there to take the blame?"

"Bah it was that horrid ensign and those dreadful Furigal people who were at fault. So don't worry about me, I am sure my family will be happy to see me and won't be overly harsh. I also think it would be good idea to let me fully tell your story before having you meet them; after all, it has been a rather unbelievable two months."

"Has it been that long?" I murmured in surprise, thinking back to that fateful meeting with Sandrelessa. It seemed both shorter and longer than two months. Shorter, for I had tried to convince myself that my state was temporary and something temporary cannot last for months. But also longer, as I had become rather comfortable in my girlish form, no longer distracted by long hair draping across face or entangled by long skirts. Strange no longer seemed strange, instead it was my past that had begun to seem unreal.

"Aye sweetie, it has been that long."

Standing in momentary silence, we each reflected on what had passed and tried to see what would come with the future. Yet for me, like for most, that vision showed nothing. Therefore, I focused on the present to ask, "Excuse me milady, but what am I to do while you go to your family?"

"The village of Fermere is on this side of the city's West gate. It has a number of inns used to house visitors to Glanlies, since such buildings are rare in the city and those that do exist are expensive beyond their worth. We will put you up in one of those, meanwhile I will head into the city and prepare my family."

After further assurances from Mistress Elladoo that she would be able to smooth out anything requiring smoothing out, though with warnings that it may take a few days, we once more boarded the coach and proceeded to Fermere. There, I learned that one of the troopers had been sent ahead to book rooms at Turin's Scales, an inn that the Deglace regularly used to house business partners visiting the Glanlies area. Soon after our arrival I watched the carriage and its escort continue on the way, though I was not alone. The mistress had placed me in Mary’s charge and under the protection of Jimi and Stork.

I am not sure what the trooper had told the Barton the innkeeper, but he treated me with more an unexpected degree of respect, calling me damsel and treating the others as my retainers. Uncomfortable with his respect, I knew not how to respond. Luckily Mary found it normal and spoke for our party.

In comparison, the other attention I received while passing through a nearly empty common room seemed almost normal. Nearly empty, the room contained four men at a single table whose attention was drawn in our direction, more specifically my direction. It was something that I had seen on the barge from Elladoo Post, at every inn in which we had spent a night during our trip from Corels and even from some of my captors in Corels. Still it was not yet something to which I had grown accustomed, even if I understood the cause.

I was rather exotic in appearance, tow-headed and pale in a land of dark hair and olive skin. Tall and slender, where voluptuous was the norm. And at the risk of sounding vain, I had spent enough time looking in a mirror to recognize that others spoke truth when calling me pretty. All this was before my Chaining, before I was bedecked in silver and sapphire jewelry. It was a given that people noticed me, the degree of their notice depended upon the individual. These four men were the type who were brazen in their stares, despite the glowers from my three protectors. Prior to my misadventures in Corels, such attention would have caused me to shrink away from their gazes, bowing my head and averting my eyes. However, that experience, involving my early self-condemnation, followed by victory over my persecutors, had burned away much of my shame and self doubt. So I did not seek to hide nor deny what I had become. Not that I had turned into some brazen hussy, casting smoky glances in the direction of any man. It was just that I gave the appearance of not noticing their looks.

Once through the common room, the innkeeper led us to a set of rooms. One would be shared by the two guardsmen, while Mary and I entered a suite, including an elegantly appointed sitting room, allowing the suite's inhabitants to host meetings or entertain their own guests. It seemed rather extravagant, combining this with the innkeeper’s manners led me to worry that there must have been some mix up concerning my status.

"How should the innkeeper have treated you Dra'e? A Deglace guardsman books the finest rooms in his inn for our company, which includes Stork and Jimi in their surcoats and myself so obviously a maidservant. And just as obvious, the three of us are serving as escort to you, who is young, beautiful and bedecked in a fortune of sapphires and silver. Of course he would see you as someone to treat with respect, which is what Mistress Deglace wanted."

"It is?"

"Aye. Better by far for people to see you in this light than to let their worries run ahead of their sense, as occurred in Corels."

It was hard to argue with the reasoning behind that argument. Much rather would I find myself in a lovely suite than in a dingy cell. So I said, "That’s makes sense, though I do not know if I will be able to play the proper role."

"No problem Dra'e, that is why Mistress Elladoo asked me to serve as your governess. It will be my job to help you play your part, which will require new clothing."

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Grinning a grin that scared the bejeebers out of me, she replied, “Oh what you are wearing is fine for travel, but everybody in the city will find it strange for a damsel wearing so much jewelry, not to be wearing newer and prettier dresses.”

Thus it was, that later in the day we found ourselves on the way to shop of a Mistress Fulert, Fermere’s premier dressmaker. I found myself concerned about where this would lead, Mary did tend to treat me as her dress-up doll, and so asked, "Excuse me Mary, but why are we getting me a new dress? It will be a waste of money after I am returned to myself."

"Well Dra'e, we do not know how long it will take for someone at the College to determine how to get you back to yourself. Therefore, Mistress Deglace feels you should have dresses so that you can better blend in, while you are in the city."

"But doesn’t it make more sense to go to a lesser quality dressmaker, one who will not charge Master prices for temporary garments?"

"Oh I am sure it does," Mary answered, not fooled in the least by my sudden logic. "But the mistress decided to spoil you until the change."

And that brought an end to the conversation, while proving that words are as malleable as a willow branch, both can be bent or shaped to form. What they become depends upon the crafter’s skill, while what is seen or heard depends upon the audience. Neither Mary nor myself needed to be overly attentive to understand the words crafted by the other. Mary realized that I did not want to go to the dressmakers, while I surmised that my opinion did not matter. Mary would be true to her earlier words, she was going to get me into prettier dresses.

It was with this understanding that the two of us found ourselves entering Mistress Fulert's shop, having left Jimi and Stork outside. Inside we were greeted by a young lady, most likely an apprentice, who let us know that her Mistress was just finishing with another customer. She then guided us to a small fitting room, where we were provided with tea for our wait. Not long after we had sat down the door once more opened to allow entry of the apprentice and an older lady, likely of an age with Mistress Elladoo. Based upon both her appearance and demeanor I guessed she was the mistress of the shop. This was proven true when she welcomed us, "Greeting gentlewomen, how may I assist you today?"

Having been warned earlier to say little, I let Mary take the lead, "Greetings Mistress, my charge is newly come to Glanlies and in need of proper dress for a maiden of her stature."

"Ah, by the sound of your voice, you are of Glanlies and yet you say your charge is not? What type of dress do you seek for her?"

"Actually we have multiple requirements today. Damsel Dra'e will need three different outfits for her visit to Glanlies. One should be day dress, for normal wear. Secondly, she will need a visiting dress, one appropriate for a temple or College visit. Lastly she will need a gown appropriate for an evening presentation to the Lord and Lady of the Deglace."

"The Deglaces," Mistress Fulert mused.

"Aye, Dra'e is in the care of Esselde Deglace who is home visiting her parents."

I saw that the name-dropping had the affect of placing the mistress in a better frame of mind about us, two scruffians from the North. It was my first witness of the magical balm that was an inner ring family's name, names able to soothe the ruffled feathers of any local. Mistress Fulert's smile immediately became more welcoming and her eyes more calculating.

“Do you have a particular style in mind for your charge Goodwife?”

“We will have to leave that to you Mistress Fulert, spending so much time in the North I cannot say what is appropriate. Though I do know that Dra'e would like something less drab than is appropriate on the frontier.”

“Very well, I am sure that we can come up with something to please you damsel. Now if you will disrobe, we can take your measurements.”

However, no sooner had the measurements begun then Mistress Fulert noticed the state of my boots. With my soft sole boots having been lost during my captivity in Corels and Mistress Elladoo's faire boots being reserved for special occasions, I once more wore my old boots. Comfortable and useful though they were, they were also ratty from use. With a grimace she stated, more than asked, "You will be after new footwear?"

"Why yes we are; however, we will have to find a cobbler," Mary answered.

"Fortunately Fermere has a number of skilled cobblers. If you wish, I can have one of my girls run out to see if one of them is available to assist you?"

"Thank you. That would be excellent."

With that, Mistress Fulert turned to her apprentice, "Liselle please ask Suzanne to run out and check with Master Lestage, since Nicholas knows what I like."

Returning to her measurements she quickly finished. Then she and Mary began a discussion about a colours, cloth, and price. During this I was distracted from listening in as Liselle was having me try on a number of pre-made robes and slippers, which I would need in order to use the inn's bath house. At least in this selection I was allowed to make the decision, ending up with a floor length grey one of amazingly soft wool with matching slippers.

After my choice, I was returned to my dress and we left the dressmaker with promises of a final fitting two mornings hence. Out on the street and feeling that my vow of silence was at an end I asked, "Mary, what am I going to end up wearing?"

"Don't worry Dra'e, you will look beautiful."

Well THAT was what I was worried about, yet no matter how much I whined or begged she would not give me any more information. Finally, as we were arriving at the small cobbler's shop, Mary reminded me that good girls should not question their elders. After all the my other indignities that I had experienced that day, I quit complaining and settled upon pouting.

We found Master Lestage to be as small as his shop and just as fastidious. Nor was he as impressed by the Deglace name or Mary’s determined efforts to describe the styles he was to make. Instead he appeared much more impressed by the fact that we came from Mistress Fulert's and put an end to Mary’s questioning when he said, “I know what Mistress Fulert likes, that is what I make. If you don’t want, you go elsewhere.”

With poor grace, Mary accepted. Though, on departure, she was much more willing to share her complaints than she had been to listen to mine. I, in turn, showed the proper way to deal with such complaints was commiseration, even if my lesson was lost on her. However, her complaints did end before we returned to the inn, for she left me in the care of our two guards while she went to perform some errands on her own. Meanwhile, with neither Jimi nor Stork willing to give into my pleas to explore, the three of us soon found ourselves back at the Scales where they deposited me in the sitting room of my suite. They then headed down to the common room while I was forced to find solace in one of the Annals, which were on a bookshelf.

The rest of the day involving a wonderful meal, a luxurious bath and a deep, long night’s sleep placed me in a rather good mood the next morning. During which I willingly sat while Mary experimented, upon me, with hair tongs heated with boiling water. The tongs’ purchase had been one of her prior day’s errands, resulting from the dressmaker recommending that my hair needed some curl. We were also joined by Stork and Jimi so that the three of them could tell me more of Glanlies and the members of the Deglace family. This task mainly fell upon Stork whose observations were tinged with humour and not nearly as blindingly loyal as Mary’s.

“Deglace is actually a Barony in South-Eastern Simolea, which has long been ruled by the family from whom our Deglaces sprung. The Glanlies branch was started by a fellow named Julion, the third son of the Baron who decided to seek his fame and fortune in the newly colonized port of Senlil. Now Julion was smarter than your average Simolean noble and was successful even though many considered the colony a failure. Therefore, while most returned home, he stayed and continued to prosper. He was also fortunate in the heirs he begat, so by the time Glanlies was built the family was a power on the peninsula, which continues to this very day.

“Yet they have never been a large family, having been known for marrying children off to establish and solidify contacts in the Kingdom. Their numbers were even further diminished by plague during the mistress’ Great-Grandfather’s time. After that plague, the family consolidated their presence in three main areas; their centre is still to be found in Glanlies, but they also maintain a strong presence at their country estate and in Senlil, for it is wine and shipping that provides the foundation of their wealth. I tell you all this so you won’t feel short changed when I describe and you meet only a small number of their herd.”

“Teodore Walcom, you will show proper respect towards your employers,” Mary admonished.

“Teodore?” I asked.

“Shh Drake, Teddy doesn’t like to be called that,” Jimi laughed.

“Shut your mouth James.”

“Be good all of you, Stork please continue with your description. However, you will do well to remember of whom you speak.”

“Aye Mary, sorry about that. I will try to hold my tongue in check.”

“See that you do.”

Stork then spent the next glass, with frequent interruptions from Mary and less frequent from Jimi, identifying the Deglaces who I may meet in Glanlies. Starting with the mistress’ parents; Master Dilen who was the head of the family, having assumed the position three years previously when his father passed away, and Madame Celise who had been born a Halston, which was another of the inner ring families. Then there were Mistress Elladoo's siblings, of whom only Anna her father’s heir and Julion the youngest would likely to be in the City. Georges, the second oldest was in charge of trading the family’s wine, outside of the peninsula and Deanne who had married a business partner’s son on the mainland were less often at home. Beyond the immediate family was Nilson, Dilen’s younger brother and right hand man, and his family. There was also Torsen, Dilen and Nilson’s uncle, though of an age between the two. Apparently Torsen was a bit of a black-sheep being more interested in adventure than trade, much to Mary’s disapproval. Beyond these main players were a number of cousins, wives, children and chosen who were key to the overall operation of the family business.

From discussions of the Deglaces we moved onto talking about the families of my three guardians, which lead to a significant amount of embarrassment on my part when I realized how little I knew about those who were my friends. I felt particularly bad to learn that Mary’s children were still in Glanlies and that but for looking after me she would be visiting them. Finally it was necessary for her to ease my mind when she told me that they were all grown up and that she would see them soon enough. As for Stork and Jimi, they were both from the Deglace country estate. Stork came from a large family, while Jimi was an only child whose parents had died when he was young after which he had grown up in the general care of everyone, the Walcoms in particular.

After that we discussed anything that could distract us from our worries that no word had come from Mistress Elladoo. All in all it turned out to be a very interesting day, linking us, one to the other more strongly than we had been before. Still, when we received a note later that afternoon from the mistress, saying that all was well, there was a general sense of relief. It allowed me to have a nice evening and another good sleep in preparation for what may happen on the morrow.

-------------------------

After two full nights of wondrous sleep I had awoken with the belief that it would be the day when something happened, that the chapter where I returned to myself would begin. However, my morning seemed to push me even further in the direction my life had recently taken.

First we returned to Master Lestage’s shop to pick up my new boots and a pair of shoes. The boots were made from the softest leather I had ever felt and dyed a shiny black. Still it was the fit that showed they were made by a master-craftsman, for they gently hugged my foot and calf when the leather laces were tightened. Their grasp was almost magical, promising nary a blister. While the shoes were made of a white-with-blue-flower brocade that I guessed would match one of my new dresses. Both would have been perfect if not for having heels narrow and tall enough for me to almost wrap my hand around. My exasperation at the man was equal to Mary’s two days previous, but so was his pigheadedness. And like with her, he prevailed against me.

From there we moved onto Mistress Fulert's shop for final fittings. Quickly we found that the height of the heels were expected and so included in the length of the skirts. Therefore, after undressing from dress and shift I soon found myself once more putting on the boots, though over a pair of wondrous, new, silken, knee length stockings held up by lace covered garters. Once shod, the fittings started, as I tried on the three beautiful dresses. After a few final adjustments were made by Mistress Fulert, Mary chose the light grey day dress for me to wear out of the shop.

The dress was mostly made of the same cloth from which his new robe had been made. Because of this and its bone stays it was rather form fitting, molding to my torso right up to a lace edged square cut neck and three quarters the way down my arms to end in similar lace. The tight fit even continued passed my hips, behind and upper thighs before the skirts widened to allow steps already shortened by my new boots. I was unsure about how much the dress showed off my figure, though when I voiced this concern Mistress Fulert proudly assured me that such was her goal when making the dress. Easy for her to say, she did not have to wear the dress or try and laugh off Jimi and Stork’s expressions or the stares from others. Those stares made me doubt the mistress and Mary’s plan to have me fit in, it also ensured my desire to explore, from two days previous, did not flare up again. No convincing was needed to get me back to the inn this time.

It was as if the Deglaces had someone watching us, for not long after we returned, there was a knock on our door. At the time Mary had me walking about the room getting used to my new boots and skirts, even though they had not proved overly difficult on our walk back from the dressmaker’s shop. Moving about my room it came to me that one thing I would miss when returned to myself, was how fit this body had proven to be. Even with garments that confined, I still felt lighter of foot than I had been while clomping about in my pants and shirts.

Guessing the knock was one of the inn’s staff, Mary gestured for me to continue as she moved to answer the door. Hearing an unrecognized voice and Mary’s respectful welcome, I turned to see a young man in a Deglace surcoat. A messenger was my first thought, though my second glance measured the quality of his clothes and made me doubt my initial impression.

Inviting the man in, Mary closed the door and gestured for me to approach, “Milord, may I present Dra'e of Elladoo Post. Dra'e, Lord Julion Deglace.”

Showing my training had paid off, I immediately sank into a curtsy, as deep as my new skirts allowed, with a murmured, “Milord.”

However, my reaction to his accent was purely instinct. It froze in my curtsy, not allowing to recognize the smile behind his words, when I said, “Nice choice Sister mine.”

Fortunately Mary came to my defense and in a voice holding exasperation, she admonished, “Master Julion!”

“My apologies Mary, and to you Dra'e. Or do you prefer Drake?”

Though Mary was my rock and I knew her preference, this was a moment in which to regain some of myself, “Drake Milord, I prefer Drake.”

“Very well, Drake it is. Now why don’t the three of us take a seat so I can update on what has happened while you have vacationed here in Fermere.”

Seated, Julion began to speak, “Before your journey South, Esselde sent a letter briefly explaining what had happened during the attack by Darrel the Roamer. Good thing she did, for when Stork showed up with his fanciful story, he was not locked up with the crazy cousins. Therefore, Father willingly sent the troop and requested the assistance of Magister Bewlmon. That done we waited for further word, word that did not reach us until Esselde arrived two days ago. Now that was a mistake. Esselde really should have let us know when things had been resolved in Corels. Mother does not take kindly to worry and when she learned her worry had been needless, she became rather annoyed with Esselde.”

Having recently suffered similar rebuke from my mother, for much the same reasons, my sympathies definitely lay with Mistress Elladoo. So I tried to come to her defense, “But none of us thought to send such a message.”

“Well it was not for any of you to send the message. It was Esselde who was in charge and she is the one who knows Mother the best, after all they are basically the same person.”

At this Mary nodded her head, “Aye the madame and the mistress are as alike as two blades of grass.”

“The two of them are full of the Halston fire, which is difficult to deal with, for us plain old Deglaces. And when one sparks, the second often serves as tinder resulting in a fierce blaze. Two nights ago there was a fire to melt the walls, Mother demanding explanations for every step your party took and Esselde unwilling to offer them. Why I honestly expected their screeching to wake Grandfather Larmir from the dead.”

Hearing the glee in Julion’s explanation resulted in my feeling a spirit of kinship with him. After all, I too found a significant, little brother pleasure from my own Mother’s battles with my sister June, who were also as alike as two blades of grass. With this recognition, I began to feel less wary of Julion, even if he did sound like Darrel and Colonel Vannigan.

“Well happily before either said something regrettable, something whose hurt could not easily be repaired, Father stepped in to end the fight. He has great skill at this, being a master of the compromise, at least once he determines upon what the compromise should be based. In this case, he determined that it was you Drake who was the point of conflict.”

“Me?”

“Yes you. See everybody knew that Esselde would, rightfully, if I may say, spend the majority of her time ensuring that you are able to get back to being the you that you wish to be. My, wasn’t that a pretty piece of wordplay?”

“Umm...yes?”

“Of course it was, though I can see by the look on your face that you find it of little interest. Understandable after being informed that you are the chaff between the grinding stones that are my mother and sister.”

“Please Master Julion,” Mary interrupted. “Could you tell us of Master Dilen’s compromise? Dra'e is nervous enough, without having to bear the additional burden you attribute to her.”

With a seated bow in Mary’s direction, Julion apologized, “I am sorry Drake, I am easily distracted by my own voice and cleverness. ‘Tis a fault that Father believes I must correct. But enough of that, let us return to the compromise of which I had begun to speak. Father quickly guessed that Mother was actually worried that she would get no time to spend with Esselde during this rare visit. Understanding this, Father convinced my sister to spend most of her time during her visit at home with the family.”

“That is understandable, if someone can offer me directions I can look after myself,” I replied, though my bravado was as rickety as an abandoned barn. The truth was, though Mary provided most of my day to day support, it was Mistress Elladoo upon whom I had attached my hopes.

“Drake, I would have thought you had more faith in my sister, what type of sad compromise would that be? No she made sure that you will not be on your own, that you would have a chaperon to guide and assist you. Now the obvious choice would be the estimable Mary, but that would be unfair as she too deserves a chance to spend time with her family. Therefore, they settled upon the next best choice. Drake of Elladoo Post, I would like to offer my services as that guide.”

The offer was accompanied by a manic grin that did little to instill me with confidence. Yet how could I not accept the help, without insulting my matron and the family by whom I wished to be chosen? I could not. Still that did not mean that it was not my duty to offer an out, “I appreciate your offer Milord, but I am sure you are busy enough without having to trouble yourself with me.”

In turn, it was Julion’s duty to ignore that out, “Not to worry Drake, I am not bothered. Well at least I am no longer bothered, as I am sure that being seen in your lovely presence will do my ego an unmeasurable amount of good.”

Unsure how to deal with his flattery, I ignored it, except for a blush, and said, “Thank you Milord, I am honoured by your offer.”

“I also admit that I am extremely curious about the entire affair. I mean not to slight your situation, but it is rather amazing. So I would have been pleased to assist even if Father had not assigned me this task, he also bade me judge your worth to be a Deglace chosen.”

Thus I was reminded that care should be taken in measuring a person too quickly, since their actions or words may hide who they are. Such was the case with Julion, for despite his foolhardy air he was a scion of his family, which was as powerful as any on the peninsula. If he was as competent as his sister then he would be quite formidable and his next comments made that seem very possible.

“Well this all happened on the day and night of Esselde’s return, which likely makes you wonder why it is only today that I came to visit. It is not because we do not see you as a priority, let me assure you of that. No it is the result of me diligently taking yesterday to prepare for our task. First I needed to contact Hiram’s cousin, Sharlese, at the College to ensure that she would be able to meet with you. She will, tomorrow morning. However, she also asked if she could discuss your case with Magister Bewlmon, which resulted in my setting up and hosting a dinner between the two of them. A fascinating night, even if I had no idea what they were talking about most of the time. Then there is the Militia.”

“The Militia,” I exclaimed, not thrilled to hear that they still had an interest in my life.

“Yes the Militia. Their investigative branch has been looking into Hiram’s report about the attack on his Post. They are interested in what you overheard from Darrel, about him having a contact who was intercepting messages. They wish to ask you about this. Now we know that your experiences with the Militia in Corels was very negative; however, Father is rather concerned by this breach in the Commission’s communications and would take it as a personal favour if you were to talk to them?”

“I agree Milord. As someone who lives on the frontier and who has used that mode of communication, I am sold on its benefits. Therefore, I am willing to assist the Militia.”

“You are? Most excellent, Esselde did say that you would be quite reasonable in this request. In fact she convinced me to set up an appointment with the investigators tomorrow afternoon. So I guess that ends my update, do you have any questions?”

Mary and I looked questioningly at each other, wondering who should pose the obvious query. When she made no move to do so, I asked, “Yes Milord, what are we to do today?”

Laughing, he replied, “Of course, what other question could you ask? Well Esselde said that you would be seeking new frocks, as you had been forced into her hand-me-downs. Now unless her fashion sense outstrips that of the city, I would guess that you have been successful.”

“Yes, she has Milord,” Mary answered.

“I thought so. And let me say, you do look most delectable. However, since you have fulfilled your frock quest, do you have any other tasks keeping you in Fermere?”

“No Milord, we are waiting upon Milady Deglace’s orders.”

“Very well, then why don’t you pack up and we will move Drake into the family house in town. It will also allow you to visit your family, Mary. Sound good?”

“Yes Milord,” the two of us chorused.

“Okay, while you pack up I will go settle the bills. Who was the dressmaker?”

“Misha Fulert, Dra'e also had new boots made by Master Lestage.”

“Ahh, did he get you into some of those stilts that are all the rage?” At my nod he smiled and continued, “Just another reason for me to stick close, as you will need someone to catch you if you fall. Well I should be back in a half-turn, then we can head into town and introduce you to the rest of the clan.”

With that he was out of the door. Rather stunned by the whole visit I looked questioningly towards Mary, who answered with a shrug, “That’s Master Julion for you.”

-------------------------

True to his word, a short while later Julion had Mary and me in a carriage heading into Glanlies, he, Jimi and Stork riding beside us on their horses. I would like to tell you my thoughts as we passed through the gates into the city; however, everything was a blur, worried as I was about meeting the rest of the Deglaces. If I had my druthers, it would not occur so soon after learning that I was a point of conflict amongst them. Yet in the end my worries were for naught, as despite Julion’s proposed introductions I did not meet any more of the Deglaces on that day. Instead, after being ensconced in rooms nice than those at the Scales, I was left alone.

Even Mary saw this as an opportunity to escape to visit her sons and daughters. Meanwhile I looked forward to spending the afternoon truly alone, peacefully alone, something rare since my girlification. Now, you may say that I spent quite a bit of time alone in Corels, but I would respond that it definitely was not peaceful. However, my plan was not to be, for soon after Mary left there was a knock on my door signifying Julion’s return.

“Excuse me Drake while I was out a message arrived from Archmage Sharlese, she asked if we would be able to visit a friend of hers this afternoon?”

“I suppose so Milord, I do not have anything else planned. Do I?”

“Nothing of which I am aware.”

“Then I am free, who does she wish me to visit?”

“It is the Priestess Alynn, she is a Physician of Sera. The Archmage would the physician to examine you, before she begins her own work. Luckily we have lots of time to pop over to the Sanctuary and see the priestess before eve. Shall we?”

‘Luckily’ was not how I would describe it, guessing that the exam may prove to be rather embarrassing. But if the Archmage requested it and she felt it necessary to return me to myself, I would just have to endure. “Of course Milord, I would be happy to visit the priestess.”

“That is excellent. But there is one other matter we must discuss before we go.”

Wondering at the seriousness of his tone, I cautiously queried, “What matter is that Milord?”

“Well it’s my name. You see it is Julion, not Milord.”

“But I couldn’t call you that Milord, it wouldn’t be right.”

“Don’t worry about it Drake, none of my friends go by their titles. Titles are reserved for our parents. Really you must call me Julion, otherwise everybody will think I am putting on airs.”

“I don’t know? I am a nobody.”

“Not looking the way you do.”

“Are you sure it is all right?”

With a smiling leer on his face and with his eyes no longer looking me in the eyes, Julion intentionally mistook my question, “Oh you definitely look all right, much more than all right. In fact I was not nearly as effusive as I should have been when praising Mary for wrapping you in that wonderful frock.”

Unbothered by his flirting, having guessed that it was natural for Julion, I decided to give in to his request, “Okay, I will call you Julion.”

With a smile, he stated, “Excellent.”

He then offered me his arm. Surprising myself, I took it and allowed him to guide me outdoors where we found a cabriolet we could take to Sera’s Sanctuary. Unlike earlier, during this ride I paid attention to my surroundings. What struck me the most was that it did not seem like we were in a city, at least nothing like my birthplace of Corels.

Not that the inner ring or temple square and its park accurately reflected the city, no this was the showcase where visitors were awed by the wealth of the Commission. Streets and paths were of packed, white stone, which was carefully groomed and maintained to provide a ride smoother than the cobblestones we had traveled earlier in the day. And where there were no paths, there was grass or flower beds or benches, each as carefully maintained as the streets. All of this surrounded great mansions and even more spectacular temples and churches.

It was exciting and Julion was wise enough not to encroach upon my wonder with idle chatter. Instead he periodically offered a smile to me as we moved passed the Chapel of Turin, then the Temple of the Allfather, before coming to a stop in front of Sera’s Sanctuary.

Leaving the cart with a caretaker in the robe of Sera we entered a great hall adorned with as much plant-life as any outdoor garden. Taken aback by the calming nature of, well, nature, I did not notice the approach of an under-priestess until Julion jostled my arm and said, “We are to follow.”

Follow we did, out of the main hall and down into a veritable maze leading finally to a door where the under-priestess stopped and knocked. Inside was an office full of books and with a desk behind which sat a full priestess of Sera, in the same straw gold robe as worn by she who had attended my Chaining. Nor was it just their robes that made them alike, each was of similar age, demeanor and appearance. Almost as if they were sisters of blood, not just of faith. However, the priestess in Corels had not emitted the power that I had come to associate with a magic users, this one did. The aura was of similar intensity to Magister Bewlmon’s, but of a different feel. While the Allfather’s power seemed to reflect knowledge, the Allmother’s was one of soothing. Not that the demeanor of the priestess reflected this calming influence.

Rising to offer greeting, she spoke to our guide, “Vera, please take Master Deglace back to the foyer, I would like to see the damsel alone.”

For someone whom I had just met, I was loathe to lose Julion’s support. However, the priestess’ reason for his banishment was explained when she commanded me to undress. With little hesitation, I was growing used to others seeing my body, I complied. Not that it would have been as quick if I had been aware of how Priestess Alynn would poke and prod me. It seemed she found my existence insulting, being beyond her ken, finding it hard to believe that I had once been a boy. She even described me by saying, “You are as healthy as a girl your age can be. Your maidenhead is intact and you should be bursting with fertility, yet it is as if you are fallow. How long have you been in this form.”

“Just over two months Priestess.”

“And have you bled?”

“Pardon?”

“Surely you know of a woman’s bleeding?”

I did, though my knowledge was cursory at best, “No Ma'am, I have not bled.”

“You should have bled by this time, your body begs for it. Why has it not happened?”

Though not a question for which she expected an answer, I had a theory, “Excuse me Priestess, Magister Bewlmon believes that the defense spell that protected me during the demoness’ attack continues to operate, though now he thinks it protects me from the passage of time. So maybe my body does not yet think it is time to bleed.”

“Magister Bewlmon you say? He always does have crazy ideas, though I admit I do not have a better explanation at this time. I will have to pray on it. Mayhap the Lady will offer me wisdom. But for now my examination is at an end, let me attach your anti-fertility charm and then you can get dressed?”

“My what?”

“Your anti-fertility charm. We don’t want you getting pregnant.”

“But...I can’t...and...I won’t,” I gasped.

“Well I don’t think you can either, not that I understand why. And what I don’t understand, I don’t trust; therefore, we will stick to what works. As for you not getting pregnant, you are a pretty young girl and I saw the way that young man looked at you. Honestly I don’t trust you or any girl your age around such temptation, specially the sort that dress in a manner to please the Lady’s silly daughter. No I know what is best for you.”

None of my pleas or reasonings budged her decision, no more than had similar words affected Master Lestage. I found myself thinking these Glanlies’ folk were rather full of themselves as she pierced my navel with a gold ring from which dangled a small, golden charm in the shape of a sickle.

When done, I could not escape from the woman fast enough, even though the throb from her piercing served as a steady reminder. Its presence and her words forced me to look rather differently at Julion, when I was returned to his side. Apparently sensing my hidden thoughts, he did not pry or question me on what occurred, nor did he offer me his arm as we returned to our cabriolet. Instead he provided silent companionship that I willingly accepted. Nor did he extend our visit or attempt introductions when we returned to his home, instead allowing me to seek my delayed solitude. Now needed even more after my visit to Sera’s Sanctuary.

Back in my room I tried to confront the feelings brought about by Priestess Alynn. I knew she saw me as female first, demon plagued second, whereas I thought the opposite. To the priestess I was a girl on the brink of womanhood. Ready to be pursued by men, wedded to one and bedded by him. She expected me to be catchable, assumed that I would want to be caught and so she had sought to protect me from myself. And hidden within her actions I read a belief, that she had not spoken, she fully expected me to stay a girl. This fed a niggling thought lurking in the back of my mind, ‘If Magister Bewlmon, an expert in demon possession, did not understand what had happened to me, then how would know how to break it?’

Rubbing a hand across my stomach I could barely feel the charm beneath my dress, yet its presence loomed large in my mind forcing me to asked myself what it mean to be a woman? It was a difficult question for a fifteen year old boy, even for one masquerading as a girl. Yet would it be easier for a fifteen year old girl? After all, I had not yet determined what it meant to be a man.

Maybe a girl would not be as confused by this body, as she would flower out of childhood over years not in a single sleep. Possibly a girl’s mother or sisters or friends would do a better job of explaining what in meant to be a woman than had my father and brother and friends in telling me about being a man. Actually I doubted that they could have done a worse job, for the only stories and lessons, mostly passed on by those with whom I shared the bachelor quarters at the Post, were recognizable as lies or exaggerations. As often as not they were warnings of what not to do hidden behind laughter or personal glorification. As for any wisdom they had about women, let me just say that it would take many drops upon my head for me to believe anything they had said.

Yet the advice I had from women was non-existent, for the little contact I had with them had not involved teaching me what it meant to be a woman. Instead the lessons with Clara and the mistress had been on trade and math, the only knowledge of women I gained during those times was how unobtainable both of them were for one such as I. Although at least they had not ignored me like the rest of the womenfolk at the Post, specially those close to my age.

Anything I knew of women was what I had learned in the last two months, surface things, little of substance. My knowledge was akin to having learned the curses, yet being expected to speak a language. There were so many questions to be asked and answers to be found that I fervently hoped my niggling thought would be proven false.

As for the charm and what it implied, I vowed to prove to Priestess Alynn that it was unnecessary. Sure, I had found myself liking Julion, he seemed fun to be around and was someone worthy of emulation. But he did not set my heart aflutter as did Filice of the glossy black hair and fiery eyes, the daughter of a Roamer whose caravan often stopped to trade at Elladoo Post. When I was near her I was struck dumb and breathless. Neither Julion, nor any other man, affected me in such a way. Nor did I think that I would dream of him as I dreamed of her.

Nor did I, instead my thoughts were of Sophie, the pretty maidservant who had assisted my preparations for bed, helping me out of my dress and into a new, lovely, muslin night-gown. She had left me tongue-tied with her gentle touch and flowery smell as she loosely braided my hair and stuffed it underneath a night cap. Thoughts of her were enough to fill my dreams with...

...actually I think I will keep them to myself. Instead let me share my last waking question, ‘What would the magic that healed my wounds do to my new piercing?”

-------------------------

The next morning once more found Sophie helping me, as I learned she had been assigned to look after me while Mary visited her family. She bustled into my room with good cheer not long after I had awoken and found that the Goddess’ healing must have negated the need for my own magical healing, for the ring through my navel felt the same as it had the night before. Also unchanged was my reaction to Sophie, which allowed her to get away with petty tyrannies easier than would have Mary. Not that I am saying Mary would not get her way, she just would have had to put up with my complaining.

For Sophie I remained silent and let her do to me what she would. It started with the jars of cosmetics that Mary had purchased in Corels, with which she was not at all impressed. Not that it stopped her from dipping in to use them, while mumbling under her breath a list of items she would have to find in the market that day. She was happier with our purchases from Fermere and was most entranced by my chains, the jewelry aspect of them. She felt that they were rather spectacular and should be on display, not hidden. Personally I had felt that this was already the case, but soon learned they could be put on even greater display.

For a start Sophie had use a long ribbon, made from the blue, satin cloth of my new visiting dresses, to tie my hair into a pony tail which hung well down my back. As a result, my hair was pulled away from my face, allowing the sapphire at my brow and the silver filigree of the diadem to be fully seen. Strangely I was less bothered by this than the fancy bow and dangling ribbon tied in my hair. It just seemed extremely girlish. I may have said something, if not for Sophie praising the result.

Gods, I was so weak.

With the ribbon chosen, I was not surprised to see her choose the visiting dress for me to wear. It was not only the satin that made it a fancier dress than the grey one, there was all the lace. At the hems, on the boned bodice and providing additional, minimum protection for a rather low cut neckline, even the short sleeves Sophie tied to the dresses shoulder straps were completely made of lace. Looking in a long mirror at the end result caused me to feel a number of different emotions and not all of those were bad.

From my room, I was led to a small dining room where I found Mistress Esselde and Julion breakfasting. After the mistress gushed over my appearance, made me spin in a circle and called me adorable. As I sat, my masculinity retreated even further into the dark recesses of my mind, ending up somewhere near memories of a cat named Socks, who had lived in the bakery when I was a little boy. Happily I was soon distracted by sharing news with the mistress. After telling my story from the last three days, the mistress passed on the news that she had received a missive from Master Elladoo. It told of his success in negotiating a deal with Chief Many Song and outlined a number of jobs to be completed by someone in the city.

To the three of us, this news was exciting enough to keep us entertained throughout breakfast. Apparently Clara, whose wagon train of furs had made it to the city, was to be in charge of hiring the work crews to build a post somewhat smaller than Elladoo Post. She was also to set up contracts for merchandise to be sold at what was to become, Many Song Post. I hoped that I would be given the chance to assist her, it would be an excellent training.

Our enjoyable conversation was brought to an end when Julion said we needed to head out to our meetings. Again we used the cabriolet, this time to head into the city and towards the College of Mages to the Southwest. This trip Julion found me both less awed and less pensive, allowing him to entertain me with stories about the city and his friends, most of which ended with me laughing. It was fun and I did not even mind where his eyes would dart during my laughter, as I would have been no different, well except for the stretch required to see me with a girl wearing the type of dress I was wearing and being able to make her laugh.

The College, beyond its size and location, did not particularly stand out amongst the other buildings, as it was made from stone, out of the same quarries, that had been used to build most of the city. It was a twin, according to Julion, to the Commission and Militia headquarters.

However, once inside I found it was not like any other building. Not because of the tasteful decor, but because of the people, the mages. They were all over the place and each emitted power, great or small, of different feels or textures or smells or sounds. It was like walking into my parent’s bakery and having the wonderful aroma encompass me. Yet what I experienced in the College’s lobby affected every one of my senses, nor was all that assailed me wonderful. In its entirety it was overwhelming and it stopped me, frozen in my tracks.

Julion, noticing something, turned to me to ask what was wrong. And though I saw his lips move, the sound came as if from far away or drowned beneath a rushing river crashing over a falls.

How long we stood there, I do not know. Probably it was not long, for others began to notice and turned their gazes in our direction. Some looked on with idle curiosity, wondering what was wrong with the pretty girl and her well dressed companion. Others, more learned, saw what rested on my forehead and understood that I was more unique than in just my appearance. Some shrank away, but most looked on with curiosity, for most of them would be familiar with the demon world and demon kind. They saw me as an interesting bauble and some began to cast spells of inquiry that quested towards me, like numerous curious snakes.

This was much too much. I wanted too flee or hide, yet my feet were unwilling to take me anywhere. Instead, like a child, I scrunched my eyes closed and clapped hands over my ears. Not that it helped. Only when Julion scooped me up and carried me from the College to a stone bench, at the bottom of the College’s steps, was I able to gain relief from the assault.

Thankfully the curious stayed inside and let me regain my wits as I sat crouched over, rocking back and forth, glorying in the regular sounds, sights and smells of the street. I barely noticed Julion rubbing my back and murmuring words of encouragement, though I drew strength and comfort from both. Beginning to feel normal, I became aware of approaching footsteps and saw the hem of a burgundy coloured robe enter into my view. From the direction of the approach I could tell that the figure had approached from the College, the gleam of power glowing the same colour as the wearer’s robe confirmed that the person was one of its members.

Still one person, or a handful of people who had the power, even great power, was manageable. Therefore, I raised my tear-stained face to see an older lady looking at me with a curiosity similar to many of her colleagues. Seeing she had my attention, she introduced herself, “I assume you are the Drake of whom I have heard, both from my cousin Hiram and your companion, Master Deglace. I am the Archmage Sharlese.”

“Aye Archmage, I am Drake. I thank you for seeing me, though I apologize for making you come outside for that to happen.”

“It is alright Drake. I was looking forward to your visit and am now even more intrigued. You really must tell me what happened.”

“I am not sure how to explain it Archmage, it is...”

“Wait Drake, the street is not the best location for such a conversation.”

“Oh please Ma'am, please. I cannot go inside. Please no.”

“Relax child, I do not ask you to go inside. Instead let us go around back, where we can find privacy in the gardens.”

With this assurance,I allowed Julion to be help me to my feet and then with each upon a side, as I still was not that steady, we circled behind the building to find the garden. One not of plants and flowers as expected, but of stones and statues. Moving to a pair of benches beneath a canvas cover the three of us took a seat, she then asked, “If you are willing, I would involve one of my colleagues in our discussion. He is Overmage Tison and has done much study of the Carthanan demons.”

I saw no reason not to grant the request, so I nodded my head at which point I noticed her concentrate for a moment and then flare brightly for an instant, like the aftermath of a lightning bolt strike. I guessed she had cast a communication spell of some sort and thus was not surprised with the arrival of a man in his thirties wearing a robe of umber, the same colour as the power that surrounded him. A handsome man, who looked like he had spent more time on his appearance than I had been forced to endure that morning. This thought made me think of Magister Bewlmon, though it was a comparison the man lost.

After introducing the man as Overmage Tison, the Archmage began her interview, “Please ignore my prior question about what happened in the foyer. Instead tell me everything from the start. I have heard some from Magister Bewlmon and Priestess Alynn, but would hear of it from you, personally.”

It was becoming easier to tell, having told it so many times already. Plus Archmage Sharlese was a good listener and did not make me focus on my time in the bandit camp, saying it would provide little value as I was not in control at the time. Instead she focused on my experience with the mob in Corels and how I held been able to channel, yet keep, Sandrelessa at bay. With my story told she reacted like everyone else and settled back into thought.

“And you believe that these two times are the only periods when the demoness has made her presence felt?”

“As far as I know, Archmage.”

“Has your personality changed in any way?”

“I do not believe so, though of course everything is different, what with my being changed into a girl.”

“Yes I guess that would change things rather much. However, please forgive me for saying, if I did not know the truth, I would never guess that you had recently been a boy.”

I struggled to be insulted by this statement, but was unable to kindle any anger. Things were becoming too normal, expected, rather than surprising. “I am not insulted Ma'am, even though I feel I should be. But what has happened to my body has never been as bad as what lurks inside of it. It may even have kept people close. Because, if I had been turned into some horrid monster, my friends may have turned upon me, maybe I would never have even woken from that first sleep.”

“So how you no look bothers less than the possession?”

“Most definitely. It is like when someone has their nose broken, you see.”

“Actually I don’t.”

“Oh sorry. Well you know how when your nose broken you also get black eyes. Yeah the black eyes are annoying and all, but the broken nose is worse. And by the time the nose is healed, so are the eyes.”

“So being turned into a woman is the black eye to the broken nose of demon possession?” she asked, rather incredulously.

Even while nodding my head, I understood the tone of her question, for it was an explanation that barely passed muster for my fifteen year old mind. I am now willing to admit that it was crap and she had every right to be incredulous, but at the time it just popped into my head and burst out of my mouth.

Deciding to ignore my explanation, she returned to what had led to it. “Still it is surprising that you are so natural.”

“It’s likely because of Mary, Mistress Elladoo's maidservant. She has been looking after and teaching me things.”

Looking towards my companion at the end of my explanation, the Archmage asked, “Why do you shake your head Master Deglace?”

“Sorry Drake, but I am sure that Mary did not teach you to move as you do. Now don’t take this as a complaint against a valued family retainer, but she has been with Esselde for years and my sister still stomps around like a dockworker. Not you, you glide, even in those boots I know you are wearing. Any mother would be thrilled to have a daughter move with your grace. No actually, you sway in a fashion more appealing to us menfolk than to a mother. Now that I give it more thought, you walk like a dancer.”

“Thank you for your expert opinion Master Deglace,” Archmage Sharlese answered in a tone that implied, that if needed, she would side with the mothers of the world against the Julions of the world.

Unabashed by the tone, Julion turned a leer in my direction and said, “Glad to offer it Archmage Sharlese. And don’t worry I will maintain a close study on Drake to see what else I can notice.”

Showing how quickly I had gotten used to Julion, moving him from respected member of a powerful family to friend, I rolled my eyes at him. Smiling at this he taunted in a completely non-insulting way, “You are such a girl.”

Ignoring our byplay Overmage Tison spoke for the first time, “Actually Master Deglace, you may be on to something.”

“Really?” Julion asked, seemingly shocked by the very idea.

“Aye. See Sandrelessa is not unknown to the College, she has been one of the few Carthanans to regularly come to the call of our members. Much has been written about her, most that she has spoken is thought to be lies, but there have been some speculation about her. One such thought is that she is so interested in our world, because she has so very little power in her own. A worthy guess, for we have learned that amongst the Carthanans their women are treated as chattel. This fits with tales of her being a concubine and then consort to a fallen prince amongst her kind. After his fall, it is believed she was taken slave by the victor, ever since she has been known as Sandrelessa the Lithe. Maybe she was a dancer, it may explain why Drake moves in the fashion Master Deglace noticed.”

“Wait. Are you saying that Sandrelessa is controlling me? That’s horrible, what else is she making me do?”

“No I do not say that. I just surmise a possible explanation to Master Deglace’s observation. It may just be that you or your new body have inherent grace. But I cannot say, nothing about what has happened to you makes sense.”

There it was. A statement, from an expert, that enhanced my worry that I may be stuck as Dra'e. I did not find it unexpected; therefore, I was able to, despite the way my heart was beating, rationally say, “I have tried to deny it to myself Sir, but I think your thought may be true. For there is something about me that I have told nobody, something that is not normal. It makes me wonder if Sandrelessa is hiding closer to the surface then I hope.”

Archmage Sharlese asked, “Does it have something to do with what happened to you in the foyer Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about it.”

So I did. I told them of how I could sense power surrounding those who had it. I described what I saw and felt, how with individuals and smalls groups it was bearable, yet how it had frozen me amongst the dozens in the College. I stated how any use of the power made the magical aura around a person flare up. My explanation seemed to fascinate both mages, for their eyes glowed brighter and brighter in excitement.

When I finished, they both began to talk, though Tison deferred to his superior the archmage, who asked, “That is rather amazing Drake. Do you mean to say that when you look at either Tison or myself, we glow?”

“Kind of, it is hard to describe. It seems like everyone is slightly different, though I can say that the colouring of each of your robes seems the same as your power. How can I explain it?” I paused, trying to order my thoughts, to figure out how to make my strange vision real. “It is like the sun on a foggy morning, when it rises and its light glows within mist. So to there is such a fog, though barely noticeable, surrounding each of you and your robes seem to provide the light causing the glow. Though I don’t believe it is your robes, I think it is each of you.”

“Very interesting. Once a student obtains the status of mage, she is taught a spell with which she colours her white, apprentice robe to one of her own choosing. I have always been intrigued by the colour choices made by some of my colleagues, now I wonder if they or I had a choice.”

Nodding his head, the Overmage added, “Aye, do we choose the colours or do they choose us?”

“That is the question. Too bad there are not apprentices close to the ceremony, otherwise we could try and answer it. So let us return to the bigger question of Drake’s talent. May it be a variation on the Sight of Objects?”

“That seems possible Sharlese. Does any of our members have the Sight?”

“I am not sure, I will have to check with the Master of Roles.”

Feeling rather confused, I broke in to ask, “Excuse me Ma'am, but what is the Sight of Objects?”

“My apologies Drake. The Sight is a skill that allows one to look at an item and determine whether it is imbued with powers. For example, take your jewelry. While I or Tison can look at it and guess that they were used for a Chaining, a person trained in the Sight would be able to see the power of the Gods. We were wondering if your extra sense is similar. Actually, what do you see when you look at either of your bracelets or rings?”

“I just see them as jewelry Ma’am. I can tell they are well crafted and made of fine materials, but if I had not felt their power I would not know they were special in other ways.”

“I am not surprised, for I have never heard of anybody with the Sight seeing as you do. It seems your vision is one more oddity about your possession. I now regret my hasty response to Hiram when I first learned of your possession, it may not be as easy to break as I casually implied.”

“It is because it involves a Carthanan.” Overmage Tison stated.

“That is my guess as well. And yet I have never read of a Carthanan possession, have you Tison?”

“I have not. I believe it would be wise to do some research. If there is nothing to be found in the library it may be necessary to summon a Carthanan and see if it can provide any information.”

The Archmage frowned, “We can’t be sure that whatever it says will be the truth.”

“Well there is that, but I may have plan. That is if Drake is willing?”

“I am willing Sir, what do you need me to do?”

“I would like you to attend the summoning, I am hoping that your state may prove a surprise and that it will let something slip.”

Okay, I should not have been so quick to volunteer, still I bravely squeaked, “I will be there if needed.”

-------------------------

The interview ended soon afterwards and the mages headed off to pursue their research. As they moved towards the door from which the Overmage had earlier join us, Julion and I walked back around the building to the waiting cabriolet. As Julion helped me step up and take a seat, he said, “Well that was definitely interesting.”

“Aye it was and I want to thank you Milord...”

“Julion.”

“...Julion for helping me and in particular for rescuing me from the College foyer earlier.”

“Oh it was nothing for a daring-doer such as I. Why if I don’t rescue a damsel before lunch I feel that my morning has been wasted.”

“It was though and I very much appreciate it.” I confirmed not wanting to be denied my thanks by his humour.

Bowing in acceptance, he said, “I am, was and will continue to be glad to help.”

“I only hope I can return the favour.”

“Excellent, I was looking for an accomplice, I mean an assistant in my master plan to seduce the Kingdom of Simolean Ambassador’s daughter. You can distract the guards while I climb up the wall of the embassy into her room.”

My only response was a brilliant impression of a fish out of water. Julion watching this let a worried frown come over his face before plaintively asking, “Are you saying, well actually not saying, that my plan is less than brilliant? It’s so simple it cannot fail. First there is the distraction, you should have no problem with that, I know you distract me quite easily. Then I climb up into Isoboe’s, that’s her name, beautiful isn’t it. I am almost sure it rhymes with some romanticky word. Wait, is romanticky a word? Well never mind, we must get back to our planning. I cannot believe how easily I was distracted, what did you do?”

“Umm...nothing?”

“I’m not sure I trust you, you must have done something. Hah! I know what it was, you were proving to me your skill at distraction, which must imply you have another problem with my plan. What was the plan again? Right you distract, me climb wall. So you must doubt my ability to climb the wall. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Well...”

“No no, you needn’t worry. I am an expert climber. Why almost daily I climb both out and into bed, what other practice would I need?”

Having finally caught up to the fact that Julion was once more playing the jester, I played along, “It isn’t that I don’t have confidence in your climbing ability, it is more that I worry about your clothes.”

This time the confusion was on the other foot (or would it be other mind?) as he questioned, “My clothes?”

“Yes, your clothes. I would think that if you wanted to seduce this Isoboe, you would want to wear your best clothes?”

“Most definitely. In fact I have had the perfect duds tailored.”

“Well my concern would be with how dirty they would get in your climb.”

“That would be horrible.”

“Aye, most horrible.”

“You really should have thought about that before you proposed your plan and got me all excited.”

“My plan?” I asked, in mock outrage.

“Well I guess I shouldn’t lay blame, after all we are a team and teams work together. Like the Baron Davdiut and Milton Bornes.”

“Didn’t they live over a hundred years apart?”

“Did they? Then we will be like Elton Brawnlake and Dugliss Terinmor.”

“Julion, I believe Brawnlake killed Terinmore in a duel.”

“How about Captain Igor Wilsh and Lieutenant Sanmore Danels?”

“Wilsh was a pirate who was captured by Danels and was later hanged.”

“Well that just means we will have to be the first great team. Why a hundred years into the future I am sure another pair of adventurers will look back on us and hope to be as great a team as Julion Deglace and Dirk.”

“Drake.”

“What’s that?”

“My name is Drake, not Dirk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Well have it your own way, Drake it will be. Though you must admit that Dirk has quite a flair to it, so knifish you know. Whereas Drake seems rather ducky, hey do you mind if I call you Ducky?”

“I would prefer not Milord.”

“Hah, well played. Drake it is. With your wit and my derring-do we cannot help but succeed. Hold on a moment, that reminds me of something. I now understand why we are struggling with our plan for me to seduce the lovely Isoboe. Didn’t we already rescue a damsel this morning?”

“Well it was more you Julion.”

“No no, remember we are partners. We share the blame and the success, besides you played a key role in the rescue if I remember correctly.”

“Well I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“That’s the spirit. So if we are to rescue a damsel a day before lunch and if we have already rescued said damsel, then it must be time for lunch?”

“Possibly.”

“Exactly Drake, it is good to see we are in agreement. What say we grab a bite to eat?”

“Aren’t we to visit the Militia?”

“Not until this afternoon, we have lots of time to get something to eat and then go see the inspector.”

“Then I guess we could, though I am not feeling that hungry.”

“It’s likely your dress, from what I can see and I’m not ashamed to admit I have been looking, there isn’t much room for food. But as a team we must each make sacrifices. For instance, you really must keep wearing that spectacular frock, while I will help you by eating anything you can’t finish.”

“That will work.” I answered, not even bothered by his comments about my appearance. He had a way of saying things that made me feel part, not the target, of his humour.

“Excellent and here we are.”

Having not been paying much attention to where we were going, I looked around. Like everywhere in the city it was not yet recognizable, though based on the number of people milling around the large basin of water in which there were a number of fountains, it appeared to be popular. “Excuse me Julion, where is here?”

“Why it is the Fountains of Joy. The street vendors here serve some of the best food and drink in the city. Plus it is a great place to see friends, catch up on the latest gossip, and if one is as fortunate as I am, to show off the pretty girl they are escorting.”

Hopping out of the cart, Julion waved to one of the boys loitering near-bye. After handing the boy a coin and offering more if the cart and horse were well looked after, Julion helped me down. The throng and the number of glances cast in my direction were enough that I willingly took his arm and the protection it offered. Soon we were moving towards what Julion described as his favourite vendor; however, our pace was slow as it seemed that everyone knew him and wanted to talk or find out who I was.

My curtsy skills were well exercised as I was introduced to quite a few people and my breasts were introduced to many more. It was during one of the latter, that a fellow who seemed to exude a dislike for Julion snarkily commented, “So Julion, can I assume that the new tart on your arm means that Isoboe has finally come to her senses and cast you aside?”

From there the conversation moved into a verbal duel between Julion and the man, where, even considering my bias, Julion totally slicing and skewering his adversary. Not only did Julion defend my honour, but he also cast aspersions upon his opponent’s. He then accused him of being an ugly troll who could not even dream of attaining a wondrous angel such as Isoboe or I. After that things really went downhill, until the man stomped away trying to ignore the laughter of the crowd, who had gathered to enjoy the spectacle.

While Julion savoured his victory and the congratulations of his friends who had been watching, I bemusedly reflected on the strangeness of being called both a tart and an angel. I found it hilarious and so it was with a smile that I asked Julion, “So partner, is there something you have not told me about the target of our plan?”

Quick as he was, Julion still looked at me with confusion for a moment before catching on and unapologetically saying, “Well actually Isoboe is my betrothed. However, the Ambassador is rather old fashioned in his beliefs and I am not sure that I can wait.”

“Aren’t you afraid that slug will run off spreading rumours about seeing me with you?”

Batting his eyes at me outrageously, he squeaked, “La sir, my sister said my honour was safe with you, did she lie?”

Laughing I told him, “No you are completely safe with me. But...”

“Don’t worry about it Ducky...”

“Drake!”

“Don’t worry about it Drake, Isoboe is fully aware that I have been tasked to escort your loveliness around, though if her friends were as fully aware of that loveliness, they would have told her to grant approval with a chastity belt. You see, Isoboe’s friends think I am a bit of a scoundrel?”

“You?”

“I know, it is hard to believe. Happily Isoboe is aware that I am pure of heart and trusts me, besides which she thought that it would be a good idea for me to have a new ear to bend. You don’t think I talk to much, do you?”

“No not at all.”

“Ahh that is good, you really must convince Isoboe of that when you meet her. I know that no matter how much time I spend telling her I don’t talk too much, she never believes me. Ah-hah, we are here. Two please.”

It was quite the challenge to keep up with Julion’s thoughts, fun though. This time it hardly took a moment to realize that he was now talking to a vendor. Looking around I guessed that he sold chunks of course grained bread on which sauced, sliced beef and pork was piled. It was a concoction that looked delicious yet terrifyingly difficult to eat while keeping the front of my dress clean. Fortunately the vendor looking in my direction, asked, “Would the lady like a platter?”

Seeing my nod, Julion said, “You might as well give me one as well Gavron, I don’t want to show up at my afternoon meeting with a juicy spot on my tunic.”

With Julion leading the way and holding the two platters above the throng, I was able to follow in his wake as he forced a path to the marble wall of the basin. Taking a seat we began to eat our meal and watch the people about us, most of whom did not have the time to sit at the fountain to enjoy their meal. I quickly learned that both Julion and I were correct concerning our earlier discussion about lunch; he in how tasty was the food, me in how little of it I could eat, and he once more when he finished off my left-overs. Our meal complete Julion offered the platters and Gavron’s name to another of the many children about the fountain.

Seeing my questioning look, he explained, “She will return them to Gavron and get back the small deposit I paid for them. It’s the traditional way for children to make their first coin, I spent many a day out of my Nanny’s hair in the pursuit of such gains. I think it was what makes me love the place. By the by, would you like some cider to chase down your meal?”

I weighed the benefit of a drink against the cost of standing up from my comfortable perch in the warm sun. The latter won. “Actually I would like to just sit here for the moment, it is so very nice.”

“Well why don’t you keep our spot while I go get some for both of us?”

“That would be nice”

“Excellent, I will be right back.”

With those words he stood and strode back into the crowds, faster than he could walk with me by his side. Only as his head disappeared from my sight did it strike me how strange it was to have someone of Julion’s stature doing the fetching while I lounged by the fountain. It was not that I was bothered by his buying, as an apprentice I was used to living off the purse of my patron, even if it was usually earned by labour on my part. And I was hard pressed to convince myself that sitting here glorying in the sun could be considered labour. Only when I remembered Julion’s comments about team sacrifices was I able to manufacture an excuse for my laziness, if my role in this partnership was to wear the pretty frock then he could do the legwork.

Having settled that in my mind, I sat back to enjoy myself and watch the people mill about, while in turn ignoring the looks cast in my direction. It was from this reverie that I was distracted by a surprised sounding, “Drake?”

Turning towards the voice I was shocked to see Clara, but not the normal Clara. Instead of her usual utilitarian garb she was wearing a dress, one almost as daring as mine. My guess, as I rose to my feet to greet her, was that the dress and makeup were for the benefit of the young man who provided her escort. Yet I barely noticed him as happy as I was to see her, even though we had never been close. Still there was happiness in my voice as I exclaimed, “Clara, how very good to see you.”

“And what a surprise to see you here Drake, sunning yourself like a princess.”

Now after my time with Julion I had guessed my blush ability had shut down, but the sudden warmth in my cheeks proved this not to be the case. However, instead of answering I glanced at the man and then questioningly towards Clara.

“Ah yes introductions. Padrick, may I introduce you to Drake of Elladoo Post, she is Hiram’s apprentice of whom I have told you. And Drake, please meet Padrick Tarringbone, my very good friend.”

Curtsying, I said, “Good to meet you sir.”

He in turn, bowed and offered, “And you Drake.”

With these introductions out of the way Clara asked, “And what are you up to, surely they haven’t let you wander off on you own?”

“Oh no, Julion, I mean Lord Deglace is chaperoning me. Although at the moment he has gone off to get us some cider.”

“What a splendid idea. Padrick won’t you be a dear and get us some, meanwhile I will keep Drake company on her perch.”

Taking his dismissal with good grace, he wandered off while the two of us took a seat on the wall. As the junior I said nothing, waiting for Clara to speak first, not that she made me wait long.

“I spoke to Esselde yesterday and she told me of your tribulations in Corels, let me tell you how pleased I am to offer you my congratulations on your victory. Yet still I was surprised to see you here, apparently without a care in the world.”

“No I still have more than my fair share of problems, it is just that on this nice day and in this enjoyable spot I was allowing myself to ignore them for a time.”

“Then my apologies for forcing them once more upon you.”

“There is no need for apologies, for even if I ignore them it does not make them go away.”

Catching something from my tone she asked, “Esselde mentioned that you were to see Hiram’s cousin at the College today, how did it go?”

Suddenly I had the need to share my unspoken fear. It was a burden that I had been unwilling to place upon my closest friends, but it needed to be spoken, or it would continue to fester within my mind. Clara seemed like the perfect target, close enough to know the truth, yet not someone who would feel it was their duty to make my concerns smaller. “All the experts are confused by me. I really don’t think they know how to change me back to myself.”

“But why would you want them to change you back?”

The question took me aback, of all the responses to my fears this was not one for which I had prepared. My only answer was silence, which allowed Clara to continue, “Actually I am sure I could provide many of the reasons. Because you think it is your duty or it is expected or because it is natural. Maybe you are afraid of being a girl, not sure how to act, worried where it may lead and worried that people will think less of you. That is probably your biggest worry, what will people think if you don’t return to being a boy.

“But Drake, in my view all those reasons are complete balderdash. Look at you, sitting here beautiful and poised, waiting upon a scion of the Deglace to play fetch for you. You have survived trials that would break many, including most of those whose judgment you fear. You are someone who seems to me to be more than you were a short while ago. For despite your learnings in magic, I never saw you as having potential greater than Durk. Competent and responsible, but doomed to stay a journeyman forever, always carrying out the orders of another. Now I look at you and your potential seems to have blossomed.”

“Would that not still be true if I was returned to myself?”

“Mayhap, but it may be that you will lose some of the you of now in returning to the your of the past. Plus, though I am somewhat ashamed to admit it, your current appearance will be better at opening doors. I know mine has provided significant help to me.”

“Yes Clara, you have done a good job at describing most of my fears and you may be correct in your dismissal of them. Still you left out the most important reason, my possession.”

“Ahh yes there is that. So are you saying that you are more bothered by the possession than your change of sex?”

“Completely. There is much about being a girl that is enjoyable. Particularly the way people have been treating me, I really like how nice everybody is to me, I always felt ignored before. And I feel like a mule that has turned into a race horse. So I likely could continue quite happily as I am, but I’m not sure I can continue to share a body with Sandrelessa.”

“I can understand that, but does not the jewelry you now wear keep the demon under control?”

“Only through the threat of harm to me if she takes control.”

“Oh, I did not know that. No wonder you want to end the possession. I wish there was more I could do to help.”

“Actually there is, if I could ask a favour?”

“If it is in my power,” Clara slowly replied, leery of where offer would lead.

“I know you have been tasked with many chores by Master Elladoo for the new post. I would ask that you allow me to assist you when I am able, for this possession has completely halted my apprenticeship. And despite what I look like in the future, I know who I want to be. I want to be a merchant.”

“Gladly Drake, I would be happy to have your assistance. But not today, today I am on a break and believe that we should focus on enjoying this fine day.”

So we did, quietly enjoying each others company until Julion returned in the presence of Padrick, whom was one of his numerous friends. Julion was even willing to let Padrick talk mostly of himself. I learned that he would serve Elladoo Post as bounty collector for the heads of the bandits who had died while attacking us. He would ride, along with a troop of guards, from city to city and kingdom to kingdom collecting published bounties and was excited by the number of bounties we added to those already on his plate. It even gave him the incentive to visit some smaller towns, places usually not worth visiting.

Now he would not be carrying the actual heads of the outlaws. That would be rather disgusting. No the heads just needed to get to the nearest Priest of Aredente, who would use them to create death chits. In the case of our bandits, Clara had transported the pickled heads to North Fort where their Priest had spent a couple of busy nights creating the chits, which were accepted as proof of death by any place worth visiting. Padrick’s expert opinion, based on the quantity of chits from the Post and the high value they were returning in Glanlies itself, was that when we received our pay out upon his return that everybody, especially I, would be very happy with the results.

I was thrilled to hear this prediction, it would provide a nest egg to serve me in good stead once I became a journeyman. It also seemed that Padrick’s travels were fascinating, seeming like a fabulous way to see the mainland. However, before I could determine how one joined Padrick’s troop, Julion decided that it was time to proceed to the Militia Headquarters.

Offering farewells, we passed our cups off to another waiting child and left the two of them sitting by the fountain. Out of earshot, Julion told me, “Asolde knows that the two of them are meant to be together, but both want to be in charge and if they spend too much time together they end up at each other’s throats. Still I believe they have learned to enjoy togetherness in short spurts.”

Musing on this, we had a quieter ride to the Militia Headquarters. I found it did mirror the College, which did cause me to feel a little nervous as we climbed the steps to the front door; however, those nerves were for naught as the inhabitants were normal militia members, none glowing with power. One of them, a corporal, lead us up to the third floor where we were introduced to a Captain Finnegal, who immediately tried to put me at ease.

“Thank you very much for coming to see me Damsel. Let me first apologize for the behavior of my colleagues in Corels, idiotic to charge you when your disposal of that worm should bring you honours.”

“Thank you Captain, though I didn’t do it for the honours. In truth I was not even in control.”

“You are too humble; however, we are not here to debate your fine qualities. No it is to discuss the poor qualities of one who would keep company with scum like Darrel. So if you will forgive me for delving into what I am sure is a distasteful memory, I would ask some questions about what you overheard while he held you captive.”

“Very well Captain.”

“Excellent. Please start by telling me of the conversation you heard?”

While recounting the words of Darrel and Gunther, I was surprised how much I had forgotten and found the Captain’s follow up questions helpful to jog my memory. “So Damsel, you never heard them give a name of their contact here in Glanlies?”

“No, they always referred to him as the contact. And please call me Drake.”

“Very well, Drake it is. So their contact is a man?”

“I’m not sure. No, no it is definitely a man, I can distinctly remember Darrel using the words him and his.”

“Did they only have a single contact?”

“That I cannot confirm, though it was my impression.”

“And this contact worked for the Commission?”

“I think so Captain. They knew all about the shipment from Hanglish Mines and talked of the Commission being too confident in our communication system. So I assume it is one of the mages who anchors the spell for the Commission.”

“It is too bad that Master Elladoo could not remember who it was he talked to.”

“It doesn’t really work like that Captain, at least not for me. When I use the spell, it does give me a sense of who is at the other end, nor do I hear their voice. Instead what they say uses my own inner voice, similar to hearing my own thoughts.”

“Very interesting.”

“But Captain, why are you making it so difficult? Can’t you just check those mages who were on duty on the day that Master Elladoo requested help?”

“We have. But each has passed tests before a Deacon of Jiringel for any of Darrel’s raids.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. It is why I had hoped you could shed more light on who it may be.” Captain Finnegal admitted.

“Wait a moment. Maybe I am jumping to conclusions about the contact being within the Commission,” I mused. “Many people would be familiar with the schedule of shipments from Hanglish Mines. And now that I think about it I can remember Darrel words being his ‘contact in Glanlies intercepted Elladoo's call for help.’ He didn’t say his contact in the Commission. Maybe it was some mage not working for the commission who intercepted the Master’s call?”

“Is that possible?”

“I really don’t know, you would have to ask somebody at the College.”

“Oh I most definitely will. Though my task just became a whole lot more difficult.”

“Sorry.”

“’Tis not your fault Drake. But let us not borrow trouble yet, instead I wonder if you heard Darrel or his lieutenant mention the name Stingra Vold?”

“No Captain.”

Julion who had been sitting as a silent audience until this point interjected, “Stingra Vold? Why does that curious name seem familiar?”

“It was about three years ago Lord Deglace. There was a rather nasty smuggling ring discovered, which included a number of members from the College, Stingra Vold was one of those. You likely remember the wanted posters after he escaped. Well no need for the posters anymore, Stingra was one of the bandits who died at Elladoo Post. It is my guess that he continued to be in communication with whoever we are looking for here. My guess is that Darrel was connected to the smuggling ring and that we missed at least one of their gang in our sweep.”

That answered one thing that had always perplexed me about my dealings with Darrel, “Then this Stingra must have been the one who summoned Sandrelessa and brought her into Darrel’s fold.”

“I would find that surprising Drake. Stingra was only an apprentice, I would think that would be beyond his power.”

“Another question for you to ask at the College, Captain Finnegal.” I offered.

“Yes I do believe you are right. I suppose it will be necessary to move in a different direction to solve this mystery,” he said before pausing to consider if he had anything else to ask, “Well that is all for now. I thank you for your time Drake, though may I call on you if any additional questions arise?”

“Gladly Captain, this is an extremely serious matter for those of us who live on the frontier.”

-------------------------

From the Militia Headquarters we returned to the Deglace mansion where I was greeted by Sophie who frantically said, “Oh where have you been? You are expected to sup with the Lord and Lady tonight and there is so much to do to get you ready. Hurry, hurry.”

With that she whisked me away from Julion, dragging me towards my room. So great was her rush, she did not even wait until we were inside before she started undoing the stays of my bodice. And soon after the door closed I was defrocked, unshod and beginning to wash up while she hung up my dress. Finished and thinking my pace too slow, she took another cloth and began to assist me in my task, something that I quite enjoyed. Even though it did turn me into clay even easier for her to work.

Wrapping a belt around my waist, she had me pull on silken stockings, dyed a pure white, up my legs to be fastened to the belt. She then had me put on the shoes from Master Lestage, before helping me to step into the dress that I had not yet worn. One definitely fit for meeting the Lord and Lady of the Deglace, as had been Mary’s request. The dress that Sophie helped me into was a concoction in white, unfit to be worn out of doors. In style it was not significantly different than the blue dress, though the only colour it had were embroidered blue flowers on the bodice. Nor did it have sleeves, instead on the off the shoulder straps were attached a small, number of hand made, blue, cloth flowers.

Dressed, Sophie had me take a seat before covering my dress with a sheet and going to work with her days’ purchases. She took my pony tail and tied it into an intricate knot at the nape of my neck that she held in place with two polished wooden sticks. Then began the painting, involving more makeup than Mary had used before my Chaining. Yet the result in the mirror was less noticeable, highlighting my features but not overwhelming them. It was very difficult not to like what I saw.

Deeming me presentable, Sophie began to tidy up while I continued to look into the mirror, not trying to see who I used to be, instead trying to learn who I had become. Soon after realizing that I was more and more willing to accept the woman in the mirror Mistress Elladoo arrived at my door and dispelled any concerns that I was over dressed. I had never seen her look so beautiful as she did in a draping gown of red velvet and with her glossy black hair, both offset by jewelry of gold and rubies. Gasping at the sight of her, I exclaimed, “Milady you look wonderful. If only Master Elladoo was here to see you.”

Laughing happily at my words and expression she said, “Poor Hiram would be stunned speechless is what would happen. I love him dearly, but he is uncomfortable in Glanlies’ social setting, better for Hiram to be where he is and for the two of us to represent him and the North. And I do believe we are set to do both proud, for you look quite spectacular Dra'e.”

“Thank you Milady. However, it was all Sophie, I just sat here.”

“Well done Sophie.”

“It was easy Milady, the damsel is quite beautiful and very easy to work with.”

“Well then let us just say that your partnership has been successful. But enough of praising each other, let us join the others so that they can do it for us.” Mistress Elladoo laughed as she led me out of the room?

“The others? Do you mean your parents Milady?”

“Amongst others, my parents have a weekly gathering of all those who live or guest on the estate. However, as it is spring our population will be lower than during winter. So I would doubt there will even be twenty people there tonight?”

“Oh no, I’m not ready for that.”

“Of course you are Dra'e, really all that will be expected of you is to stand around, looking pretty and smiling. There will be others, like my brother, to fill any conversation gaps. Actually this is the perfect way for you to meet my parents.”

“It is?”

“Yes, in a face to face meeting they would focus their full attention upon you, which even I find uncomfortable. While at supper they will be distracted.”

Her comment suddenly reminded me of her conflict with her mother, “Milady, is your mother still mad at me?”

“Mad at you? Whatever for, she hasn’t even met you?”

“Well Julion, I mean Lord Julion said that the two of you had a fight about what happened at Corels.”

“I think my brother needs to work at not saying whatever springs into his head. But no, don’t worry, she was mad at me, if she was mad at anyone.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be, it is just the way that Mother and I are. I was ever her favourite and she had great plans for me, but she had not foreseen a Hiram Elladoo entering into her and her princess’ life. She has never forgiven him, for taking me North, nor me for going. Because of that, we are guaranteed to have at least one row whenever I visit. This time we just had it early. Now don’t worry, enjoy yourself.”

I did, everybody either made me welcome or ignored me, both of which were acceptable. Lord Deglace showed the most interest in Julion’s description of my ability to recognize mages, seeing it as useful skill for certain negotiations. So when last I saw him, he was compiling a listing of those whose bargaining techniques he questioned and who he was considering having me meet. Meanwhile the Lady Deglace was most interested in my appearance, musing on an fantastic outfit that sprung to mind for me to wear to the Winter Festival. During both conversations I had taken the mistress’ advice and maintained a respectful, smiling silence. Afterwards, Julion let me know that I had done quite well in my command performance before his parents. Not so smooth was my meeting with Angelise, the wife of Torsen the Great Uncle and family black-sheep, who was away on one of his frequent trips. She was an artist of note from the Kingdom, whom Torsen had brought home to Glanlies a couple years before, but though she had rooms at the Deglace estate, it appeared she had found opener arms of welcome amongst the city’s art community than with her hosts. Not that this information meant anything to me, for she was beautiful and when she told me in her charming accent that she wanted to paint me, I was left rather speechless.

Poor Sophie, my fickle nature had only allowed her to be the queen of my dreams for a single day. Not even a repeat of the prior night’s bed preparation could return her to that place of prominence.

A suspicious mind would think that Sophie guessed this and that is why she did not take the same care in dressing me the next morning. Nothing fancy, instead I showed up for breakfast wearing clothes that had come from the post, right down to my old boots. However, the suspicious mind would need to ignore the fact that I was meeting Clara, to assist her and that my outfit was well suited for the day. Finding nobody at the breakfast table, my meal went quickly and I was soon ready to head off. Well, if you call not knowing where to meet Clara, nor how to get there if I did, ready to start.

This was solved when Jimi and Stork showed up with the necessary knowledge, telling me that we were to meet Clara at her family residence, Holnd House. Outside, I started out on a bad foot with my two supposed friends when I asked them how we were going to get to Clara’s.

Sarcastically Stork replied, “Why we walk. Were you expecting a carriage Princess?”

Well yes, that is what I was expecting after my travels with Julion; however, I could not tell Stork this, instead I said, “Oh no Guardsman, I look forward to traveling like the little people.”

Accepting my response with a wink, Stork said, “Then if the Princess will follow me, we will get on our way.”

So we did. And yes, Stork continued to call me Princess. He even got Jimi in on the act, though they only called me that when we were alone. When we were amongst others, they stayed silent and hovered protectively over me.

Our path took us through the centre of Heart Park and out the other side of Temple Square, between the Shrine of Asolde and the Cathedral of Furigal. We then turned right to find Holnd House, which though not of the inner ring, was just across the street from the inner ring. Both they and the Elladoos were considered, by the Commission, to be families whose importance was second only to the Inner Ring families. You could say the Holnds and the Elladoos were members of the Peninsula’s gentry, while the Deglaces were of it’s nobility.

At Holnd House we were led to a large room where Clara was found directing the work of a number of clerks and factors. Three of whom she stopped to converse with before reaching us at the door, “Thank you for coming Drake, as you can see I can use all the help I can get. Luckily the family has decided to partner with the Elladoo’s in financing the new post, so I was able to commandeer help. Not that I can not use more assistance, if you are willing?”

“Gladly Ma'am,” I answered, recognizing that today she was the journeyman and I was the apprentice.

“Excellent, though I hope you have on your walking boots as I would ask that you serve as my feet today?”

“Yes Ma'am, I have on my Post boots. They have many a league left in them.”

“Okay, talk to Olaf, the fellow in that ghastly yellow tunic by the door, he has a list for you. Meanwhile, Stork and Jimi should be able to lead you everywhere that is listed.”

Following her directions I soon learned that Olaf likely wore the tunic to keep people away, much like thorns of a rose bush, though I am not sure any part of him was the flower. Still he begrudgingly went through the list of tasks, explaining each. He then handed me a pouch of coins and we were off on our first task. This took us to Printer’s Way, which is the home of the Greater Asthelhorne House of Publishing, where we found a shop named Nelson’s Scribery. Smelling of ink and parchment, the clacking of printing presses made it difficult to communicate with Nelson, though he finally caught on that I was there to pick up a number of placards commissioned by Clara Holnd.

After ensuring their correctness, I paid and we headed out into the silence and fresh air. Our next destination was familiar one, though I was not yet able to find the Militia Headquarters on my own. There we talked to the first of many officials who granted us permission to post our placards on their notice boards. The placard advertised the third part of the load brought from the North by Clara. Not the furs, which had been turned over to Elladoo factors to sell. Nor the crap pans, which Clara had sold,at a small loss, in North Fort. No the third part was the one that interested me the most, seeing as how it included the the weapons, armour and goods that we had found in Darrel’s camp. Clara planned sell these at the South Market during the Turinday Open Market, two days hence, to sell as much as possible, before consigning the rest to the local shop owners. But anything consigned would result in lower profits. Therefore, we hoped to sell everything. In order to increase our chances, Clara had placards, I was to post, printed. They listed of the more interesting items, such as; weapons, armour, swords and jewelry. However, to make our goods more interesting, the placards stated in large lettering, Notorious Criminal Darrel the Roamer’s Goods for Sale, at the top. It showed that she subscribed to the words of Chetser Kinningdon in the 8th Annals, “An item with a story is worth more than one without.”

The next two stops, at the Guildhouse of the Steel Brotherhood and the North Militia Grounds, were to post more copies of the placard that went up at the Militia Headquarters. The locations pointed to the second part of Clara’s strategy, the belief that fighting men were the most likely purchasers of the items. Which was in line with the second part of Chetser’s advice, “Yet even a story provides no value for one without a need.”

Being close to North Gate, our next task had us leave the city and walk out to check the camp of the Post’s men who had been part of Clara’s wagon train. Since the camp was run by Corporal Deagel and Senior Wagoneer Thomsa, both old hands at the job, everything was running smoothly. There was nothing a beginner such as I could add, but I realized that the very act of my checking up on them, granted me a level of authority that I had never held. This show of Clara’s confidence provided a boost to my confidence, so much so that I was not bothered to be called Miss Drake by the two men.

Grabbing a quick bite to eat, I confirmed the plan for Turinday, after which Stork took the opportunity to regale everybody with tales of his ride from Corels to Glanlies. This led to his description of what happened to me, which easily could have laster longer if the corporal had not growled, “Shut it Lapdog, it’s not for you to be spreading Miss Drake’s life story about.”

I was grateful for his intervention, as I was sick of the story. It was also funny to hear him call Stork, Lapdog, which was the derogatory name the Post’s guardsmen used for personal guards. After putting up, all morning, with taunts of Princess, it was hard to feel any sympathy for him. However, I had to bring the entertainment to an early end, so we could continue on with our tasks. After all, the princess and her lapdogs still had much to do before day’s end.

Our next goal was the Commission Headquarters, where we took the second set of placards. These were adverts listing the skills we sought to hire for the construction of the new post. Yet before we posted them at various guilds, we needed to stop at the headquarters to have them stamped with the Commission designation. This designation, which had been negotiated by the Elladoos and Holnds, confirmed that the Post’s construction was Commission approved. That approval meant that work at the post would count as Commission duty labour, similar to the auditing I mentioned performing earlier in this tale. The families hoped this, combined with higher than normal wage, would tempt some good people out of the city.

The stamping complete, we made our way to the Builder’s Guild where we were quizzed on what we knew about the Post by a couple of the guild’s officers. Only when I was able to convince them that they needed to talk to Master Efram Elladoo at the Elladoo Office were we able to post our placard. From there, it was on to the Wagoneer's Guild to register our need for wagons and their drivers, while the Post’s own would continue their regular duties. Similarly our guards would be needed for their normal duties and so we visited the Guard Society, to post an offer of hire.

The Guard Society also received two market placards. One was the same as we had posted elsewhere. While the second, recognizing that most of their members served with wagon trains, listed the more mundane items from the bandit camp, items needed a traveling armsman. However, the best part about the Guard Society was that its hall was right next to the Wagoneer's Guild. After the all our walking, this proved a welcome relief, though I must brag that the Princess was doing better than the lapdogs, who were taking every opportunity to find a seat.

Although ready to drag ourselves back to the Deglace Estate, we still had a two tasks to perform. The first was easy, as it was a duplicate of the stop at the North Militia Grounds, this time at the Southern grounds. We then walked over to the the South Market Grounds to confirm our spot for the Turinday.

I am not sure if was my age or my sex or just not being local, but the market keeper decided he could take advantage of me. Whatever it was, he tried to shake me down for more coin than had been paid, by a Holnd factor, when reserving our market spot. Maybe on another day he would have had more luck, but by that time I was dusty, tired and my feet were sore. If he expected me to give in or cry, he was mistaken. Instead I coldly asked, “Are you saying that you have rented out the spot that we have paid for?”

“Yes, someone must have made a mistake, the spot is reserved for one of our regular stall holders. You must admit that it would be unfair to a regular if he lost his spot? But don’t worry, I am sure we will be able to fit you in somewhere else.”

I knew he was full of crap, but was not sure how to prove it without involving Clara or her factor. And having to run for support struck me as a failure. Then remembering that not all support is equal, called out, “Stork and Jimi, could you come inside?”

Seeing the two men enter, the market keeper protested, “I do not take kindly to threats. I will summon the guards.”

Ignoring him I said, “Stork this man is no longer willing to provide the stall space for which we have paid. To me, this does not seem right, but there may be different customs here in Glanlies. So I am thinking it would be a good idea to get another opinion. Could you run over to the Militia Grounds to find someone to come and provide legal advice?”

“Yes Miss, right away.”

“Wait that is not necessary. As I said, we can work something out.” the keeper protested, which caused Stork to stop at the door and look in my direction.

“Well I understand your position Sir. Yet I worry that not knowing the lay of your market, I will make a bad choice and get in trouble. No I really think it is better for me to talk to someone to see what options I have. Don’t you agree?”

“Actually, Dreger is getting more and more lax about booking his spot for the weekly markets. He expects us to hold it until he has determined whether he will use it or not, meanwhile we have to hold off on booking the spot. My partner must have decided that it was time to teach old Dregs a lesson when he rented the spot to your people. I guess he had a good idea, so don’t worry about it, I will make sure your spot is available for you?”

“You won’t get in trouble?”

“No don’t worry about it, I can handle it.”

Some of you may wonder why I did not carry through with my threat to call the Militia on the man, as it was likely a regular practice for him to try his tricks. The biggest reason was that I was tired and wanted to get back to my rooms and maybe find the baths that Mistress Elladoo had described in such detail, but which I had not yet enjoyed. Okay maybe that is a selfish reason, ignoring the common good while seeking personal comfort. Still you have to admit that the attempted shake down was rather weak, and if anybody fell for it, then it was their own damn fault. It is not my job to protect people from themselves.

So content in my victory, we began our final march for the day, back to the Deglace Estate. The lateness of the day meant most people on the street were heading home for the night. A number that shrunk as we reached the inner ring. Worn down as the three of us appeared, it would not have been a surprise to be stopped by the guards who roamed the ring’s streets, but Jimi and Stork’s tunics served to grant us passage. Though we were carefully watched until we were allowed to pass through into the Deglace Estate.

Before reaching the front door the two men headed towards the guards quarters, with a final “Night Princess” from Stork.

Myself, I dragged my way towards the door wondering if I needed to knock or if my guest status allowed me entry. Neither proved necessary when a doorman, who must have been watching my approach, opened the door for me. When I smiled my thanks, he bowed his head and said, “Welcome home Damsel.”

“Thank you.”

“If you will Damsel, the young Master has left wishes for you to attend him upon your return.”

Recognized the order behind the polite statement, I surmised my rest would be delayed. “Of course, where may I find Lord Julion?”

In answer he rang a small bell, summoning a maid to whom he said, “Jesca, please take the damsel to see Master Julion, he can be found in the Blue Room.”

Curtsying in acknowledgment, Jesca turned to me, “Please follow me Damsel.”

Keeping a tired sigh to myself as she headed in the opposite direction of my room, I followed. It was a short distance before she ushered me into room holding Julion who comfortably sat in a chair, with his feet upon a table, reading a book. Looking up at our entrance he languidly waved and asked, “My word Drake, what have you been up to today? You look positively tuckered out.”

“Clara had me serve as her legs today, and her legs walked all over town.”

“Ahh, then take a seat.” As I did so, he turned to my escort to say, “Jesca, could you please find Sophie and let her know that Drake has need of her assistance?”

“Yes Milord.”

“Thank you, Jesca. As for you Drake, why didn’t you take a cart?”

“I did not know what I would be doing when we left in the morning.” I answered deciding not to get Stork into trouble, though I began planning a proper vengeance. Maybe I would make him walk all over the city.

“And I would guess that you did not know one would be available to you. But Drake you are a guest of the household, feel free to ask for such assistance.”

“Thank you Julion, it did give me a good chance to see the city, but in the future a ride would be appreciated.”

“Excellent, but that was not why I left word for you to see me on your return. No it is due to a note we have received from the Archmage Sharlese. She sent word that her and the Overmage have finished their research and found no other cases of possession by a Carthanan demon.”

“Already?” I asked, dreading what I expected to hear next.

“I think your condition excites their scholarly instincts. Therefore, the have decided to proceed with Tison’s plan to summon a demon.”

“When would she like to do the summoning Julion?”

“Well she proposed tonight.”

“Tonight!”

“Aye, ‘tis further proof of their curiosity. Tison will conduct the summoning and he would like to use his work room at the College; therefore, after your reaction the last time, they felt that during the evening, when most of their members are at home, would be the best time for you to visit. And apparently they see no reason to wait.”

The thought of participating in this summoning scary. Despite the numerous times I had observed Master Elladoo, only one had involved a Carthanan and we all know the result of that. Still that had been unexpected, all the other times everything had gone as the Master had planned, he had been in complete control. It seemed reasonable that someone of Overmage Tison’s power, who specialized in the Carthanan, would treat this summons as the Master had treated those with Imps. Yet I was still afraid.

The problem was that when you are fifteen years old, you think being afraid is a bad thing. That it will mark you as weak, that the dandy older fellow, will look down upon you if you show it. Such is what flashed through my mind when I realized my fear, thus there was only one response, “No, I suppose there is no reason to wait. I admit to having looked forward to rest after my day, but if they are willing to work late to solve my problem, it only seems proper for me to put in the same hours.”

“If you are tired, I am sure we can put it off until tomorrow night.”

“Tonight will be fine, as long I can get that ride you previously offered?”

Smiling he replied, “Definitely, I will come along and there is no way I am walking.”

“Okay, I am ready to head out when you are.”

“Oh don’t worry Drake, there is no rush. It is a full three turns before you are expected, which should give the College time to empty out. Go grab a bit of rest, a bite to eat, and maybe change into a new frock.”

“What’s wrong with what I am wearing?” I retorted, before all that was wrong blossomed in my mind.

“Hah! For the first time I truly believe your story. That is the most boyish thing you have said or done. Do you really think what you are wearing is acceptable?”

“I guess not,” I grumpily admitted. “I know Mary would be horrified by me wearing it for anything other than work.”

“So would my sister, mother and Sophie. But if you wore it to the College I am sure they would blame it all on me for rushing you.”

“Well a good partner would be willing to take the blame.”

Laughing at my attempt at humour, Julion stated, “So now you want to be my partner, when you can get something out of me. But where were you this afternoon while I was below Isoboe’s window waiting patiently for you to come distract the guards?”

“I was tramping all over your city.”

“So you say, but I am not sure if I believe you.”

“Besides I thought we had decided that the climbing plan wouldn’t work?”

“Well we had, but my partner wasn’t around to help me come up with a new plan.”

“Maybe we can do so tomorrow, but for now I guess I should go to my room and change.”

“You may as well sit for awhile longer, at least until Sophie comes to collect you. Meanwhile, tell me what Clara had you up to today, while she kept you away from my side?”

-------------------------

A couple turns of the glass later I met Julion at the front door. During our separation Sophie had repaired my appearance and had me, after serious thought, change into the grey dress However, do not ask me to try to explain her reasoning, for all I know, she felt the dress was fine enough not to embarrass her, yet plain enough that it would not be a tragedy if the demon broke lose and ruined it (along with me).

Looking me over, Julion asked, “Drake, where’s your cloak?”

“Umm...I don’t have one, but it will be okay.”

“Nonsense, besides I would look the complete cad if I had one while you do not. Johnson, could you find a cloak for Miss Drake?” he asked the same doorman from earlier.

“Right away Milord,” the man answered, moving over to a closet to return a moment later with a blue woolen cloak, which he draped over my shoulders.

Murmuring my thanks I fastened the clasp of the cloak at my throat, before saying to Julion, “Well I suppose I am ready now.”

The cloak was not needed yet, when we moved out into the dusk, but the promise of coolness in the approaching night air had me guessing I would appreciate its warmth during our return. Apparently one that Julion and I would not be making alone, for there were four guardsmen on horses attending the cabriolet. Questioning Julion as to the danger of travel at night in Glanlies, led to a dismissal of any peril. However, Colonel Eldrick, who commanded the family’s guards, often assigned guardsmen to family members leaving the estate during the evening and that it was easier not to fight it.

With empty streets, we made good time and soon arrived at the College of Mages, where Julion had one of the guards enter to find either the Archmage or the Overmage. Instead he returned with a pretty apprentice whose glow was faint and who requested for us to follow her around back, to use the door we had seen the mages using on our prior visit. Inside the building, we did not see anybody else before arriving at Archmage Sharlese’s study.

The Archmage welcomed us. “Thank you for coming Master Deglace and Drake. I wish your visit allowed me to offer some positive news, but you have presented us a pretty puzzle, a puzzle that we are no closer to solving.”

“Then you could find no other Carthanan possessions?” I asked.

“Not in the literature that we have at our disposal.”

“Is there another library that may have more information? Possibly on the mainland.”

“It is possible, but it will take time for us to send messengers and to wait for their response.”

“Can’t you just...you know...” Julion asked, waving his hands in what he likely thought was a magical fashion.

Smiling at this, the Archmage answered, “Would that we could, but few are the places who have such an enlightened view of our arts as does the Peninsula. Most rulers see our brethren as threats, who need to be monitored and controlled. One area of tight controlled is their ability to Talk at a Distance, for it is an excellent tool for plotting treason. No, any requests for information will have to be made in the more mundane fashion, but that takes time and is expensive.”

“The cost can be managed.” Julion stated. “However, the time may be a greater concern to Drake.”

“Aye, it is.” I admitted. “I worry that I am losing myself. Or in truth, maybe my worry is that it is seeming to matter less and less that I am losing myself.”

Both were silent at my admission, before the Archmage said, “All I can recommend, is to hold tight to your friends, while they hold tight to you and do not allow you to drift away from who you are.”

“I am Ma'am, my friends have been a great comfort. But what of Overmage Tison’s plan, may that not provide the information we need?”

“It may, but I would not put great faith in a Carthanan if I were you. Still I do not believe it would hurt to find out what it has to say, if you are willing? It is your decision”

“Aye Ma'am, I am.”

“Very well. Cerise is waiting for you outside, she will take you to Tison.”

“Will you not be there?”

“No, if I attend the Carthanan will not know if it should talk to Tison or myself.”

“Okay, wish me luck.”

“You have it.” she offered with a smile of encouragement.

Cerise, the apprentice who had been our earlier guide, led me downstairs while explaining that those mages who specialized in demons had their workrooms in the basement. The descent reminded me enough of the Hole in Corels that my discomfort increased. Yet remembering Master Elladoo’s windowless workshop, I forced myself to speculate that the basement workrooms served the same purpose.

“Aye it is what we are taught.” Cerise answered. “It is best to to show demons the outside world, which would allow them to increase their link to our reality.”

It made sense, though it did not provide me with much comfort, as I could have done with a better link with reality, myself. Thus I was pleased to find Overmage Tison’s workroom not nearly as stark as Master Elladoo’s workshop. It proved to be a room worthy of a mage, full of interesting nick-nacks and books. It had a mosaic of coloured stones forming a pentagram in the middle of the floor. And despite the Master’s contention, after my Chaining to the pentagram in Corels, I felt that a pentagram to be more powerful than a rhombus.

The same could be said for Overmage Tison, in comparison to my Master. Still there was something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. It was not that he leered, like so many other men. Or that he smiled too much or had a voice that grated. No, it was as if a small voice deep inside me was was saying, ‘I don’t like him.’

Yet he greeted me politely, “Thank you for coming Drake. I understand you are nervous, but I assure you that this demon and I have spoken many times before. His calls himself Karnigan the Historian and I believe that we have built up a rapport. However, I cannot guarantee anything, so if you start having difficulty, let me know and I will end the summoning right away.”

“I will.”

“Excellent, then shall we get started?”

“Okay.”

“Very well. Why don’t you sit in this seat and I will begin.”

Unlike the Master, Tison did not have me on the other side of the room. Instead I sat beside his standing form while he performed the summoning ritual. Watching him I gained confidence, for he seemed so much more practiced in his motions than had Master Elladoo.

Then it...he was there. In all his glory.

And he was truly, horrifyingly glorious. Beautiful in a way that a man should not be, yet undeniably male. Broad and strong and muscled and handsome and so very perfect. And he was not surprised in the least to see me beside the mage. Instead he was looking directly at me upon arrival, and smile. His smiling attention shot a bolt of fire throughout my body, taking my breath away and focusing the heat in my loins.

Then he spoke, “A virgin, a pretty virgin. Is she for me Mage?”

Despite the sinister intent of these words, they caressed. Unlike Sandrelessa’s sugary cooing that had repulsed, even while she drew me towards her, Karnigan’s voice racked me with shivers of pleasure. Oh I wanted him so very badly. I needed him.

So I reached out towards him, yet my hand stayed on the arm of my chair.

So I stood to move to him, yet I remained sitting. Sitting and lusting while surrounded in a bright glow of blue.

Shockingly, terribly, a frown crossed his perfect features. Causing me to shed tears at the upset I caused, but then he smiled and said, “I see now. Sandrelessa my sweet, I had wondered why you had left us forlorn without your presence. Your touch.”

That was my problem. It was that harridan Sandrelessa, making her presence felt. Using the powers of my chains to shackle me in place, just as they had done at the Temple of the Allfather in Corels. The cruel bitch was keeping me away from him.

Cruel and lying, for I could now hear her voice, inside of me, shouting, “No! He is bad. He destroys. He will destroy you. And me.”

Selfish too, was there no end to her corruption? How could she do this to me? I screamed, “Let me go. Let me goooo.”

As I strained at my bindings he watched me tenderly, finally saying, “Oh what a cruel torment this conjoining is to you my love.”

“Conjoining?” another voice asked. “Tell me, what is a conjoining Karnigan?”

It was the evil, vile mage who bound My Lord in that hideous pentagram. Whose malevolence kept Karnigan from coming to me, just as my loathsome bindings kept me from him. Making it so neither of us could approach the other, so he could take me as his.

“Why should I tell you Mage?”

“I am curious Karnigan and I know you usually have a price.”

The worm. How dare he bargain with My Lord.

“Yes worm, how dare you bargain with me,” Karnigan spoke, showing my thought had been aloud. “But calm, my pretty virgin, I should at least see what friend Tison has to offer.”

Silly me, how could I doubt him. He was so strong and confident. So very perfect. I could only laugh at the fool of a mage pathetically challenging, “What is your price?”

“My price, my price, what should be my price? I really must think on this. I don’t know what I want, though it mus include Sandrelessa’s return.”

Feeling her sudden terror I laughed louder, before realizing what he had asked, which made me shout, “No My Lord, you don’t want her. Ugly, hateful Sandrelessa. You want me.”

“Oh yes I do want you, but that price may be too high. I must think more on this.”

“Tell me now Karnigan.”

“No I am not ready. Unless you will give me the pretty virgin? Then I will tell you all.”

My sudden hope was dashed when the spiteful man roared, “I will not give her to you. Ask for something else when next I call. For now, begone.”

“No, don’t go. Take me with you,” I shrieked.

But it was no use, for he was gone and so was Sandrelessa. Leaving me there, empty. Slumped, covered in sweat, in the chair and suddenly horrified by what had happened, how I had acted. Mortified and exhausted I broke down and began to cry. I felt Tison’s hand hesitatingly pat my shoulder, trying to comfort, yet remembering the horrible things I had thought and said about him, cause me to blubber apologies begging for his forgiveness.

Only when I heard the door of the room bang open, did I look up. To see a concerned Julion and an angry Archmage Sharlese asking, “What happened?”

Unable to respond I flung myself at Julion, who wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. As I continued to cry, Tison explained what had happened, before asking, “What do we do now?”

“Now we do nothing. I am taking Drake home, we will discuss this on the morrow,” Julion stated, using commanding voice I did not know he had. Then for the second time in two days, he scooped me up and carried me from the College of Mages. Nor did I let go of him during the entire ride home, clinging tight like a child to his parent after waking from a nightmare. Only when we reached the estate did I regain some of my decorum, though I continued to clasp one of his hands in both of mine until he handed me over to Sophie, after telling her what had happened with a whispered word.

In my room, I finally began to feel safer, though exhausted by the experience. Willingly did I follow Sophie’s directions as she helped me from my dress, into a nightgown, and then into bed. Yet despite how tired I was, sleep would not come. I was terrified of what or who waited for me in the Land of Slumber.

Not until my door opened and a figure smelling of lavender climbed into my bed and wrapped me in her arms was I able to fall asleep. Blessed sleep.

-------------------------

When I awoke, I woke alone. Even I was not fully there, for I observed the world from a distance, my mood fey as I remembered the prior night. As horrible as it had been, it no longer held immediacy, nor did thinking of it turn me into the quivering mass I had become after the actual events. The events seemed more dream, nightmare, than truth. And yet I could not deny that they happened, being able to recall how Karnigan’s eyes felt upon me, which in the light of day the memory made me feel dirty, not...not whatever I had felt the previous night.

Clean, yes that was it. What I wanted more than anything at that moment was to be clean. I wanted to go back to the moment of my triumph over the market keeper, to a time when my desire was nothing more than a bath after a hard day of walking. True it was an escape, but one that I was willing to seek.

I wished that someone were there to guide me to the baths, which I had looked forward to for too long, but I quickly recognized my wish to be a lie. No I wanted to be alone, as much as I had needed Julion and the mistress the night before. I needed time to think for myself, by myself. If I were at the Post, it would have been time to find my way to my thinking spot on the docks, but both were far away. So I gave into the draw of the baths and climbing from my bed, into slippers and a robe, I ventured outside of the room on my own.

After a few wrong turns, directions received from a number of the servants allowed me to found my way to a large door at the back of the mansion. Tentatively opening the door I found a marble oasis, empty except for a woman, scarcely younger than Mary, who scowled questioningly in my direction.

Suddenly unsure of my decision to use the baths as my thinking spot, I asked, “Excuse me, I was hoping to take a bath? Is that okay?”

“Most people bathe in the evening.”

“I had planned to last night, but then I was delayed. However, I can come back later if now is a bad time.”

“You’re Lady Esselde’s charge?” At the nod of my head, she stated, “Of course you are. I doubt there are two of you, looking like that, running around. So you want to take a bath?”

“Yes please.”

“Very well then and you are in luck. If you had come in the evening you would have been looked after by my girls, they are competent enough, but when the room is full, like it was last night, they are run off their feet. I really don’t know how anybody can enjoy a nice bath in that situation. No it is wise of you to put yourself in my hands. Now get out of your robe and we will get started.”

From that moment, she led me down a path of luxury that I had never imagined. It definitely did not give me any opportunity to think of the recent past or the soon to be future, for it made no moment more important than now. She guided me to the first tub, though tub is not a name to do it justice. A deep basin of marble, with steps for ease of entry upon which one could sit in water up to the neck. Large enough to fit at least eight people, I was sure that so much water could not help but be cold; therefore, I was pleasantly surprised to find it more than warm.

Hearing my sigh of relief, the bath attendant said, “Surprised you, didn’t it.”

“Umm, what’s that?”

“The water. You were expecting it to be cold, weren’t you? Its a spell, keeps the water clean and as hot, helpful as all get out, otherwise there is no way I could look after the women’s bath on my own. I think it was this spell, as much as any other that made the Commission willing to trust our mages more than they are trusted elsewhere. Though I am not sure I agree, what with mages consorting with demons and all.”

“Excuse me, Ma'am.” I said, believing an explanation may be needed.

“Kesa will do young lady, I’m not no Ma'am to anybody but my girls. And I can guess what you are going to say, but don’t worry I have heard all the gossip about you and know about your possession. Usually I would have chased you out of my baths as soon as you arrived, but I also know that you have been judged by the Gods and they did not strike you dead. That’s good enough for me. Still it speaks well for you that you were willing to admit such a thing, Mary has taught you well. Enough of that though, what is your scent?”

“Pardon?”

“What type of soap do you like, we have as broad of selection as you will find anywhere in the city.”

Remembering Mistress Elladoo’s bath box I said, “Well I like lavender.”

“Lady Esselde’s scent? No I don’t think so, it does not suit you. You soak for a moment and let me get some possibilities from which you can choose.”

Moments later she was back with a tray holding seven different blocks of soap. They all were nice, but one of them just jumped out at me and I pointed at it.

“Interesting choice. I have always liked it myself, but few choose it. Why, if I may ask, did you?”

“It reminds me of home.”

“Elladoo Post?”

“No, back in Corels with my parents. They run a bakery.”

“Ahh, I like bakers, hard working people with lots of common sense. Now stand up and I will give you a scrub.”

“Oh I can do that.”

“Nonsense, how are you to reach everywhere.”

Giving in I allowed her to soap me up and ducked down into the water when she decided it was time to rinse. This provided me a chance to see the second part of tub’s spell, as the rinsed of soap lingered temporarily on the surface of the water before disappearing into, apparently, the air. Deciding that I was clean enough, she had me duck completely under before proceeding to wash my hair. When she had me climb out, I found my assumption of being done to be incorrect, instead I was lead to a much smaller tub, though just as deep, from which steam rose above the water. Hesitantly stepping down into it, I found that it was almost to much too bear, though slowly I relaxed.

While I boiled, Kesa used a towel to remove as much water from my hair as she could, before wrapping it in a different towel and helping me out of what was slowly becoming uncomfortable water. Leading me to a padded bench she had me lay down, still naked, upon my stomach, before using an oil smelling the same as my chosen soap to give me a full body massage. I do not know how to describe one of Kesa’s massages. Words such as magnificent, wonderful, astonishing and incredible immediately jump to mind, none of which begin to do justice to the actual act. Suffice to say that it was glorious. Sadly it had to end, for I think I could spend forever in such languor. When complete, I was made to rinse off in a final tub. One where the water was barely heated, which served to knock some of the lassitude from my body, though still leaving me feeling more relaxed than I had ever felt. Helping me into a clean robe she obtained from her cupboard of plenty, she sent me on me way back to the world.

Still even with the shock of cold water I was still not completely there and did not notice the opening of the door or the person coming through. Thus I found myself with my arms wrapped around Angelise, who in turn held me in her grasp, as we grabbed hold of each other to stop from falling. Hastily let go and stammered apologies to Angelise, who said nothing, instead leaning closer to sniff at my neck before looking towards Kesa to say, “I see you finally talked someone into your cinnamon scented soap.”

“She picked it out herself Milady.”

Still with her arms around me, Angelise smiled up at me and said, “You smell delicious. To bad you have already finished your bath, I so would have loved to share mine with you.”

Only then did she let go of me, though in doing so one of her hands drifted slowly across my stomach as she stepped passed me into the room, before unfastening and slowly letting her robe drop to the ground. Stunned to see my first naked female (no I do not count), one very nicely put together was almost as good as Kesa’s massage. I did not know how to react and realized she was smiling at me as I stared. Red-faced at being caught, I mumbled a final apology and then fled out into the hallway.

Pausing once in the hallway I realized that Karnigan was not the only one who could spread fire throughout my body. Feeling rather happy with this discovery, I smiled all the way back to my room.

I was surprised to still find the room empty. My expectation had been that Sophie would be waiting for my return, in order to help me get ready for the day. This expectation was dashed when I remembered Stork calling me Princess, which convinced me to dress on my own. Removing the towel from my still damp hair and remembering Mary’s lessons I began to comb and brush it out, when complete and despite it still needing time to dry I decided to try to copy Mary’s normal styling. Making two little, not particularly tight, braids out of the hair hanging over my eyes, I tied them together behind my head to keep the rest of my hair from my face.

Bolstered by this success, I suddenly felt a desire to finish on my own and rushed over to the armoire to pick something out. Ignoring the newest one, I chose of of the outfits that had been altered for me before leaving the Post; a shift, a simple grey skirt and the matching bodice. Then pulling on my old boots, determined that I had delayed long enough, it was time to think about the prior night and what it all meant.

Yet if I stayed there, sooner or later someone would find me and distract me once again. So once more I left my room, then the mansion and the estate completely. Wandering towards Heart Park, not so far away, it was a surprise that in my contemplation I was not run over by one of the numerous carts passing, between the West and East gates, along the street upon which I walked. But someone must have been watching over me. I learned who it was after a close encounter with a man hurrying in the opposite direction. Starting to curse at me, he suddenly stopped and looked past me. This caused me to turn to see man in the surcoat of the Deglace, one who I recognized from the troop that had rescued me in Corels.

The guard’s presence caused the man to continue on his way, muttering under his breath. Meanwhile, the guard greeted me, “Greetings Miss, my name is Garth, I have been tasked with escorting you today. I would have introduced myself earlier, but I saw that you were in deep thought.”

Chagrined that I had not noticed him earlier, I said, “It’s okay, I don’t need an escort today. I am just going to the park.”

“’Tis not a bother Miss, besides the Colonel let it be known that you were to be assisted in any way you need, seeing as how you are new to the city.”

Thinking that was a rather polite choice for explaining why he followed me, I decided this was one of those times where Julion would not to fight it. So I said, “Thank you Garth. I do not plan to go far.”

“Good to hear Miss, Stork spent most of last night complaining about his feet.”

Smiling at a reminder of the good part of yesterday, I continued upon my way. Not long after I was in the park and found myself drawn to a bench near a statue of a man on a horse. Stopping myself from looking for a name plate, which would just provide another distraction, I sat down and began to think.

Initially my thoughts were scattered, until I found myself thinking about how I had reacted to Karnigan. How had he, without a single word, been able to control me so? Even now, thinking of him sent tiny shivers of pleasure through my body. It had been so very different when the Master had inadvertently summoned Sandrelessa. True she had exerted some control over me, but it had been over my body, not my mind. Even during her rise during our rampage against the bandits, my memories proved that I had been completely aware the entire time. Not so with Karnigan, he had turned me into his puppet.

Or would it be better to say he had toyed with me like a cat with a mouse. Though never would a mouse have gone so eagerly to its destruction, for I do not doubt that is what he had in store for me and for Sandrelessa. Her quick thinking, triggering my chains had saved us both from, based upon her terror, what likely had been a terrible fate.

I could not help but believe her statements from the night before. Karnigan was bad and without a doubt a destroyer. How strange it was to learn that by comparison to this Karnigan, Sandrelessa was a piker amongst her kind. Sure she was cruel, probably she needed to be cruel to live amongst the Carthanans, but she was dwarfed by Karnigan’s evil. Karnigan the Historian indeed, surely if Sandrelessa could to speak to me now I would find that she knew him by another name, possibly even that of the conqueror of her Prince from the story, he who had enslaved her.

Yet he seemed to know something of what bound her and I, this conjoining. Maybe he even had the knowledge of how to bring it to an end. All I needed to do was to pay his price.

But...

Have you ever found an item so perfect, so exquisite that you felt that your life would not be complete if you did not make it yours? If so, did you not realize with your very next thought that such an item was impossible to grasp? Even if its owner was willing to part with it, you knew the price would be too much for you to pay. And so you did not even ask, unwilling to torment yourself by learning how completely the item was beyond your reach.

Such was my dilemma. I did not want to know Karnigan’s price for the knowledge that may return me to myself. The price would be too much, even the part I already knew was too much. I could not, would not give Sandrelessa to him. Despite what she had tried to do to me, she had since rescued me three times. Admittedly her reasons had been based upon self-preservation, rather than anything altruistic, yet she had come through. How could I do less? How could I abandon her to torture or worse, and what would I become if I committed an act of such selfishness?

Furthermore, even if I was willing to pay the price, what was the chance that he would treat with me truthfully? He could be lying that he knew anything of worth or seeking to trick us into something. No, there was little doubt that he was untrustworthy and I did not need the Annals to tell me that it was dumb to waste time bargaining with such an individual.

My choice was simple. I had to accept what I had come to suspect. There was no easy fix for my problem. I was stuck in this body with Sandrelessa. Sure we could continue to seek answers, maybe somebody, some day would have the necessary knowledge, but the simple truth was that I would continue to be Dra’e. Actually I was still Drake, it was just that for now I was to be a female Drake. I needed to accept this truth. And in that moment I did. It was surprisingly easy.

I was ready to move forward with my life, whatever form it may take. It was time to adapt to my situation, make the best of it. You know, all that type of stuff. Although, if you think about it, that is what I had already done. In the previous two months I had formed friendships greater than any before, seen more and learned more. My future was brighter.

No wonder it was easy to accept my truth. After all, so many others had already made the leap.

Feeling satisfied with my choice, I rose from my seat and wandered over to the statue to satisfy my earlier curiosity. That accomplished I looked towards Garth, who had been waiting in a stance of bored watchfulness, a pose common amongst the guardsman of the post. Noticing my look, he wandered over to say, “Miss, if you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you have lifted a great weight off your mind?”

“Aye Garth, I think I have.”

“That is good to hear Miss, are you ready to head home now?”

“Actually, I have one more stop to make, if that is possible?”

“’Tis fine with me Miss. I’m still on duty, but I would just as soon be out and about as tied to the gate.”

“Very well, let us head to the Temple of the Allfather.”

After a short walk, Garth was seated upon the steps I climbed, after having convinced him that Durnst would watch over me inside. Larger than the temple in Corels it was just as peaceful, maybe moreso, for it held fewer people than had attended my Chaining. Looking about, I spotted the glow of a priest, who in turn watched me. Approaching him, I curtsied and queried, “Excuse me Father, would Magister Bewlmon be in and is it possible to see him?”

“Yes he is child. And he has left word that you may be coming to visit. A moment please, he is on his way.”

Surprised though I was that the magister was expecting me, it was less that the father knew who I was with out asking. I was easily describe, which was one of the reasons I was there. My wait was not long before the magister arrived to say, “I am very glad to see you again Drake. I have heard of your continuing adventures and had hoped that you would come tell of them.”

Such had not been my intent, but it was a request I saw no reason to deny. So after we found a side chamber I updated him on what I had experienced since our arrival. Being who and what he was, it soon became an interview, though one less stressful than during our first encounter. He confirmed my guess that Karnigan was a name of power amongst the demon world and was most interested in Karnigan’s use of the term conjoining, saying he would research the term. The magister also heartily approved my decision to seek no more knowledge from the demon, agreeing that it was likely to lead down a path I wished not to walk.

As I finished my story and told him that I had decided to accept who I was, he nodded his head and said, “A wise choice Drake, for each of us cannot but grow more and more into ourselves.”

“Do you mean it was fated for me to be turned into a girl?”

“Nay fate does not work in such a way. Yet now that you have been made female, it will always be part of who you are. How large of part, well that is still to be determined.

“But is it possible to be too much of oneself Magister?”

“I do not know what you mean Drake?”

“It has to do with how I look and how my chains look. People stare at me.”

“You are quite beautiful child, people would stare even if you did not wear the jewelry.”

“But do I need to wear them all the time?”

“Sadly you do and did you not last night feel the benefit of their power?”

“Aye I did and I understand why I need them. It is just that I wish that they were not always there or if not that, I wish they were not always so extravagantly there.”

“Ahah! I see the problem, it’s fashion. But really that is outside of Durnst’ s bailiwick, more within the realm of Asolde I would think. Still I could look into it, maybe see if one of Asolde’s priestesses can help out. However, I can’t promise anything.”

“If it won’t be too much of a bother?” I asked, more from politeness than anything.

“No, no, it is quite alright. I always enjoy working on new projects, gives me reason to do research. I do love knew knowledge.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I bid the magister farewell. Returning outside, I found Garth munching away on a meat pastry from a nearby vendor. Seeing this made me realize that I had not eaten since the day before, out at the camp, and made me regret forgetting to bring the purse I had received from Olaf. Luckily Garth noticed my longing glances at the pastry and purchased me one, for which I promised to pay him back. We then headed back to the estate, this time with him walking beside me, instead of behind.

Leaving him at the gate I started towards the house to obtain some coin to repay him, after which I would find the mistress and Julion to tell them of my decision; however, as I began to move back towards the door, I noticed a familiar face walking up the street. My curiosity drew me to change directions and head back to the gate to welcome Captain Finnegal.

Seeing my approach a smile crossed his face as he said, “Drake how good to see you, as you are the person I tromped over here to meet.”

Intrigued though, due to his smile, not worried, I asked, “Greetings Captain. Is it about your investigation?”

“Aye, I took your advice and approached the College to ask of Stingra Vold’s skills and to learn if it was possible to intercept a communication spell.”

“And?”

“Well let us just say that the answers opened a door into a room containing many more suspects than we had previously thought it would hold.”

“Oh sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, at least we have found a better trail, it is just that I now do not know which direction to go next. Therefore, I have another request for you.”

“Me? But I told you all I know.”

“Aye, and I believe you. No it is not more questions, instead I have a favour to ask of you.”

“I promised to help if I could, Captain.”

“Very well, though feel free to refuse, as I am not even comfortable with it. See the Commission is desperate to have this case solved. Therefore, they approached Aredente’s Tabernacle, seeking assistance.”

Not liking the thought of being involved with the God of Death, I hesitantly asked, “What for? And why would you need my help?”

“Well they plan to raise Darrel from the dead and ask him some questions. However, in order to do so, the Priests of Aredente need one of two things. The first of these is not available, since Darrel’s body is buried in the North. The second option is Darrel’s slayer. The Commission asks if you would be willing to participate, in exchange they will waive your first four years of journeyman Commission labour.”

“There is no need for a bribe Captain Finnegal, I know my duty. And I know that Master Elladoo and the Deglaces would wish me to help, when will the ritual take place?”

“Four nights hence. The priests believe that, as the moon wains and becomes a sliver, it is easier for them to hook the dead and bring them up from Aredente demense.”

Shivering at the thought, I nodded my head, “Okay Captain, I am willing to take part. But I want five years waived.“

“That is acceptable,” he agreed with a smile. For even though he was of the Militia, enough blood of the peninsula ran through his veins for him to understand the nature of our deal. He knew that I would be willing to do it for free, but recognized that an unpleasant duty should be rewarded.

“Very well Drake, I have much to prepare before the ritual. Therefore, I should continue on my way. I will let you know if anything changes.”

“Thank you Captain. Good bye.”

This time as I moved to the door I did not look back, but before I reached it a sudden bolt of insight struck. My earlier choice seemed even better when I realized who was the villain lurking in the woods. All the evidence had been there for me to see, but I had been too worried about myself to pay attention. Obviously it was Overmage Tison.

His ranking showed how skilled he was at magic, doubtlessly he would be able to intercept a communication if anybody could. Then there were the Carthanans, they were his specialty, of course he could have summoned Sandrelessa for Darrel. Plus Tison and Sandrelessa had been in contact, for why else would she have whispered to me last night that she did not like him. Yes I now recognized that little voice, I had heard before our greeting the night before, was the same voice that had shouted warnings about Karnigan, Sandrelessa’s voice. Why would she make such a proclamation if she had not already had dealings, negative dealings, with the Overmage?

It made so much sense. He was willing to assist Archmage Sharlese, because he wanted to ensure that I would not prove a danger to him. I had been curious as to why their research had been so quick, but it was likely due to Captain Finnegal’s questions at the College, maybe he had even heard of the deal reached between the Commission and the Tabernacle. Tison likely felt the walls were closing in on him and blamed me. Therefore, he had proposed the summoning. He had prepared Karnigan for my presence, assuming that it would lead to my doom. After all, despite his words before we started, he had done nothing to bring the summoning to an end when he saw that I was in trouble. He had not made his presence known until Sandrelessa and my chains had combined to stop me from going to Karnigan.

My guess was, seeing his initial plan fail, he had then stepped forward to seemingly be on my side. But why had he done nothing more? Maybe it was because he was afraid of what my glowing chains meant, did he guess that if he tried to attack, that Sandrelessa would be free to defend me? I would think that he would fear that, for even Karnigan, his ally, had been bound in the pentagram.

What would he do now? Did he think that I would be at least willing to find out Karnigan’s price, that they would once more have a chance to bring harm upon me? Maybe he expected me to casually toss Sandrelessa aside, disposing of my protection. Whatever his plan, I would be careful. I would keep my distance and send a message to the College telling them of my morning’s decision. But I would not tell anyone of my suspicions, better to play dumb. Best to wait until Darrel fingered him as his contact, then Tison would have greater worries than dealing with me.

It was a simple and workable plan. I would try to stay in as much as possible, but would be happy for the guardsmen who had been assigned to follow me while I was out. Hopefully I could make it until the moon turned into a hook.

Decided, I continued towards the door, entering as it was opened by the doorman, Johnson, who looked at me with concern before asking, “Is everything alright Damsel? Lady Esselde was worried to learn that you had gone out on your own.”

“My apologies, I just needed some time to think and I was not alone, one of the guardsmen was with me.”

“Still maybe you should go to see her to allay her worries.”

“Okay, but first I need to run to get some money to repay Guardsman Garth, who bought me a pastry while we were out.”

“Worry not Damsel, I will look after that. It is better for you to find milady, who is with her mother in the Yellow Room. It is in just past the Blue Room, will you be able to find it? Or would you like a guide?”

Recognizing the order behind his polite recommendation, I stated, “Thank you, I believe I can find it.”

I did and soon was informing the mistress and her mother of my decision. They took it almost too well. Though the mistress did try to be sympathetic, I could tell that she was secretly happy to keep me around in my girlish form. Like her mother towards her, she did like the thought of having a doll with which to play, something I was willing to accept in exchange for the support I knew she would continue to provide.

-------------------------

During the wait that followed I became more and more antsy, if not for activities during the day to keep me occupied, I would likely have started driving people crazy. But fortunately I did have things to do during the day, being left alone with my thoughts only at night when I returned to my room.

My busiest day was the one after my decision, Turinday. I arrived at the market with sunrise to assist in setting up our stall for the Open Market. Then I helped Senior Wagoneer Thomsa and Jonton Holnd, Clara’s youngest brother, sell throughout the day. The two of them had decided that my role, based on my appearance and being Darrel’s slayer, was to draw the customers while they closed any deals. It proved to be a successful formula, though I think that Clara’s advertising and the high quality of the goods we were selling were more important than any feminine wiles I displayed. Still a successful venture is a successful venture, whatever role one plays. And I definitely learned a great deal from watching the two men negotiate, things that I was able to try on those occasions when one was absent and the other needed me to be something other than a pretty face.

It proved to be a long day, going from dawn until dusk, which kept me busy and left me tired enough that sleep came easily that night. Further benefit, beyond the financial one I would earn as a result of the sales, was that it gave me reason to visit Kesa upon my awakening the next morning. This proved just as good as the first time, though I did not run into Angelise.

After my bath I once more met up with Clara. She informed me that planning for the new post was proceeding apace and that we would be visiting our vendors to obtain goods to restock Elladoo Post. Most of these visits were quick visits to offices, rather than to any factory. We would speak to whoever was in charge, place and pay for an order, tell them to deliver it to our wagon camp and confirm whether they wished to expand the relationship for the new post. Unless the person was a particular friend of Clara, each visit went quickly. And since many of the offices were in the same buildings and all of them were on the North side of the city it was not long before we were done.

Clara then informed me that it was time for us to do some personal shopping. She let me know that I would be spending a lot of the summer on the road, filling in for either herself or Durk, while they helped with the new post. After letting my excitement settle down, she told me that I would need a lot more than the skirts and dresses I had recently been wearing. Therefore, she offered to float me a loan, until I received my reward money, and to take me around to her favourite shops. Quite willing to benefit from her experience, I readily accepted.

A whirlwind of activity followed as we visited the Garment District and the Leather and Fur Market before crossing the city to visit Metal Town. This crossing introduced me to taxi carriages that carried passengers around the city for a fee. Hectic as it was, I did not remember everything I had ordered, which would be picked up in a few days. I know that there were quite a few items of clothing; breeches, shirts, bodices, underthings, boots, gloves, cloaks and hats. Beyond that were items to make the road more comfortable, including my own set of tack. And in Metal Town I picked up a hatchet, some knifes, a sword and a more appropriately sized crossbow.

When I complained that I could have bought many of these things far cheaper from amongst the items we had sold yesterday, Clara had just sniffed and said, “A girl needs things of her own.”

Something in this struck me as hilarious and I burst out laughing, which she soon joined. The day, combined with our discussion by the fountain, made me feel that I had developed another friend and ally, therefore, when we parted I impulsively hugged her in thanks. Seeing as how she returned it, maybe she felt the same way.

The third day turned out to be the least busy, though interesting none-the-less. Unlike the prior three days, where Sophie had left me alone to prepare for the day, she arrived soon after I awoke that morning. Apparently it was to be another dress-up day, though she refused to tell me why. Once more she powdered and painted my face, did the magic stick thing to my hair and then helped me into the blue dress. As a final act, which showed that she had likely been speaking to Kesa or had smelled my clothing, she had me dab on some new perfume smelling of cinnamon.

Guiding me to a dining room I found Mistress Elladoo and Madame Deglace waiting, also dressed in their finery. After my curtsied greeting, the mistress had me come sit beside her, saying, “Good morning Dra’e, please eat quickly we must be on our way soon.”

“Where are we off to Milady?”

“Well yesterday Magister Bewlmon came by to visit and he told us of your request concerning your jewelry.”

Remembering the expense of the items and the significance of the sapphires, I suddenly regretted my impulsive request to the magister. Trying to stem the damage I quickly apologized, “I am sorry Milady. I very much appreciate that you went to such expense to provide them and they are truly lovely, it is just that sometimes I wish they were not there.”

“No need to apologize child.” Madame Deglace answered. “I know I wouldn’t want to wear the same pieces of jewelry all the time, besides I have something else in mind for your costume.”

The Lady of the Deglace’s initial comments about the Winter Festival costume had seemed far-fetched, but now with my choice it had become much more likely. And during the last couple of evenings, which I had spent with the mistress and her mother, it had been a topic of much discussion. What I had gleamed of her plans was enough to make me apprehensive, so, I was pleased when the mistress cut her off, “Now Mother, please let me explain to Dra’e what is happening.”

“Very well then. But do hurry.”

“Yes as I was saying, Magister Bewlmon told of us your request and let us know that he, along with a Priestess of Asolde, had come up with a possible solution. Though he asked for our help. Of course I agreed, and when Mother heard of it she also decided to lend her support.”

“Thank you very much,” I said. “But what does it involve?”

“Oh I really don’t want to say, it will be a surprise.”

A surprise that excited the two of them did not fill me with confidence, yet I was not a large enough lout to say so. Maybe it would not be as bad as I feared.

With breakfast complete, the three of us made our way outside where I learned that the Lady of the Deglace did not travel inconspicuously. The carriage we approached was a shining box of ebonwood bearing the crest of the Deglace on its doors, complete with driver, footmen and a team of four black horses. Inside was just as opulent, as I found after being helped aboard and seating myself beside the mistress on a padded bench covered in leather dyed a familiar blue. Then with an escort of guardsmen, we were on our way.

First we stopped at the Temple of the Allfather, where we were joined by Magister Bewlmon, before continuing on to the Shrine of Asolde. There we were met by a beautiful priestess in a dress of rose, very similar in shape to mine, though as both the magister and I noticed, cut lower. Still, for me, her most distinctive feature her was the way in which I felt her power. Instead of a glow, from her I felt a warmth and heard a sound that seemed lyrical in nature. While I listened to this, the magister performed introductions, informing us that the Priestess Desmona had come up with the plan we were about to attempt. Chastising him for his humility, she led us to an antechamber and guided us each to a seat, mine being a graceful chair carved from rosewood, with a cushioned seat of rose coloured velvet, sitting in the centre of the room.

Our attention upon her, she spoke, “Drake, you presented Magister Bewlmon with a seemingly difficult task, but when the two of us put our heads together, it became less so. Discussion with the Lady Deglaces provided the final component we needed. Do you have them?”

This last was addressed to Mistress Elladoo who reached into a pouch, at her waist, to get something she handed to Priestess Desmona. Moving in my direction, she continued with her explanation, “See, the purpose of your jewelry is important, the look is not. Well at least the look of the sapphire pieces; your choker, bracelets and anklets tie you to the Gods, but the others can be anything. The magister and I decided that if they can be anything, why not make them so.”

Her cryptic speech did not ease my confusion, noticing this, the magister said, “What Priestess Desmona means, is that there is no reason that their appearance cannot be changed.”

“Yes, yes.” the priestess agreed, frowning prettily at the interruption. “Since you cannot remove the pieces, we needed to come up with a way to make them changeable. How to make this happen was the next question, luckily we have these.”

At this she opened her hand to show me what she had received from the mistress. It took a moment for it to dawn upon me what she held. When it did, I turned to Mistress Elladoo with a questioning look.

Smiling sheepishly she said, “When I commissioned the items that Magister Bewlmon requested for your Chaining, for some reason I included earrings. The magister did not ask for them and I knew he would not make you wear them, but I just felt they were needed for the set.”

“Well that you did Lady Deglace, for it is with them that we will be able to answer Drake’s request. They are linked to the other pieces by style and the hand of their maker, yet free of any other purpose. Therefore we will use them as the focus for another spell, one allowing you to change the appearance of all the pieces. Are you willing?”

“What does it involve?”

“It is simple really. I will pierce your ears with them, while performing my spell. Then all you need to do is to change to different earrings and the rest will transform to match. Do you wish to proceed?”

It seemed to be the opposite to what I had requested, in fact I felt those glittery things would only make it worse. Still maybe they were on to something. If a physical change of earrings would result in a magical change to everything else, could I not switch to something like simple hoops? It would not make it all disappear, but it may make them less noticeable, particularly the diadem. Therefore, I nodded my head.

What followed was nowhere as complex as the ritual Magister Bewlmon had conducted during my Chaining. Moving behind me I heard her sound take on a different tone and when she touched my earlobes it was as if I could not feel her fingers, only the extra weight hanging from each ear told me when she had already finished the piercing. Again the tone changed, becoming more sonorous, as she performed the spell she had described. Then her sound returned to normal and she told me it was done.

Reaching up to feel the stones hanging from my ears brought a wry grin to my face. My search for returned masculinity had taken another step backwards. Madame Deglace, who seemed to take the grin for a smile of pleasure, came over to look and described the results as lovely. She then asked, “Can we see how it works? I brought along some other earrings?”

“Nay Lady Deglace, my spell needs time to attune itself, at least until tomorrow. If Drake will visit me here in the afternoon, we can check to see if it is complete.”

However, that was not to be.

After we left the Shrine and dropped Magister Bewlmon at the Temple, the carriage did not turn for the estate. Instead it headed towards North Gate, before turning West to take us to Henrietta’s Salon in the Theatre District. It was a gathering place for Madame Deglace and those of her social set, where they met to gossip and where vendors of luxurious goods came to display their wares. It was one vendor in particular whom Madame had come to see on that day, a merchant of fine cloth, recently returned from the mainland. The Salon was a place of gentility and feminine elegance right down to a musician playing the lyre in the corner, yet there was also an undercurrent of nastiness, particularly whenever I was introduced, that left me feeling uncomfortable. Thus I stuck close to Mistress Elladoo, unwilling to leave her protection, and was pleased when Madame finished her purchases and we were able to leave.

My afternoon was also spent with the two ladies, out in the estate’s garden, where I tried my hand at embroidery. Surprising myself, I found that I had a certain knack for it and with the help of one of Madame Deglace’s maidservants was able to stay occupied while they talked about people I did not know. It was relaxing, okay for that day, but not for every day. I need to be kept busy.

It was during supper that our plans for the morrow were put on hold. While eating the main course, Johnson the Doorman entered and moved over to speak with Julion. Seeing Julion’s glance in my direction, I guessed that it had something to do with me. Fearing the worst I rose to follow when he gestured for me to follow him from the room. In the hall, he said, “Johnson informs me that Aredente’s people are here for you Drake.”

“But the ritual is not to occur until tomorrow night” Mistress Elladoo, who had also followed, exclaimed before I could.

“Excuse me Milady, but they say that though the ritual is to be tomorrow night the damsel must come with them tonight in order to prepare.”

“Let us get to the bottom of this.” she responded, before leading our group towards the doorway where we found three priestesses in white and surrounded by a stark glow waiting. Continuing to lead, the mistress asked, “Greeting Honoureds, may I ask why you have come for Dra’e tonight, when the ritual is to be tomorrow?”

The oldest of the three responded, “Greetings Lady, it is true that the ritual is scheduled for the eve of tomorrow, but the reasons for your ward to come with us tonight are twofold. The first of these is that the role of the Caller is not an easy one, we will need to spend the time between now and then in preparation.”

I liked that not at all, nor apparently did Mistress Elladoo, for she demanded, “Why did you not let us know of this before hand, why are we only learning of it now?”

“That leads to the second reason Lady Deglace. We did not want anybody to know that we would bring the child into our protection tonight, we feared it may lead the villain to act before we were ready?”

“Are you saying Dra’e is in danger?”

“We are unsure Lady, but we are unwilling to trust the intentions of one who would keep company with Darrel Haubanks.”

Or one who would keep company with Karnigan the Historian, I silently added. Suddenly I was happy to see them, for I had begun to dread the night and the next day, worried that at any moment Tison would strike at me. No it would be better to be away from my friends, to keep them out of danger, while surrounding myself in the power of a God and his followers. So I said, “It is okay Milady. I am ready to go.”

Still unsure, the mistress looked from me to the priestesses and found the same look of determination. Frowning at being overruled she reluctantly agreed, “Well then I will come with you.”

“No Lady,” the priestess said, losing some of her respectful mannerisms. “She is to come alone, others will just be a distraction.”

“Very well, but I like this not. At a minimum, may she change?”

Looking at me in my fancy dress, the priestess nodded her head, “Yes I believe that would be a good idea.”

Taking me by the hand Mistress Elladoo drew me to my bedroom where she helped me out of my dress and into one of her old dresses. She dragged it out as long as possible, but then could delay no longer and giving me a fierce hug, took me back to the lobby where Johnson again draped a cloak over my shoulders. Then in the company of the three I left the mansion to find a contingent of guardsmen, each bearing a halberd and wearing a white surcoat over their chain armour, waiting to escort us to the Tabernacle.

During our march I learned the names of the three priestesses; Junnifer, who had done the talking, Ceniel, and Elibeth. They were tasked with preparing me for the ritual though it would be the head of their order, Curate Leonide, who would actually conduct it. Priestess Junnifer explained what would happen and what was to be my role. Basically I would help the curate call Darrel, if he answered then I was just to watch, allowing the Curate to do the questioning. She told me that my preparation would require me to loosen my grasp upon life.

“What?” I admit, I shrieked when I heard this.

“Worry not Drake, it is not as serious as it sounds. It is really quite simple, we just need to keep you awake between now and then. For, as you grow tired, the real begins to wander.”

So that is what they did, through the night and the entirety of the next day. Since then, I have longer period awake. Yet each of those times it was during an emergency, when my attention was on something other than being tired. But during that night and day there were no weightier distractions to push tiredness aside. It ended up being a most surreal experience, filled with discussions about everything and nothing, periods of songs, drinking a most foul herbal drink, that always drove away some of the sleep, and physical activity. Some of it was almost normal, like when we talked of our lives or told stories or they quizzed me on aspects of the Annals. Other parts are hard to believe, such as the game of tag that we played with five guards in the main hall of the Tabernacle, empty except for the bier upon which bodies rested during the service to send their spirits to Aredente. I still find it hard to believe the childish fun that we had in the late night, just before the rise of the sun, in a place usually so somber.

This too I witnessed, when I joined the Priestesses in the choir loft as they joined their brothers and sisters to sing the songs of mourning for the five people whose spirits were sent forth on that day. And though I did not sing, I shed tears of sympathy for each passing and for those who were left behind to grieve.

After the last of these ceremonies was the most difficult. Saddened and tired, I just wanted to lie down and sleep, but it was time to begin our final preparations. Taking me to a bathing room they had me undress and bathe, a bath unlike the ones I had experienced with Kesa, for it had not been heated. The shock of its coldness forced me awake, then without scented soap or oils I cleaned myself, washing away the scents that served as an attachment to life. Finished, Ceniel helped me dry my body with a towel while Elibeth with a murmured spell brushed her hand through my hair, leaving it dry.

Cleansed, Elibeth quickly braided my hair in a fashion similar to her own after which Ceniel helped me into a white robe of the softest wool. A robe that was the same as I had seen five others wear that day, with sleeves draping and cinched at the waist by a long, white, silken cord. They then offered me a final drink before we moved into main hall.

However, I soon realized that the drink was different. Instead of awakening, it pushed me closer to sleep, for the people who were there, to observe, blurred and became shades of themselves. By the time we reached the bier I was asleep on my feet, putting up no struggle when four priests approached and lifted me to lie on the hard, marble bier. I tried to jokingly ask if this was my funeral, but nobody heard my words, for they had not been spoken. Everything seemed so far away, the observers, or were they mourners, even the man in white who stood above me and held my hand, though I felt in not. Nor did I hear him chant, even if it seemed lips slowly moved

Then he became real, I could feel his hand upon mine and hear his words. Now I stood beside him, no longer lying upon the bier. When I looked around I saw that we were still in the hall, though alone. Looking up at he, who I guessed to be the Curate Leonide, I asked, “What is happening?”

“We are now in a place not of our world child, though not in Aredente’s realm either. Call it my God’s antechamber if you will, it is here that we can speak to the dead. All that we need is for you to call Darrel Haubanks.”

“How do I do that Sir?”

“The same way you would call someone of the living.”

Hesitantly, unsure, I called, “Darrel, Darrel the Roamer, I would speak to you.”

When nothing happened, I looked again at the curate who gestured towards the door. As I watched it opened, from a dark gloom shuffled a figure that soon became discernible as Darrel. Unlike Karnigan, his appearance was not glorious. His skin was of a greyish pallor and his head drooped down to lay upon a shoulder, forcing him to look sideways at us. But in his eyes there was recognition and hate, which caused him to snarl, “What do you want Sweetmeat? What nasty trick are you going to play on Darrel now?”

Before I could answer the curate squeezed my hand and said, “Speak not child. Darell Haubanks it is not for you to ask questions, you are here to provide answers.”

“Very well whiterobe, but don’t expect me to nod. The bitch made it so can’t do that anymore, you know I really do hate her.”

“Is there anybody you do not hate Darrel Haubanks?”

“A good point. Now what is your question, with death my patience has become even worse.”

“We seek the name of your contact in Glanlies.”

“Ahh, you still haven’t found him. But then I am not surprised, snakes are always good at hiding.”

“Give us his name.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you do, then he will share your fate. You wouldn’t want him to go free while you suffer, would you?”

Darrel smiled, a grisly smile, “You know me too well, don’t you. Very well, his name is Vernor Gralien.”

“Who?” I could not stop myself from exclaiming, for it was not the expected name. It was supposed to be Overmage Tison. Had I misjudged?

“Not the name you were expecting, is it Sweetmeat?”

“Enough villain. Do you lie?”

“No whiterobe, I do not lie. Vernor Gralien is who you want.” Then looking directly at me, seeing my anguished surprise, he finished by saying, “Who knew the truth could be such a pointed weapon.”

With those words he turned and shuffled back through the door from which he had come. Leaving me to ask myself. ‘Had I made the wrong choice?’

There was no time to answer, for as the door closed we were whisked back to the real hall. Briefly I saw the observers, but before my thoughts could align I fell asleep upon the bier.

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The question was still there upon my next awakening in my room, at the Deglace mansion. For a moment I was crushed by what a horrible mistake I had made, but then logic made itself known. I remembered that I had made my choice before coming to believe that Overmage Tison was the villain whom Darrel would finger. My reasons against dealing with Karnigan had not changed, any price he asked would still be too high. So no, nothing I had learned led me to be sure that I had made a wrong choice.

Still I could not deny that I had hoped that it would be Tison. I had convinced myself that he was not to be trusted, that he was up to something. It would have been so much better to tidily wrap it up with him as Darrel’s ally. I was wrong, but unwilling to admit that I was totally wrong. Tison and Karnigan were still after something and they would receive no help from me.

Realizing that I did not want to think on it any more, that I did not want to doubt my choice, I got out of bed. Considering what to wear, I decided instead to head to the bath. That was always a good choice.

I worried not, well mostly worried not, about my choice during the final few days of my first visit to Glanlies. Instead I moved wholeheartedly into the preparation for the next part of my life. I learned that Clara would accompany the Mistress back to Elladoo Post, while I would journey North with the wagon train of supplies and goods. This decision was made for a few reasons. Most importantly the route the two women were to take was quicker and the Post was in greater need of their skills than of mine. Plus they felt that it would give me a good opportunity to get some command experience, though I was cautioned to listen to the senior wagoneer and corporal.

However, another reason to send me with the wagon train was that the mistress was concerned about taking me through Corels. If I had been successful in my quest to return to maledom it would have been one thing, but we worried that my enemies, who had retreated, not been vanquished, would once more stir up trouble. Worry not though, I had learned my lesson and spent a full afternoon scribing a hand-cramp-inducing letter, explaining all that had happened within Glanlies, my choice and why we decided to keep me from Corels. Not waiting for the mistress to deliver it to my parents during her passage, I posted it with a service that delivered correspondence between the two cities.

That evening Madame Deglace took the opportunity to test out Priestess Desmona’s spell. It was rather amazing, all I needed to do was change my earrings and soon the rest would match, only needing to remove them to make them turn back to their normal state. No matter what she had me try, jewel or metal, the rest would take on the same style. She felt that the magic would come in handy, thinking that all she needed to do was find some earrings she liked and I could show her what matched. After all, she felt that there couldn’t be a better designer of jewelry then Asolde.

Clara and I also took the opportunity to pick up the items that we had earlier ordered. Most of it I was quite happy with, specially a beautifully made pair of black, riding boots, which came over my knees and had a jaunty flap I could fold down or tie around my thighs when I rode in the rain.

I was less pleased with the three pairs of leather breeches, made of deerskin, including a reinforcing panel for the inner thighs and the crotch. They were well suited for days in the saddle. I just was not prepared for how very tight they would be after I tied the thongs closed at the sides. Used as I had become to having my cleavage on display, the lower part of my body had been mostly hidden by long skirts. Nothing was hidden by the breeches

Standing in shock after pulling on the first pair I heard Clara whistle and laughingly say, “Good thing it is impossible for you to put on weight Drake. For if you put on another pound, I don’t think you would be able to squeeze into those breeches.”

“What do I do Clara, they are way too tight. Will the leather worker change them for me.”

“No you can’t ask that Drake, they’re exactly as I told her to make them.”

“Why did you do that?” I whined.

“That’s the way I thought you liked them, I know you always pay close attention to mine when I wear them.”

“But yours aren’t this tight,” I protested, not realizing I condemned myself in my own defense.

Grinning evilly Clara answered, “True, but then I do gain weight. Not like you, you lucky girl.”

The breeches were a minor setback, a bigger one came when we learned that Mary had also made a choice. Always having disliked the life at Elladoo Post, she finally decided to retire and stay with her family in Glanlies. Having so recently made her my friend, I was saddened to learn that we would be apart. Still Mary’s decision was harder on Mistress Elladoo, who had relied on her support for years and needed to choose a new maidservant, sadly not Sophie, before she returned to the North.

With that choice made, supplies collected and wagon train loaded, it was time for us to return to where we belonged. So four days after waking from seeing Darrel, Sophie helped me get ready one last time. She had found a pair of small silver hoops that resulted in simple bands around my fingers, toes, and at my forehead. I liked how small it made the diadem, being hardly noticeable when Sophie pulled my hair into a long, tight braid, one she hoped would last for most of my trip North. Then I dressed, pulling on a pair of my tight, knee-length breeches and my new riding boots, then topping it off with a blowsy white shirt and a leather bodice that provided the additional support I needed while on horseback.

Dressed, I hugged and thanked Sophie for the support, before heading for the main door. There I found Mistress Elladoo and Julion waiting to wish me good bye, the Lord and Lady having done the same the night before. Though, before they had gone to bed, they had extracted a promise that I would return for the winter, a time which was slow at the Post. Madame wanted to explore the jewelry business and hinted once more at the Winter Festival, meanwhile Lord Deglace let me know that he wanted to test his theory about some of those with whom he negotiated.

I said good bye to Julion first, upon which he wrapped me in tight hug, telling me, “Come back soon Ducky, we still have many plots to plot and plans to plan.”

“I will, you know that your parents think I should return in the winter.”

“You really must. And you really must promise to wear these breeches again, I do so enjoy how they look.” This last had been whispered in my ear, but the fact that he let a hand wander down to rub the part of those breeches covering my bum made his words a secret hard to keep.

“Julion!” His sister admonished, “Unhand my apprentice, what would your betrothed think?”

“Don’t worry sister mine. She knows that Drake is my new partner in crime, I mean good deeds, and would understand that we need a secret handshake.”

Knowing I would miss his good humour I joined the joke by returning the favour, then in a feeling of mischief I stood upon my toes and gave him a peck on the cheek, “I’ll miss you partner.”

“You two! Come here Dra’e before my brother corrupts you any further.”

In this hug I was the taller and the whisperer, “Thank you for everything Milady. I needed all the support you have provided.”

“It was the least I could do Dra’e, but will you be alright on your own?”

“I won’t be alone Ma’am. Jimi and Stork will look after me, plus Thomsa and Deagel will make sure nothing happens.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

“Very well then, I will see you soon.”

This time it was I who received the peck on the cheek. With a word of thanks to Johnson, I was through the door and joined Jimi and Stork who waited with horses, including Clara’s horse, Beauty, that I was to ride. Helping me into my new saddle, Stork ducked away from my swing when he pinched my bottom and laughingly mounted his own horse.

Then the princess and her lapdogs rode North.

-------------------------

The final piece of this tale occurred after I had left Glanlies and returned to the North. In fact it did not even occur in the city instead it along the coast that Vernor Gralien was tracked down in a shack, passed out drunk. Captured and broken, he had confessed to everything, right back to helping Darrel in the rapes that had initiated that unworthy’s roaming. It took the presiding Deacon of Jiringel little time to decide Gralien’s fate and within a day he was decorating the end of a gibbet.

As for me, I and everybody working at Elladoo and Many Song Post had a busy summer. We needed to perform our regular tasks, but had many others thrust upon us. It meant that I spent a lot of time aboard a horse breaking in my new tack and leather breeches.

Maybe I will find time to write of those days and of other adventures that were to follow, but for now my contract with the Asthelhorne Monthly Biography Journal is complete. After their successful run of Great Villain Journals, which included the stories of Darrel and Vernor’s lifes, they felt some would find it interesting to read how my life impacted theirs. Whether they hoped I would speak more of those two, I cannot say. But know this, the two men had a smaller impact upon my life than I did on theirs. And in that I am fortunate.

Farewell and as always, enjoy yourself!

Thank you to Hope Eternal Reigns who continues to help me try and make my stories readable!

Adventures of a Merchant -4- Dance with a Demon

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Medieval Times

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Returned to the North, still conjoined with Sandrelessa, it is time for Drake to resume his interrupted studies. After a summer of learning more about what he had always dreamed of becoming, it was almost possible to forget what he had become.

If only everybody else were so able to segment him into his various selfs.

Adventures of a Merchant: Dance with a Demon
by Arcie Emm

See Prior Adventures of a Merchant:

The Start
A Pause in Corels
Choices

Thank you to Hope Eternal Reigns whose editing so often causes me to embarrassedly exclaim, Doh!

A tale untold is like jewelry unsold, precious and shining gloriously, only for its owner. With my writing contract not extended after my third tale, combined with an inability to find new takers for it, I began to wonder if my story was like a ring on a charlatan’s finger, large and gaudy, implying an undeserved worth to its owner.

Most depressing were these thoughts. Bad enough being unable to sell the goods from your inventory, but when those unwanted goods are your own stories, it is embarrassing. In defeat, I scurried away from the world of writing, focusing on my first love, my truest love, the art of the deal. It welcomed me warmly, gathering me in and making me question why I had ever strayed from the comfort of its embrace. Soon I had mostly forgotten about my endeavors with the quill, even convincing myself that I was content with the way things had worked out, that I had returned to my true purpose.

Then upon returning from my last trip to the Kingdom, I found a missive waiting from my former editor, who, along with some others, had started a new journal and were interested in publishing more of my adventures. Despite thinking that writing was behind me, my excitement at this news was undeniable. Excitement dampened upon learning that they wanted something right now, with right now equating to before I return to the road in a couple of weeks.

The difficulty with that request is that I am not the quickest writer. The act can be downright painful, so much so, that friends have told me that they would rather be around a cat giving birth to a calf, than me writing one of my tales.

So though my original plan involved writing about the months after I first visited Glanlies, dwelling on all that I had learned and saw during that summer, it would take too long to write. Thus my decision to focus on a single day, believing that penning a tale for such a time frame, in such a time frame, was doable. That decision made, there was only one day I could choose, one near the end of the summer and unlike all the others.

It was an important day.

I think.

***

It really was the most excellent day, one where the shining sun was chased by enough clouds to provide periodic relief from the heat. Even the prior night’s rain had stopped before turning the path to mud, instead it served to keep down the dust that could have been kicked up by the wheels and horses of my wagon train.

Yes, my wagon train.

Admittedly it was not a large train, consisting only of three wagons, their drivers, and six guards. But it was the first one where I was in charge, it contained no journeymen, no senior wagoners, not even one of the corporals. Though just a regular run, serving the small farming communities dotting the land around Elladoo Post, still I felt proud to have been entrusted with the task. And if one looked in the back of any of the carts, they would judge it a task well done.

Constant checking and rechecking meant that not only did I provide great entertainment for the veteran crew accompanying me, but that I intimately knew each wagon’s contents. The majority of the trade goods, originally accompanying us from the fort, were gone, in their place were recently harvested vegetables, probably destined for the Hanglish mines or North Fort. Meanwhile, our real treasures were to be found in chests stored beneath each wagon’s seat. Inside could be found collections of seeds, leaves, roots, bark and flowers from any number of herbs and plants that were in demand from the apothecaries in the Southern cities. I hoped that Master Elladoo would allow me to manage their dispersal upon my return to Glanlies for the winter, believing that it would be a good way to continue my summer’s education.

Education that had been the foundation of Master Elladoo’s plan to keep me too busy to worry about my afflictions. He had proceeded with my apprenticeship, just as if I had not been changed from his apprentice boy into an attractive, tow-headed girl, who happened to be conjoined with a bloodthirsty demoness. When that plan met with skepticism from Mistress Elladoo and myself, we received a rare reminder as to who was in charge as I found myself part of the work crew, under Durk, heading to Many Song Post.

It proved that he, who had been my teacher for a number of years, had not been duped into forgetting who I had been or assuming that I had completely changed. He believed things were going too fast, that the excitement and attention in Glanlies had gone to my head, and that I was in need of some grounding. Durk was assigned that task.

Now in my prior writings, I have probably been unfair in my descriptions of Durk, having him always come off second best to Clara. Yet how can you compare rock to fire, their strengths are needed at different times. For the next month I learned the way of the rock, while serving as its assistant. It proved exhausting. Durk was a large man, muscled not fat, who seemingly had boundless energy, allowing him to continuously move about the construction site ensuring everything went to plan. And except when he had me running an errand, I was always at his side. Actually, since I was barely over chest high to the man, despite being tall for my new gender, it was more like I scurried along a step or two behind.

Nor was it just my legs that were exercised, as he had always been my most demanding instructor. Our endless trek, around the site, was accompanied by constant explanations of what needed to be done, why it was needed, who would do it, and how it would be done. Or he would talk of the tribes and their history or villages and their headsmen. Then, at any moment, I had to be prepared for quizzes about what he told me, that day or the one before.

Each night I was glad to crawl into the blankets, underneath my tent’s roof, and sleep until morning. Little time or energy existed for thinking about my state or missing the luxury that had grown almost normal in Glanlies.

Not that I could completely ignore my changes. For instance, with it being summer, all the men slept under tarps, instead of inside a tent. But for me, even though muggy and often less comfortable than outside, the mistress had deemed that I should have a tent and this time she was right. As one of the few females in camp, the other two being a pair of entrepreneurs-of-the-sheets who followed the work crew from Glanlies, quite a bit of attention was directed towards me, though it was controlled attention. I was protected by both my colleagues and my own fearsome reputation, but the privacy of the tent often brought relief.

The experience also forced me to deal with my situation myself, with no maidservants to show me the way or do it for me. With little time to make things into a big deal, I just learned to make due. An example being, when I finally needed to do something with my hair, one of the summer-hire guardsmen taught me how to put it in a warrior’s braid.

Master Elladoo was proven correct in his methods. My confidence improved as I was immersed in what I wanted to do with my life. Every caravan, I took part in after returning from the construction site, further brought that home, none more than this current one.

It was great fun and I was not sure if I wanted it to end. So on that lovely day I had decided to just enjoy the sun and found myself upon the bench of one of the wagons. For it is easier to travel with your eyes closed, when someone else is in charge of getting you where you need to go. Not that it was unusual for me to spend as much time riding a bench as my horse, for my newly gained rejuvenation powers made it impossible for me to develop the iron butt that allowed others to spend hour upon hour in the saddle.

Which is why my seat-mate noticed the approaching figure first, causing him to nudge me awake as he said, “Missy Drake, Felix is on his way back.”

No longer bothered by any of the frequently used, feminine titles I looked up to see Felix heading towards us at a trot. Calmed by his pace, realizing his speed meant nothing was overly awry, I nonetheless wondered what would bring him back to us during the day. Doubtless it was a good reason, because the man tried to stay as far away from the rest of us as possible, believing that would keep him away from command of our small guard detachment. A role he refused to accept, even though his experience and skills meant he was the man for the job. In this he was little different than the rest of those making up our train, a group who lacked ambition despite their competence. Able though Felix was, more able in fact than me, he preferred others to make the decisions.

Pulling up, beside the cart upon which I sat, Felix nodded a greeting and explained, “A band of Roamers are camped at Endorn Glade, they had this missive for you from Master Elladoo.”

Catching the small piece of rolled-up parchment, tossed in my direction, I unrolled it.

Drake, meet Gillan Meryers at Endorn Glade. Sell him, at 22 copper per pound, as many vegetables as you can - Elladoo

Despite being only a half a day away from Carlysle, the last village in which we spent the prior night, Endorn Glade was the standard overnight stop before the final push to Elladoo Post, which itself was only two-thirds of a day further along. Master Elladoo had implemented the rule, because he did not want his wagon trains trying to squeeze the trip into a single day, which could lead to broken axles and injured horses. Not that anyone had a problem with camping at the glade, formed within a bend of Falim Creek, which fed into the Rillian, it was a wonderful camping spot.

“Well Tavis, it looks like your ladies will have a lighter load tomorrow. Felix let everyone know that there are Roamers at the glade and pass on all of Sergeant Hussel’s usual reminders about dealing with them.”

Those reminders were based entirely around being cautious around the Roamer’s womenfolk, for their men were fiercely protective of those beauties. A group that I knew included one of the ladies of my dreams, Filice, Gillan’s daughter. Sighing at what never would have been, even without my change, I pulled on my riding boots, unhitched the reins of my horse from a hook behind me, pulled myself into its saddle, and thanked Tavis for the ride.

“Not a problem thing Missy Drake, it makes me the envy of all the boyos when you sit beside me.”

***

When the wagons were a couple of miles short of Endorn Glade, Felix and Jimi - who had accompanied me everywhere that summer acting uncomplainingly as my bodyguard, joined me as I rode ahead to finalize arrangements with the Roamers. Entering the glade, just before mid-day, we found it contained twenty-eight brightly painted, living wagons set-up in a rather permanent looking camp. Apparently they had spent some days waiting for our appearance, though the number of deer carcasses hanging from pole frames proved that the wait had been worthwhile.

At the edge of their camp we were met by four men, one taking the reins of our horses as we dismounted and nodded respectfully towards Gillan Meryers. Smiling at me, he returned a lesser nod, before saying, “Greetings Apprentice Drake, I see that the rumours we heard do hold some truth.”

“There is doubtless much exaggeration in what you heard Headman.”

“I am not so sure, for you are lovely as was told.”

Unprepared for such blatant flirtation, I moved the conversation back to areas of comfort. “Umm...thank you. I received Master Elladoo’s note, which stated that you seek to purchase vegetables from us?”

“Yes we do. Whenever my people try to purchase directly from the villagers they try to drive up the price between families. Better to deal with your master, who sells to us at a standard price of 20 copper per pound.”

“I’m sorry Headman Meryers, but Master Elladoo informed me I was to accept nothing less than 25 copper.”

Smiling unabashedly at his failed ruse, he looked down at me and while making me wish I had not left the laces at the neck of my blouse so loose, said, “Maybe 22 coppers? I am sure Elladoo, being such a reasonable man, would accept that price.”

“Maybe if we sold enough it would be acceptable.”

“I am sure that we will leave your carts mostly empty.”

“Very well then, 22 copper it is. Where would you like us to set up our carts?”

“Freido will show you where and provide payment once everyone has made their selections. Then would you and your men be interested in looking through our wares or seeking the services of one of our craftsmen?”

Despite what you will hear in the cities, the Roamers are not thieves and laze-abouts. Instead they are tinkers, leather-workers, tailors, and the like who sell their services to the small communities of the frontier. Others are musicians, dancers, and actors who provide news and entertainment to the same customers. Doubtless the members of our caravan would be interested in the services of the first group, while hoping to be entertained by the second. I know I was.

“If they wish.”

“Excellent and in the evening you must all join us around the bonfire. There will be dancing.”

“We would enjoy that Headman Meryers.”

Soon afterwards, the carts arrived and while the guards set up camp, the wagoners began to assist the Roamer women fill baskets with vegetables. These were then brought to Freido and I, each with our own scale, where we noted the weight of the basket before its contents were emptied into burlap bags carried to each wagon by the young men of the families. Unlike our men, they apparently had not received any warnings about the amount of attention to pay to the other side’s womenfolk. Since that meant me, it was sometimes difficult to focus on my task, especially when Freido decided that our scales matched and that he may as well help the young men, though not with the carrying.

However, beyond the unwanted attention, everything went smoothly, leaving less than a wagon full of vegetables unsold. Finished our sales, I advanced each of us some of our salary, noting down each amount, to spend amongst the Roamers. Then detailing guard duties, headed towards the colourful camp.

Crossing the grounds between the two camps we were met by a number of the large wolfhounds that were always the companions of the Roamers. Fortunately they were well behaved, because they were massive dogs, particularly the chest high, light grey beast who claimed my side as its own. However, there were none of the children that I had come to expect in their camps, though that absence was explained away by shrieks and yells in the distance, which implied they were making use of the pools that made the glade such a fine camping location, probably chaperoned by the older girls, who were also absent.

Reaching the wagons, our group split. The guards headed towards the metal workers to have their swords sharpened, for the Roamers were known to create the finest edges on blade in the Peninsula. Meanwhile, the wagoners sought the leather workers for repairs to their tack.

Not having drawn my sword since I purchased it, nor having put significant wear upon my tack, neither path interested me. Instead my focus dwelt upon obtaining gifts of thanks to take with me to Glanlies, an idea encountered in the Annals, approved by the Mistress, and made possible by my share of the proceeds from the sale of the booty from the bandit’s camp. Still, as a rather unworldly fifteen year old, I had no ideas of what to buy. So I asked my shadow.

“Who you buying for again?” Jimi asked.

“Lord and Lady Deglace, for being my hosts. Then there is Julion, Magister Bewlmon, and Archmage Sharlese for all they did to help me. Finally I would like to get something for Mary, who was my rock in the early days after my change.”

After a few moments of thought, Jimi said, “I don’t know about most of ‘em, but I got ideas for the Master Deglaces.”

“You do? That would be a great start.”

“Well when we was back in the City I ended up on escort duty with Master Hiram and noticed that he always had a walking stick. Different ones too, so we could check with Old Abner. Then you can get some arrow shafts from Young Abner, since Master Julion is an avid archer and he is bound to appreciate Roamer made shafts.”

Thinking both of those were fine ideas, we set out to find the large, green and yellow wagon that was the home of the woodworking family Abners where I engaged the elder and Jimi the younger. As Abner laid twelve walking sticks upon a table beside his wagon I tried to remember my little knowledge about walking sticks and Master Deglace, it was all rather minimal. Though my impressions of the man led me to believe he would prefer something plain and elegant, rather than coarse and gaudy.

With this perspective, I mentally made a selection. Yet as you surely know, it puts one in a poor bargaining position to immediately point at your choice and state you want it. Only after getting the price of two others, did I ask about the one that had caught my eye.

A glint in Abner’s eye told me he was not fooled. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she Miss. Carved from a nicely grained piece of black gramblenut wood, varnished its natural colour, tipped in beaten and polished tin, and with a handle covered in shark skin. Being such a lovely example of the walking stick art, one that any gentleman worthy of the title would be proud to own, means that I could only part with it for 1 gold 25 silver.”

An insane price, barely less than I paid for my sword, and both of us knew it. However, while he saw it as the opening to a good haggle, I decided to follow in the footsteps of my summer’s teacher. Being less fleet of tongue than others, Durk was not big on bargaining, deeming it a social activity that led to exaggeration and theatrics, neither of which he particularly enjoyed. For this reason, he would not even begin to bargain unless the price he heard was somewhat reasonable, so I just nodded my head and began asking the price of other sticks.

After a slight hesitation Abner preceded to tell me the price of the rest of the sticks, placing four within the 40 - 60 silver price range the mistress and I had agreed would be appropriate for the thank you gifts, based upon my station and wealth. Separating these from the rest, I studied and tested each, finding that a white oak piece, the cheapest of the four, felt the best in my hands.

Noticing that the oak stick kept finding its way into my hands, Abner asked, “Excuse me Miss, maybe I could provide further assistance in your choice. Do you seek one for your own use?”

“Nay I am looking for a gift.”

“For a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“Ahh, I was wondering, because most men would find the stick you hold to be overly fine.”

Confused, since it seemed to be the plainest of the bunch, I said, “But it hardly has any decorations.”

“Not that type of fine Miss. Here hold up your hand, see how much smaller it is than mine? Well we men find a lady’s stick, like that one, too thin for comfort. We need something more solid.”

Feeling embarrassed, despite the logic in my finding a woman’s walking stick the most appropriate, I blurted, “Lord Deglace does have quite large hands.”

“Lord Hiram Deglace?” Seeing my reluctant nod, he continued, “Well that changes everything. He is a collector and you can’t just give him any walking stick. The only one worthy of his ownership is this one.”

Cursing the slip of my tongue that had returned our discussion back to the expensive stick, sooner than I had planned, I none-the-less realized that the unwanted bargaining had begun. “It is a nice piece Goodman Abner; however, it is well beyond my price range.”

“You would pay much more for such a work of art in Glanlies.”

“I am sure that is true, which would put it even further out of my price range. Would you take 35 silver for the grey one?”

Snorting at the choice, Abner said, “I rather doubt that Lord Deglace will find himself in a dockside bar brawl, for that is all that cudgel is good for. No the only option is this one, how about 1 gold even, that is an excellent price.”

“Still too much Goodman Abner, would you take 45 silver?”

“It would break me, I couldn’t do that.”

Surely there is no need to repeat what followed, it being the same as any such dealing. However, we still found ourselves 15 silver apart. Stalemated, it was my opponent who changed tactics when he asked, “You seem to like the white oak stick, maybe we can work out a package deal for both?”

Surprised to find that stick still in my hand, I responded, “Oh no, I don’t need one for myself.”

“Don’t be too sure. If you spend any time walking about one of the cities, you will quickly find its benefit. Also there will be times when you are unable to wear that sword at your waist, yet can carry your walking stick, which will offer you almost the same amount of protection.”

Remembering my aching feet the day Jimi, Stork, and I spent running errands for Clara, while knowing that my sword was never included when I found myself in skirts, I saw the wisdom in these comments. My being intrigued by the idea, meant he had himself a customer. In the end he sold me both for 1 gold, more than I had intended, but rarely is that not the case when you bargain with as little knowledge as I had about walking sticks.

Nor did my purse find relief dealing with Young Abner, though this time it was not through lack of knowledge. No upon seeing the footed arrows he was showing to Jimi, made from cedar though tipped and knocked in purple heart, I immediately recognized their quality and knew they would be wonderful for archery contests. And since Julion was my favourite Deglace, after the mistress, I did not mind paying 31 silver each for three.

A better deal was found for Archmage Sharlese and Magister Bewlmon. A pair of leather gloves, dyed the same burgundy as her robes, for the archmage. While for Magister Bewlmon I found a tin ink well, decorated with mountains.

This left me with Mary and Lady Deglace, for whom neither Jimi nor I had any idea what to buy. So I moved from wagon to wagon, hoping to spot something that struck my fancy. This, in time, brought us to the wagon of Delilah the Seamstress, a name I remember Mary mentioning during the day when she and the Washans prepared my wardrobe for our trip to Glanlies. Since it had been in positive terms, I took a chance and told Delilah that I looked for gift for Mary.

“Mary? She’s not ill is she? I missed her visit when we passed through at Elladoo Post a few days back?”

“No Goodwife, she has decided to stay in Glanlies with her family.”

“So she finally decided to follow her own wants, instead of her mistress’s, did she?”

“Aye.”

“Good for her, some are not meant for the North. Though I will miss her visits. And yes I do have something that I had planned to show her, hold here for a moment and I will retrieve it from my wagon.”

It was longer than a moment, before she returned carrying a basket. Setting it down on her table, she said, “Now if I had my druthers, Mary is not who I would choose to make me any garment, but she has an excellent eye for decorating one already made. So often she bought the trimmings and ruffles I make.”

With these words she opened the basket and began looking through the different trimmings inside. Of various colours, the majority being the ruffles that the Roamers used to trim their dresses. Finding what she was looking for, Delilah pulled out a length, of multiple yards, in a recognizable blue. “Mary was always after me to make some in Deglace blue, but only recently did I find some cloth that is properly dyed to allow me to do so.”

Knowing how much of her time, during the trip South, Mary had spent with her sewing bag out, adding decoration to either the mistress’ or my dresses, I could imagine that she would appreciate what was in the basket. Yet I was surprised with how little it cost me to buy what must have taken as many hours to make as either of the walking sticks I had earlier purchased. Embarrassed that I had spent so little on Mary, who was the most important person to me, I asked Delilah if she had anything else that Mary may like, such as a scarf or a dress.

“I doubt that would be a wise idea Miss Drake. Mary is not the type to have others pick her clothes for her, much rather would she choose for them.”

Laughing, I agreed, “That is true.”

“So speaks the voice of experience?”

“Aye, she has strong opinions on what is proper, despite what may be practical or what I think.”

“How would she react to the practical, boyish garb you are wearing?”

“Oh she would hate it. Thinking it is not lady-like enough, nor would she like me gallivanting about, escorted only by Jimi, with a merchant train. But her beliefs also allow her to be a rock when needed. I miss her and so will be in one of her dresses when next we meet.”

Smiling, Delilah said, “Surely you don’t share dresses with her.”

“No, no, it is as you said earlier, all of my non-traveling clothes were chosen by Mary.”

“Just think how she would feel if you showed up to visit her in a pretty, new dress. One you had picked out yourself. Wouldn’t that be a treat for her?”

In that moment I felt sudden kinship with the fish swimming about in its pool when presented with the sight of a wiggling worm. Delilah was right, Mary would probably be just as pleased to see me show up looking all girly as she would by anything I could get her. And though both the fish and I saw an invitation too good to be true, nature demanded that we take a nibble.

“It might...”

“Oh I am sure of it. Often did she lament that it was not worth her time looking at the things I made, since her mistress had no interest in her own appearance. Maybe you would be interested?”

Entranced by the worm, as it bobbed up and down, I took another nibble. “I guess I could look.”

“That seems reasonable Dearie, why don’t we pop into my wagon and see?”

The worm suddenly moving away confused me for a moment, but as expected I followed her into a surprisingly large interior, everything from a small stove, to cupboards, benches, and beds bolted and folded the against the walls of the wagon. There was ample room for the two of us, there would have even been room for Jimi, if Delilah had not firmly told him to wait outside.

“Being that you are so tall and slender, most of the things I have will not fit. However, there is one piece I have that, with the slightest adjustments, would be perfect for you. Let me find it. Here it is, yes hold it up against yourself and let me see.”

Even after having spent much of the summer in pants and shirt, the dress did not instill the terror that it once would have done. So I did not hesitate in taking it from her; however, I did not immediately follow instructions, instead holding it up at arms length to get a better view for myself. Though the dress was much as expected, the colour did surprise me. Unlike the usual bold colours you usually see a Roamer woman wear, this dress was an ivory white whose starkness was offset only by the obligatory black ruffles at the skirts hem. Otherwise, it had the low, square-cut neck line, long bell sleeves, and unevenly cut skirt, the front being knee high while the back came down low on the calf, that I always found so attractive on their young women. My initial perusal complete, and with Delilah still waiting, I held the dress up to my body for her to judge the fit.

“My that does look good with your colouring, though most of our girls couldn’t wear it. And it looks to be a decent fit. How do you like it?”

“It’s quite nice.” I said, honestly not knowing if the colour was good on me or not. My fashion sense having not begun to develop, it just seemed like another dress. Maybe a bit fancier than those in the cupboard in my room at Elladoo Post, but nothing like the ones left behind in Glanlies. I thought I would be okay with wearing it.

The fisherwoman finally set her hook. “Well then, out of your clothes and let’s see how it looks on you.”

Too late my instincts cut in and I headed for the weeds. “Umm...that may not be wise, I have been on the road for days and have not had a chance to bathe.”

She was prepared, pulling back before I swam too far. “Worry not Dearie, I have a basin of water and some soap, you can wipe away the worst of the road dust and sweat.”

With this offer, she soon had me out of bodice and shirt, wiggling out of deerskin breeches, even my small clothes and bandeau. And though I really wanted to take a dip in the pools monopolized by the Roamer children, the hand wash with the cool water proved refreshing. Until the opening of the wagon’s door, bringing a sudden rush of light, caused me to let loose a rather high-pitched squeal of distress as I tried to cover myself with arms and wash cloth.

“Kailie, close that door right now.”

“Oops sorry Mama, I did not know you were with someone.” Said Delilah`s pretty daughter, who was slightly younger than my own age, as she entered the wagon to join the two of us. Looking appraisingly at me, she asked, “Everybody says so, but are you really Drake the apprentice boy from Elladoo Post? Cause if so, you’ve changed from mouse to vixen since last I saw you.”

Feeling myself grow even redder, I was happy to be rescued by Delilah. “Kailie, where are your manners?”

“Sorry Mama.”

“What are you doing here girl?”

“Well the young‘uns are done with the pool. Now it’s our turn, so I came to get my brush, some soap and a change of clothes before meeting up with the rest to head to North pool.”

“Wait a few moments, then you can take Drake with you and the other girls. I am sure you will appreciate more than that basin offers, won’t you Drake?”

Beginning to recover from the shock of Kailie’s arrival, I immediately saw the benefit in joining her and her friends while they bathed. And not for the reason offered by Delilah. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

“Okay, what you doing anyway?”

“She’s looking for a dress.”

“Which one? Oh the white one, it’s so pretty. You’re so lucky it will fit you Drake, I always wanted it for myself, but Mama says I am too big up top.”

“Don’t brag Kailie, you don’t have Drake’s tiny waist. Really her breasts are perfect for her. At least so thought the boys, who delivered our groceries.”

While I finished washing, the two continued discussion about my appearance, everything from my head to toes. It was almost as if they forgot I was with them in the wagon. It meant that I was as ready as ever to put on a dress, hoping to distract them from offering their opinions on my finer qualities as a woman. Pulling it over my head, I gave a little shimmy to get it past my hips, then extracted my braid from its trap inside the bodice, allowing Kailie to do up the laces in the back. Dressed, Delilah examined the fit.

“Maybe it is a bit short, but that will just give you a chance to show off your pretty knees. How does it feel?”

“It is very soft, but the skirts seems tight.”

“Nonsense, that is how they are supposed to be and they’re not as tight as those breeches on the floor, though they will accentuate those swaying hips of yours.”

About to protest, I remembered Julion’s statements to the mages Sharlese and Tison about how I moved. Instead my attention remained upon the dress, deciding that in particular I liked the sleeves, which did not drape far past my wrists allowing me to use my hands without the cuffs getting in the way. In general, other than the intentional tightness at my hips, it seemed a good fit. I surprised myself by liking it. “If that is the case, then I have no more complaints about the fit.”

“Not so quickly Dearie.” Delilah said, pinching cloth at my waist. “It is quite loose here, I think we will have to put some darts in to get the proper fit. Kailie, hand me some pins.”

Standing patiently, so as not to be stuck by a pin, the dress was soon shaped to my form. Still a little frown on the seamstress’s face said she still was not happy. “This may not work. We need to take in more cloth than I had hoped, the darts may end up being too noticeable. I could try to make them appear decorative, but that is not what I had in mind when first making the dress.”

“How about like the ladies of Jewel, Mama?”

“What’s that? Oh yes, there’s an idea. Let me look.”

As her mother searched through the cupboards at the back of the wagon, Kailie noticed my look of confusion and explained. “Drake, you would be a natural for Jewel, where they very much appreciate a woman with a trim waist. The noblewoman even force their daughters into the most horrible of rib crushing devices to make it happen. Better to be a common woman in Jewel, instead of inflicting such torture upon themselves they wear wide belts. Mama does good business selling such belts.”

“Apparently Mama needs to become serious about replacing her stock. I only found two black ones that will fit. Here let’s try this one first.”

The first was of brocade, decorated with flowers embroidered in red thread, and was at least a hand width wide, I was surprised that it was not more uncomfortable. Still I did not particularly like it, thinking that the red flowers were rather too gaudy for the dress. That was not the case for the second belt, made of the softest leather, its blackness offset only be the white thread at the edges. However, it was less comfortable, besides being twice as wide it was also shorter in length, forcing me to suck in my breath before it could be laced tight, though it did provide a nice accent to the white dress.

“Well Drake, do you like either of them?”

“They’re both nice. Though the first one was a bit too...too much.”

Delilah interrupted, “I agree, it just did not go with your new dress at all. Much wiser to go with the leather one.”

Kailie agreed, “Definitely Drake, it really shows of your figure. The boys will love it.”

Having not realized that it had become a foregone conclusion that I would be buying the dress and belt, Kailie’s words caused my final thrashing before I was pulled ashore. “It seems too small.”

“Worry not Dearie, it will stretch to a more comfortable size. Now why don’t you change back into your boyish clothes so I can start sewing the darts, then you can wear it when you finish your bath.”

Truly glad am I that none of my instructors were with me on that day, for surely they would have been disappointed to see how few of their bargaining lessons I remembered. First Old Abner, then Delilah, treating with me as if I had no will of my own. Doubtless Master Elladoo would say it was because I was too eager a buyer. Thus when I left the wagon, it was as the owner of a new dress and matching belt. I did not even have my boots, they having been kept aside for polishing at 14 copper. Returned to the bright sunlight, I stood there blinking in confusion at what had happened and waited for Kailie to join me.

Jimi and the wolfhound, who had been dozing off in the wagon’s shade, looked up at me as I stood there, the first asking, “So Drake, did you buy a dress?”

“Apparently.”

“Where is it? And where are your boots?”

“The former is undergoing some modifications so that it fits properly. The latter are being polished.”

Holding out one of his feet, to look at the old, scuffed, brown, riding boots he wore, Jimi stated, “I don’t think any amount of polishing would do mine, or me, any good. So what now? Eck and me are all rested up.”

“Eck? Is that the dog’s name? What type of name is Eck?”

“Don’t know, just one of the Roamer menfolk cautioned me to be wary of Eck. But he seems like a good fellow, likely just gets a bad rep because he’s so big.”

Though spoken without bitterness, the words held the ring of true knowledge. Not knowing what, if anything, needed saying, I answered his earlier question. “I’m off to bathe in the North pool.”

“Is that safe?”

“Sure it is.” A voice from the wagon’s door, answered. “She’s coming with us and all the boys know how much trouble they will get into if they sneak a peak.”

“Jimi, this is Kailie. Kailie, Jimi.” Introductions complete, I noticed the canvas bag she carried, which prompted me to ask, “Umm, Kailie do you mind if we go over to our camp so I can get my stuff?”

“Sure, but let’s hurry. Everybody is meeting up fairly soon.”

Glad that the glade was grass, with me barefoot, we trotted to our camp where I quickly scooped up my pack and settled it over my shoulder. Jimi looked nervous about me heading off without him, but settled for telling Eck to look after me. The dog seemed to wuff an agreement before heading North with Kailie and I, though she nervously kept me between him and herself. Not until we were back into their camp did she regain her active tongue.

“So is the big man your lover?”

“What!”

“That Jimi, he’s awfully protective of you, like a lover is supposed to be. He’s not the most handsome fellow, but he does have large hands and you know what they say about men with large hands?”

“No! Umm no, he’s just my friend and has appointed himself as my guardian.”

“You have a bodyguard? Why? Didn’t you take on a whole bandit camp by yourself?”

“Well its better to avoid trouble, Jimi is good at keeping it away.”

“Yeah I suppose so. What’s it like being possessed by a demon?”

I was even more stunned by this question, than the one about Jimi. Not because she knew, I guessed that everyone in their camp had heard some form of my story. No, it was because nobody had ever asked that question, not even me, yet the answer was immediately on the tip of my tongue. “It’s scary.”

“Scary, why?”

“It just is. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Before any other questions could be thrown my way, we arrived at a group of eleven girls or young women, ranging from Kailie’s age all the way up to five who were past the age when most in the North would be married. However, this lack was explained away by them being the primary dancers amongst this group of Roamers, each would not be married until the younger girls in this group grew in skill and replaced them.

“Hey everybody, this is Drake. She’s going to share the pool with us.”

Kailie then introduced them to me. The third of whom was Filice, looking as lovely as I remembered. My heart beginning to race, I shyly lowered my look and mumbled a hello.

All, except one, returned pleasant greetings. That one, spoke in a harsh tone . “I don’t think so. I know who HE is. I remember him leering at me when we danced at Elladoo Post last year.”

Spotting the speaker, I did recognize her. She had stood out amongst the dancers and had drawn my eye, but not for the reason she assumed. Instead it had been the look on her face, the same look with which she made her protest, sourness. Competent at the dance she had seemed, yet of all the members of their troupe only she had seemed to hate being involved. Yet I could not explain that, it would be more harmful than agreeing with her reasoning.

Kailie came to my defense. “Bah, Celise. I saw her naked. If she really wanted to leer at a pretty girl, she would look in a mirror.”

“Quiet scamp. We all know why. He is possessed by a demon and you know what that means.”

Things were getting ugly fast, if not for Filice, I do not know what would have happened. “Quiet both of you. Kailie, it is not for you to speak to one of your elders in such a fashion. As for you Celise, Drake is a respected guest of my family, both of my father and grandmother. Do you pretend to be a better judge of what is happening than her?”

The response from Celise was a sullen one, but no more was said as we proceeded in two groups, me with the younger six, towards the pool. It had always been my assumption that someone had planted the bushes and trees that surrounded it for privacy. Moving through the hole cut in the sandilal hedge the answer of who suddenly seemed obvious, it had been the Roamers, offering their women a place to bathe out of sight. However, thoughts of the past were brushed aside by shyness as dresses began to be unlaced. Not wanting to be caught staring, in spite of my desires, I once more lowered my head and began to doff my own clothes. Only when I was as unclothed and heard splashes from the girls in the water did I look up.

I had guessed wrong, not all the girls were in the pool. In front of me, dressed the same as I, stood Filice. It was impossible not to drink in the sight before my eyes, realizing my dreams had never done her justice. Even after months in this form, it was as if it was the first time I had seen a woman, we were so very different. She was shorter than me, her soft olive skin covering fabulously rounded breasts, hips, and thighs, making my own curves seem those of a girl not yet ready for womanhood. I stared.

Yet in this I was not alone. She too stared at me, though with curiosity. Finally her gaze caused me to look into her deep, hazel eyes as she laughed and said, “Kailie did not exaggerate, as is her want. There is nothing boyish about your appearance. Here, let me help you with that braid, it wouldn’t do to get it wet.”

Reaching out to take my braid, she untied the leather thong at the bottom and began to unwind it, gently combing it with her fingers. “I really like your hair Drake. It’s almost white, like someone from the far East. Does it hold the curl from the braid?”

“No it will straighten out when washed.”

“I often wish mine could be straightened.”

My eyes closed, savoring her touch and beginning to feel the warmth associated with active fingers underneath covers, I sighed my disagreement. “Oh no your hair is lovely.”

“Why thank you. Are you okay?”

“Hmm...uh-huhhh.”

“Are you sure? Oh I know what the problem is.”

A second later I was shocked wide-eyed as my left nipple was tweaked. Reactively clamping a hand to each breast, I hissed at the smiling face. “Filice!”

“Maybe Celise has the right of it. Your girls announce your appreciation of what you see.”

Mortified more by what she correctly assumed, than by what she had done, I found myself hurriedly offering the explanation I had hidden earlier. The result being a most attractive full body giggle.

“I don’t think you’re being completely truthful about what you’re thinking, but your excuse is hysterical. Gods above, I can’t wait to tell Dowdy Celise.”

“Please no, she already dislikes me.”

“What would be in it for me?”

“My undying gratitude?”

“Tempting though that may be, I think my silence is worth more. Let’s see, what do I want? You know there’s going to be dancing tonight?”

“Aye, your father mentioned the possibility.”

“Oh there will be and I want you to join us.”

“Me? I don’t know how to dance, I’ll look foolish.”

“We’ll give you some lessons, nothing too complicated. But if you don’t want me to share your thoughts about Celise, that will be part of my payment.”

“Only part?”

“Well if you’re going to play the part, you have to look the part. You also have to let me dress you up as one of us.”

Eager to please, I said, “I bought a dress from Delilah.”

“You did, did you? That’s a perfect start, then it’s a deal?”

Combining my existing plan to wear the dress, with the opportunity to spend more time with Filice, made it an easy deal with which to agree. Agreement struck and with soap in hand she led me into the pool, proving that sometimes it is good to be a follower. There we joined the rest of the girls to wash and begin my lessons.

What followed was simply an amazing afternoon, starting out as only titillating before becoming so much more. Bathing and washing of hair took barely any of the time and soon the older dancers were done and on their way. But not the rest of us, in the waist deep pool they began to teach me their dances, specifically the graceful hand movements and upper body swaying that caused such happy thoughts amongst their male watchers. I was not immune. When the six first began their demonstration they were amazingly distracting; however, as time passed it grew more important that they were Filice, Kailie, Isselle, Sondra, Katreen, and Nadine. It was so very fun to be in their company.

That is the thing about becoming an apprentice in a remote location like the North, few are those of your own age with whom to share friendship. You are forced to leave your childhood, your youth behind. That afternoon I was given the opportunity to relive something missing since my boyhood in Corels, being part of a group. In a group it is easier to be confident.

So when we heard two boys, on the other side of the bushes, talking about me in the way that boys talk about pretty girls, I did not blush, but joined in the giggles of the others. Giggles that turned into full blown laughter when Kailie’s shout of, “Bran and Nikolai, you idiots. She can hear everything you two dimwits are saying.” resulted in sudden silence followed by footsteps running away.

That confidence stayed, as we moved to the sandy shore, allowing the sun to dry glistening bodies and long hair while we began to work on the steps to accompany what had already been taught. Never would I have guessed how enjoyable dancing could be, it felt right. Even when the others broke aside to dress I willingly accepted their praise for how much I had learned and their encouragement to keep practicing. For it had begun to feel very natural, as if it was the not the first time that I had stepped those steps, moved those movements. So when Kailie, who had dashed away to her family’s wagon, returned with a shout that she had my things, my feet were slow to stop moving before I turned to see that only Filice and Kailie remained, besides a sleeping Eck.

“Where did everyone go?”

Filice answered, “They had to go do their chores. Kailie and I decided to stay and help you.”

“Oh sorry, I did not know that you were waiting on me. Hopefully I have not kept you away from your duties?”

“Well I am personally happy to skip chores, how about you Kailie?”

“Me too. Though I did run and get Drake’s things. That was exhausting.”

Laughing as she pretended to swoon, I said, “So I guess it is time to start paying off my bargain.”

“What bargain?”

“Well Drake let something slip, which she did not want to share, when we were talking earlier and she needed to buy my silence.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t very well tell you, Kailie. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have to keep her side of the bargain.”

“Oh yeah, I guess. Can you tell me what Drake has to do?”

“Yes, she’s promised to dance with us tonight, but first she is going to let me turn her into a beautiful dancer.”

Though that was a bit more than promised, I did not dispute her claim. On that day, more than any day since being doomed to me new body, I felt completely happy with myself. Being one of the girls had been more enjoyable than any since the days I had ran free as boy. So my lack of dissension went beyond being fine with the idea of being a beautiful dancer, in that moment I wanted to be one.

Unaware of my desire, Kailie had similar thoughts as she said, “Let me help Filice. I’ve been thinking all afternoon about how Drake should do her hair, I even brought these for decoration.”

These proved to be a number of small, black, cloth flowers, probably made by her mother. Though I was not sure how they were used, Filice seemed happy with them. “Those will be perfect Kailie and another pair of hands would be appreciated.”

“I can just braid it like before.”

“Eww, Drake that was ugly. Like some greasy haired city guard, you have to let us do something better.”

“Well I did offer to put myself in your hands, and just as you I will keep good faith with our bargain. Just don’t make me look too funny.”

“Funny is definitely not my plan. Now why don’t you get dressed, you’ve played water nymph long enough.”

A good idea, since stopping my dance I had noticed that the late afternoon sun had begun to lose some of its warmth. Finding some fresh under clothes within my pack, I replaced them with my traveling clothes and those I had already soiled. This time, after Kailie and I repeated the same actions as earlier, the dress had no slack in the waist. The darts, which I thought were hardly noticeable even before they were hidden by the belt, did their job to ensure that though covered, my body was not hidden. Yet since the fit was no different than the matching dresses, black with red trim, worn by my two companions, I was unbothered by the results.

Ignoring my clean boots until later, I followed Filice’s instructions to kneel in front of her so she could brush my mostly dry hair. With my recently found flexibility, the position was comfortable instead of the squirm-inducing torture it would have been in the past. I also learned one benefit of the uneven skirts, they allowed me to kneel without binding, sensible for a nomadic people who could carry a limited number of chairs and would spend much time on the ground beside a campfire.

Once Filice was done with the brush, it did not take long to guess that she was braiding my hair in a fashion I had never experienced, nor had it ever taken so long, requiring the girls to periodically trade off. Though all my hair was pulled away from my face, they did not immediately begin braiding it into the rope that I could create, instead it was gently woven together from the top of my head down to my nape, the little flowers being artfully included in the weave. Only then did they begin to create the expected braids from some of the hair cascading down my back, three of them, the centre full and thick while the outside two were thin, being looped back to be pinned underneath the loose weave. So pleased were they with the results that I wished to have a mirror or that the pool offered a better reflection.

Smiling at the result, Filice stated, “You need some nicer jewelry. That steel stuff is practical, I suppose, but that’s not what we’re shooting for. Let’s head back to our wagon and I will find you something to lend.”

Due to the spell of Asolde’s priestess, Desmona, had cast upon me, my chains, which masqueraded as beautiful jewelry, changed to match any earrings I wore. This had led to me finding a simple pair of steel hoops before I had left Glanlies, which made the pieces less noticeable. “Thank you very much for the offer, Filice; however, I need to keep these.”

“But Drake, they’re so plain. Nothing that any of us would wear and you promised.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s because I can’t. Everything is bespelled so they cannot be removed.” Then putting action to words, I showed how, though my rings could spin, they would not move to be removed from my finger.

“Why would you do that?”

Jumping in, Kailie guessed, “It’s because of the demon, isn’t it?”

Not wanting to lie to my new friends, I answered honestly. “Yeah, it is. While in Corels a magister of Durnst, along with his colleagues from the other Gods, performed a ritual which bound the demon via these chains. It stops Sandrelessa from gaining control of my body.”

“Sandrelessa, is that the demon who possesses you? Why didn’t they exorcise it instead? What happens if it tries to take over?” The Queen of Questions asked.

“Aye, that’s her name, but it is not the normal type of possession, so Magister Bewlmon did not think an exorcism would work and as a compromise with Furigal’s people, decided to add my chains. If Sandrelessa makes her presence known, they begin to glow and will stop her, well my body actually, from acting on her will.”

Filice said, “Magister Bewlmon, you say. You can tell he’s a man, because no woman would have chosen such boring jewelry as chains.”

“Actually Mistress Elladoo chose the jewelry to use. Really quite beautiful too, sapphires and filigreed silver.”

“Then why didn’t they use them? Or were you just pretending when you tried to remove your ring?”

A feeling mischievousness, combined with a desire to show off for my new friends, caused me to smile and reach up to remove the steel hoop from my right ear. My intended air of mystery disappeared as I struggled with the clasp holding it in place, but finally it came free and I removed the left. What resulted was not a slow acting magic, as soon as that second hoop left my ear I saw both of their eyes widen in surprise.

Filice reacted first, with a startled hiss of breath she hesitantly reached out to touch the circlet about my forehead. “Are they real?”

“Yes.”

Kailie burst out with, “But they’re so beautiful, why do you hide them?”

“You cannot expect Drake to wander about with them on show Kailie, she would be under constant threat of robbery.”

“I guess, but she already has a bodyguard.”

“Well I don’t want Jimi to be hurt in order to protect my vanity. But they are rather extravagant for daily wear.”

“I suppose.”

“No supposing about it Kailie, look how they almost make her pretty dress seem almost shabby. It’s the earrings, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?”

“Your earrings, when you took out the silver hoops out, the glamour disappeared.”

Glamour seemed an appropriate description of what happened, for I did not think they truly changed, as they never felt any different before to after. “Yes, it results from a spell cast by a Priestess of Asolde, which makes everything match whatever earrings I wear.”

With a smile, Filice mused, “Why isn’t that handy.”

“Filice, your mother makes jewelry, we should see if she has anything that will go good with Drake’s dress.”

“Umm...yeah...Kailie thanks for stating the obvious. You want to check Drake?”

“I guess, though can I drop my pack back at our camp first?”

“Sure, but put your hoops back in, I don’t want your jewelry distracting from the hard work that we put into your hair.”

Laughing at this I followed directions, being quicker at putting them back in than I had been at taking them out. Then pulling on my shiny, clean boots, I tied the thigh flaps down to make them knee high. Stomping to get feet into place, I nudged Eck awake and the four of us left our sheltered world of the afternoon.

People noticed us right away, in particular their young men. Yet their looks did not affect me in the same way as earlier, for I was not alone as I had been when selling vegetables. Yes, yes, I know I had been with all my friends from the Post, I was writing metaphorically (well I think it is metaphorically, but if not, let’s just keep it between the two of us), and though excellent at dealing with physical threat, they were useless as tits on a boar at protecting me from teen-age lust. Meanwhile Filice and Kailie, along with Sondra and Nadine who joined us as we passed through the camp, were experts. Like rapiers, their words stabbed out to deflate confidences, and the follow-up laughter clubbed home each clownish suitor’s general unworthiness. I am not ashamed to admit that I preferred being on the side not being embarrassed, after having experienced that a time or two myself.

Back in the camp, my similarities to the girls seemed even more noticeable than around the pool. None of them spoke in the deep voices that had surrounded me all summer, nor did their pace out stride mine. Mine naturally being longer than theirs, as the tallest, but we were not in a hurry and if I swayed as we sauntered, so did my companions. It was possible to believe I did not stand out.

So I was glad that Jimi was not about when we arrived to drop off my pack. He probably would have tried to attach himself to me, and despite his having become my best friend, I wanted to be alone with my new ones. Nor was it just Jimi missing from the camp, the only member of our train there was Felix who eyed us curiously until he recognized me and did a double-take. That was surprisingly gratifying, still I pretended to miss his gesture for me to come over and talk. If I did not want Jimi’s company, I definitely did not want his. It did not take long to drop my pack, beside my saddle, and let Filice guide us back to the Roamer camp and her family’s wagon where she gained her mother’s permission to bring out the chest of jewelry for sale.

Inside were the pieces you expect from Roamer jewelers, items made not at great cost, but beautiful things made with care and time. And by far, the greatest number of these were made of the coloured, glass beads about whose making they were so secretive. It was earrings of this type that Filice first dug out and told me to try on. Looking at them, a hook with five strands of dangling red beads, I frowned. Even I could tell that they were a poor match for my dress. But when she winked at me, I realized she wished to surprise Sondra and Nadine, who shared my frown and had not seen my previous display.

Not wanting to spoil Filice`s surprise, I did not remove both hoops before hooking in the red beaded pair. So their exclamations of surprise was rather loud as the hook of the second one dropped through to dangle from my ear. Their reaction also drew the attention of Filice`s mother, who looked at me with suspicion.

“I recognize those earrings, but where did the rest come from?”

“Oh Mama, it’s so amazing. Drake has a spell cast on her so that her jewelry will match to any pair of earrings she wears.”

“She does, does she? And how does this spell decide what matches, not that I can complain about what it did this time around?”

“I am not sure Ma'am, though since the spell was performed by a Priestess of Asolde, the Goddess’s power must be involved somehow.”

“Yes, well I suppose the Goddess would have good taste.”

What followed was almost a re-enactment of that evening with Madame Deglace. Remembering both how much Mistress Elladoo’s mother had enjoyed that activity and my surprise that many of her earrings were not magnificent pieces, I purchased the first pair, of red beads, as her gift. By the time a choice for me was made, none of the earrings in the chest had been missed, though Filice’s mother found the experiencing rather frustrating, mumbling as she would dig out matching pieces and judge her pieces as second best to the magic’s creations.

The final choice was obvious to all. A pair made from varying length (short to long to short), alternating strands of white and black beads, attached to half an oval of wire below the hooks. Hanging most of the way to my shoulders they were rather distracting when I turned my head, but I liked the resulting bracelets, made from ten similar strands, and even more so by the rings of interwoven black and white glass. As for my circlet, it too had dangling strands, which sometimes ghosted into my vision and clinked together when I drew my fingers through them, yet I felt nothing upon my forehead. Rather eerie.

This action did bring an end to the girl’s afternoon of relaxation, as it was time to begin getting ready for the evening meal, which unsurprisingly fell to the women of their band. Before thinking it through, my feelings of camaraderie had me volunteering my assistance. Something that was gladly accepted and soon had me acting as a pack mule, carrying items from their camp’s cooking area to be set up upon a table near the bonfire, beginning to burn brightly between the two camps

As their menfolk began wandering into the area, my task grew more demanding. I, in some twisted, though likely just, payment for enjoying their discomfort during the afternoon, ended up acting as serving wench to a number of the younger men and boys, ensuring their mugs were full of wine or small beer. For no matter the age of the man, once one placed his keester upon ground or log, he appeared to lose all ability to walk.

Cut from my herd, their attention focused upon me. Yet still there existed some of my strength gained, from the group, earlier and while I was unable to reply with clever quips, putting them in their place, neither was I overly bothered by their crude attention, finding myself more likely to laugh than blush. Though one event just about had me running away. It occurred when one boy, probably acting on a dare from his friends, familiarly rested a hand upon the curved part in the back of my dress as I poured some small beer for one of his friends. Startled by his brazenness, the rest of the pitcher’s contents ended up on his friend as I spun to find him snatching his hand back, as an angry growl came from Eck, who had been docilely following me about.

Reaching down to steady the strangely protective dog, I said, “Lucky for you it was Eck and not my friend Jimi who saw you do that. You would have found he bites before he growls.”

Dignity intact, I made my way back to cooking fires to find everybody oblivious to what had happened. There my dignity disappeared for a moment as I fawned over the tail thumping hero of the moment.

From that point, with Eck watching the group of boys with baleful eye, my serving went much smoother. Though it definitely was not an activity I enjoyed, so gladly did I join my friends to eat our own meal, before assisting in the cleaning up. Finished that chore they easily dissuaded me from going to check up with my colleagues, who had eaten back at our camp, since it would not be right to eat food we had sold them earlier. Well unless like me, they worked for it. Convinced that they were coming around later for the planned show, I sat around talking with them, me about what it was like to be a guest of the Deglaces in Glanlies, them about their band, and life on the move.

Wrapped up in this, the sun had begun to sink behind the trees surrounding the glade before I knew it. Noticing it first, Filice stood up and announced, “Why don’t the rest of you keep this spot, while Drake and I go get some blankets for us to sit upon against the ground’s night damp.”

Used to following her orders, the rest of our group readily agreed. Me, well I was just happy to spend time alone with her and willingly allowed myself to be pulled to my feet.

Reaching their wagon, her mother, after learning our purpose, said, “Here I’ll get some and give them to Drake. You see if your Grandmother is ready and then help her to the bonfire.”

Curious as to how someone who needed help could also cause Celise’s earlier reaction to Filice’s words, made me to watch as she moved to the smaller wagon besides her family’s, to knock on the door. “Grandmama, it’s Filice. Are you ready to go?”

There was no immediate reaction, none before Filice’s mother returned and offered me a armful of fur blankets. Only then did the door of the second wagon open, offering some satisfaction to my curiosity. The most noticeable thing about the elderly lady, who Filice helped down the stairs at the doorway, was her apparent feebleness. A hard life on the road had left her stooped, leaning on a walking stick in one hand and Filice’s arm with the other. Yet in that tired body I sensed power of a degree not felt since I left Glanlies.

Filice’s Grandmother was a magic user, the power manifesting itself strangely to my newest sense. Not as sound or colours, but as a feeling of distance, of searching, of answers to be found, roads to be traveled. And though her body implied doubt that she could continue the journey, the resonant timber of her voice swept that aside. “And who be you Blondie?”

Unconsciously dipping a respectful curtsey, with which even Mary would not find fault, I answered, “Drake of Elladoo Post, Ma'am.”

“The demon boy?”

Rude though the words were, her tone and smile attempted to sooth the sting in her words. Yet I found myself responding in kind. “Aye, that’s me. Are you a witch?”

Smiling her acceptance of my challenging response, she said, “Until his dying day, my husband surely would have answered yes. For myself, I will admit that many of my clients would tell you I have a bit of the sight, which brings them back to have their fortunes retold. So what type?”

“Pardon?”

“What type of demon possesses you? I remember you from the past, and my apologies, but you were rather a gawky lad, no hint existed that you would bloom into a pretty flower. It does not seem the work a normal imp possession, you must have gotten yourself mixed up with one of the higher orders.”

Unsurprisingly her bit of the sight was accompanied by a bit of knowledge. “A Carthanan.”

“Ahh, the highest of the high.”

“But I am not possessed by Sandrelessa, we are conjoined.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Umm...I...I’m not really sure to be honest.”

At these words she let out a snort of laughter. “Well if I had a guess it is likely what allows you to be having this pleasant conversation, instead of frothing and gibbering away like a mad man. Still I am surprised that you are allowed to walk about free.”

“In Corels a number of priests and priestesses performed a ritual that ensures Sandrelessa’s obedience.”

“Chained by the Gods, yes who better to trust than they.”

Impressed with how much she seemed to know, I asked, “Do you know how to free me from her?”

“Sorry child, that is not knowledge I am able to give you. But enough of such gloomy talk, this is a night for enjoyment. I see you are dressed as one of us tonight Drake of Elladoo Post, will you dance with us?”

“She promised to, Grandmama.” The patiently silent Filice answered.

Though unsatisfied with the conversation, thinking that there was more she could tell me, I recognized that nothing more would be forthcoming and accepted the change in topics. “I will try, hopefully not embarrassing myself too much.”

“Pish tosh Child, look at the way you move, I am sure you will put on a lovely show. But if that is to happen, we best hurry, for these old legs of mine do not move as fast as they once did.”

Despite her claims, once we started moving, it did not take long before we reached our destination, there we sat the old lady upon one of the chairs set aside for her and the other elders. Then joining the other girls, we spread out the blankets and waited for the entertainment to start. With my curiosity piqued, I only half listened to them while looking about to see if anybody else amongst the Roamers held powers of magic. There were none who approached Filice’s Grandmother’s power, but in two of the men, one in the leathers of a hunter and the other gently tapping away on a pair of hand-drums, I felt some of the same sense of seeking.

Doubting they would offer any answers the old lady was unable to provide, I decided to enjoy the evening, just as I had the rest of the day. So as the music began to play, led by the drummer with power, I joined in the clapping as the children started their dance. More enthusiastic than skilled, their performance began the evening, with the beginning of the music drawing my companions from our camp.

It would be easy to judge them harshly in comparison to the Roamers. Dressed in dun coloured leather armour, with sword belts wrapped around waists, they showed none of the brightness that seemed to imbue our hosts. Yet I doubted not to which group I wished to belong, even while playing as the other, for that brightness was paid for by a harsh existence.

The children finished, we were treated to a succession of jugglers, tumblers, singers, and a story-teller who told some most off-colour jokes, though not as foul as those told in The Hole. All of which served as an appetizer for the main entertainment of the evening, the dancers. So when the jokester left the area between the fire and the watchers, nobody replaced him. The musicians, who had played between and during acts, stayed silent. Slowly the last members of the crowd quieted as final drinks were poured, the jokester found his seat, and the last child was settled.

Anticipation grew. Then...

Thump...

Silence.

Thump...

Silence.

By the third repetition, everybody’s eyes were turned to the drummer. Watching as he tapped his drum to coax forth another...

Thump...

Silence.

Slowly that constant sound drew me and every other watcher in, until it was as if our hearts beat to the will of the drummer...

Thump...

Silence.

Having become a member of the beast whose heart beat as one, I turned back to the fire, to see, through the flicker of the flames, that figures had appeared...

Thump...

Silence.

The thumping continued uninterrupted and if it appeared the figures moved, it was only because of the dancing flames that obscured them. They would not move until the least willing had joined the rest of us...

Thump...

Silence.

Only when that moment arrived did they move for real. Each step matching another...

Thump...

Silence. Pause.

Around the left side of the fire came a line of woman, ten strong, wearing dresses of red with black trim. Moving as one, connected to one another by lengths of ribbon held in either hand...

Thump...

Silence. Pause.

And from the right side of the fire came a matching line of men. Wearing the same colours and carrying the same ribbons...

Thump...

Silence. Pause.

Step by step, they strutted. The women crossing in front of the men, the men behind the women, until they formed two straight lines in front of the fire. Turning, they faced us, and leather boots that had previously been silent were raised to crash down with the next drummer’s beat.

Ker-Thump...

Silence. Pause.

The absence of the next beat could almost be physically felt, so completely had we accepted its lure. Yet that shock was nothing compared to the next moment, when with a shout the dancers began to whirl about, accompanied by all the musicians. After the previously deliberate pace, the wildness of sudden speed, sound and spectacle were like being drenched in ice water on a hot day.

Having seen it before, did not make it easier to follow that evening, trying to understand how the twenty dancers weaved amongst each other. Attention seemingly focused upon one, I would suddenly realize that my eyes were upon someone else. Yet if I did not watch one, the flash of multi-coloured ribbons caused me to be lost in a kaleidoscope of dazzling colours and shapes. It became hard to imagine how the dancer and musicians could keep up their wild pace, so breath-taking was it for me as a spectator.

I need not have worried, for like everything about this performance, this too was considered. The pace began to slow. The dancers began to spiral away from and towards each other, until the women were once more aligned in front of the men. Once more they came to a stamping stop...

Ker-Thump...

Yet this time there was no silence. Released from the pull of the performance, the audience could finally react. Through shouts or whistles or clapping, we could establish our individuality while applauding those who had made us one.

Now there was no need to wait for total silence before sound and movement returned with another shout. This time I could almost convince myself it was possible to follow their movements, to stay focused on a particular dancer. They did not blur into a single entity before once more spiraling apart, this time resulting in the women forming one circle and the men a second. The music slowed, but it did not stop. Dancers regained their breath, musicians flexed their fingers or wet their lips. Meanwhile we waited expectantly for the next part, it always was my favourite.

Slowly, deliberately, the dancers began to move in a circle, right foot crossing in front of left, then left behind right. Once more anticipation grew as we all waited for the next stage of the performance. Then in each circle a name was shouted and that member of the troupe dropped their ribbons, whose ends were adroitly caught by the dancers on either side, and moved into the once more closed circle.

Inside, each would begin to glide, almost running, around the circle as the music regained its tempo. Then at another shout from their fellows, they would begin to spin or twirl about. Now the spectator was given choice, whether to watch the man who leaped and kicked as he spun about, or to watch the woman as she gracefully twirled, her arms seeming to draw fanciful patterns in the sky. Always before, my eyes had been pulled away from the women to the men. Though the former would be sure to fill my dreams in the evening, the athleticism of the latter always seemed impossible to ignore. But now, after the lessons of the afternoon, my attention stayed upon the women, understanding that what had seemed comparatively simple, was not. They amazed me.

As each dancer grew tired, they would return to the circle, the music would slow, and the anticipation would once more be allowed to grow. Then in a flurry the next dancers would move into the middle.

If we had been in front of the post, and the Roamer band had been putting on a show, each dancer would have performed once before the entire troupe would have exploded into a finale as breath-taking as their beginning dance. But tonight they apparently danced as much for themselves as for us guests. At shouts from the crowd, dancers would once more return to the circle, trying to better what they had previously done. In turn, the dancers would shout the name of an audience member who would be cajoled into showing what they could do themselves.

At some point, during this time I found myself, along with my group, standing and clapping along to the music. Enraptured by the whole affair, my shouts of encouragement joined with those of the Roamers, though never louder than when one of my friends were in the circle. And when one returned, joined in offering hugs of congratulations.

It was in one of these moments, with Nadine who seemed as good as the regular dancers, that I was shocked to hear Filice and the others shout, “Drake!”

Caught up though I was in the moment, they still needed to push and pull me towards the circle before my feet began to move on their own. With my promise ringing idiotically in my ears, I continued forward to expected doom. Feeling the countless eyes upon me, my attention was drawn to those of Celise, who slowly swayed in front of me with a look of maliciousness on her face. That look added steel to my back, made me want to try, and it was with impatience I ducked under her ribbon.

Then I began to run.

Well not exactly run, instead it was that shuffle-run-dance step that the others had used to gain momentum. Circling, I tried to remember the steps and gestures taught to me that afternoon. I tried to figure out when to begin. I need not have worried, it happened at the exact right moment, even before I realized it.

But then I was no longer alone and my partner had centuries of practice.

Sandrelessa loved to dance. In that moment it was blindingly obvious to me. Just as I knew the nerves she had overcome in order to take control, I knew the fear that our chains might deny her. For though she was willing to lose everything else, she could not be denied the dance and still wish to exist. Yet remembering the purpose of the chains, to protect innocents from us, she had reasoned they may not stop her from leading our dance. So with trepidation she chanced it, success made her exultant.

Having felt her anger, hate, even fear, I knew that her emotions were greater than I ever wanted to feel myself. Her joy had me rethinking that. It was absolutely exhilarating. As was the dance, though I wished she would better share it with me.

With that wish, memories flooded my mind. I remembered being locked in a room, from whose floor grew hundreds of blades a hand length long and from whose ceiling hung more hundreds of blades, each of a different length. I remembered twirling amongst those blades, stepping ever so gently, ducking, and weaving. I remembered the pain of thousands of cuts and exhaustion whose escape was always punished by the blades having reconfigured themselves in my sleep. I remembered days, years later, beginning to gracefully move my arms between and under blades, adding artistry to athleticism. And mostly I remembered our pride when the door was unlocked and we were able to dance before our prince.

Understanding, I found it impossible to hold back a laugh of disdain at the mockery into which the Roamers had turned the Dance of Blades. Then as if I was a child riding a galloping horse I found myself shouting, “Faster! Faster!”

And faster we moved, until the only instrument accompanying us was the drummer, his magic flaring brightly every time a twirl caused me to face his direction. Though neither it, nor the two other lights I saw in my movements, were more than a candle flame compared to the white glow coming from my chains, announcing Sandrelessa’s presence. Knowing who caused each of the flickers, I began to feel curious as to their purpose. That curiosity grew as I noticed that the circle, about me, no longer resembled a circle and that the dancers had stopped moving to crouch on the ground.

Curiosity did not equal readiness. I was fortunate to be so involved in my dance, to be moving quickly, and to be remembering the room of blades. For when I saw that the spell the hunter cast was upon the arrow that he was loosing from his bow, I had no time to react. If my dance did not have me ducking low beneath imaginary points I would have been pierced by a real one. Instead the only mark of the arrows passage, was a plucking at my hair streaming behind my dance.

Sandrelessa’s outrage quickly followed. Outrage at the man for interrupting our dance, our joy. She flowed in his direction, but was brought up short. But not by the chains, they allowed an aggressive response to threat. It took us moment to understand what was wrong, to look down and see the ribbons spanning the distance between the ten dancers, each crouching to serve as a point in a pentagram given life by Filice`s Grandmother`s spell. My understanding immediately translated itself to Sandrelessa, who rage caused her to swipe a hand toward the throat of the nearest dancer, this time forcing the chains to come to life and lock us in place.

Helpless, I watched as the hunter began to nock another arrow, only to see him collapse beneath the fist of a large figure. Recognizing Jimi, I watched the guards from my wagon train to see they were amongst those few people that had reacted to my attack. Each of them dashed forward with dagger in hand to rest it at the throat of a crouching dancer, all except Jimi stood warily over his victim and Felix whose blade soon tickled the throat of the old witch.

These actions brought forth a surge of anger to the Roamers, starting them forward until Headman Meryers, who better understood the danger of the situation, shouted, “Hold! Damnit, hold I say.”

Felix’s voice, though not loud, filled the void left behind by the shout, as he sardonically said, “Yes everyone, do hold. Otherwise all these lovely ladies will feel the kiss of a blade and learn why daggers are known as such terrible lovers.”

“Do it and you will soon join them in Aredente’s realm.”

“Not just us. With your witch dead and that pentagram broken, Drake will be free. And with Drake free, well let me just say that after being part of the cleanup crew in that bandit camp she visited, she will see that all of you soon follow us.”

“That is why she must die, she is evil.”

“Bah, Drake’s not evil. Sure she can be as annoying as any of the merchant class, ambitious sort that they are. But she’s a good sort none-the-less. Honestly there is no way we are going to let you just up and kill our friend.”

The Roamers may have disdained Felix’s feelings, but surprisingly Sandrelessa did not. Noticing my surprise at what I felt from her, she shared, “Do not be surprised, we Carthanans value friendship. More even than you humans, since while seeking power, it is always important to trust those at your back.”

Used as I had grown to her extreme emotions, the perfect normalcy in the tone of her response caught me by surprise. Her rage dampened by our helplessness, she now looked for escape, just as did I. I found myself asking her, “What do we do?”

“We can test Felix’s abilities as a fortune teller.”

“No!”

“Aye, you are right. I do not want to be known as a slayer of dancers. Nor would it be good to lose your friends, particularly the loyal big one, since I am not sure if you could find your way home without them.”

“I could too.”

“Then is it acceptable to let them die?”

“Of course not. I want to get out of this with no blood being spilled.”

“It does make a mess of one’s clothes, does it not? Still I think most of the Roamers agree with your wishes, even the ambushers who sought ours. We just need to find a way to make them reach the same understanding as us.”

“But how?”

“I’m just a dancer, but if I were a merchant, I would try to sell them upon the benefits of letting us go.”

Of course. If I acted quickly, there was no reason that I could not be like Old Abner earlier that day. Bargaining from a position of strength, offering something the buyer wanted, but did not understand. But to take that role I needed to be free of my bounds and to do that I needed my new ally’s approval. I began my explanation.

“No need to explain, I know what you plan. And my immediate question is can you pull it off, do you have the confidence to pull it off?”

“I believe so, with your help.”

“I am to be the puppet master?”

“No, but you can act as mentor as guide, suggesting paths for me to take.”

“What is in it for me? Why would it not be better for me to end our existence now?”

“And give up the dance?”

“The dance? What is it you offer?”

“If you give me free rein in this, then I will see that we dance again.”

“You enjoyed it too, you will dance in any case.”

“Maybe, but are you willing to take the chance?”

“Actually I am, I know it is now surely as much a part of you as is your heart’s beat. But it is not worth arguing over our pleasure, no I will accept your plan without a price, for I do not have a better one to offer.”

When I felt the slackening of my chains, the ability to lower my arm to my side, to shuffle feet into a more comfortable position, I knew she was true to her word. She had returned full control to me, though she did not retreat as far as was normal, as shown by the glow continuing to surround me. I was free to act, but nobody watched.

The length of time to read our conversation, little mind how long it took to scribe, is ages compared to the time actually required to have it. Everyone’s attention was still upon the Headman and Felix. That needed to change. Taking advice from Sandrelessa, who was a performer of the first order, I began to move. Not to escape, though I did sneak a toe over the ribbon, ensuring that the pentagram was meant to enclose only the demoness. Instead of immediate action I once more began to twirl about my supposed prison, finding that movements performed by the will of Sandrelessa remained mine to use. I felt eyes turn towards me, heard the voices of the arguers quiet, and realized the moment had come to act.

Again I circled the enclosure, but did not stay inside. Instead I swerved and danced about the crouching dancers, crossing back and forth over the ribbons that were to hold me in check. At a gasp from the audience I came to a stop, beside Celise, who was closest to Felix and the Witch, and dropped into a deep performer’s curtsey with arms outstretched gracefully to my sides.

“And what about me, don’t I get a say?”

Then before anyone could answer I looked at Celise, brushed an outstretched finger against her cheek and said, in that nasty, sweet chirp, remembered from the bandit camp, “Oooh look, even your fear does not wash away that look of pure hate. I think I may let you live.”

“Nicely played my host, isn’t being menacing such fun?”

Ignoring her laughter, I gestured at Jimi and our men kneeling behind the dancers to join me. As a group we moved towards the group around the Witch and Felix, who watched me with a savage grin of appreciation.

My act almost came apart when another moved to join me, its very monstrosity would have caused me to startle back if not for Sandrelessa’s gentling whispers. Steady I could see in its form the shape of the wolfhound Eck, but large as that breed can be, the dog was dwarfed within a transparent figure from nightmares. Initially it seemed a bear, a giant one with curving fangs coming from both its jaws, with long claws to match, and grey bark-like hide. Definitely not a bear. It looked evil and if not for the demoness I would have turned and fled.

“Fear not my host, it is just a beladin.”

Slipping easily back into our silent communication, I asked, “A what?”

“A beladin. Carthanans keep them as pets and to guard our homes.”

“You keep monsters as pets?”

“Oh they may look ferocious and act it when defending their master and home, but really they are just as loving as your dogs. Their fierce appearance is due to the defenses they need to survive the terrors of my world. And look they’re both happy to see us.”

Now I could see, both a long wispy-haired tail and a shadowy barbed one wagging as the dog...beladin...dogadin approached. Nervously reaching out I scratched the befurred head with my hand, while another fine, long-fingered, talon-nailed, ghostly hand appeared to do the same to the hide-covered one. My prior fear was brushed aside by the contact with the fierce pair, though not my curiosity. “They’re like us Sandrelessa, but how?”

“I do not know, it is very strange.”

Strange true, but a mystery for another time, more important matters needed to be addressed. Coming to a stop in front of the Roamers’ elders I said to Felix, “I think you can let the lady go.”

I then addressed myself to her. “You know, here you are trying to kill me and I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Marni, but Child you have it all wrong. Our purpose is not to seek your death, we are trying to free you from your demon.”

“Are you going to tell me that it will hurt you more than it would hurt me in causing my death to set me free.”

“Oh I would never deny that you will feel pain, but would it not be better to be free of the burden you bear, the threat you constantly pose to those you hold dear?”

“Actually I am going to have to go with no. I am looking forward to a long, happy life, regardless as to whether Sandrelessa is around or not.”

“Hey!”

Shaking her head sadly, Marni said, “Then truly there is no hope for you.”

“And my friends?”

“We have no fight with those who seek only to protect those they see as their friend. They will be free to go.”

“You expect me to believe you will let them go after they witness what you plan for me?”

“We only do the work of the Gods, we do not slay needlessly. We will accept the price of doing what is right without doing more harm than is necessary. You have my word.”

“Harvesters!”

“What? Not now Sandrelessa.”

“No, you said you would accept my advice. Look at the hounds behind her.”

Looking where she wanted I saw three wolfhounds. Rather pathetic specimens, when compared to Eck, two seeming to cower on the ground while the third gave off all the signs of being a bitch in heat. But it was the two male dogs that drew my attention, something seemed off about them. Then I saw. They were not as different from Eck as I thought, they too were not alone. Yet instead of being dwarfed by a beladin, the dogs dwarfed the greyish imps which they held, allowing little but a shimmer of a skull from which burning, hate-filled eyes seemed to flicker.

“What?” I think I spoke aloud.

“Just as mothers in your world tell tales to scare your children about the denizens of our world, so to do our mothers have their stories about those from yours. Specifically they talk about those who harvest our souls, using them in foul rights, to create instruments of power. The witch is a harvester. And to top it off she means to house me in a bitch in heat rather than with pretty you. I hate her.”

I believed her. There was no reason for Sandrelessa to lie, since she needed me more than I needed her. I addressed Marni’s promise. “What good is the promise of a fraud, Witch? You seek not to protect the world from me, but to profit from she within me. It makes me wonder, do you have the power to imprison Sandrelessa’s soul in some ring or bracelet yourself? Or would you sell her to someone else to work their dark arts?”

“Tell her that I want to be pretty dancing slippers.”

Ignoring my inner voice, I saw the grandmotherly smile was gone from the witch’s face, but what replaced it was completely unrepentant. “You do see much for one so young, or maybe it is the one not so young who actually sees? But yes, you are correct, we will profit well in selling her to one much more powerful than I. Enough to feed our families for years, give us homes, allow us to stop begging for the pennies from you and your kind. Further you are also right that we cannot let any of you go free, or the Commission will be on our tails. Better for you to all disappear without a trace, sadly the victims of bandits.”

“You won’t succeed.”

“But what choice do we have? How else can we buy your silence?”

I could tell she truly wanted an answer, that she wanted a way out, knowing that where we were headed was good for nobody. Yet neither of us could see a way to get off the path along which we barreled towards the other.

Felix broke in to say, “You know it is too late for even that.”

Both of us looked at him, the witch speaking first, “What do you mean?”

“Well I had one of our men ride for Elladoo Post this afternoon, to tell the Master we had met up with you and that we may need some help.”

Looking around, I noticed, for the first time, that one of our guards was missing from the group of their fellows and the wagon drivers who surrounded me. I smiled, “Oh, so that is where Sammel has gone. I did wonder.”

The witch was not nearly as pleased, as she demanded, “What? I do not believe you.”

“You should, for after noticing how gently you bargained today, I was forced to remember a saying of my old Grandpappy. He always used to say that if I ever met a non-greedy Roamer, that I should watch out for the knife in my back. Smart fellow was my Grandpappy.”

“My that was quite nastily said, I like him.”

Unwilling to take Felix’s insult, the Headman blurted, “He lies, Mother. That is all his kind is good for.”

She had been studying Felix, who smirked back at her. “No Gillan I don’t think he does.”

“You should have listened to me Mother, we should have been watching their camp. I have men that would not have been noticeable.”

“Yes Gillan, maybe I should have, but it is too late now. The issue of the moment is what to do?”

Breaking into their thoughts I said, “Let us go.”

“We can’t do that, our honour is at stake.”

“The honour of murderers, Headman? Forgive me if I laugh.”

“I’ll...”

“Gillan enough! I can see what is in it for us to let you go, but Drake, what is in it for us?”

“Freedom for most of your people, few have done anything to upset the authorities, even if you are caught. And maybe freedom for all of you if you move fast enough.”

“Bah, men on horses can easily catch us.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It is possible that Sammel was slowed or did not make it to the post. Maybe Master Elladoo will not react. Or he will be cautious seeking assistance first from North Fort before he does anything.” Then making my voice hard, I said, “But I do know if you attack us, none of you will go free. Even if you were to win, doubtful though I believe that to be, you will have many wounded slowing you down, for surely then you will be caught.”

“You seem to want this as little as I do Drake. I begin to wonder if maybe your threat is more bluster than truth. I noticed what happened when you tried to attack Licille, do those chains constrain you more than you let on?”

“I won’t hide the truth from you, they will not allow me to start the fight. No, that’s not quite right, they would allow me to start the fight, they just would not allow Sandrelessa to take part and assuredly it is of her you should be afraid. But if you were to attack us, then she would be free to respond. And though she would do things to add to my nightmares, I would not try to stop her.”

The witch looked into my eyes, trying to and maybe even succeeding in reading my thoughts. “You know, I believe you. Still I do not feel you offer a price as high as ours, for we will need to find new places to roam if we do let you go. Therefore, I want more, I want you to give us time to escape, to delay those who would chase us.”

“I would, but I cannot promise to be able to do so. Those who follow will not be mine to command.”

“Would you offer to attempt to do so?”

She could have asked for me to do a naked jig and I would have done so, this was nothing. “Aye I will try.”

“Then I accept your offer.”

“Mother!”

“Quiet Gillan, how can we say what we do is for our people, if it will bring them more harm than good?”

He stared hard at her for a moment, then looking questioningly at those around him his eyes settled upon a nodding Freido, and said, “Very well, I too accept the offer.”

Expecting the answer though I did, it still left me confused. Usually at this point of a deal, one side handed over some goods and the others payment, or you shared a drink to finalize it. Neither was appropriate here, between enemies. I said, “And I agree.”

With those simple words, it became time to tempt fate, to see if they would prove my faith in their words wrong. Slowly turning away from the witch and her son, I began to move toward our camp, the Post’s men cautiously following, blades still out and eyes darting about.

“Wait.”

Surprised, I turned and that surprise made my voice angry as I demanded, “What?”

“The dog, he is not yours.”

Only then did I notice that Eck was still at my side, so natural did he seem there. “You mean the beladin don’t you? He follows me at his own will, I do not coerce him. Why don’t you call him? Why is he not cowed like the imps?”

“A beladin? Is that what type of monster he is? I have long been curious about it, for he has been with me since I was young. It was in defending myself from its attack that I stumbled upon the magic to capture a demon’s soul. I would not part with him.”

“I will not force him to follow, but he seems to have attached himself to me and neither will I force him not to follow.”

Her gaze moved from me to the dog and then she sighed, “He was stubborn even before he became host to your beladin, going where he wanted despite whatever he was ordered. Being host to a demon did not change that, maybe the two of them are too similar, it would explain why they melded so naturally. So be it, go now before I change my mind.”

We did, moving quickly, though not at a run. The men, with me, trying to stare down each and every Roamer who met their eyes. Me, I did not look at anybody, not even a glance towards the girls who had acted as my friends, while preparing me for slaughter. Currently too focused to feel the betrayal, I knew that looking at them would bring it crashing in. And I could not afford that right now, we were still not free of the Roamers’ influence. They could still change their mind.

Back in our camp, the men began breaking down the camp, except for Jimi and Felix who with loaded crossbow in hand watched the Roamers as they began to move away from the bonfire to their own camp, many casting fearful or angry glances in our direction. Me, I headed straight for my pack, recognizing my dress was not suited for the travel required that night. There, not caring who watched, I stripped from boots and dress leaving my feminine curves minimally covered by my small clothes, before digging out my breeches and shirt. Wiggling into the pants and pulling on the blouse, I studied the dress. Dressed and deciding it was too pretty to leave here, I crammed it into the pack before moving to saddle my horse and to help get ready to leave.

We were fast, for the camp had been a temporary one, built with the knowledge that we would be on the road come morning. The one problem area was that our horses knew this as well and displayed their grumpiness at being saddled or hitched to wagons. But the old hands, with whom I traveled, soon dealt even with this. It was time to truly leave. At least try to leave.

It was in these moments that we most expected a flight of arrows to come slashing down at us. And so we did not yet mount saddle or wagon seat, instead in the shadow of our horses we began to move to the path leading out of the glade. Eerily lit by the still roaring bonfire, lanterns at each of the corners of the wagons, and the glow from my Roamer inspired jewelry, showing Sandrelessa’s continued interest, we moved further and further away. Though we saw watchers, they did nothing as we distanced ourselves from them, only mounting when Felix determined we were far beyond the range of even their finest archers.

Yet he did not allow us to gallop off in a panic. Sending three of the guards forward to watchfully lead our way, he kept Jimi, myself and hence Eck back to keep him company, looking backwards as much as forwards to see if the Roamers came after us.

Nobody spoke, each now armed with cocked crossbow, we searched beyond the light, listened over the sound of hooves and wheels, waited to respond to an attack. Seeing or hearing little, I looked towards the dogadin, trusting his senses more than mine. Somehow guessing my thoughts, he moved away to trot around the edge of the light. A couple of times he stopped, looking back the way we had traveled, growling, sometimes even letting out a warning bark, causing us each to tense up for what we though was about to come. Yet each time his hackles would slowly lower before he would return to his patrol.

His reactions did confirm that we were being followed. But we did not know if it was to see that we kept our word or if they still planned mischief. Passing time seemed to point to the former reason.

I am not sure how long we were on the move before Felix called us to a stop. It was a normal thing to do, whenever one of the trains started out for a day, to have everybody step down and check if poorly tightened buckles or fastenings had begun to loosen. In this instance, the stop also allowed each of us to burn off some of the nervous tension built up as we had waited for attack from the dark.

Re-tightening the cinch of my saddle, I asked Felix, “How did you know?”

“What? Don’t you believe the story about my Grandpappy?”

“Not really.”

“It was when you came back to camp in that dress. I had only seen its like one time, back when I was still in the Militia. It was when the company, to which I was attached, became involved in a border skirmish with a pack of Fallosian raiders North of Sandbar. We were able to catch their group by surprise, making short work of a number of them, before chasing the rest back over the border. Well after that our Captain decided to set up camp and began to patrol against their return, this resulted in me and a few others scouting about to see if any more of the bastards were lurking. Doing this I came upon a band of Roamers also hit by the raiders.

“They were surprised to see me, I used to be able to move real quiet like, as I was almost in their camp before they saw my approach. Seeing my uniform did not calm them down much, probably because they were in the process of burying seven people killed in the attack. Hearing mumblings that I profaned their ceremony with my presence, I quickly moved on. But I never forgot the seven of them laid out on the ground in their finest, the two women wearing dresses exactly like the one you wore today.”

Remembering his reaction when he had seen me earlier that day, I immediately understood how inappropriate mine had been. If I had acted like the leader of the wagon train, instead of like a petulant child ignoring my elders, what followed may have never occurred. I admitted, “Sorry that I ignored your gestures to talk earlier. I made a real hash out of things.

“So you did see me?”

“Yes.”

“Well it is not guaranteed that it would have made things go better, and I am not blameless either. If I had not been so diligent in shirking my duties as senior-guard, you would never have thought I was worth ignoring. We are both lucky that our lesson was not more painful.”

Easy for him to say, for he did not feel my betrayal. It hurt, to be so rudely thrust aside by those who had welcomed me with a smile. Still I did not mention this to Felix, instead I agreed, “We were indeed.”

Little more conversations was allowed before we were again on the move, Felix reminding everyone not to relax, telling us that if he was in charge now is when he would attack, when we had begun to think that we were free of danger. Fortunately his counterpart amongst the Roamers did not have the same thoughts. Allowing mine to once more drift inwards, towards betrayal. Yet was it, what fealty did they owe to me, an outsider. Plus I had to admit I preferred the Roamer’s rather business like approach to my death, when compared to the calculated hatred of the Followers of Furigal. If only Filice and the others had not pretended to befriend me first, callously playing with my emotions.

“Blah blah blah, you do enjoy your black funks don’t you?”

Startled to have my thoughts broken into by Sandrelessa, I asked her, “What?”

“Well it seems that you enjoy putting yourself down. Now I can understand that thinking before we met, such a sorry specimen you were, but now, well that makes no sense. Look how much better life is for you since I came on the scene.”

“Yeah, right. I specially enjoy the regular attempts upon my life.”

“Bah, just some spice to liven up every day drudgery. As for being betrayed by your maybe friends of today, what else were they supposed to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well if you were ordered to do something similar by either of the Elladoos I would guess that you would do it.”

“Not to someone I liked, I wouldn’t pretend that.”

“Sure you would, just because you are someone’s enemy doesn’t mean you can’t like them. I like some of mine and I know all of mine like me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No it’s true, I’m really quite likeable.”

“So you’re saying that Filice and her friends may have actually liked me and were only following orders?”

“Not at all, my thinking is that bunch of cows were happy to take us down because we’re prettier and better dancers than them.”

That actually made me laugh out loud, forcing from me a gesture to Felix and Jimi to ignore me, before answering Sandrelessa. “We are, aren’t we?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe it’s like what Marni said at the end.”

This time it was Sandrelessa who was confused. “What did she say?”

“About Eck and the beladin, how they melded so strongly. Maybe we’re like that.”

Her confusion was replaced by disgust, “You’re comparing us to a dog and a beladin?”

“Not really, I’m just saying that maybe we are more similar than I had thought.”

“It is possible, we do both enjoy the dance.”

“True.”

“And being pretty.”

Though I would not admit it to another, with her I agreed. “True as well.”

“And killing things.”

“No way.”

“Yes, you would prefer to talk your way out of things. In fact talking seems to be preference for most everything. What do you think of Felix?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well have you been thinking about knocking him out of his saddle and having your way with him. Hmm, maybe even if in the saddle.”

“Gods no!”

“See we’re not alike at all. And you really like all that merchant stuff, you’re always reading from those boring annals.”

“Their not boring.”

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you and all the wisdom I have gained tells me that yes they are. So see we’re not really all that similar, though you are beginning to loosen up under my guidance.”

I decided not to dignify that with an answer, “I don’t think the Roamers are going to do anything.”

“No, they are likely running as fast as they can. Which means that my presence is no longer needed on this long boring ride, I think I will go to sleep.”

“Umm...okay. Thanks for the help tonight.”

“You can pay me back by letting me out to dance.”

Getting the last word, she was gone, and instantly I felt lessened, I missed her. Nor was I the only one, her departure leaving our way lit only by the lanterns on the wagons and the often cloud covered moon and stars, my companions, including Eck who now appeared nothing more than a dog, looked in my direction. “She grew bored with the ride.”

Felix nodded his head, as if in understanding. But for the next while all our attention was drawn to the closer borders of darkness. Then it turned into a tired plod forward, me wishing that like my companions I had taken the opportunity to get some sleep in the afternoon instead of gallivanting about with those who would betray me. This is where Felix showed even more worth, as he rode extra miles between us, trying to keep us awake and watchful of our surroundings, calling for breaks, or having us dismount to walk for a time. And it was because of his efforts that those at the front of our train heard approaching hoofs, giving us time to stop and build a barrier of our wagons, everybody behind waiting to see if those who approached were the ones we hoped for or if they were the ones we feared.

The brightness of the torches, that each man in their party carried, brought relief upon their arrival, Sergeant Hussel being recognizable even before he stopped to shout greetings to us. “Caling’s shiny balls, it looks like you need our help after all. And here we were all looking forward to having a few words with that dickhead Felix for making us go on an ass-busting, night ride. Can we come forward?”

“Please do.” I shouted.

Dismounting beside a waiting Felix and I, he demanded of the Senior-Guard, “So what in the name of Furigal's three-pronged prick happened? Sammel came riding pell-mell into the post early this evening shouting as if the Dark One and his horde rode with the Roamers.”

Happily I let Felix explain, although this did not last long as the Sergeant dragged me into the conversation after cursing the two of us long and hard for our lack of communication. At the end of our joint explanation, he thought about his options for a moment before saying. “My gut tells me we have to go after them, no telling what other mischief they will get into.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea.” I said, and not just because of my promise offered to Marni.

“Quiet you, I don’t need one of Asolde’s tarts telling me how to do my job.”

I was tired and that pissed me off. “No you listen here Sergeant. Despite some mistakes, we were able to extract our entire train, with no injuries from a hostile situation in which we were drastically outnumbered. All that can be done by your rushing off to hump at Aredente’s leg is needless deaths. Don’t you think they will be waiting for you, each armed with bow and sharp arrows, hoping to avenge their embarrassment at our escape. The only thing that held them back was their fear of Sandrelessa, who has now gotten bored and left. So unless Master Elladoo gave you explicit orders to relieve me of command of this train, then you and your men will join the escort and get it home.”

“Have you truly weighed the options on Turin’s rusty scales Girly?”

“Yes, I have. The Roamers have backed themselves into a corner. Better to sic the Militia on them, it’s their job to deal with law and order on the Peninsula. It’s ours to protect our goods and bring them safely back to the post.”

Staring at me for a moment the Sergeant broke out into a grin, and said, “I agree completely Girly. I’d sooner stick my pecker in a wasp’s nest than challenge a band of Roamers that have had their honour injured.”

“Then why?”

“Blame it on your position, we are all to test an apprentice when appropriate. I wanted to see if you put your honour before duty. And by the bloodied eye of Jiringel, you more than passed, you were down right ferocious. I particularly enjoyed the humping at Aredente’s leg line, you don’t mind if I use it, do you?”

All of it, this final test, my exhaustion, what we experienced in the camp, our escape, and the knowledge that the ordeal was all but over crashed down upon me. It was all I could do to stop myself from breaking out in tears, both of frustration and relief. Jimi, my protector, seeing the look on my face, jumped to my defense. “Damn it Sergeant that was an assholish thing to do. It has been a long and trying day already, without those who are here to make it better turning it worse.”

“Calm down Jimi, its just part of her training, similar to how I will be bonking you on the head during our next sword practice to remind you not to speak out of turn. But I am sorry Miss Drake, why don’t you climb aboard one of the carts, maybe you can get some sleep while we make our way home.”

After all that I had endured that day, I did not feel like ending it being treated like some spoiled princess, I sniffled and said, “That’s okay, I can ride. Let’s mount up and head out.”

Matching actions to words I climbed wearily into my saddle, and sat waiting for the others to follow suit. On the road again, the Sergeant circled our original band with his troop of twenty. I saw no need to protest this, in fact it did not take long before my thoughts turned to wishing I had not refused his previous offer, for with worry gone it proved difficult not to nod off, finding myself time and time again startling awake as I began slipping out of my saddle. The ride became a battle of will, one barely won. Never was I so glad to see the walls of Elladoo Post.

***

It grows late. Or should I say it grows early, for when I look out my window my eyes spot the first rays of the sun creeping upwards to herald the new day, the day my wagon train leaves Glanlies. Barely have I met my commitment, to tell you of my day with the Roamers. Yet the end result leaves a number of questions, some of which are yet to be answered even to me, others which may only be answered if I continue to wed stylus to paper, but some have answers I can share now. And since I am at the point that the little sleep available would leave me in worse shape than just getting on with the new day, I will try to answer them.

After all, I have somewhat outgrown the need to prove myself. Happily will I climb aboard wagon seat to steal sleep this afternoon, when tiredness has me slipping from my saddle. But let us hurry to the answers, before time runs out even for them.

The first is to say what happened to the band of Roamers, with whom we had our run in. The simple answer is, I don’t know. Master Elladoo agreed with me, being only too willing to put the matter in the hands of the North Fort Militia. They in turn did not rush forth seeking justice, allowing regular patrols to discover that they seemed to have disappeared, doubtless to roam in new and safer territory. Instead, they were replaced by a new band of Roamers, ones with an absence of magic users and against whom we did not hold the actions of the brethren, for they brought skills that made life in the North more enjoyable to live. Never again did I meet Marni, Kailie, Filice, or any of the others.

But the two girls, more than the grandmother, continued to have an impact upon how I saw myself. They had unlocked something that I need not hide away. No longer did I begrudge putting away breeches and shirts, before changing into the skirts or dresses worn about the post. Nor were the holes in my ears always filled with simple steel hoops or hair twisted in a simple braid. I began allowing myself to accept some of the simple pleasures of being a girl.

Secondly there is Eck, who made himself right at home. Marni being correct in her statements that he would do whatever he wanted, he followed me about but rarely my orders. Still, based upon the number of wolf-houndish looking pups found on the post as time passed, he doubtless enjoyed himself.

The third question is also quickly answered, as it deals with my attempt to convince the master to let me manage the dispersal of the herbs and such brought back from our trip. He answered a firm no, it being a task always trusted to a rather prickly family member. However, the master did set it up so that I could accompany and learn from the man, who seemed to only accept my presence in order to stare at the cleavage produced by the bodices of my Glanlies’ styled dresses. Despite this, I learned much from the lech.

Lastly, you likely wonder if I ever paid Sandrelessa back. Well I thought nothing of it for three entire days and then that night, caught up on my rest, I found it hard to sleep, memories of our last discussion playing in my head. Finally giving up I crept forth from my room, in nightgown with candle in hand, down the stairs and outside. Met by an apparently waiting Eck, we stole into the bin that Master Elladoo used as his magic workshop, there I lit the wall sconces and placed the candle on the table. Then nervous about my plan, recognizing that if not forbidden few would think it wise, I moved into the rhombus, reasoning its protective magic would make it the best place to be if things went wrong. But I was committed to this action.

So I began to perform the steps taught to me around the pool by the Roamer girls. And though more gracefully done than that afternoon, my worry was that without music it would not be enough.

I was wrong. It was. In an eye-blink Eck and I weren’t alone anymore, the windowless workshop growing suddenly bright.

Sandrelessa said nothing, though I sensed her amusement with our location. Instead she flowed into me, taking over arms and legs, hands and feet. But she did not spring into the Dance of Blades, instead she caused a much gentler tune to enter my mind. To this we began to sway, our feet moving not at all, slowly more and more of our body joined, taking on slow, yet exaggerated, movement. And, when finally our feet took us from that spot, it was not with speed and power, but with grace and softness. It was as if we floated, our night-gown billowing outwards as we leapt and spun. Gently, gently like the music. Opposite to what we danced in the Roamer`s camp, but just as wonderful. I wanted more.

But when the dance slowed to a conclusion, she went away just as quickly as she came. Offering the promise of more, but only if I asked.

Adventures of a Merchant

Author:

Arcie Emm

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Presenting the tales of Drake of Glanlies. Tales of sorcery, adventure and daring-do as told in Drake's very own words.

Adventures of a Merchant: A Start

Adventures of a Merchant: A Pause in Corels
Sometimes a guy just needs his Mom, even when scared to face her. But if she is worthy of the name Mom, then she is worthy of knowing the truth. After his prior adventures both are true of Drake and luckily the last is true of his mother.

Adventures of a Merchant: Choices
What happens when Drake first arrives in the City of Glanlies? Will Sandrelessa be banished once and for all? What will Drake wear and how will his hair be styled?

Adventures of a Merchant: Dancing with a Demon
Returned to the North, still conjoined with Sandrelessa, it is time for Drake to resume his interrupted studies. After a summer of learning more about what he had always dreamed of becoming, it was almost possible to forget what he had become.

If only everybody else were so able to segment him into his various selfs.

Bravery of the Nameless

Author:

Arcie Emm

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Mature Subjects (pg15)

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Teenage or High School

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CAUTION

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Eric Niklisel was the pride and joy of his parents, so much so that his older sister was treated almost as an afterthought. But when he shrunk away from his duty to defend his people from the invading forces of Prince Jandl, she saw an opportunity to steal away with his honour and glory.

Bravery of the Nameless
by Arcie Emm

At the fence-line she stopped, staring at her home, and wondering if it was safe to return to the unhappy house. Were her parents still yelling at each other or had winter settled between the two? Would her return draw their glacial stares?

Probably.

And it was so unfair, she was not to blame. She was never to blame, just the easiest. As a female, despite being oldest, she was always judged, maybe not as worthless, but definitely as worth less than her brother. Eric the fair-haired angel to her mother, hope to her father, and sniveling, little weasel to her. Eric, who was so good at playing her mother against her father and vice versa, who always got his way despite the damage it did to everyone else, in particular her.

Or he had, until today. Today he had thrown mud upon their father’s hopes, who, as always, reacted with passion rather than thought. Despite the defense of their mother, Eric was lashed by their father’s tongue in a way he had never experienced. The man had even gone so far as to call his son a coward.

That was when she made her mistake. She smiled, a smile noticed by all, a smile that drew their wrath to her, causing her to beat a hasty retreat to the meadows around the house, while the more weightier matter of Eric was resolved. By now it must have been.

It was her turn. She dreaded returning, but with night coming she no longer had a choice. So she forced one foot to cross the boundary onto the carefully manicured lawn, then another, and another, until there was no need to force herself forward. Almost her pace grew normal before she slipped through the front door and into the silent, manor house. Yet it was not the frosty silence she had expected, it felt different, seemingly created more from emptiness than purpose. Confused, she forgot her planned stealth and called out. “Hello, I’m home.”

No answer. She moved deeper into the house, her previous worries being replaced by ones much worse. Though they lessened when she heard hurried steps coming towards her, soon bringing Heloise, the maid, into view. “You’ve returned then Miss?”

“Yes I have Heloise. Where are my parents?”

“They’re gone Miss.”

“Gone?”

“Aye Miss, young Master Eric took ill and it was necessary to take him to Verende. They left you a note in the dining room.”

Unmindful of the rudeness, she brushed past Heloise, anger blossoming once more at the realization that her brother had once more manipulated the situation in his favour. In the dining room she found a letter, scrawled in her mother’s hand. Ignoring most of the dire pronunciations about poor Eric’s health, she focused on the last paragraph where it explained that they were off to see Dr. Hoight in Verende and would be staying at her grandparent’s, her mother’s parents, house until Eric was better.

Infuriated that nobody had come looking for her, knowing how much she enjoyed visiting her grandparents, she ripped the note into tiny pieces, scattering them upon the table. Sitting in a chair, breathing heavily and staring at the paper sprinkled on the table, her eyes were drawn to a sheet of creamy parchment, still folded over despite its rich, red seal having been broken. It had been this letter that had led to the morning’s arguments and rage. Having been present at its start, during breakfast, she had an idea what was in the letter, but suddenly alone and with it sitting there in her sight, curiosity made her reach forth to take it in her hand. Fingering the letter, she studied the embossed boar that made up the seal, sundered in half by the slit her father had made in opening it, and despite her anger at him, felt a moment of pride that the great March of the Fenlands would send him a letter. Opening it, she read:

Greeting Captain Niklisel,

     My father often spoke of your bravery and steadfastness while you served under his banner
     as he brought the Fenlands into the Empire. Thus I am honoured to learn that your son wishes
     to serve under me as I defend it from the cattle’s rebellion, stirred up by their so-called
     Countess, the whore Esmeralda, and the scum who fight under her rutting partner, Jandl of Melindon.

     However, I will not delay glory for him. So he should join me at my camp on the Plains of Disktra
     as soon as possible.

Faithfully,
Victor, March of the Fenlands.

Momentarily bemused that she had been left alone, surrounded only by the servants, whose people the letter referenced as cattle, her thoughts turned to the opportunity from which the cowardly weasel was shrinking away. Not only would it give him a chance to be recognized by a great man like the March, but it was also his duty to help the Empire hold, even expand, its territory during his life, just as had their father had done. But Eric had never been interested in those lessons from their father, unlike her. Providing her one way to monopolize her father’s time, listening to his story, asking him questions, being taught how to shoot and ride, even some fencing. No longer though, her encroaching womanhood had brought it to an end, confining her to her dresses and her mother’s silly lessons on how to snare a husband.

She found that throughout the rest of the evening that whenever she began to feel sorry for herself, at her abandonment, she would re-read the March’s letter. It seemed to rekindle her anger and wiped away her self-pity.

It was not until she was abed, alone on the upper floor reserved for her family, that both emotions were replaced by curiosity. Unable to stem it, she found herself rising and with candle in hand found herself creeping into her brother’s larger room. Not until she opened his third armoire did she find what she was looking for, his uniform. The letter had not caught Eric by surprise, their father, sure that his petition would be granted, had caused a uniform of the March’s regiments to be tailored. Apparently the earlier arrival of the uniform had given Eric ample time to prepare for this day. And now he would have no need to wear it, he was “sick”.

Taking off her nightgown, she removed the uniform from the closet, and put it on. It proved a decent fit, she and Eric being similar in size. Only in the hips and bottom was there any tightness, though not in the chest, for as her mother was quick to remind, she had not been blessed in that particular area. She even placed the shako upon her head before looking into a candle-lit mirror. She saw that her appearance was little different from Eric`s, seeing as how he was not the most masculine, nor she the most feminine.

She could almost believe that she could take his place. A thought that made her snort in laughter, though she doubted not that she would prove a better ensign than her brother. With that laughter the spell was broken, she shucked the uniform, returned it to its place, and returned herself to her bed.

But the next day those thoughts returned. Left alone by the servants and unburdened by her mother’s lessons, her idle mind proved fertile for thoughts of fancy. And the most fanciful of these was the idea of taking her brother’s place on the Plains of Disktra. She dreamed of the excitement it would add to her life, the honour she could bring to her family’s name, the worry it would cause her parents, and, most deliciously, the embarrassment that would be felt her brother. He would never live down the fact that she, a girl, took his place on the field of honour, while he shirked his duties playing sick.

Time and again common sense pulled her thoughts in another direction, only to allow them to drift back when it let down its guard. Unfettered by a calming outside influence, her fancies soon outgrew the control of common sense. Unsure at what point dream became desire, she found her thoughts turning to how to get to the March’s camp. Reason, subverted by those desires, began to plan.

Thus she found herself pleading weariness almost immediately after supper and made her way to her bed. There despite her excitement, her body took over and made her fall to sleep, as if preparing for what was to come. Yet it proved a willing accomplice when she awoke well before sunrise to a sleeping house. Instantaneously alert she rolled from her bed, removed her nightgown, and repeated the steps from the prior night, which took her to her brother’s room.

This time she was even quicker getting dressed, though she put on a second pair of socks to make Eric’s slightly large, riding boots fit more comfortably, though for now she left them off, worried the sound of their soles would wake someone. This time she even hung Eric`s hangar and flintlock pistol from the belt around her waist. Then scooping up the shako, boots and saddle-bags, which the prior night`s exploration had found to be already packed, probably by her father`s valet, she snuck down the stairs into the kitchen to fill left-over space in the bags with food and a full water skin. Having everything she needed, she let herself out the backdoor, pulled on the boots, and trotted towards the stables.

Her plan lead her to Hunter`s corral, Eric`s gelding, left behind while her family traveled to Verende by carriage. Her choice of Hunter was based upon a number of reasons. Most important was the fact that Hunter had the pace to get her to the plains in a day`s travel, unlike her mare Winny. Almost as important was her belief that the servants, knowing when she had gone to bed and the tumultuous relationship she had with her brother, would assume that she had arisen before anybody and seized the opportunity to take Eric`s prized mount for a ride. She hoped this would lead nobody to think anything of her absence until the evening, which would provide her more than an adequate head start, particularly if the only thing they did was to send a missive to her parents. In ways the servants would be correct, the final reason for her taking Hunter was because it would even further upset Eric.

Awkward with the sword and pistol at her waist, it was a struggle to saddle the large horse, restless from inactivity and being awoken so early, yet she finally succeeded. Taking Hunter by the bridle and talking to him in a soothing voice, she led him from the stable and across the yard towards the lane leading from her families manor to the main road. Reaching the lane, she finally mounted and made good her escape.

Used to riding, she quickly settled into a comfortable seat as Hunter began to eat up the miles. It was not until she crossed Muddy Creek that she dismounted, to give him a break, and to break her fast. She also took this opportunity to implement the final part of her disguise. Taking a sharp knife, useful for all sorts of things, from the saddle bag, she wrapped a hand around her long hair and sawed it off high up on her back. Then taking a string, she tied it in a short pony-tail at the nape of her neck, much like her father wore his hair.

Once more she found herself on the road, much of the time alone. Only as she came closer to the Plains of Disktra did traffic begin to increase as supply carts rolled to and from the March’s camp and troops of militia or regular marched to join the great army already established. Here she began to worry about her disguise, responding only with simple greetings when addressed, but with everybody busy about their tasks they paid little attention to her. Not until she reached the camp and was confronted by the sergeant-of-the-guard, at its main entrance, did her disguise truly come under scrutiny. However, he too barely looked, taking her for one of the many upper-class boys drawn to the army in the quest for glory.

It was an opinion shared by all whom she stopped, to gain additional directions, on her way to the March’s tent. Which proved to be a huge pavilion, around which a number of men waited to see the commander. Probably because she still led Hunter and held the letter received by her father from the March a harried aide took her for a messenger, had a guard take Hunter’s reins, and guided her inside where an older man, wearing a uniform with slightly different markings than her own, was talking to one of the men behind a table.

There were two of them sitting there, alike as only two of the same blood can be. She immediately knew them to be Victor and Wolter Danaan, the March of the Fenlands and his younger brother. She ignored what was being said, instead she studied the two brothers, handsome as was to be expected of anyone of their breeding and much moreso than any of the paintings that she had seen implied.

She found herself focusing on the younger of the two, who also ignored the conversation as he scribbled away on a piece of paper. Unlike his brother, who seemed to feel the weight of his responsibilities, the younger had a joy about him that made her wish she could see what he wrote. He was devilishly attractive and so intent was her study of the younger man, she barely noticed the older officer passing her on his hurried way from the pavilion. It taking a cough from the March to draw her embarrassed attention towards him.

“You have something for me?”

Blushing, she was caught in a quandary, unsure whether to curtsey, bow, or salute. Immediately discarding the first option, unsure of how to perform the last, she settled upon the middle before scurrying forward to set the letter before him, mumbling, “You sent this to my Father.”

“Ahh yes, I take it you would be Eric Niklisel?”

“Yes Milord.”

“Ahh, you appear younger than I would have guessed. Still now that you are here, I can make use of you.”

“My pleasure Milord.”

“Yes. Franzen, come here.”

The aide who had delivered her into the tent, marched forward with a immaculate bow and asked, “Milord?”

“See that someone delivers young Mr. Niklisel to Colonel Williams of my grenadiers, he is to replace Mr. Faulk.”

“Yes Milord. Come with me boy.”

Seeing the March turn towards his brother, she took another quick look in that direction, before turning to trot behind the aide. Quickly turned over to a corporal of the guard, she did not hear the discussion behind her.

“Victor, who was that pretty young man?”

“The son of one of Father’s officers, who fought under him during the conquest of the Fenlands. The old man had sent me a letter requesting a position for his son, perfectly timed to help me out of a bit of a bind.”

“A bind? Pray tell.” Wolter asked.

“Well just before his letter, I had received one from Lady Marissa requesting that I transfer her cousin Ensign Tasmund out of the grenadiers to my staff.”

“You mean that pear shaped oaf?”

“Aye, though you must admit that Lady Marissa took more than her fair share of her family’s beauty.” Victor sighed.

“Yes, even I can admit that. Though I would rather have that pretty boy, with the delectable bottom, running about headquarters, than pear-boy waddling about.”

“Well after we thrash the scum Jandl, I will see about transferring him to your staff. Though I do believe you will not find him the difficult conquest you enjoy.”

“I won`t?”

“Yes, he could not take his eyes off of you.”

“Well, well. Does that not lead a fellow’s mind down some merry pathways.”

Meanwhile the object of Wolter’s thoughts was leading Hunter along behind the corporal to whom she had been handed off. Preoccupied, by her meeting with the brothers, she asked him nothing as they crossed the bulk of the camp, stopping before a much plainer tent around which a number of large men sat talking. One of them, with great mutton chops, looked questioningly in their direction.

Suddenly second guessing her adventure, amongst these hard men, she allowed the corporal to answer. However, after a hurried explanation he hurried away, leaving her the focus of the man’s baleful gaze.

“How old are you boy? Twelve?”

Forgetting she was disguised as her brother, who was indeed twelve, she blurted, “No sir, I am fourteen.”

“You are? You hardly look old enough to be out of your nappies. What’s your name?”

This time she remember who she was to be and answered, “Eric Niklisel.”

“Eric Niklisel, eh? I served under a Captain Eric Niklisel when I was a Lieutenant. Any relation?”

“Yes sir, my father.”

“Then you may not be completely useless. Did he teach you any of his skills?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well then. Hey Billy, who has a billet free for an ensign?”

One of the other men looked up from pouring a cup of coffee and laughingly said, “Second Company, Colonel.”

Another of the men, hearing this, roared, “No God damned way. I had to put up with that fat fellow. You’re not sticking me with another beardless wonder.”

“Calm down Eldrik, it`s someone else`s turn. Billy who else?”

“Fifth company.”

“Ramsy, what of it?”

“Sure thing Colonel, it only seems right since my own first ensign position was under with Captain Niklisel.”

“Excellent, young Eric, this is Ramsy Fellows, your new captain.”

Rising to his feet, she saw that, like the colonel, Captain Fellows was a tall man, something she soon learned to be a common trait amongst the March’s grenadiers, officer and soldier alike. Looking down at her, he said, “Come along then lad, I might as well get you settled in. That your horse?”

“Yes sir.”

“Nice lines. But you won’t get much of an opportunity to ride about camp. He will be pastured with the other officer’s horses.”

Nervous about losing touch of this link to home, possibly even her escape, she could not but agree and hand Hunter over to a soldier Captain Fellows summoned to lead away the horse. Then, with saddlebags over her shoulder, she trotted along behind the captain who wandered about looking for a Lieutenant Kelly, the commander of the 3rd platoon of his company. When they finally tracked him down, she found him to be young, fair-haired man, probably not out of his teens. But a pleasant sort, as he took her about introducing her to men of their platoon, most of whose names she quickly forgot.

“You don’t snore do you?”

Confused by this random question, she answered, “Not that I am aware of.”

“Excellent, you will be sharing my tent and I think this one night I could benefit from a good sleep.”

“Why is that Lieutenant?”

“Rumour has it that the March is going to bring Prince Genital to battle tomorrow, before his second corps joins up with him.”

Suddenly feeling incredibly nervous, she incredulously asked, “Tomorrow? So soon?”

“I suppose it is for you, but most of us have been here for weeks. We are looking forward to sending the dirty bastards home with their tales between their legs.”

“You’re confident in our victory?”

“Definitely, we outnumber them and from everything I have seen, they are common rabble.”

Since this discussion occurred while standing at the edge of camp, looking at their enemy’s smaller, disorganized camp, she believed him. It allowed her to turn her attention to something of greater immediate importance and ask, “Excuse me lieutenant, where may I find the privy?”

Snorting in laughter, he said, “Privy? I wish. No most of us use the trenches to the North, just follow your nose and you can’t miss it. Nah, forget that, I could use a visit myself, follow me.”

Suddenly very nervous, she followed the man in stunned silence, sure her ruse was about to be discovered. The stench of their destination hit her before she had a plan and she stared in dismay at a long row of public seats. Seeing that few were in use and deciding hesitation was her enemy, she scooped up a handful of leaves, from an available pile, and moved to a seat well away from anybody else, sighing with relief when Lieutenant Kelly also found his own space. Still she was quick about her business, crouching before barely pulling her trousers down only far enough. Finished and undiscovered, the scare left her with frayed nerves. So she found herself following the lieutenant about, rather numbly, until he discovered that she had been on the road since before dawn and sent her off to their tent to sleep. There, despite a sudden lightning of understanding at how incredibly stupid her fancy was proving to be, she fell asleep, unwashed and still dressed in Eric’s uniform.

Deep sleep that was harshly broken by the rattling of drums and the blaring of horns. Jerking upright, from her slumber upon the hard and uncomfortable ground, she glanced about in alarm, expecting to see a group of Esmeralda and Jandl`s troops come bursting into their tent. Noticing her confusion, Lieutenant Kelly said, “No worries Eric, just time to get up for breakfast.”

Somewhat calmed, she joined him and the rest of the company’s officers around a fire built up by their servants, enjoying a rough breakfast and basins of water for washing or shaving. Saying little, she observed excitement amongst the men as they speculated about the early breakfast. They talked quietly, almost as if they waited for something.

And then...

The drums and the horns started up once more. The men about the fire tossed their cups to the ground, rushing into tents to grab weapons and shakos, before scattering towards the tents of their platoons. Unsure of what to do, she trailed Kelly, saving her breath for keeping rather than asking questions. Arriving amongst their platoon they found that the sergeants had them already formed up and waiting for their arrival before moving out to join up with the rest of the company and regiment on the outskirts of the camp. Here there was a pause in the bustle, allowing her to ask what was happening.

“Were forming up for battle.”

“We are?”

“Yep. Apparently the March is going to force Prince Genital’s hands. Though likely the coward will skedaddle away, quicker than a lizard, when offered battle.”

“Hopefully.”

“Gah Eric, then we would have to chase him. Much better to whoop his ass now and then we can head home.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. So where are we going?”

Grinning, Kelly answered, “The grenadiers always have honour of place, we’re in the center.”

“Umm, what am I supposed to do.”

“Just stick by me for now. When we get in place, you will be at the left of the platoon while I am at the right. It’s our job to pass on commands from the Captain. Oh yeah, we are also to hold the lads steady and then lead them in the charge. Think you can handle that.”

Looking at the lads, each larger and older than her, she nodded her head and said, “Umm...yeah?”

“Good man. Good man. Hey ho, there’s the Colonel. No time for more talk, it’s off to the races we go.”

For them it was a short march to their place of pride and after forming up she found herself beside the taciturn lieutenant of 4th platoon, joining him in staring intently at their opponents camp. It too was bustling with action, Prince Jandl’s troops, hardly wearing any semblance of a uniform, forming up into their own lines. With a quickening of her heart and a sickening of her stomach she realized that the enemy was not going to run away. There would be battle.

What was she doing here? Why had she let her mind play tricks upon her, playing up the glory and the honour, while ignoring reality. Reality that consisted of being surround by large men, all desperately in need of a bath, waiting to kill or be killed by others. She silently cursed herself for an idiot.

But she was committed. She could not run, that would be the ultimate failure of her stupidity.

Instead, with shaking hands, she began to load her pistol. The finicky work serving to calm her, allowing her to focus on the task at hand rather than the men lining up on either side of the plains, preparing to do battle. Finished that task her hands once more began to shake and fearing accidentally firing the pistol, she returned it to the hook on her belt. And then she waited, fighting dark thoughts, trying to stop herself from breaking into prayer, as did some of those in the ranks to her sides.

“Skirmishers.”

Surprised to hear the 4th platoon lieutenant speak, she turned to him questioningly. Seeing her inquiry, he jutted his chin in the direction of the enemy. Turning to look, she saw a number of men break free of their lines, running forward in groups of two, stopping well short of musket range, kneeling down, and firing. Curiously she wondered what they hoped to hit. Then she heard shouts of pain amongst the March`s lines.

“Fuckin’ rifles.”

The lieutenant’s curse answered her question. Rifles could shoot further and more accurately than muskets, but they were more expensive, slow to load, and had not been needed during the last expansion of the Empire. Besides the skirmishers were few, no more than a mosquito to the body of their army.

Yet again and again the mosquito stung, as the March’s army continued to form its line. Causing men to shuffle nervously and her to begin to hate. Unbeknownst to her, she had pulled forth her hangar and was tapping it her hand, almost chanting along with the lieutenant beside her, “Steady! Steady all, it will soon be our turn. Steady.

“Steady lads...”

Across the field, amongst the skirmishers of Prince Jandl’s troops, Third Eye Malginisk having fired another of the shots that gave him his name began reloading his rifle, saying, “Got him.”

“Ahh Third Eye, he was just a kid.”

“Still a bastard officer Turkey. Rich fucker likely never missed a meal in his life, unlike us. He deserves some hardship, besides the little bugger looked like he knew what he was doing. Keeping the pansies in their fancy-ass outfits steady.”

“Yeah I guess.” Turkey agreed.

“And what the fuck are you complainin’ about. You was the one who shot that drummer boy in Donnigal.”

“Nah, the little fart was already dead when I took his drum. Man I miss that drum, why the fuck did that dickhead Eston go and break it?”

“Hold a second, rich fucker on a horse. To our left.” Kneeling once more, he took a shot over the head of the a line of troops at his target. Turkey not being as accurate, settled for once more shooting into the mass. “Mark where he fell Turkey, might have some good loot if nobody gets to him first. And Eston broke the drum cause you fuckin`sucked at playing it. If he hadn’t done it, someone else would have done it.”

“Marked. Damnit Third Eye, I was getting better, Humper would sit there and listen to me all day.”

“Fuck Turkey, you’re the only one to give that damned mutt any scraps. Course its going follow you around.”

“Still, it wasn’t right. Man there sure are some big fuckers over there.”

“Yeah, but they`re not the fire-eaters who took the Fenlands back in the days. All these soft fucks have ever done is beat their peons.”

“You think they’ll run Third Eye.”

“They’ll run.”

“That’s a nice looking camp they have, bet it has some nice stuff.”

“Likely, but Turkey don’t weigh yourself down with crap this time. What the fuck were you going to do with that big-assed mirror?”

“Fuck that was only one time Third Eye. Don’t keep harping on it. Think there’ll be any women?”

“Doubtful, the pansies are likely happy with each other. Hold.”

“Shit, that sucks.

Crack! Crack!

The sound of whistles caused the two men to turn around, seeing their lieutenant blowing his whistle and waving the skirmishers backwards. Each, who was still loaded, took one more shot before turning and trotting back to join the two lines of their comrades that had begun to move forward. It was time to quit dicking round. Hey-diddle-diddle, straight up the middle.

The End

Afterward

A few weeks back there was a blog wondering why so few female to male stories were posted. I wrote a response musing that my type of stories likely could fit such a transition quite easily; however, when I pressed submit the blog was gone. Still it perked my curiosity about writing such a story.

Percolating the concept led me to the idea of defending against invaders. Initially my thinking dwelt around a siege, but there are a number of true life stories of women, acting as women, being heroines in their city’s defense. Therefore, I moved to the idea of the musket line and when that happened, there was only one possible ending I could foresee. Sadly a bad one for our heroine.

However, I wondered if I was being being unfair to this character. I decided not, since like Star Trek, my stories are not always kind to the red-tunic ensigns that are part of the away crew. And this is the role that the heroine of this story found herself in.

The next question that occurred is whether I am being unfair to anyone who reads this story. To this I do not have as pat an answer. But I thought it very well might be the case, so I tried to mitigate attachment to the character by; not giving her a name, attempting to keep a distance in my language even while keeping her as the central figure, giving other smaller characters more personality traits, and by keeping the story rather short (though it ended up longer than my initial guess).

Still even with that, I would not be surprised if people do not like the ending And to them I apologize.

Arcie Emm

Champion Butterfly

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Contests:

Stardust "What It Was, Was Magic" Contest

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

An entry in StardustR.us' "What it was, was Magic!" - story contest.

A people at risk, barbarians at the gate, how many times have I heard that story? How many times has it been my duty to stop it from it from happening? But then would I want it any other way?

So when I was called before milady I was not surprised to hear it one more time. However, when I realized how different my task would be from normal, I worried that my skills were not those needed. They weren't, but...

Champion Butterfly
by Arcie Emm

It is often said that wisdom belongs to the aged and though, in their youth, someone may appear wiser than his age, I was not one of them. So as I lay dying, crushed beneath my dead destrier, on the field of battle I made a decision that many would consider unwise. Instead of accepting fate and joining those in the Cauldron of Souls, waiting for my chance to return to the land of the living, I allowed myself to be swayed by Lady Illuni to be her knight in death, just as I had in life. As always, it was a decision made with my heart, not with my head.

Illuni probably knew this when she came in those final moments to offer me the choice. Just as she had known when she had first came while I knelt praying to the gods in the Cathedral of Dalemiond, beseeching them to allow me bring honour to my family and people after I donned the silver spurs of a knight. The boy, then the dying young man, could do nothing other then accept her offers.

Not that I can guarantee that the man I have become would make a different choice. Though having lived many lives, on many worlds, there still remains much of that boy within me. And he is still as apt to act with his heart as he is with his head.

But not in those first moments of awaking from that dream less sleep where I was kept while waiting to once more serve my Goddess. For when my senses return, all of my memories rushed in to fill the emptiness, overwhelming me with the sights and sounds of friends and loved ones. Temporarily adrift in joy, until the realization hit that I would never see any of them again, causing my heart to ache with this loss. Always my mind takes this opportunity to second guess that second decision, telling me that I had brought this pain upon myself.

Such is one how you first find me, sitting on the side of my bed, head resting in hands, as I weathered the storm of memories. As the worst of it passed, I raised my head and looked around the room, seeing mementos and reminders of my lives and those who made them full. Slowly my heart began to regain its dominance, arguing my fortune in having such richness in my past.

Making use of the water, food and clothes that had been laid out for me, by the minions of milady’s home, before setting forth to find out why I had been awoken. Even with the ever changing halls, I had no difficulty finding my way to the chamber in which Illuni was to be found.

She was, as always, beautiful.

That may seem an insufficient description for a Goddess of Love, but if you are ever to be in her presence you would understand how perfectly it describes her. To her peoples, her essence is that of beauty, perfect to each and to all. So, to call her beautiful is not to diminish her, instead it gives the word its ultimate meaning. It overwhelms and barely noticing her companion, I bowed low in greeting.

“Welcome my Champion. I have missed you.”

Her words were like a caress, so in order to distract myself I turned to the second figure. The offering him a bow, almost as low as to Illuni, I murmured, “Greetings Lord Wagnel.”

Unlike the Goddess, you could not look at him and immediately know him as a God of War. No black plate-mailed, axe-bearing, hulking figure was he, with eyes of red glaring from behind visor. Instead Wagnel appeared to be little more than a clerk, maybe a scholar, so easy to underestimate for the loud-mouth buffoons who were his colleagues. Not for him was it all about the cut and thrust of battle, he focussed on things like tactics and logistics. Instead of being a warrior god, he was a god of generals. Strangely, he also happened to be milady’s closest confidante.

Greetings complete, I was gestured towards a chair while Illuni explained the problem I was to solve. “Pasqel, over the last while a mischief deity, by the name of Yetel, has been gathering followers in the hopes of taking the step to true Godhood. Of course he has done so by appealing to the base nature of his followers, by leading them on raids of rape and pillage against pocket worlds. Sadly he has been successful, which has led to more and more followers flocking to his banner.”

Unlike most worlds that held followers of many deities, a pocket world was the soul domain of a single God or Goddess. This made them to be rather one-dimensional, reflecting the will and beliefs of whoever held domain. Therefore, those whose deity was passive by nature tended to be sitting ducks for the followers of a deity ambitious or ruthless enough to attack. Such would be the case for any pocket world that worshipped Illuni.

“Is one of your worlds threatened Milady?”

“So Lord Wagnel has led me to believe.”

“Aye Sir Pasqel.” The God of War interjected. “Yetel was overheard, by one who owes me favours, planning a raid on Illuni’s world of Delesion. However, my belief is that Yetel meant to be overheard.”

“So you believe it to be misdirection Lord Wagnel?”

“It is possible; however, I think that Delesion is still his target.”

“Excuse me Milord, but that does not make sense.”

“It does if you understand mischief deities. Though ambitious, they tend to be fickle and are easily bored, which is why it is rare for one to rise to Godhood. My guess is that Yetel tires either of the work needed to lead his followers or of his barbaric followers themselves. Thus he may very well be ready to end his current project and if that is his plan, he will seek to gain some benefit from the work he has already done. My guess he is after the prestige of having me defeat his forces. He can then pretend that I saw him as a threat, which he can use to convince some of our more naive colleagues about how close he was to success.

“However, this ruse will be less effective if he attacks me directly. No, for him it would be better if I was the attacker, which is why Delesion is a good target. Being aware of my closeness to Lady Illuni, he would guess that I will come to her aid. And he would be right, I just want to make it unnecessary.”

“Which is where I come in?” I asked.

“Exactly, I would prefer that Illuni’s champion rallied her people to defend their own world, rather than having me and mine do it.”

“But the people of Delesion could not defend themselves from the thorn of a rose.” I protested, before looking in embarrassment towards my Goddess, realizing what I had implied about her chosen people. Nervously, I saw storm clouds begin to form in her eyes, clouds that grew dark when Wagnel laughed.

“So you have been to Delesion, have you Pasqel?”

I had. One time, instead of going to sleep after a mission, milady sent me to Delesion. At first it had seemed a paradise with perfect weather, beautiful woman and nothing to do but play. Still it was not long before the idyllic world began to close in on me, as it seemed life there was without purpose, something not for me. Thus I had never asked to return, and though Illuni had likely guessed my disdain for the place, it was another thing entirely to state it aloud. Therefore, I sought to dig myself out of the hole my words had tipped me into. “Once Lord Wagnel. I found the people to be focussed on matters of greater importance than the trade to which I have devoted myself.”

“Which means, that they are as helpless as a babe in the woods.” Lord Wagnel snorted, showing he either had not noticed Illuni’s reaction or did not care.

“It is not their fault, they live the way I want them to live. If anyone is to blame, it is me.” The Goddess stated, giving both of us a warning look.

“Umm, yes I understand that my dear, but it does make Pasqel’s task a bit more difficult. “

And it would. Unless things had changed, which I knew they had not, the closest that Delesion had to fighting men were those who played at being personal guards, whose duties split between standing around looking pretty or serving as willing partners in the bedroom hijinks of their ladies. Definitely not my choice to combat an army of the size of... “Excuse me Lord Wagnel, but how large of army does this Yetel command?”

“To call it a army is to give it over much credit. It truly is a rag tag bunch of criminals with poor arms and armour, though I will admit that their last raid counted over ten thousand men. Since it continues to grow, I do not think it would be wrong to plan for fifteen thousand.”

Whistling softly, I turned to my Goddess to ask, “Milady, what is the population of Delesion?”

“There are eight thousand three hundred and sixty three people, half of whom are women.”

It was a lower number than I had hoped, though I had known it was a transient world. Its inhabitants being pleasure seekers, on seemingly endless holiday as a reward for doing Illuni’s will on other planets. In the end, people either left from boredom, to continue to serve Illuni, or most often to go to a world where they could have children, since Delesion was a world without. However, though there were no children on the world, there were the minions. These people-shaped, magical constructs acted as servants and administrators of the world. “Milady, what of the minions?”

“Sorry my Champion, in this they cannot help. The magic that gives them being is the antithesis of violence.”

I believe I let out a large sigh as I close my eyes to think upon the task ahead. The problem seemed daunting, but I knew this conversation would not be happening if the two did not think I could solve it. If they did not have that belief, then Lord Wagnel would just smite this Yetel’s ass, opinions be damned. Most likely that option remained the backup plan if I did find the answer.

“Do we know when Yetel’s forces will strike?”

“We are not exactly sure, but after each of the previous raids he has let his followers go their separate ways to live off their ill-gotten games. It usually takes three or four Delesion months for them to burn through it all and begin praying to him for another opportunity. With their last raid being so recent, you should have ample time to prepare.”

“Aye, that should be enough time. At least it will be if I can get any of the overly-independent lotharios of Delesion to follow me.”

Illuni answered this worry, with a hint of humour in her voice, “Don’t worry my Champion, I will make sure that men of Delesion will want to follow you.”

“Thank you Milady.”

“My, what interesting taste you have.”

Before being able to ponder the meaning of this last statement, I felt the space around me shift. It told me that the interview was over, that it was time to get to work, for I knew my next moments would be on Delesion.

And when those moments came and I looked at the figure in the mirrored walls of the world’s Entry Chamber, I understood what Illuni had meant before she had sent me on my way. She understood, better than anyone, those I had termed as overly-independent lotharios. Illuni knew them for the peacocks they were, always ready to strut in competition against one another, trying to prove that none were followers. In honesty, there have been numerous times when I could count myself amongst their numbers.

The most memorable of these was long ago, not long after that second choice to serve milady, when I was champion to the Queen of Betsdule. Overly impressed with my prowess on the field of battle, I had seen no man as my equal. However, even while I was bellowing my challenges, like a bull in the pasture, I was willingly led to and fro, not by a ring through my nose, but by the lace covered hand of the Princess Amithilia.

It was easy to remember how the princess looked when last I saw her, small and yet undoubtedly a woman grown. An adorable, pixie face either staring in challenge at me with deep, blue-eyed and red-lipped mischief or coyly hiding behind a long, fall of hair whose colour matched that of the luscious, blue of indiberry. Beyond my Goddess, Amithilia was the most beautiful woman I had ever known and now she stared back at me from the mirrors. It was her, right down to the way she had been clothed, in a silver gown of silk with low cut decollete, which along with a corsetted waist ensured her charms were on display.

Still I knew it was not her. If my mind had not told me that she was long gone, like so many of those whom I had known and loved, then the tightness at my waist would have. Or my heels, like those she had worn in compensation for her height and about which I used to tease her. Or the weight of the gown, almost like a suit of armour did it feel to my weaker frame, even while seeming so delicate as it decorated rather than protected. Or...well the fact I was alone in the chamber.

“My Goddess, how could you?” I beseeched, but received no answer. Nor did I need one, Illuni had simply given me the tools she thought necessary to prod the men of Delesion in the needed direction. Whether I was equipped to properly use the tools? Let us say, I had my doubts.

Nervously deciding to begin moving towards the goal of thwarting Yetel I took my first steps, encumbered in long skirts and heeled boots. Fortunately for the condition of my gown, milady had ensured that I was able to move with a grace as different from my soldier’s stride as that of my new form to my old. Gliding towards the doorway, I hesitantly stepped through, unsure if I was ready to be seen.

Someone did wait. A minion. Faceless and sexless in a long, yellow, cowled robe, it offered me a bow and spoke, “Greetings Lady Illudine, we are gladdened by your arrival. Please follow me to your carriage, so you can be delivered to your residence.”

Hearing the name brought realization that Illuni had guaranteed that I would had been given prestige to assist in my task. To own a name so closely linked to the Illuni’s would show that she held me in great favour, meaning few would dismiss me out of hand. At the very minimum it should ensure I did not run into locked doors. Therefore, it was with some gratitude that I nodded my head to the minion and followed it outside to where I was helped into an elaborate carriage of a black sinwood and gilded fixtures. It, plus the stately home to which the carriage traveled, implied that I had not just prestige, but also rank on this world.

A world that, based upon what I saw during the ride, was ripe for the taking. Masquerading as a small city, Delesion was without walls, being open to all invaders. It was not a place I looked forward to defending.

As I was helped from the carriage by a minion waiting in front of the home, it said, “Welcome home Lady Illudine.

“Thank you...”

Hearing the unasked question in my pause, it answered, “You may call me Yui, Milady. It is my duty to run your household.”

“Well met Yui, may the Goddess’s blessing be upon you.”

“As it is upon you.”

Feeling like Yui had looked deep into my being, I uneasily replied, “Very well, then let us explore my new home.”

“Milady, before we can do that, I must inform you that a Sir Dallembert is waiting upon your pleasure in the Sitting Room. However, I can let him know you are not available, if you please?”

“No Yui, I know Sir Dallembert. Please take me to him.”

Learning that I was not on this endeavor alone was a Godsend, literally. Dallembert was my equivalent within Lord Wagnel’s house. Though our duties differed slightly, Wagnel did not require a champion for the arena, but did have a group like Dallembert who were titled as Aides. Having worked with him numerous times in the past, I knew he perfect person to assist and keep me grounded while I played politics or what passed for politics on this world. However, my enthusiasm waned as Yui gestured to a closed door and I remembered my appearance.

Used to the ways of Gods, it was doubtful he would be overly surprised by what had been done to me. I know I had seen stranger things and with his greater experience, so likely had he. My problem was that he would think that my situation was the funniest thing in the world and he would not hesitate to let me know.

Giving my head a mental shake at the things I put up with from my Goddess, I followed Yui through the door into an elegant sitting room. My eyes were drawn to the man sitting in the room where I saw, to my worst luck, Dallembert looking rather himself, offering me no ammunition to use in my own defense. A tall man with sandy-hair, who always seemed to be in the prime of life, brimming with a confidence that women always seemed to find him irresistible. Happily something that did not affect me in my new form, instead I just saw him as my friend Dally.

Upon our entry, he had politely risen and approached while Yui performed introductions. Seeing no recognition or humour in his eyes, I dared to hope that maybe he did not know it was me. Thus, like so many ladies had done to me in the past, I offered him my hand. Taking it, he bowed low over it with a murmured, “Lady Illudine.”

Acknowledging his greeting, I glided over to carefully perch upon the edge of one of the chairs, having learned on the carriage ride that my garments did not allow a comfortable lounge. Then looking up at my guest I saw him watching Yui depart, after which he turned back to me with a huge-assed grin and began to clap.

“Damn it Dally you knew all along?”

“Yep, a little birdy told me while I was waiting for your arrival.”

“One would think that your Master would have better use of his time than to spread gossip like a common shop-keep.”

“Lord Wagnel? Goodness no. He’s a terrible gossip, I think its because he is always dealing with such weighty manners, so he sees the pettiness of gossip as a welcome relief. However, he didn’t tell me that you would be so magnificent or have such an interesting blush or how much your eyes would sparkle when you are angry.”

“Quit flirting with me Dally.”

“But Milady will need to grow used to it, for she is sure to be the frequent target of that art.”

“Goddess, don’t remind me.”

“Ahh Qel, I am glad to see you’ve figured out your role in this little plan of our betters. Can’t deny it would have rather embarrassing explaining it to you.”

“What about having to live it.”

With a gesture of dismissal, Dally said, “Oh I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head about that. Illuni is a kind Goddess, she will ensure that it is not a terrible ordeal for you.”

Knowing he spoke the truth made me more afraid then ever on the field of battle. Yes, milady would ensure that I enjoyed myself, though now it seemed so wrong. Guessing there would be things about this assignment that I would not want brought up over beers in the future, I said, “Please Dally, you know that I am just doing my Goddess’s will. So don’t be mean to me.”

“Oh that was perfect Qel. I would have to be a complete cad not to obey your little-girl-lost’s plea. Don’t worry, Lord Wagnel told me to be good or he would assign me to an Amazon tribe on my next mission.”

“Then quit looking at my breasts.”

“Actually I was looking at your ears.”

“My ears?” I asked, reaching up to touch one where its point peaked out from my hair. Feeling how sensitive it was brought memories of how much pleasure Amithilia and I had given each other because of ears like these.

“Yes, their cute. I once knew a girl from a world where they had those type of ears. You wouldn’t believe how excited she would get when I nibbled upon them.”

“There will be no nibbling on my ears, thank you very much. In fact, we should get down to business. First off, I would like to say that I am glad that you are here, even if it gives you something to hold over me for all eternity, but it was my impression that Lord Wagnel was sitting this encounter out.”

“Well, after learning of Yetel’s plans on your lady’s world, milord dispatched me on a reconnaissance. It was my unfavourable report that resulted in your being awakened; however, I had nothing to do with turning you into your gorgeous self. My guess was that you would show up, the regular old Pasqel, I would brief you and then I would be on my way, leaving the problem in your capable hands. It was only just before you arrived that Lord Wagnel informed me of the change in plans, including my being loaned to Illuni in order to command your guards.”

“I have guards?”

“Well right now it is just me, but I have some ideas on how to fill it out.”

“But why do I need guards?”

“Well as a Princess of the Court, it’s only fitting.”

“Of what?”

“Games.”

To be a princess on Delesion was not the same as being one on most worlds. It did not make you a member of the royal family, since none such existed, instead it made you a representative of Illuni. Something that implied more power than it actually entailed. I would not be able to command everyone to drop what they were doing and prepare for a raid by barbarians. Well I suppose I could, it would just mean that everyone would run off haphazardly preparing in whatever way they thought, because once I spoke they would ignore me. No, on Delesion rank did not grant command and I needed to keep that, though it would mean keeping most unaware of that fact.

“Princess of Games,” I mused. “That actually may work out not too bad.”

“Aye, ‘tis my thinking as well. We can hide much training behind the playing of games, for instance; I am sure your Ladyship will just adore archery.”

Ignoring his jab, I agreed, “Personally I would liever kill a bloodthirsty barb from a distance than face to face, with a bunch of untrained defenders it would be silly not to try and do so. Speaking of which, do you know if any are trained?”

“Well there is number of dueling schools.”

Showing my prejudices, this caused me to prettily snort, “Duelists.”

“I don’t know what your problem is with duelists, Qel? After all, isn’t that your job with Lady Illuni?”

Even knowing he was just trying to wind me up, so I would jump upon my hobby-horse, did not stop me from taking the bait. “No, I’m her champion. There is a world of difference between me and the jumped-up duelists that I am forced to kill in while doing my duty.”

“You better calm down Qel, otherwise your amazing breasts may burst forth from your gown.”

“Quit staring at them.”

With a knowing smirk, he replied, “Well as the Captain of your Guard, I was gallantly keeping my eyes on the potential danger, ready to jump to the rescue if needed.”

“I think you want to be an Amazon.”

“Now, now Qel, let’s not get hasty. Though I would have to agree with your judgment on this particular lot of duelists. Any barb worthy of the title, would stave in their skulls before they had a chance to say en garde.”

“Anybody else? Possibly somebody with military training.”

“There are some, but as a professional military man, I would say your disdain of duelists closely matches mine for most of the so-called officers living on Delesion. Why couldn’t your Goddess have a few more foot-soldiers and a few less officers amongst her worshippers?”

“Well on many worlds to worship milady, before all others, is a luxury that only the privileged can afford. Those you seek are men who would give themselves to your Lord.”

“I see, though I must admit to being surprised to hear you say it.”

“Why Dally? I’ve never denied how fortunate I have been through my many lives. I only wish that more were as lucky as I, to be able to give and share in her Love.”

At these words, I felt a soft kiss on my brow and in my mind heard a whispered, “And I do love thee, my Pretty Little Champion.”

“Even if she asks you to serve her in this fashion?” Dally asked, showing none of the humour that usually lurked on his face.

Still feeling her gentle touch, I answered in kind. “Even now Dally, even now.”

In the silence that followed my admission, the opening swish of the door seemed as loud as a shout. Turning to see a Yui, or at least by the colour of its robe who I assumed to be Yui, enter, I asked, “Yes Yui?”

“Milady, you have received a summons from the Queen, she bids you attend upon her at your earliest convenience.”

“The Queen? Very well, can you see that my carriage is ready, I would see her as soon as possible.”

“It is ready.”

“Then let us depart. Coming my Captain?”

“Aye, your Ladyship.” Dally answered, rising from his chair.

“Yui, Sir Dallembert has agreed to take command of my guard, could you see that chambers are prepared for him?”

With a nod, it led the two of us out front, where the carriage waited to deliver us to the Queen’s palace. Joined inside by Dally, he let me know that Illucise continued to sit upon the throne as the Queen of Love, just as she had done when I had last been on Delesion. Unlike one of the princesses, her title did come with actual power and it was in her hands that the rule of this world was entrusted. There was little doubt in my mind that she would find the reason for my presence distasteful. My guess was that it would be a prickly meeting, so I determined to walk carefully.

So it was, when announced into her presence, that I channeled every bit of grace with which milady had imbued my current body as I sunk into a respectful curtsey. The length with which she left me in that pose, seemed to give proof to my guess. As did her tone when she said, “Rise Princess Illudine. Or do you prefer going by your true name of Sir Pasqel?”

Sensing a trap, I carefully answered, “Your Majesty, I am pleased to go by whatever our Goddess deems most appropriate. In this case, that appears to be as Illudine.”

“It is dreadful news that your presence brings to my world.”

“Aye your Majesty, most dreadful and I wish that there was no need. But it is not for me to question Lady Illuni’s will.” I agreed, implying a silent ‘or yours’ at the end of that agreement.

“True, it is not ours to question our Goddess. However, I do not question her, I question why does her friend, the Lord Wagnel, not smite this foul Yetel, rather than only sending that jackanapes, who accompanied you, to assist?”

“As I am to understand Your Majesty, it has to do with the politics of the Gods.”

“Politics?” Illucise sniffed. “Well it seems demned ungallant if you are to ask me.”

Giving a helpless, little shrug, I then came to the defence of my friend. “As for Sir Dallembert, he is a true friend. Vastly skilled in the realm of his Lord Wagnel, we are lucky to have his assistance?”

“How, by turning all of our beautiful men into killers?”

Tired of cossetting the woman, I answered, “If need be. However, that is not our intention, instead for now we will only look to teach them some skills that will prove useful if need comes to be.”

“Is this why you are here as the Princess of Games? What type of games will you play in order to teach these skills?”

“I have not decided as of yet, there has barely been time for me to begin to plan.” I said, thinking it was better to not bring up our archery plans at the moment.

“Okay then, but I would like you to run all plans past Lord Honus before you do anything.”

“Who?”

“Lord Honus Tolliver, he was the Grand Marshall for the Kingdom of Nielisio for much of his life.”

“Your Majesty, I would prefer not to do that.”

“I do not care what you think, I rule this world Princess Illudine and I would have someone I trust involved in this affair.”

Deciding the time for politeness was over, I said, “I have changed my mind Illucise, you will know me as Sir Pasqel, Goddess Illuni’s Champion and her Lord of Battle for time immemorial. I do not need a some old fuddy-duddy, who never fought a battle while he played at being a Grand Marshall, to oversee my efforts. Nor do I need your trust, I have the trust of our Goddess and it is why she appointed me the task to defend her world.”

“Well I never,” she sputtered in outrage.

“However, if you wish Madame, we could seek our Lady’s judgment to determine whose voice speaks true in this matter?”

“Yes, let us do that.”

As if she had been waiting for this moment, the Goddess Illuni was with us, a frown of unhappiness on her face. In that moment we were both on our feet, each sinking into a deep curtsey, causing me a moment of personal embarrassment when my competitiveness caused me to exalt that mine was prettier. Looking between the two of us, she asked, “Why do my beautiful daughters fight with each other over matters of their own ego when my world is in danger?”

Neither of us were unwise enough to answer, instead we both stood there, shamefaced and with heads bowed as she continued, “How can either one of you doubt the trust I have in yourself or in the other. Loving Illucise, in your hands I have placed my most important creation, this world. And under you it has flourished and my beliefs have been made real. However, not everyone shares our beliefs, worse some actively threaten them. At those times, I rely on Sir Pasqel to protect those beliefs for me. Sadly we are in one of those times. And so we need to heed the words of my Champion, for he understands what is foreign to the two of us.”

So I had won, but never had victory felt so terrible. To learn that Milady Illuni saw me as nothing more than her attack dog, after giving so many lives to her, hit me like a body blow that brings you to his knees. However, before I could sink to the ground, Illuni had me wrapped in her arms, holding me up, urgently saying, “No My Love, do not judge yourself so, for that is not what you are to me.”

Through tears I asked, “Then what am I? What good am I if I don’t share your beliefs?”

“But you don’t Dear One. Unlike Illucise who thinks the same thoughts as I, you do not. To me you have always offered your heart, but never your mind. And yet even when you do not agree, you still accept. ”

“So I’m the idiot cousin, am I?”

“Never that. You do not accept out of stupidity, instead you accept because that is your choice, a choice from which you have never wavered, no matter how silly it may seem to you. You my Champion are truer to me than you are to yourself. How could I not love you?”

I did not answer, instead I just cried away the hurt that should never have been while wrapped in the arms of she who truly had always owned my heart, for whom I would continue to offer everything I had. As my tears began to subside, she whispered in my ear one final thing, “And you have the prettiest curtsey I have ever seen.”

Hiccuping a laugh through my sobs, I began to feel better. Able to once more face the world, including Her Majesty Illucise, who no longer looked upon me with distaste, but with loving concern. More than the Goddess’s words, my reaction had gained acceptance from her, possibly believing it proved me to be how I looked, turning me into one of those she sought to protect. It would have been a wonderful ploy, if the hurt had not been so very real. Nor were the tears the result of how I appeared.

After the Goddess removed any trace of my tears, we parted company after the Queen informed me that I would be introduced to society at a fete in my honour, three nights hence. I was happy with the delay, which would allow Dally and myself to begin planning the games I was to host; however, neither of us could have ever forseen the type of planning session we were to experience over those three days.

For the next morning, when I asked Yui to show the two of us to an office in which we may work, he replied, “Milady, but that is impossible today. You must begin preparation for the fete.”

“Yui, that is what we plan to do.”

“No Milady, you must learn the dances performed at the court if you wish to make a good impression.”

“Dances?”

“Oh yes. Queen Illucise loves music. Her parties, in large part, are spent on the dance floor. Thus I have arranged for her Doi, her Master of the Dance, to attend upon you to provide training.”

“But I really must talk to Sir Dallembert this morning about private matters.”

“You will need a partner, perhaps Captain Dallembert could play that role. It will give you time for your discussion. As for privacy, my kin and I are fully aware of the doom you and Lord Wagnel’s Aide seek to stop from being delivered upon our world. And though in the moment of that arrival we cannot lift weapons in defense, we can fully assist in other ways.”

Though I persisted in my argument that we did not have time for matters of such frivolity, Yui proved unwilling to bend. In the end Dally and I found ourselves in my very own dance hall where a group of minions including Dance Master Doi, its assistants, and an eight piece orchestra waited. We learned that the dances of Delesion had been gathered from the courts of many worlds, bad enough for Dally who had danced in some of those courts; however, for me, that same knowledge was actually a disadvantage, specially with the bulk of the dances showcasing the feminine side of the partnership.

By the time of our first break my frustration had already begun to grow. Though it was apparent that the Goddess had given me the physical skills to do all the steps, my mind kept getting in the way. As we sat, trying to regain our breath, Doi described the many dances we still needed to learn and I despaired at how little time there was to prepare.

If not for the magic available to the minions it would have been hopeless, but there was a reason that things ran so smoothly on this world, they did not let things go wrong. So moments after we sat down, me with legs feeling sore, to a drink of lime cut water during our second break, my eyes opened as if from a night of full sleep. My aches were gone and that I felt completely refreshed. So apparently did Dally, who had a puzzled expression on his face. Still we were not given time to question before Doi had us upon our feet and continued the lesson.

So we spent the entirety of our time, until the fete, in that hall with me slowly learning to glide and twirling about the dance floor, spinning in and out of Dally’s arms. The only measure of the passage of time being our change of dress, our outfits becoming closer to those we would wear to the ball. For me this meant higher heels, wider skirts, lower bodice, more lace, and hair that grew taller atop my head. All culminating in my final awakening bedecked in full court dress, requiring Dally to ride beside the carriage on his mount, there being no room inside with my skirts.

Truthfully I was happy with the separation, three days in his arms had forced me to see how different we were from one another, at least on Delesion. He was my still friend, but it seemed that as the days had passed he also became a male in my consciousness, something I had always known, yet it had never mattered.

Dally had been undergoing a similar change, for soon he only called me Illudine, Qel having been banished to both the past and future. Nor had it seemed to bother him to continue holding me in his arms when we would stop and watch Doi’s assistants gracefully perform a step with which we struggled. Apparently instinct could dull the sharpest mind, our senses seeing, hearing, feeling, and even smelling each other told us that the other was different in a particularly intriguing way.

Alone in my carriage, I realized with a shock how much I had changed without realizing it was happening. Milady had worked a miracle upon me already, one that caused me to worry what next would happen if things continued apace.

“Worry not. You will not be spending the night in the arms of your Captain or any other man, my Pretty Champion. No, you will tempt and delight them on this eve as you flit about on the dance floor, but each will only be left wanting more.”

Relieved, I sighed, “Thank you My Goddess.”

“Yet the thought has lost all of its repugnance to you, has it not?”

“It has. Have you changed my thinking?”

“Even I, with all my powers, am unable to do that. However, have you explored your memories.”

So prompted I began to do so. At first nothing seemed different and I cast my net further into the past, until I stumbled upon what she meant. It was the last time I had been awake, on a world where milady had sent me to assist a Prince, no it had been a Princess, usurped upon her, no I remember it as his father’s death. And I remembered how he stripped me from a magnificent dress after his coronation, before spreading my legs and ...

“No,” I gasped.

Yet it was true. In all of my bountiful memories saw me making love to a women, I now saw that it had been me who had pleased so many men. It caused me to blush as I accused, “But Goddess, you said you had not changed my thinking.”

“And I have not My Child, but I have changed your memories. They are more powerful than magic in their ability to change an individual’s thoughts. Worry not, your memories will be returned to you when you return from Delesion, but for now you are who you need to be.”

“I think I should be unhappy with you My Goddess.”

“Are you?”

“No, for I seem myself and how can I be unhappy that I am no longer someone else?”

“Is that so? But does this YOU still have the skills needed to repel Yetel’s horde?”

“Of course Milady. While Sir Dallembert and I learned to dance, we spoke much of our plans to prepare for his arrival. Even now Yui, most competent Yui, puts those plans into action, so that tomorrow our games can begin.”

No reply was forthcoming. She had heard enough, proving that her trust in me stayed true, while having said enough to peel away any self-doubt that I was not this pretty young lady in this most gorgeous of gowns. New confidence turned the evening into one where I smiled, laughed, danced, and flirted the night away in a swirl of silk and perfume. Queen Illucise was quite pleased with me and true to Illuni’s prediction, I tempted and delighted the men of the court. Many trying to ingratiate himself to me by asking about my games.

But on that night, I was unwilling to quell their curiosity. Instead I would coyly tell them to be at The Park on the morrow if they wished to find out. Then I would convince each to take me out for a spin on the floor, before moving on to the next gentleman on my dance card.

It was gloriously fun.

Apparently successful as well.

For on the next day, when Dally and I arrived at The Park, there was a throng of people, much larger than those who had been at the fete, waiting to hear what was planned. Nervously I watched their reaction as the minion who acted as Crier made the announcement and was greatly relieved upon seeing a buzz amongst the crowd when it was complete. Paradise fatigues everybody to some degree, thus something new is always interesting. And the notion of becoming the Champion of Delesion was extremely interesting to the men in the crowd.

We had decided a title for a reward was perfect on a world where everything came free. A title that would be earned by the winner of a decathlon seven days hence, consisting of of events that would build skills required to develop our defense force. There would be two types of foot races; a sprint and a distance event. Further races would occur while swimming and on the back of a mount. Also showing their fitness would be the running jump, javelin throwing, and wrestling. The final three events were those most directly related to the fighting we foresaw, consisting of archery, fencing and lance work, which was to be tested by the age old game of threading the needle.

However, despite the initial buzz, I was not surprised to see how very few stick around to begin practicing the events at the facilities Yui had caused to be set up in The Park. This is where the second part of the plan came into affect. Based on criteria developed by Dally, Yui had seen that a number of women were invited to my coming out party the night before. And during the eve I had spent time with each of them, getting to know them, before offering ten positions in my court and explaining what that would entail.

Excitedly, each of the beauties had accepted my offer. So on the day of the announcement, and each day after, the eleven of us were to be found at The Park, most attentively watching those who had come to practice. Having us a spectators, happily squealing and bouncing as we cheered them on, definitely played up to the competitive male ego. Soon more competitors joined their rank, in turn causing additional women to join us as spectators. And so on.

The society, which had been about private dalliances in parlors, small meetings in salons, or grand balls in palaces, was changed to one built around my games. It was not long before a carnival like atmosphere filled The Park. The Queen was often to be found in her pavilion and Illusera, Princess of Festivals, had declared that the decathlon would be a time of celebration..

Yet at the centre remained my ladies and I, always colourfully dressed, which earned us the name of The Butterflies. They were all sweet girls and we became the fondest of friends, though I definitely was seen as the leader. In turn they acted as my mentors in the way of femininity, which seemed to come so naturally while standing on the sidelines watching the handsome men hard at work. We all agreed that they really were quite delicious, something that led to a mischievous decision that in addition to the prizes already announced, the winner of each individual event would receive a Butterfly for the evening with the champion receiving their leader.

When rumours of this began to float about, there was marked increase in the enthusiasm of the competitor’s practice. Just as with our dance practice, the lime cut water was put to good use. It was during this time that I learned that it went by the name Illuni’s Dreams and that when anybody drank or was splashed by it, they would be put into a sleep from which only a minion could awaken them. No matter how short the sleep, one would fully rested. Or if the sleep was long enough, injuries could be healed. The speed that their skills increased was spectacular to behold.

It meant that the decathlon was much more hotly contested than initial practice had implied. So much so that each event had a different winner, with the champion being a Sir Fodlum from the Winter World of Seliel. Good, though not great, at everything he had been considered a front-runner and I personally was thrilled with the result. Having always complained it was too hot on Delesion, he was known for practicing in nothing but a loin cloth giving my ladies and I ample opportunity to devour his physique. Tall, with shoulders as broad as sword, his sculpted chest tapered down to narrow hips and muscular legs. We spent many an hour discussing if the white down covering his body was truly as soft as it appeared. It would be my fortune to find out.

Thus it was that I presented myself to him, at the End of the Tournament Feast, as dinner companion and more for the evening. The way his eyes widened when I appeared left no doubt he was just as pleased with his reward as I was with his victory. But it was not just him and the other winners who looked on in appreciation, for my little court had decided to return favour for favour based upon all the skin the men had been showing while they competed.

Taking inspiration from our nickname, we each wore coloured, gossamer wings and matching, delicate eye-masks. Our gowns, on first glance, could be mistaken for those worn by the other ladies at the supper, though none of their bodices were quite so low cut. However, it was with our skirts that we had taken the naughtiest risk. Cut extremely short, they were fluffed out by lacy petticoats that peaked out from beneath the skirt yet still left significant thigh showing before beribboned, over-the-knee, white, silk stockings pretended to hide bare legs. With those skirts swaying enticingly, due to the strut required from high-heeled shoes, we approached to offer the wreath of victors.

For me, even in the silver heels that matched the rest of my costume, I needed Sir Fodlum to bend his head low before being able to drape the wreath around his neck. As he re-raised his head and I comprehended how he dwarfed me, my excitement gave way to anxiety. However, by the end of the feast, most of it spent with one of his large hands caressing an inner thigh, only lust remained. Needing to say little to convince me to leave before the dancing began, he soon was undressing me in his apartment.

There, with the frequent use of Illuni’s Dreams, Sir Fodlum extended his evening over two days to slake his lusts with my very willing body. It was a well rewarded champion who dropped an immensely satisfied princess at her door.

As we had hoped, the tournament wetted the appetite for games and a succession of tournaments followed for a variety of events, many invented by the citizens of Delesion themselves. Admittedly few of these would prepare people for what would come, but they helped to keep participation and interest high. It was under this umbrella that Dally began introducing team events including one he called, Paint the Stripe. The goal was for a team of ten archers, led by one of the top archers, to shoot as many arrows as possible into a target, chest high and five paces wide, in a specific period of time. Requiring less accuracy than the individual competitions, we were able to keep participants interested, since it required teamwork and many men enjoy the companionship of teams. It was not long before extra targets and longer periods were needed to separate teams into winners. Most of them would have been surprised to learn that they were growing into one of the most deadly archery forces I had ever seen.

However, it was during a game that served no purpose in defeating Yetel that the next breakthrough in our defense plan occurred. Of all places, inspiration came at the final table of a card tournament.

Though only the weekly champion competition received the full Butterfly Treatment, we were never far away when any game was underway. On this day we were serving as good luck charms to each of the eleven players at the final table. Though my gentleman, who seemed to regularly be on the wrong side of a hand, would have just cause to dispute my abilities as a charm. So when he finally won a hand, I clapped happily before throwing my arms around his neck to give him a cleavage smothering hug.

Sir Galmon, a contemporary of Queen Illucise, was older than the bulk of the citizens on Delesion, though neither would appear middle aged on most worlds. Yet not many men, no matter how aged, would be unaffected by my enthusiasm. Sir Galmon, was not amongst that group, and exclaimed, “I say Princess, I have half a mind to say demn it all to my cards, scoop you up, and carry you away for they day.”

“Lah, Sir Galmon. But where would you hide me away?”

That was the problem with The Park. Surrounding the building that held the Entry Chamber and the portals to the territories other than the city, it was pristine and manicured. Nary was there a spot to hide, nor to provide barriers behind which archers could stand. It worried me, for despite their increasing skill, I doubted they had the fortitude to stand up to an advancing horde. True it was good space for a cavalry charge, but Dally felt that in this area we did not have enough horsemen, nor had their skills increased apace with the archers.

Unaware of my thoughts, he none-the-less caught the meaning of my words and answered, “We need a maze.”

“A maze?”

“Aye Princess. On my home world, the Palace of Toulenia had a great big maze in its garden. An absolutely wonderful place for people to hide away from prying eyes.”

“A maze? Oh that’s brilliant Sir Galmon.” I exclaimed, before covering his face in kisses.

This assault, leaving him bemused and kerfluffled, proved to be his downfall, as he lost his last stack of chips during the next hand. Afire with the idea he had put in my mind, I disloyally was not upset, instead after quickly consoling him I hurried away in search of Dally.

Ever since the three days we had spent together learning to dance, we had tended to keep our distance from each other. To much had changed for us to continue as we had always been, it was easier to only spend time with each other over a meal. The rest of the time I was with my new friends, while he spent time practicing with everyone else who entered the decathlon. Never having won the championship, Dally had been steadily working his way through my court as he won a different event at each of the competitions. Knowing he planned next to take the lance competition I scurried towards the grounds where it was practiced.

Always a spectator favorite, there was a crowd around the ring in which men on their horses galloped around trying to spear ten golden rings hanging in the air at varying heights. However, the crowd let me through just in time to see a young man finish a run that saw him miss the final ring. As the people cheered his attempt and a minion reset the rings, I waved to Dally, waiting in the lists for his attempt. Spotting me, he spoke quickly to the men in front of him, who gestured for him to go first.

Trotting his chestnut around the ring he raised his lance in salute to me as he passed, then kicked it into a gallop towards the first four rings. Set in a slalom pattern, it was embarrassing to not spear each of them, but then nobody did at the speed at which Dally showed. His horse than almost spinning in air, whirled about onto the next line, Dally hooking left foot against his saddle as he leaning low off the right to spear the next two low to the ground, before yanking himself upright in stirrups to get the two above his head. Another spin and a quick stab grabbed the ninth and easiest ring, then his horse raced to the last ring, the one that most men ignored. Not Dally, I saw a grin of pure pleasure on his face as his mount leapt upward, over the hedge above which the final ring hung, allowing its master to almost absentmindedly rise up to spear the final ring before bracing himself as the horse was once more hit the ground and thundered across the line. Shrilling triumphantly, his horse reared about in a circle before dropping to all fours and trotting, in an exaggerated high step, towards the minion who waited for the rings.

As the rings slid off the lance into waiting hands, those around the ring burst out cheering, me amongst them. It truly had been a magnificent performance. His collection delivered, Dally trotted his head over to me to say, though I barely heard, “Come on up, we can talk while I cool Grenchar down.”

Caught up in his spell I reached up as he bent over to lift me into place sitting sidesaddle in front of him. Firmly pulled into his chest, by the arm whose hand did not hold the reins, I felt completely safe as we found our way to open space.

Lulled by the gentle sway upon Grenchar’s back, it took a few moments before I accused, “Show off.”

He agreed, “I may have let myself get caught up there.”

“If you’re not careful, everybody will begin questioning why you never win the championship.”

“Oh that has already been asked and answered.”

“It has?”

“Yes. Everybody assumes I have no reason to win what I already have.”

It took a moment, but when I realized that meant me, my ears began to burn. Fortunately Dally proved more of a gentleman than I had known, as Pasqel, and changed the topic. “But enough about me. Why are you here, I thought you were to be acting as Sir Galmon’s good luck charm?”

Grateful, I answered, “Apparently that is not a skill I can claim. Poor Sir Galmon was the first player to leave the table today. However, he may prove to be our good luck charm.”

“How so Princess?”

“He gave me a solution to our problem with The Park.”

The lazy tone in his voice was gone as he prompted, “Do tell.”

“A maze.”

“A maze? Oh that’s perfect. If we build it around the Entry Chamber, we would be able to bottle them up.”

“Exactly. And if we surrounded it with a lake filled with Illuni’s Dreams, we could protect the other portals on islands and use pathways to force them into a narrow band of attack. For instance, five paces wide seems perfect.”

Squeezing me tighter with a quick hug, Dally said, “Isn’t my Princess a cunning minx, but will the Queen agree?”

Warmed, both by the hug and the praise given to ‘his Princess’, I said, “I’m sure she will agree. If you take me to her pavilion, I can see if I’m right.”

“Well I really should let Grenchar cool down a bit longer. If you want, I can let you down?”

“No, it’s fine. You will likely still get me there faster than if I walk, if you do not mind?”

“Not at all, besides you smell nice.”

Lying, I wrinkled my nose and said, “You don’t.”

By the time Dally dropped me off at the Queen’s pavilion the convincing was already complete, Sir Galmon having come directly there from the card table bringing the idea. All I needed to do was to gain control of the project, which I then passed into the capable hands of Yui with a full set of instructions.

On a world where everyday life was imbued with magic such an undertaking was something to be accomplished in an evening. Next morning when I arrived at The Park early arrivals were all staring at what had been built in awe, while I looked on happily. It was perfect. The maze was huge, diamond shaped with the Entry Chamber at the centre, it was hundreds of paces per side. Truly, a small army could get lost inside.

However, on that day it hid not an army, just a multitude of couples wandering about amongst the lusciously vine covered, stone walls. As for myself, no other companion would do for my first foray into those pathways other than the worthy Sir Galmon. Soon helplessly lost we decided to while away the day in a bower at a dead end, until a minion came to our rescue. It was a most pleasant day letting Sir Galmon prove that while aged, his wisdom and experience made for a most enjoyable encounter.

Soon the maze and its lake were circled by a race track, which in turn was separated from the game pitches by tall viewing walls. These walls, reached by staircases at either end, were perfect for spectators to watch a game or a race. We also hoped they would serve our archers well as Yetel’s horde filtered out of the maze.

Dally came up with the next idea, the week after winning the wreath for his lance work. Hunting me down, with his sheaf of javelins, he asked, “Illudine, why should we leave Yetel’s force unhindered while they are in the maze?”

“Well it is as you said Dally. It will be a lot more dangerous to go and face them man to man, specially with the fellows used to a rapier, instead of a shield a sword.”

“How about if we could attack from a distance?”

“How? The maze is at the outer range of bow shot, little alone reaching far inside.”

“I was thinking catapults.”

“Interesting, but wouldn’t whatever we throw just break up the maze? We don’t want that.”

“It would if we were to throw stones, but I was thinking of skins filled with Illuni’s Dreams. I would guess that it would prove rather difficult on morale to have troops dropping over, asleep all over the place.”

“Most assuredly. Still I worry if we introduce catapults, the people will figure out something is going on and panic.”

“Which is why you introduce them through one of your games my Dear Princess. What I was thinking is to set a small fire burning above the maze and offer a prize for the first group to put it out from this side of the race track. Surely someone must be familiar with the concept of siege engines and will see their value in this situation, if not I will whisper advice in a few ears.”

No such advice was needed. Multiple teams figured out the solution rather quickly, it took longer for them to actually build a working catapult and to actually hit the target. It reached the point during the last few days of attempts that people could not enter the maze without the fear of being doused in water. Something that caused much merriment amongst those firing the catapults. It also introduced the next game, after the flame was snuffed, where people would race through the maze, hoping not to get lost or splattered by a drop of Illuni’s Dreams.

Feeling our preparations were almost complete, we spent our time trying to ensure people stayed enthusiastic while we waited for word of Yetel’s progress. Nervous, from the waiting, I invented the Lady of the Lake.

Dressed in my finest shift of white silk I had Yui set me floating, asleep and posed so that hair and clothing were just so, in the lake around the maze. The challenge then went out to rescue me, something that was more of a challenge than it first appeared. Not only was I floating in a lake of Illuni’s Dreams, whose simplest touch would put someone to sleep, but I was also constantly guarded by a rotation of each of the archery teams. A combination I was to hear resulted in a number of spectacular failures.

Once more it was Sir Fodlum who won the prize. Showing great ingenuity he asked the minions to create him a quiver full of arrows, tipped with arrows of Illuni’s Dreams, along with a matching saber. With these he dispatched my midnight guards, then wearing an amulet making him impervious to the dreams he swam out and poached me away. Soon everybody had to have these new toys, resulting in wholesale mock-battles springing up at a moments’ notice.

Good thing everybody was still interested, for when I returned home from playing the Lady of the Lake it was to a house that no longer only housed Dally. Told by Yui that my captain was in the sitting I found him deep in conversation with another man. Though not of this world, I recognized him as Urse Bilongel.

Like Dally, Urse was sworn to Lord Wagnel. However, he did not serve as an aide, instead he commanded a troop of the God’s premier head breakers and soul takers. A scary individual, he returned my greeting with eyes unlike any I had experienced in this body. A look that caused me to scurry over to Dally’s chair, where I perched on its arm. And despite the smirk that appeared on Urse’s face, I was happy to be close to my friend’s protection and to whom I asked, “Is it time?”

“Not quite Princess. Though Yetel has begun to gather his followers, so it could be any day now. We will receive warning when they are about to strike.”

“Is that why Urse is here? To deliver the information about Yetel’s preparations.”

“Partially, he and his men are also here to help stiffen our defense.”

“But I thought Lord Wagnel did not plan to help out.”

“Like me, Urse and his troop are being loaned to you for now.”

“We will be your guard, under Dallembert, your Highness.” The other man stated, dark humour at my situation apparent in his voice.

Remembering how little I enjoyed being made the fool, I vapidly replied, “Oh goodie, I just know you’ll adore the uniforms.”

Urse and company’s arrival signaled the end to any new games, better for all to gain further proficiencies at those already introduced than to add something that would only confuse. This brought forward my worry that all that we had caused them to learn the right things or that they had not learned well enough. Further, I had to try to decide how and when to let everybody know what was about to happen. How would they react?

Fortunately that decision was taken out of my hand two nights later, when Illuni came to all of her people as they dreamed.

“Rise! Rise My Children, for villainy is afoot. Whilst thou doest slumber, a foul horde does approach. Rise! Rise and get yee to The Park to defend yourselves.”

Springing upright from Sir Fodlum’s bed, where I had found myself seeking distraction, I saw my maidservant Cei appear to assist me in dressing. It was almost like my squire girding me for battle in my plate, well except for all the things that were completely different, which proved to be almost everything. Even with Cei’s assistance I had only been cleansed and had my hair tied, dangling down my back in curls, with a white, ribbon bow before my companion had pulled on trousers, boots, jerkin, and a coat of chain. Then picking up weapons and helm he looked at me in sudden understanding.

“You knew this was coming.” He stated, without accusation.

“Aye, I did.”

“And so you came to prepare us with your games. Who are you?”

“Just one of Lady Illuni’s servants, whom she trusts in situations such as these.”

“Sir Dallembert? Is he her Ladyship’s champion?”

Surprised by his guess, though glad he did not make the true connection, I answered, “No, Sir Dallembert is Aide to Lord Wagnel.”

He looked at me, as if he wanted to ask more, but instead said, “I should go.”

“You know where?”

“Aye, in my dream her Ladyship told me that I was to command the archers on the Northwest Wall.”

I had known that. Every man assigned to a wall, a catapult or to patrol the park aboard horse with lance would have received such a command in his dreams. Usually I was clearer headed in this situation, but then I had never had the misfortune to be the one left behind. I had to fight the desire to grab Fodlum, drag him back to bed, and not let go, even while knowing that his skills and presence were needed on the Northwest Wall. Nor did I show the tears I wanted to shed, for in the past such tears had always sapped something from me as they caused me to linger upon what I left behind instead of focusing upon what I would face.

Still, a hug would have been nice before he left at a run.

Alone with Cei, it became obvious that I was being dressed in the riding habit inspired by the uniforms that had resulted from my girlish threat to Urse. Over hose and corset of white silk and pink ribbons was pulled a shift of white that fit tightly to show my figure until its skirts, decorated in pink embroidered butterflies, flounced out into a short train that dragged upon the ground despite the heels of my similarly decorated riding boots. Cei then helped me into a riding jacket, pink where it did not froth with lace, that buttoned at my waist and left most of the shift’s skirts showing except where hidden by rounded, knee-length tails. Then setting a matching tricorne hat, adorned with a large butterfly brooch, upon my head, I swept from the room pulling on a pair of riding gloves.

The act of dressing had driven away any thoughts of rushing to the park myself. Not being an Amazon, it was no place for me. I accepted that in this instance my duty was to personify what needed to be defended, not to do the defending myself.

Outside I was not surprised to find my mare, Delia, waiting to take me to the Queen’s palace; however, I was surprised to see the large figure in articulated, plate mail who held her reins. Duco was a member of Urse’s troop, who even in his ridiculous surcoat of pink with a white butterfly emblem appeared as dangerous as I knew him to be. Questioningly I greeted him, “Duco?”

“Princess.” He said, saluting with fist to chest. “Sir Dallembert told me to see that you were to remain safe at the palace.”

“It is okay Duco, I can make it there safely on my own. You should head back to your brethren.”

“I couldn’t do that Princess. Sir Dallembert gave an order and he might hurt me if I don’t follow it.”

That was a lie, though Duco the Weaponmaster was the only one who could make that statement a lie amongst his troop. Still I pretended to accept it and seeing no dispute he handed me Delia’s reins before grasping me around the waist to lift me upon her back. However, he did not immediately let go, instead he growled, “You’re not going to go harrying off to The Park as soon I let go, are you? ‘Cause if you do and I have catch you, then I will put you over my knee and turn your bottom as pink as my surcoat.”

Snorting, I stared down at him and said, “Do you really think I am that dumb Duco? What would I do if I ran into some hairy-assed barb? Flirt with him so that he will cut off his own head?”

“Ack, pardon me Princess. I let myself forget who you are and here after I got on the lads yesterday for the same mistake. It won’t happen again.”

Riding towards the palace I was pleased to see no panic, mostly just men hurrying towards The Park and women watching their departure with worried eyes, before tuning to head in the same direction as us. The palace was the one building that could serve as a fortress. If the defense at the park failed, the plan was to fall back to defend the palace grounds, at which point Lord Wagnel would forget politics and come to our rescue. Trying to distract myself from this possibility I asked Duco, “So why did you have to get on the lads yesterday?”

“Well some of them got upset by the uniforms you foisted upon them. Thinking that it may need to be a manner of honour.”

“Oh my, I did not think of that.”

“Nah, I’m sure you didn’t. But no matter, from what I heard, Urse was being his usual unpleasant self and you finally had enough and put him in his place.”

“That’s what I told those fools yesterday. That and if they made it a matter of honour then they would have to deal with your real self. And that I didn’t want to go to the effort of breaking in a new trooper as a replacement.”

“I wouldn’t hurt one of Lord Wagnel’s men.” I protested.

“Sure you would. If one of them made it into a matter of honour you wouldn’t have any choice but. And just like with Urse, soon as you saw an opening you would strike. I’ve seen you fight, the only person in the troop who would have a chance would be me, good as the rest are they would be done for quick as you wanted.”

“And you? Do you see my foisting the surcoats upon you as a manner of honour?”

“Me? I love them.”

“You do?”

“Ack yes. You would not believe how many times I’ve had a skull or a axe or a gauntleted fist or some such thing on a my chest. And always in black or red. Let me tell you it gets all rather boring. Plus think on how it would affect the enemy. They’ll be so busy laughing that we can destroy their brave boyos leading the charge before they know something’s wrong.”

On that upbeat note we arrived at the palace where a minion, who introduced itself as Bei guided us to a garden in which the Queen and some of her court stood looking into a pool. Curiously we approached to see what silliness had grabbed their attention. However, it was not silliness, for in the water was a bird’s eye view of The Park.

Duco whistled and spoke my thoughts, “Ack, wouldn’t this pretty piece of work make a general’s heart beat?”

I agreed, “Aye, if only we could communicate with our troops as easily.”

“We can carry any messages you wish Princess Illudine.” The minion who had guided us to the garden stated.

“But I thought you could not help in this fight.”

“Princess, you are correct that we cannot fight, that does not mean we cannot continue to perform our duties. One of those duties is carrying messages.”

Later I learned that though my grin at these words appeared rather impish, one that was nothing like my bodyguard’s predatory version, but we apparently had the same sparkle in our eye. Circling about the pool, people stepping hurriedly out of Duco’s way, we checked to make sure that everything was set up correctly. It seemed to be. Each of the walls was manned with groups of lancers and catapults found between in the gaps. Most importantly, at each of the two points where the paths through the Pond of Dreams met the race track, was a group of men, wearing pink surcoats, armed with either halberds or shield and spear. It was up to the two halves of Lord Wagnel’s men, one under Urse’s command and the other under Dally, to stop any invaders from getting free of our trap and forcing the ill-trained lancers to engage.

Pleased with the setup of the plan I joined everyone else as they focussed upon the centre of the pool and the area around the Entry Chamber. The wait had begun.

Then a group of armoured men rushed out of the Entry Chamber’s door before coming to a surprised stop to find themselves surrounded by walls. More surprising to them was the figure of a minion, in the same coloured robe as it who first named me, standing in front of them. Unable to hear either the minion or the raiders, it was as if we watched a pantomime. One that ended violently when the leading invade swung a sword at the minion.

Someone, I don’t think it was me, gasped. But where the blade swung, no longer stood its target. However, its edge had erased all question of the intentions of the sword’s owner and his companions.

Turning to the minion, I said, “Please let the defenders know that the raiders have begun to arrive. Though they are to hold fire until further orders.”

As a first step, the other side sent groups of one hundred men to scout through each of the four openings in the wall around the Entry Chamber’s space. However, as their numbers grew and the space shrunk others were forced into the maze and it took quite awhile before no more men issued forth from the chamber.

“Just under thirteen thousand.”

Pulled away from the view in the pool, I looked to see who had spoken. Recognizing the man as Lord Tolliver I looked at him questioningly.

“Princess, I counted around thirteen thousand raiders arriving.”

Duco agreed, “Close enough not to make a difference.”

“Thank you Lord Tolliver. Bei, please inform any catapult who can hit the centre of the maze to commence firing.”

Seconds later, we began to see catapults being loaded and arms bent backwards, before they were released to fling their burdens into the air. Difficult as they were to aim, many of the skins of Illuni’s Dreams burst harmlessly against the ground or one of the walls inside the maze, but enough ended up where we hoped. Blocks of men were collapsing, asleep, others shouted in confusion while looking upwards to see the arrival of more skins. Further consternation occurred when robed minions began to flash in and out of sight, each time leaving with a man who had been put to sleep by the touch of the magic water on bare skin.

The disappearance of their comrades panicked the invaders who rushed en masse into the maze. It also caused me to ask Bei what was happening.

“Our duty is to look after anyone who is affected by the Goddess’s dreams. We take them to a place where they are protected and wait until it is safe for them to be awoken. Is that wrong?”

“No, it is very good. Please let the catapult crews know to begin targetting the body of the maze, not just the centre.”

More of the catapults were able to begin firing, though the impact of their volleys was lessened by the dispersal of the enemy and the walls of the maze. Yet there still was an impact, which caused Yetel’s troops to spread further into the maze, losing all the cohesion that had existed when they had initially formed up after arriving on Delesion. Even the best troops found it difficult to maintain their cool when attacked by unseen foes, having colleagues disappear and not knowing where to go would make it worse. And, as Lord Wagnel had implied at the beginning, these were far from the best of troops.

Dressed in all manners of armour and holding weapons as varied as their peoples, Yetel’s followers seemed to consist mostly of thugs and bully-boys, not soldiers or warriors. As we watched they were breaking up into smaller contingents of tribes and friends. And amongst the initial four groups of one hundred explorers, those who I would think would be their best, only one seemed to be making any headway.

That group, which had exited towards the East, were making steady progress. At every branch, they would leave a man to mark a corner, before turning left. Then whenever they encountered a dead end they would back-track to the last branch and take the other path. They were getting closer and closer to the Easter exit.

“Bei, please inform the Eastern commander of my guards and the leaders of the two Eastern stands of archers that the enemy is getting close to maze’s exit near their position.”

Finding that exit, the enemy did not rashly charge out. Instead their leader sent men back to gather other groups who had escaped to the East from the catapults. Soon hundreds were lurking within the last few sections of the maze ready to charge forth. And they did.

In their haste, many were knocked off the pathway into the Pond of Dreams, out of action. Others turned right or left to circle around the maze looking for another walkway across the water or to unlimber their own bows. But the bulk of the enemy charged out onto the walkway in front of them, running towards the group of figures, in their ridiculous pink surcoats, who block the end of the path.

It was a long run.

Our men were ready. The bulk of the archers fired volley after volley of Illuni Dreams’ tipped arrows at those who charged across the pathway, while those who had proved the best marksmen targeted those with bows along the edge of the maze. For even though our archers had the protection of the walls and the advantage of firing from a height, it was still possible that a lucky arrow would reach them. And the arrows of the raiders were not meant to put someone to sleep, but to kill.

It was in a hail of arrows the enemy had to brave as they crossed the walkway, many of them falling victim to more than one arrow, then immediately whisked away by minions. Only those who were the best armoured, who showed little exposed skin were able to progress. Amongst those were the one hundred.

“Sir Dallembert and the boys will stop them.” Duco muttered, trying to calm the nerves of those, who watched this development anxiously, around the pool.

It worked. Except for me, who had not been nervous, it had the opposite reaction. Intellectually I had known that I had friends amongst the defenders, but I had been able to lump them in with the group in its entirety. But in using the name of one of those friends Duco had ripped away that shield. Suddenly I was gripped by the fear of what could happen to Dally, my friend. My...yes my friend.

Yet I could not tear away my gaze as the enemy hammered against the front row of kneeling men and were stopped against the anvil of their shields and spears. Stopped and then made victims by halberds swinging or poking over heads of kneeling companions. Blunted by the wall to their front while pressured by those behind, many invaders fell into the pool. They were the lucky ones. They did not need to face the group of men, who had first stopped them, then began a counter-attack. Lord Wagnel’s immortals were a terrible thing to behold in their glory, forcing many of the court to turn away from the pool. For unlike those who worshipped Her Ladyship, they did not contents themselves with weapons of play, theirs were made of sharp steel. No need was there for minions to whisk away their fallen enemies. No need to protect them until it was safe.

The attack on the East was broken. Forcing my attention upon those who were protected them from the fate of their more competent brethren. Numbers continuing to dwindle, both from catapult fire and arrows whenever they got to close to the outer rings of the maze. Some did try to defeat the maze by climbing over top of walls, but without ladders it led mostly to broken bones.

Lost, scared, frustrated, and unable to strike at their enemy many of Yetel’s raiders began to throw away their weapons to sit, back against a wall, with wrists crossed in surrender. Our defense appeared to be going as planned. Fewer and fewer of the enemy attempted to do anything, even those not assuming a pose of surrender.

Considering if it was time to have Dally and Urse enter the maze to be accepting surrenders, my eye was drawn once more to the centre of the pool. There, striding out of the Entry Chamber, was a figure right out of a story. Huge and wearing the blackest of armour to match a horned-helm and massive battle-axe, it was obvious to me that Yetel had made his appearance. The perfect caricature of what it meant to be a God of War. Stopping, he shouted in a voice loud enough to be heard even at the palace, “Cowards! Cowards do you fear their wrath more than mine?”

The voice that answered did not bellow, yet even in its softness nobody on Delesion did not hear my Goddess as she asked, “Why are you here Yetel? On my world that does not want your kind, playing your pathetic games.”

“Who cares what your world wants? I take what I want, when I want. And fragile flowers like yourself or your people exist only to be stomped upon, you cannot stop me.”

“Oh I could, but I might get my new dress dirty. Instead I will leave it to my Champion.”

“Your Champion?” Yetel asked with amusement in his voice. “Yes bring him on.”

I had never faced a deity in battle, did not even know if one could be killed. Still I was ready, even eager, to test my mettle. I waited for my summons, but it did not come. Instead another figure appeared beside the two. For a moment I was outraged to be usurped without a single acknowledgement. Then he spoke and I understood that despite being Illuni’s Princess of Games on Delesion, it did not mean I was mistress of all her games.

“Sorry my dear chap, but Milady Illuni’s champion is busy with more important business than a stupid sack of shit like yourself. Therefore, she asked me to fill in until he is free.”

“You! But...”

Chuckling, Lord Wagnel interrupted, “Yes me. I really cannot begin to tell you how much I look forward to this.”

With a smile of amusement Lord Wagnel caused his appearance to change. Gone was the middle-aged scholar, in his place stood a foppish courtier, dressed in the male version of my outfit. Pink silken jacket, bedecked in lace over matching breeches that showed well turned calves possibly due to high-heeled, buckled shoes and thin, white hose. On his head he wore a hat similar to mine, even covering blackened curls that hung almost as far down as my blue ones. Twirling a mustache he leered at Lady Illuni and remarked, “Demned if I am not a handsome devil.”

Seeing her return it was something of a shock, as was her answer, “You most definitely are Milord. Now why don’t you finish this quickly, so we can move onto more enjoyable things.”

Offering a deep bow, he said, “But of course Milady.”

During this interplay Yetel had remained standing in stunned silence, finally he sputtered, “What...”

However, he got no further, for with a rapier and main gauche appearing in his hands, Lord Wagnel once more interrupted, “Now, now Yetel. Don’t worry your little mind, instead let us obey Milady’s command.”

Suddenly a voice, its timber usually seeming fuller than after listening to the three deities, spoke, “Ladies, you may want to look away.”

I wish I had followed Duco’s recommendation. For what followed was an awful ballet of slaughter unlike any I had ever seen. Like a fatted calf, ready for a feast, Yetel was butchered before my eyes. A flick of a Lord Wagnel’s wrist and a piece of armour would fall to the ground or blood would spurt from an arm. Easily could it have been over in seconds, but a statement was being made. Not to those of us who watched on Delesion, no it was for a much more prestigious audience. Teaching colleagues what would happen if they messed with Lady Illuni and Lord Wagnel. I doubt not that the lesson was well learned, even by the most dense of pupils.

Finally it ended, with a final flick Yetel crumpled to the ground, never to get up. Turning to Lady Illuni, though not in the flirtatious manner used earlier, Lord Wagnel said, “Milady it is over.”

“Yes Milord, I can see that. Over for you, at least after you dispose of that and its followers. But for me, there is one more task. Leave me now to it and I will see you when I am done.”

Bowing to her, he suddenly was gone, along with the carcass on the ground. And if I had looked I knew that all of who had once followed the being that had once lived in that body were also gone. But I did not, I waited.

“Come.”

I curtsied to her, though I did not wait for her permission before rising and staring accusingly at her.

“You must be feeling terribly abused at the moment Child.”

“I am sure Milady has perfectly good reasoning.”

“Worry not, nobody sees us. Say what is on your mind.”

“Very well then. Was any of what I was told before we started this charade true?”

“Yes. It was always possible, even likely, that things could have played out exactly in the manner that we discussed.”

“But?”

“But there was always another possibility. That Yetel was madder than we guessed, that he would actually appear and that somebody would have to deal with him.”

“And that somebody would be me?”

“Yes, bound to me as you are as my champion, covenant decrees that you fight my battles, unless you are unfit at the time.”

“I supposed being Princess Illudine meets that criteria. I can barely lift a sword in my current form. So was I put into this body because you knew I could not succeed as your champion if the need arose?”

“Not exactly. I am not sure if you could have succeeded or not.”

“But I have earned the right to try!”

“Yes you have. However, I was unwilling to chance that I may lose you.”

About to complain that it was not her choice to make, that if I lost it was because I had been bested, I suddenly remembered thoughts from earlier in the day. Of how I wanted to keep Sir Fodlum from battle and of how worried I was to learn that Dally was commanding the body of troops that were going to be attacked.

“You begin to understand.”

“Is that another reason that I am Princess Illudine? To teach me a lesson.”

“You think too highly of me if you believe that. If I had known that this would teach you a greater understanding of my nature, then you would have been gliding about in skirts long ago. No, it is as I said. The type of men who live on Delesion are more easily led by the current you, then by who you truly are.”

“Who is that?”

“Now, now, enough of that. We both know who you are.”

“But can I ever be that again, if you don’t trust me to be your champion...”

“Do you really think you do not hold my trust? If so, then I will release you from my service. I know Lord Wagnel would be pleased to have you as one of his Aides.”

“Oh no Milady! Please, never that. I am yours forever and will fill any role you want.”

“If that is so, then I do have a role I need somebody to fill. It is not the normal duties of champion, but it is most important at this time.”

“What is it Milady? I can do it.”

“Well my people of Delesion need to be distracted from what has befallen them. They need a Princess of Games, not to give them games of war, but ones of flirtation, love, lust, joy and even silliness. Would you be willing?”

“I would love nothing more.”

Later as I made my way out of the maze, I found Dally waiting. Spotting me, he blinked in surprise, before approaching me to say, “I did not expect to find you still here Princess.”

“The Goddess has need for me to stay as I am for the moment. Such is our life of service.”

“Aye, for instance we will likely never know the entire story behind this adventure.”

Apparently his God was not as open as was my Goddess. Yet neither did I feel like telling him everything I had learned, instead another matter was on my mind. “No, we likely never will. So what are you going to do now?”

“Well I thought I would stick around and attend the celebration party the Queen is hosting.”

“Oh a party? That sounds lovely.”

“Doesn’t it.” He grinned, mistaking my words for sarcasm.

“Oh by the way, I heard that while I played Lady of the Lake you won the championship.”

“After winning each of the competitions, I decided it was time.”

“You didn’t receive your reward.”

“No, I was well rewarded.”

“You misunderstand my Champion, I did not ask a question.”

“Oh?”

“Ohhhh!”

Afterward

I have often encountered the concept of Court of Love or gentility taken a step too far when reading history or fiction. In nearly all instance I cannot help but think how silly the entire thing appears to be. Therefore, when I chanced upon the idea of introducing my main character (for Stardust’s "What it was, was Magic!" contest) into such a court, I thought the results would be somewhat harsh in its condemnation of the practice. However, an idea for transition does not a story make, only begins.

While discovering the path the idea was taken I was somewhat surprised with what was happening. I had not planned to imbue the world with magic, despite the transition experienced by Sir Pasqel, yet it became the answer to everything. I thought there would be many characters conniving behind each other’s backs, yet that to did not happen.

In the end, the result is rather silly. Perfectly logical when we go back to my original thoughts on Courts of Love.

I’m content with those results. I hope you are as well.

Arcie Emm

Courtesy of Scoundrels

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Contests:

All Souls Day 2008 Story Contest

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Alister Juniper had experienced more than his share of terrible things in his young life, just as had any of those crammed into the poor quarters of the city. But then a fancy gentlemen found him, offering insight into his past and maybe a key to his future.

Courtesy of Scoundrels
by Arcie Emm

If for nothing else, Alister could feel thankful for the weather. Though overcast and cool, the rain and biting cold that had kept him tucked away in the freezing, though mostly dry garret during the last three days appeared to be taking a break. Lucky indeed, because hunger would have forced him onto the streets today, no matter the weather, and in his oversized, tattered boots and clothes, he surely would have caught a chill. He had always been sickly, which went a long way to explaining his stature, specifically his lack of it.

Yet his small size and gaunt features usually served him well on the streets, with cup in hand. The fortunate were more likely to sooth their own conscience by passing a few of their tightly held pennies to those who appeared the saddest, a group in which he usually fit. Today, though, was not one of those days. He would eat tonight, but would need to be back on the street tomorrow, good weather or bad.

Too many things worked against him today. The first thing to go wrong was his inability to secure a good spot, leaving him on the edge of the market, closer to the abattoirs than his nose liked, with little sympathetic traffic. Secondly, if he showed the energy to get someone’s attention, they disbelieved that he was as pathetic as he tried to look. Thirdly, his fear of someone robbing him forced him to spend as much time looking for those who preyed on the weak as for those who may help them. And lastly, resulting from the third issue, his constant darting glances make him look shifty, something sure to turn off the gentry.

It proved what he already suspected, he could not be successful alone. And to this point of his nearly sixteen years, difficult as they had been, he had not been. For the first twelve years he had Mam and Billy to look after him, to get him the good spots, to draw attention to his plight, to pocket coins (making them seem poorer than they were), and to keep the predators at bay. Allowed to work without distractions, he could provide enough to mostly keep them in room, clothes, and food, though it did require some nighttime activities, by their mother, to provide the rest. Those activities caught up to her four years back, when she had not awoken from a beating received at the hands of one of her customers. Then it had been just Billy and him. But Billy never was sick like Alister, maybe because his first four years had been happened before Mam had ended up, while carrying Alister, on the streets. Thus, at fifteen, Billy had all the size that Alister lacked, enough to get revenge on the bastard that did their Mam wrong and more than enough to protect Alister over the next four years, while his little brother begged the gentry for coin.

Billy also enjoyed taking coin from them. Though his preferred methods were burgling and muggings, something that had led him to getting nicked by the city watch, three nights before, leaving Alister all alone and with little hope for the future. During the long, unproductive day, he slowly came to the conclusion that he needed to find some others who would welcome him into their midst, probably the little empire run Tommy Tick-Tock, who had wandered past Alister’s spot multiple times that day, a questioning look on his face. Still, Alister was not sure he had the stomach to pay the price the former watchmaker would probably demand in exchange for protection.

Speaking of Tommy, once more he came into sight, but this time not alone. With him was an officer of The Piccadilly Butchers, dressed all fancy like in his riding boots, white trousers, red serge fastened with shiny buttons and white belt into which white, leather gloves were folded. Alister knew the type, arrogant bastards who’d rather ride down than toss a coin to a starving waif. The only time the bastards would even notice somebody like Alister was in the pursuit of their own cruel amusements.

At the moment Alister hoped to see the Tommy and the toff walk by, not liking the sneer on the officer’s face or the fact that he was with Tommy. He particularly did not like the way Tick-Tock was gesturing in his direction. Suddenly deciding it would be best to move on, he darted in the opposite direction from which the two came. Right into the arms of Lazy Eyed Dick.

“Where ya off ta in such a hurry, Ali? When Ole Tommy and the fine gentleman were hoping ta have words with ya.”

Despite the eye, there was nothing wrong with Tommy’s number one, bully boy’s ability to wield the knife that Alister felt pricking at his side. “Ahh, I didn’t notice, Dick. I was just off to find a better spot.”

“Aye, Ali, this ain’t the place for ya. Ya need ta talk ta Tommy, he has a better spot in mind.”

Sick to the stomach, Alister nodded his head in agreement, knowing there was nothing he could say to escape Dick’s clutch. And the idea of a violent escape, well that was just laughable. So he allowed himself to be shoved towards the two other men, everybody in the vicinity minding their own business and ignoring what was happening before their eyes.

“This one?” The officer asked, staring at Alister in surprise.

“Well Captain, I don’t think you meant Billy, Mary Juniper’s other son, the one the watch nicked.”

“Son? Really?”

Tommy sniggered and said, “Aye it’s hard to imagine, isn’t it. Still I swear Ali’s a boy, though you wouldn’t know it when he’s in a dress. He’s a real looker, ain’t he Dick?”

“Yes, indeed, Tommy. Led more than a few poor buggers to their doom, he has.”

Anger and embarrassment warred to make his face the redder, as Lazy Eye and Tick-Tock laughed. It wasn’t like the two implied at all. The tattered dresses he had often worn while begging on the street were good for business. Sad little girls found it easier to gain sympathy than did sad little boys, something also proved by today’s take. He did not feel embarrassed for having done it, but he had not known that others were aware of the other times. When he wore one of Ma’s old working dresses, out in the evening, tempting drunken men into alleys. But not to do what they wanted, instead he led them into the dark, Billy and his cudgel waited to conduct the next part of the transaction.

The officer did not join in the laughter, instead he just stared at Alister. Finally as slight smile came over his face and he said, “Yes, I see now.”

“What’s that, Captain?”

“This is who I’m looking for.”

“Happy to help, we are.”

“Worry not, you’ll get paid. Do you know The Silly Goat, by St. Anna’s Cathedral?”

“Aye, Captain. Though it’s not for my type.”

“No, I imagine not. Can you deliver our young friend there tonight?”

“Well...”

“Worry not, Tommy. There will be another of these waiting for you when you do.”

“Will do, Captain.”

“And Tommy.”

“Aye?”

“Make sure he has bathed first.”

Alister did not know whether to fight or shout. He has seen the flash of gold when the officer passed a coin to Tick-Tock. The man would definitely follow through with the delivery, making sure Alister did not escape, for another coin. Defeated, he slumped in Dick’s grasp.

***

Though Alister constantly watched for a chance to escape, none presented itself under the careful watch of Tick-Tock’s crew. Lazy Eyed Dick had dragged him from the market to Red Betty’s place, in order to get him the bath the officer had demanded. The hard faced woman had in turn taken the boy in hand just as if he were one of her girls. Forcing him to haul the water himself to fill the round metal tub in her kitchen, only one of the buckets spending any time on the stove, she first demanded he undress, then proved her wiry strength and forced him to do so. Soon he was crouched, sitting in the cold water, turning the water black, while the woman’s brush and caustic soap turned his skin an angry pink.

One saving grace was the woman’s disinterested demeanor, caring not or commenting not on his appearance, specifically his short comings. The second one was that she spared him the embarrassment of having Dick stay and watch, when she asked, “And how are yee going to dress the grimy, little blighter when’s I get him clean?”

“Why, his clothes.”

“Use yer noggin’ Dick. If his Lordship wanted him washed, do you really think he’ll be happy to see Ali show up in clothes stinkin’ worse than the boy currently smells hisself?”

“I guess not.” Thinking for a moment, a difficult task for the man, a smirk suddenly appeared on his face, “Why don’t ya put him in one of the dresses yar girls wear. Ali won’t mind. Will ya boy?”

“Yee ain’t paying me enough for that, Dick.”

He almost piped up at this, in anger that Dick was paying the woman with the money he had earned begging during the day, but Alister kept his silence. Although speaking may have interrupted Dick’s thoughts, before he struck gold. “What about Ali’s other duds, maybe those would work.”

“That’s using your noggin’, Dick. Where’s they at, boy?”

Alister maintained his silence despite a cuff to the back of the head. Dick, using up the remainder of his allocated thoughts for the month, answered for him. “Billy found hisself and Ali a garret in Bingle Alley, likes enough it’s there.”

“Like enough, you go get them and I’ll gets the boy clean.”

“Me?”

“I’m not going, yee’s not paying me enough to tramp all over when I could be doing better things.”

By the time the man was back, Alister was out of the tub, Betty having unbent enough to give him a shift with which to cover his nakedness, although he again wore his ratty boots. Combined with his long, damp, brown hair and delicate features, he looked more natural than wearing Billy’s cast-offs. It drew a laugh from the returning Lazy Eyed Dick, though it was the bundle of cloth in his arms that made Alister’s eyes burn with anger, more than the laugh. Resentment at the man rummaging through his and Billy’s place, something that would not have happened if Billy was free. Everybody, except Alister, knew and feared Billy’s temper.

“Pewww, boy haven’t you heard of water. It’s a good yer a pretty little thing, otherwise the smell of these clothes would have scared away all those men before they met Billy’s cudgel. I guess we’ll have to use some of my things after all, though I’ll be taking these in exchange, maybe they’ll be some use if cleaned.”

Dick did not notice the look of avarice in Betty’s eyes as she said this. To him, clothes were clothes. But Alister saw it, knowing the woman was aware that the cloak in which Dick had wrapped everything, and which Billy had taken from some drunk dandy, was of better quality than any of them had ever worn. Wishing they had sold the cloak when they had the chance, Alister glared from Dick to Betty before she scurried through to the next room with the bundle in hand. When she returned, she brought a threadbare dress and cloak of dark, grey wool and forced the boy to pull the first over his head.

“Blimey, its a bleedin’ wonder that ya look the way ya do, Ali. Can ya do something with his hair or sumthin’, Betty. His Lordship is paying enough, we may as well make Ali as pretty as he can be.”

Trying to fend off Betty’s hands only earned him a rap on the head from her brush. Defeated once more, he let her brush it out before arranging it into a bun. Fortunately Dick did not have anymore recommendations, nor did Betty offer any. Soon Tommy Tick-Tock showed up, laughed for a moment, and had Alister don the cloak, pulling the hood up over his head, trying to hide what the woman had done to accentuate what he in the past had himself exploited. Then they were out the door, the men on either side of the disguised boy, on their way to The Silly Goat.

Alister spared only a moment to realize that the fear of what was about to happen had completely driven away his hunger.

***

The Silly Goat was found outside the territory in which the three were comfortable, causing the two men to furtively look about and appear even more what they were. In turn, Alister preferred for everybody to assume he was who he appeared, having long ago adopted his mother’s advice, ‘I know you don’t want to Ali, so Billy won’t be sassing you none, if he know’s what’s what. But you would be best to not show that you don’t want to, ‘cause if you just seem to be who you appear to be, people will be less likely to notice.‘

Nobody, they passed, doubted what he appeared to be, a teenage whore with her whoremaster and his bully boy. So the only glances the three drew were in curiosity, since though the area around the inn was a better quality, their type were not uncommon. Alister knew that none of the lookers would care anymore about his plight than that of any girl in a like position, so he did not waste energy raising a ruckus, hoping for assistance. Fighting would come later, with the toff, when the tip of Dick’s knife no longer was making its presence known. Alone, with the toff, he would become the hellion Billy had taught him to become if he ever fell into this situation

The Silly Goat stood on a street more prosperous than those surrounding it, it having oil lanterns in place, most of them even having been lit. Still they preferred to stop in the shadows, just outside the circles of light cast by two of those lamps. Then they looked towards the mostly quiet inn, watching as two men entered and one left.

“I’ll be going to get the dandy, Dick. Stay here and keep ahold of Ali, don’t let him run away or the lost gold will be coming out of your hide.”

“Sure thing, boss. Ali won’t run anyway, will ya Ali?”

The sullen glance Dick received in answer, made the two men laugh. Clapping Dick upon the shoulder, Tommy moved out into the light and towards the inn. Waiting for his return, Dick broke their silence to say, “Ya know Ali, ya should look on this as a chance.”

Snorting, Alister said, “Some chance, to get buggered by some sick bastard.”

“Now Ali, ya know’s that we’uns don’t get good chances. But there’s no how yer going to last long without Billy looking after ya. Ya play it right, this fancy fellah could.”

Alister returned to ignoring the man, not saying that those same traitorous thoughts had already been tickling the edges of his own mind. Lots about his life was worthy of disliking, but he did it anyway, in order to survive. Would this really be any worse? He had seen what was at the end of either path, multiple orphans wasted away from hunger or his mother, never waking from her beating. Dick was right, he had no good chance. Nor did he need to yet make a decision, knowing that only at the actual moment would he learn how he would react, in which direction his true self would move.

The two did not wait in uncomfortable silence for long, as the inn’s door opened to disgorge Tommy and the officer. Nervously prattling, the first led the silent second towards their waiting point, though that worthy stopped two lampposts short and would not come any closer. They argued for a moment, before Tick-Tock gestured for the two to come forward.

Head bowed, Alister moved forward, crossing from darkness to light to darkness and back into light, curiosity forcing his head upwards to gauge the officer’s reaction. It was not what he had expected, the man’s ruddy face suddenly growing pale, as if in shock at the Alister’s appearance. It lasted only a moment, anger wiping away the surprise.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“What’s that, Captain.”

“Why is the boy dressed like this?”

“Well, Captain, you said you wanted him cleaned up an’ we just guessed.”

“Guessed that I’m some God-damned pervert, is that it, Man?”

“Well, then why’d you want Ali?”

“Not that you need to know, but it’s family obligations.”

“What?”

“Why young Master Alister is the last remaining child of my Uncle Leroy, even though he was born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

While Alister’s face assumed the look of shock, which had recently resided upon on his supposed cousin’s own face, a mulish one appeared on Tommy’s, both from the officer’s tone and at the realization he may have missed out on a chance. It turned his voice into a growl, as he said, “I don’t care’s if he’s the bloody King of Siam. We’ve done delivered him, now it’s time for our pay.”

“Oh yes, don’t worry about it, I wouldn’t forget.”

The two men watched him reach into a large pouch, different from the one earlier in the day. But instead of the glint of gold, the light bounced off the brass fittings of a cavalry holster. Tommy only had time to begin jerking backwards before the pistol ball provided more impetus to Tick-Tock’s last movement. Dick gaped, while Alister instinctively acted, elbowing the man in the gut and escaping from Lazy Eye’s grasp. However, curiosity about the officer’s claim of him being family, stopped him before ran too far.

Sneering at the winded thug, the officer said, “Well done, cousin.”

Drawing his hangar from its scabbard, he knocked aside Dick’s feebly raised dagger, and ran him through. Looking at Alister, holding him in place with a glance, the man listened, then shouted. “Help! I’m being robbed.”

***

The two bodies, provided ample reminder as to why Alister should follow his supposed cousin’s warning to hold in place, even though his instincts now urged him to flee. Casual and competent violence, which Tommy and Dick may have admired, if not for being its victim, turned his fear of the man into something more acceptable than the dread he had experienced during the walk from Red Betty’s. Thus Alister did not counter the explanation the officer, who introduced himself as Lieutenant Percival Hamilton, provided to the watchmen. Instead he silently accept the role the two new man assumed he filled.

“Well I was having a nice pork pie at The Silly Goat, have you ever tried one? No, you really should, they are rightly famous for them. But, anyway, I was eating my pie when this ruffian, the one with the red vest, came in to let me know he had something for me.

“Did I think it was strange? Not a whole lot, to be honest, I guessed he was from of of my fellows in the regiment. You see, well...umm, please don’t go bandying this about, but we are always on the lookout for...umm company, yes company that may interest our friends. Then we arrange for them to meet this umm...company.”

“The Tart?” The older of the watchmen asked, nodding in Alister’s direction, not showing his amusement at learning about the indiscretions of his betters.

Hamilton was a fine actor, sighing, almost as if he was just a regular fellow caught out for something embarrassing, instead of trying to explain away two murders. “Aye, her. But I swear, as soon as I spotted her, I told them she was too young for me and to be on their way. They were none too pleased with this and that is when I spotted the larger one wielding a knife. I’m afraid I acted as if I was back on the peninsula, going for my pistol which I had in my pouch, because this isn’t the safest neighbourhood, and fired.

“Oh no, in that I was fortunate. The girl, apparently liking her fellows no more than I, elbowed the one with the knife, giving me time to draw my sword, the demned thing catching as I did so. But I was able to knock aside his attack and with a riposte as pretty as any my fencing instructor ever saw me perform, I ran the poor beggar through.”

The watchman looked at Percival with a calculating look, but the explanation had been chock full of the reactions to be expected from someone who had fended off a robbery. From the embarrassment about the tart, to the seeming pride at the way he had taken out the thugs, it made sense. Particularly since he did not see any reason for the officer to hunt down the two men, then call for help, while the dead men looked like the sort who would not hesitate to rob some fop, like the officer. Still, he decided it was necessary to hear the prostitute’s version of what happened. “You, girl, what’s your name.”

Having learned at an early age to never give the watchmen his real name, Alister was quick to respond. “Edna Smith, Yer Honour.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“It’s like the young gentleman said, Yer Honour. Tommy and Dick, they’s these two, picked me up earlier and said they had sumthin’ for me to do. They’s terrible mean, so I dinna argue. They brought me here and then they got in a fight and Mr. Lieutenant Hamilton did ‘em in. I’m not sorry either, nor will many be.”

That was enough for the watchmen. They did not doubt what the tart said, the dead men were not the type that anybody would ever miss. All this affair did was spare the city the money to arrest and hang the two at some later point.

“Very well then, it looks like these villains met their just end. Still, my superiors may be interested in discussing the matter further with you, Lieutenant Hamilton.”

“Of course.” Percival agreed, informing the men it was easiest to get in touch with him at his regimental headquarters.

“Very well, Sir. And Edna.”

“Yes, Yer Honour?”

“I think it best that you find your way back to where you belong.”

“Umm...maybe I should escort her.”

The watchman considered the lieutenant, guessing that the excitement had aged young Edna enough in the Captain’s eyes, turning her into someone who could help him celebrate his victory. It really was no business of his and the pretty girl looked like she needed to make some coin to feed herself. So he said, “If you wish, Lieutenant.”

“Umm...yes, yes then. Come, young lady, let’s get you away from this terrible place and back to your home.”

Alister accepted his supposed cousins hand on his arm, guiding him to and past The Silly Goat. Turning a corner, out of sight of the watchmen who waited for the meat wagon, the man said, “Well done. You followed my lead perfectly back there.”

“What else could I do, cousin. Besides, we have so much to talk about.”

Turning a predatory smile towards Alister, Percival said, “Yes, yes we do. But it can wait until we are someplace private.”

***

That private place turned out to be Percival’s home, a townhouse joined to three others, many blocks away from the inn, Alister spent the last number of these covered in the officer’s cloak, its large size hiding him from prying eyes, as to be expected from a young man sneaking a lady of the evening into his home. However, the secrecy rekindled Alister’s nerves, making him wonder if the two-faced man had been lying all along. Still, it was too late to run.

Yet as soon as the two were behind closed doors, Percival began trying to calm his young companion. First, helping him off with the cloak, to be hung from a hook by the door. Then, directing him to a chair at a table, the captain rummaged in cupboards to find cheese and bread, placed them in front of Alister and began to prepare some tea. Not until he had finished, pouring a cup for the boy, who barely chewed the food he ate, and for himself, did he take a seat, across the table.

“Well I am sure that you have an awful lot of questions, but first let me fill you in with some background, before you ask them. Is that okay?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Besides it will give you time to finish your meal. More tea?”

“Yes, please.”

While filling the cup that Alister had already quickly emptied, Percival gathered his thoughts, as he leaned back in his chair. “Right then. As you probably heard, while I spoke to the watch, my name is Percival Hamilton of the Wentworth Hamiltons. But all you need to know about the Hamiltons is that my father’s sister, Dianne, married Master Leroy Chester, whose family owes their wealth to the textile industry. With her, Uncle Leroy, had three children, my cousins Spencer, Forest, and Eleanor. Privileged children, they lacked for nothing while young, maybe that is why they were given such a rough go of it as they grew into adulthood.

“I suppose nobody should have been surprised by what happened to the boys. Like me, Spencer always wanted to be in the cavalry, and with Boney trying to conquer the world, old Spence had the opportunity. Sadly that opportunity led the poor boy and the rest of the 23rd Light Dragoons, to the Tagus valley in Spain, specifically to Talavera, where from all accounts he died a hero. As for Forest, nobody ever expected him to die as a hero, he proved us all right by falling down the stairs at the country house and breaking his neck, two years after Spence’s passing. Probably the fall was wine induced, Forest did have a weakness, but if so it was kept all hush-hush, don’t you know, Dear Uncle Leroy making it out to be a dreadful accident.

“This left only sweet, spoiled Eleanor. Her father doted on her, particularly after my Aunt Dianne and the boys left the two of them alone, and despite causing all sorts of mischief, her father always passed blame onto others. Maybe, if he had reined her in earlier he would not have found himself trying, last year, to avert the scandal that his unwed darling was with child. Probably the get of one of the servants, though my uncle could never determine which. And despite his demands, Eleanor refused to make the matter go away as expected from unwise daughters of her class, believing it to be a symbol of the love with her unnamed beau. A bad decision, her being a little slip of a thing, much like you. The pregnancy was troubled from the start and only grew worse. Neither she nor the babe survived, Uncle Leroy has been devastated ever since.”

Listening to the man, Alister detected the anger in Percival’s voice at any mention of his uncle. He began to suspect that he had not been tracked down, by the officer, to bring about a happy reunion. He asked, “And me? Where do I fit in?”

“You, young Alister, you were the cause of the first scandal that Uncle Leroy ever dealt with, though that time his own fault. He has always preferred staying at the townhouse, close to his businesses, while Aunt Dianne preferred the country house. And so, while in the city, he sought solace from her absence in the arms of a string of willing mistresses. One such was a recently widowed woman, hired on as a maid, by the name of Mary Juniper.”

He was not surprised to hear his mother’s name. It fit with what little he had been told by his mother, whom he had never heard speak the name of the man in whose employ she had worked and whose bed she had warmed. Alister expected the rest of the story to also match.

“Well as cousin Eleanor learned, such dalliances have unintended consequences. Nor did Uncle Leroy act with any more grace that first time. Yet even then he had a gift for covering up scandals, paying off a number of his servants to come forward and admit the child might be theirs, making the woman out to be a harlot. The groundwork finished, he was able to cast her out of his household. From there, I guess you are more aware of what happened than I.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed. Anyway, I recently had the story from one of those servants, whom I found deep in his cups at a tavern lamenting how unhappy has become the Chester household, some even thinking it has been cursed. This led to my starting my search to find you, hoping that you may ease my uncle’s sorrows. You cannot believe how happy I was to finally find you this afternoon, for as soon as I spotted you I doubted not that you had Chester blood.”

“And now you plan to use me to use me to blackmail your dear uncle?”

The predator was back, the sudden glare smoothing the way for the wolfish smile. “Yes, despite your appearance, you are not an innocent are you? It’s easy to forget, even I, so soon after the death of those thugs left not a single one of your feathers ruffled, had done so. And yes, though blackmail is such a dirty word, in you I did hope to obtain us, his closest living relatives, what we deserve. Look at us, me left with an allowance that barely keeps this, my parent’s house, from creditors and me up to the standards of an officer in the Life Guards. There is definitely no money to pay for the manservant expected of a gentleman, nor to buy a captaincy if one became available. And yet I live like a king compared to you, his own flesh and blood. No let us not call it blackmail, it is claiming our birthright.”

Alister recognized the reasoning to be complete balderdash, but knew most rogues needed to explain away their crimes. It was why Lazy Eyed Dick had tried to convince him he was being sold into a better life, just as it was why Billy and Alister, after mugging another mark, would discuss how evil a man must be to want to take advantage of poor, sad looking Ali. Only the most black hearted of scoundrels did not care, often disparaging the excuses of their fellows, instead of courteously accepting them.

“How?”

“Pardon?”

“How do you plan for us to claim our birthright?”

“Then you’re in?”

“Maybe, depending upon the plan.”

“Well I must admit to not having one yet in place. It did not seem worth the effort to create one until I knew you actually existed.”

“Okay, I can understand that.”

“But I do have an idea or two, though they require more thought before I put them into words.”

“How long?”

“A day or two at the most. Though, of course, my house is yours while you wait.”

It was an offer filled with risk, but was it any worse than he would face if he returned to the streets? Alister did not think so, at their worst, both would lead to death. But at its best, this gambit may keep him off the street, because there the best equaled the worst. Yet first he tested his potential co-conspirator, seeing if he could be pushed, trying to determine how desperate was the man.

“I am willing to listen, but I have a condition.”

“A condition?”

“Yes, to prove that you are trustworthy.”

“And how in turn will you prove that you in turn are trustworthy, cousin.”

“I don’t need to be trustworthy, I just need to be afraid of you. And you have ensured that with the ease you dispatched Tommy and Dick, I doubt not you could do away with me, even more easily.”

Looking at his small cousin, dressed as a prostitute, brought forth another of the predator’s grin. “It is good to see you are fully aware of your situation, Alister. It will make for a better partnership. Very well then, what is your condition? I will not promise to accept it, but I am filled with good will, at the moment, and am willing to listen.”

“It’s my brother Billy, the watch got him four days ago, I want you to get him out of the clink.”

“And why would your brother be in the clink?”

“He was accused of burglaring a house in Queen’s crossing.”

“And did he?”

“Oh, of course not.” Alister said, his smile inviting Percival into the lie.

“Burglary, hmm? Those skills may prove useful to our future plans. Very well then, I will see what I can do.”

“Oh, thank you, Percival!”

***

Percival proved prescient, his house seemed like paradise to Alister. It was dry and warm, had food in the cupboards, and soft feather beds in which to sleep, tucked beneath a goose down quilt. It seemed a small price to have nothing to wear other than the shift and dress. For the first time, in a very long time, Alister felt comfortable. He would happily accept this waiting to last forever, then it was over. Three evenings after his arrival, his landlord returned home from his daily business with a welcome companion.

“Billy!” Alister yelled, rushing to give his brother a hug, trying to ignore the grime and stench from prison. Cleanliness had also played its part in seducing him to this place.

Accepting the hug, Billy gently separated from Alister, looked at the way he was dressed, to Percival, and questioned, “Ali?”

From Billy, the diminutive of his name never came across as insulting. That acceptance had manifested in treating his brother the same, be he in dress or trousers. So as he silently asked the question, it was without judgment, for he had hoped, while locked away, that Alister would seek protection, even in this manner.

“No Billy, it’s not like that. Apparently Percival’s my cousin.”

“What?”

Looking to Percival for permission, Alister told his brother what had happened, drawing a raised eyebrow when Billy heard about Tommy and Dick. Then he explained Percival‘s intentions.

“Bastard deserves it, specially after how he did Mam.” Billy said, but then the only part of the Bible that he thought had any value was Exodus 21.

“Ahh, excellent.” Percival said, interrupting the reunion. “And, it just so happens I have finally come up with a plan. Why don’t we adjourn to the kitchen, so that Billy can deal with his hunger while I explain.”

This time, it was Alister who moved about the kitchen, preparing tea and getting Billy his food, there having been silent agreement between the two that left him taking on many of the roles which matched his appearance, as payment for room and board. Percival proved content to wait until they all had a plate and cup before them before he began to speak.

“During the last few days I have thought much about this, which made me recognize that Uncle Leroy is a tough old bugger, who would fight any attempted blackmail with his not insignificant powers. I realized we have to weaken him first, before we can get our due.”

“We’s going to rough him up?” Billy asked.

“Certainly not. Instead we are going to prey upon his mind.”

The brothers looked at each other, their shared confusion showing on both faces. Alister said, “I don’t follow.”

“No, of course, without knowing him, you wouldn’t. See, despite appearing to be an upright, God-fearing gentleman, he is devilishly superstitious. Probably the result of being raised by a nanny who, the few times I met her before she passed away, was a crazy old bat who believed in ghosts and ghouls. He mostly hides it, but everybody knows he built the new townhouse, because he thought his father was haunting the old one. Complete balderdash, no scientific thinking gentleman would ever believe such a thing, knowing instead that it was a manifestation of guilt, probably for having done the old man wrong in some fashion.

“Personally, I have never believed in such a thing. But I swear, when I saw you, Alister, cross from the darkness into the lamp light, outside The Silly Goat, for a moment it felt as if I was staring at the ghost of my cousin Eleanor.”

That explained the look he had seen on Percival’s face, thought Alister, while guessing where the man was headed with his thoughts. “Don’t tell me that you expect me to become her ghost for real. Not only am I not her, or any her, I’m also very much alive, and therefore unqualified.”

Billy, more familiar with sneaking about houses in the dark of night, did not make any such protests. Instead, he asked, “How?”

Ignoring Alister, Percival answered Billy. “The second reason for the new townhouse, was to sooth my uncle’s ego. As a result the place is huge, full of rooms and back ways, easy to move about undetected and to get away if it does happen. I know Spence and I, as boys, drove more than a few staff members to distraction trying to find us, after we had disappeared for entire afternoon without going outside. And that was in the days when the house bustled with people, now it only houses my uncle, the butler, the cook, and four maids.”

“It don’t have a night watchman?”

“Ah yes, I had forgotten Charles, a trooper from Spence’s regiment, who was injured at Talavera, trying to get my cousin to safety. But you need not worry about him. He hobbles about with a cane and dulls his aches with cheap liquor. He is no worry.”

“Still have to get by him, unless you knows another way in.”

“Why yes, I do. A gift from Forest, if you will, given to me while helping him return home, none the wiser, after he snuck from his bedroom for a night of carousing and ended up only being able to find the way to my door. ‘Tis the key for the door between his balcony and his rooms. Which is in the back of the house, with an easy to climb trellis providing access to the balcony.”

“Is there now?” Billy asked. “Mayhap's I should take a look see first, before Ali and I go committing to anything. Iffen, Your Lordship, is willing to part his key and tell me where to find this place?”

A scowl met this request. Percival saying, “And what’s to stop you from robbing the place and running off.”

“You’se got Ali, I won’t run without him. ‘Sides, any hauntin’s going to be a two man job, Ali will need a watcher so’ns he don’t get caught. I suspect that will be my job, ‘less, Your Lordship, plans to do it.”

Indecision warred within Percival. He saw himself as the boss of this caper, but found it hard to disagree with what Billy said, after all he had expected the two brothers to do the inside work together. Finally deciding, he would have to trust Billy, he said, “Very well then, let’s go. By the time we get there, it will be dark enough for you to go look about.”

Billy just nodded, being fully aware from his past experience, that uneasy trust first had to be overcome before a burglar team could work together. Besides the not-so-fancy-boy officer seemed to be made of sterner stuff than that skunk Freddy, whose blabbing had led to Billy’s capture. And Percival had paid off the clink’s guards to free him from that capture, so Billy felt he owed him an honest effort. Soon the two of them were once heading out the door.

Alister, miffed at the way they had ignored him, seeming to believe they could decide his fate for him, waited and worried that things would not go as smoothly as Percival thought. Instead of returning to the small, luxurious seeming bedroom he had claimed for his own, he settled into an old armchair to bide his time until they returned. Hours later he was jerked awake by friendly laughter being shared between the two men. Rising from his seat, he hurried out to the entranceway.

Seeing him, a large smile appeared on Billy’s face and he said, “Ahh Ali, his lordship were right, it’s a grand place for a ghost.”

***

They did not rush willy-nilly into their haunting endeavor, each recognizing the wisdom in careful planning, much of that falling upon the experienced Billy’s head, which caused him to return, on nearly a nightly basis, to further scout the townhouse. During the day, he and Alister would try to come up with ways of bringing about ghostly encounters with it residents. They then presented these to Percival, who continued to conduct his business as if nothing was different, for approval. Rarely balking at these ideas, Percival contented himself by adding details to match the quirks of the willful Eleanor. That always seemed his main concern, for Alister to appear as much like Eleanor as possible. It started the night after Billy’s arrival, when he fetched a locket containing a tiny portrait of his dead cousin.

Looking from the painting, to a mirror, and back, Alister was forced to admit. “Yeah, I guess I do kinda look like her.”

“More than that. If you fix your hair like hers and maybe wear make-up, you will become even a better match.”

“Oh, that’s rather more than I had expected.”

“You need to look as much like Eleanor as possible.”

“I guess. Okay then, how do I go about doing it?”

“You know.” Percival said, point a finger at his head and twirling it about.

Recognizing, by the idiotic gesture, that Percival had no clue what to do, while at the same time assuming Alister knew, made the potential ghost realize it was time for a reminder. “No I don’t know. Remember, I’m a boy. Sure, my hair is long and I’ve worn a dress enough not to be bothered by one, but the only make-up I’ve ever used has been dirt.”

“Oh! Right, I never thought. It’s too easy to forget you’re Alister, not Ali.”

“I’m both, but not the Eleanor we need me to be. I’ll need help for that.”

“I can’t help.” Percival said, almost in alarm.

“I hadn’t expected you to, but I’m going to need somebody.”

“Oh? I’ll find somebody then.”

***

Two morning later, Alister made his first foray out of the house, since his arrival nearly a week before. Accompanying him was Billy, clean and dressed in an old suit of Percival’s. In turn, Alister still wore the clothes from Red Betty’s, something their current errand hoped to remedy.

With thoughts of making Alister appear even more like Eleanor, Percival had approached one of his friends, known for his rather eclectic tastes. From the man, Percival had obtained the name and address of an establishment, along with a promise to pass along word to the proprietress about Alister’s manufactured desire to look more like a girl. A fake desire that common sense threatened to override as they turned onto the street that held the establishment.

“Bloody Hell , Billy. How could I’ve got myself into this?”

“Aye, it’s a plan that could land us all in Bedlam.”

“What? I thought you believed it was brilliant?”

“Nah, it’s as like ta end in disaster as success. But if it succeeds, we’ll be rich beyond our dreams and ‘tis a sight more comfortable at Percy’s than in the clink or our garret.”

“Yeah, I like that part too.”

“Still, it’s up ta you. Say the word and we’ll keep walking and leave it behind.”

That’s what he thought they should do, but greed and a thirst for revenge took the other side of the argument. They proved persuasive, finally causing him to say, “Well I guess it won’t hurt to see this Madame Heston. We can still run if it gets too strange.”

“It’s up ta you, Ali.”

Before sense returned, Alister turned towards the house, marched up to the door, and used the knocker. It did not take long before it was opened by a perfectly normal looking, middle-aged housewife. As she look questioningly at them, he felt sure they had been led astray. However, on the off chance they had not been, he said, “We’re friends of Dally’s, he said he was going to let you know we was coming.”

A smile answered this, the woman saying, “Ahh, yes, dear Dally, he always does have the most delightful of friends. Do come in, won’t you?”

Leading them to a delicately decorated parlour, she looked the two over, her gaze settling upon settling upon Alister, and asked, “And how may I help you, Dear?”

Alister had rehearsed an entire speech, but found himself blurting out the most simple of lies instead. “I want to look more like a girl, but don’t know how.”

“Well you are well on your way already, most would not guess you are not who you appear to be.”

“But I don’t know what else to do. The hair and the clothes and the make-up and all. I, I want to look like her.”

This was the step that had made Percival the most nervous. Handing over the locket with the painting of Eleanor inside. He had worried that the mysterious Madame Heston would be familiar with the girl and may begin to wonder who Alister could be. But when she opened the locket to look inside there was no recognition, instead she turned once more to look at him.

“We could come close, but my services do not come cheap.”

This last was said as she looked at the clothing the two wore. Billy, in his role as manservant, answered, “My Master had a figure from his friend.”

Watching him hand over a purse for the woman to check, Alister tried not to blush at the seeming admittance that he was some gentleman’s mistress. Instead he remembered the spectacle Percival had raised while handing over that purse, cursing at the cost and bemoaning the fact that he would need to stay away from his favourite entertainments until the next allowance arrived from his uncle.

“Yes that will do quite nicely. You, young man, take a seat here. My maid will bring you tea. And you, young lady, won’t you please follow me?”

They ended up in what Alister guessed too be a sewing room. There Madame Heston summoned her maid, passing on instructions about the tea and to fill the bath, then having him stand in the middle of the room, she slowly circled about him, viewing him from all angles, from far and near.

“Yes, then off with your boots and out of your dress, Dear. And your shift as well. No need to blush, you are not the first I have helped. Yes, stand there a moment, let me look again. My you are the lucky one, so rarely are those that come to me as fortunate in their appearance as you. True, we could wish you had a bit more flesh on your bones, in order to give you a better bosom, but the girl in your picture is not rich in that area either. Agnes, is the bath ready?”

“Just one more bucket to heat, Madame.”

“Hurry Agnes, we have much work to do. And you, my Dear, how would you be called?”

“Ali, Madame.”

“Lovely as you are. While we wait let’s discuss clothing. Do you know what you seek?”

“Not exactly, Madame.”

“Are you wanting formal wear?”

“Oh no, just everyday stuff.”

“You will be dressing every day?”

“That is my hope.”

“Very well then. Your Master’s purse shall see you have the start of a fine wardrobe. Two day dresses, undergarments, a coat, a pair of boots, slippers for inside, and all the necessary accessories.”

“And a pretty, white nightgown?” Alister asked, trying to hide the blush at what could be implied by this request, but unwilling to say that such a nightgown would be perfect, ghostly wear.

“Of course. Do you have a colour preference for your dresses?”

“Whatever you think best, Madame.”

“Wonderful. Ahh, yes, Agnes, is the bath ready?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Excellent. Now, Ali, let us adjourn next door to the bath. It is time to begin your day.”

Something, probably the casual manner in which the woman and her maid treated the situation, set him at ease. He trusted her to help him be whom he was pretending to be, seemingly the perfect confidante, accepting the abnormal as normal. In the bath he found himself using a scented soap, gentle compared to that from Betty’s, even in comparison to what was available at Percival’s. Finished with the bath, his hair still wet despite a good rubbing, he pulled on a pair of white, woolen stockings, fastening them with garters over his knees. Next was a cotton shift, with short-sleeves, a drawstring at its scooped neckline, that fell to just below the top of his stockings. The stays, which followed, made from a cotton drill patterned with small, blue flowers on a white background., proved not nearly as uncomfortable as Alister expected, hugging rather than squeezing. Though it did create small bumps and the cleft that went along with them.

Judged decent, Madame Heston had him take a seat in a chair, where she use a brush and scissors to straighten out his hair. What followed was a lengthy lesson in the creation of pin curls and buns, which in the end left him with a wide ribbon tied around his head, knotted at his skull, and holding together a mass of curls on his head, his very own hands having done the work at her guidance.

“I noticed that your young lady in the picture has the pale skin of the well-to-do, paler than yours. Do you seek it, as well?”

Not mentioning how good it would be for a ghost, he nodded his head and was swept into another lesson dealing with whiteners, rouge, and eyebrow blackening. It left him stunned, seeing Eleanor appear before him in the mirror. Staring at her he barely heard Madame Heston’s warning.

“There are rumours that using make-up is bad for your health. I cannot swear to either the truth or lie in that, so I recommend you only use it on special occasions. Of course, becoming yourself for the first time is a special occasion, so feel free to leave it on for today.”

Still amazed by his appearance, he was easily led through the rest of his dressing, Madame Heston having an assortment of ready made items available, although somewhat limited for someone as small as he, unlike her normal clientele. As a result he ended up wearing brown leather half boots and dressed in a green, long-sleeved day dress. But that was not the entirety of his new clothing, in two carpet bags had been place more undergarments, the nightgown, a pair of leather soled green satin slippers with pointed toes, and a like pair in lavender silk, to be worn with a periwinkle, short-sleeved day dress, made of muslin, when he felt like staying in doors and being pretty.

Barely recognizing himself, he was swept along by her enthusiasm, offering murmurs of agreement when it seemed appropriate. Desperately wishing he had kept going when offered the chance by Billy, he gave a mental shake at his confident contention that they could decide to run after the seeing what Madame Heston was all about. There was no chance he would return to his past looking the way he now did. Instead, he eagerly wished for the safety of the Percival’s house

Realizing he should make some appreciative noises, in case he ever needed the woman’s assistance again, Alister dredged up the energy for fake ebullience, thanking her for making his dreams come true. Madame Heston, for her part, was thrilled with the result and accepted his thanks with the smile of a skilled craftsman. She then helped him on with a long, green, woolen coat, buttoned right up to the lace ribbon, holding his bonnet upon his head, beneath his chin. Offering him green wool gloves which he pulled on with some difficulty, she circled him one more time, looking for something out of place, but finding everything perfect. Shaking her head in pleased amazement, she led him back to the parlour where they found a napping Billy.

Alister could have almost found it comical the way Billy started awake, staring at him in surprise, rubbing his eyes before looking again, forgetting his place as manservant, and blurting out as the prideful, older brother. “Criminy Ali, you’re beautiful.”

Thanking Madame Heston, and Agnes, one more time for their efforts, Alister finally escaped, leading to a quiet walk home. Billy stopping immediately each time he began to speak, feeling confused about his drastically altered brother. One thing for sure, he was not going to offer that they keep on walking and leave it all behind.

***

Alister’s transformation at Madame Heston’s proved a turning point for the conspirators, wiping away any doubt that they would proceed with their plans. Each grew more serious and felt a greater urgency. They finalized their plans, Billy confirming hiding spots and locations within the sleeping house during the next nights, while Percival filled Alister’s head with knowledge about Eleanor, even trying to have him recreate her voice. The result was not perfect, but most would expect a ghost’s voice to be changed, so they accepted the slight differences, particularly since they intended him to be a silent ghost.

So it was, five nights after his further feminization, that Alister slathered his face in whitening, this time unrelieved by rouge or blackening. Over the pure white nightgown from Madame Heston’s, he pulled on his original, poorly fitted, Betty dress, it and the matching cloak covering his ghostly garment until they were inside the Chester townhouse.

Once on the quiet streets, scurrying to keep up with Billy’s pace, Alister felt his heart beating nervously at the thought of what they were about to do. Just like those times when the two had slipped from their garret, he in the fancy lady’s dress, to go hunting. The possibility of something going wrong, like the unwanted curiosity of a watchman or running into someone more prepared than they, felt exactly the same. Yet he could not deny the excitement at the possibility of the ridiculous plan succeeding and the very idea of acting against the world, instead of waiting for it to act against him. It made him feel alive, giving him the energy to keep up to his brother’s pace.

They slowed, Billy looking about for night owls, before pulling him into the darkened shadows of an alley entrance. There he pointed at a large house down the street and quietly said, “There it is. You wait here a moment, I’m going to circle about and see if anything looks out of place.”

Nodding his head, despite his worry at being left alone, Alister watched his brother slip away, fading quickly into the shadows. It was this ability to seemingly disappear which explained why Billy was out scouting alone, for Alister did not have the same knack. Instead, he was better at being the distraction. Yet it is a nervous thing to be a distraction, appearing weak, and relying so much on those unseen to be your protector. And he was glad to see the shadowy figure of Billy, recognizable by the walk, returning from the opposite direction from which he had left.

With Alister now in hand, the two reversed back along the path from which Billy had just come, what he had most recently confirmed to be in place. Soon they fetched up against the back of the house, facing a small, darkened park housing one of the city’s many statues. Seeing Billy point to a balcony and an almost ladder like trellis, Alister began climbing, not seeing his brother glance about nervously after spotting the white of the nightgown peeking out from beneath his dress, almost like a signal flag. After hauling himself over the iron railing, it proved a short wait for Billy, who pulled a key from around his neck, to join him. They moved to the sturdy wooden door leading into the house. It opened smoothly, Billy having ensured the hinges and lock were well oiled during his previous visits.

Inside Forest’s suite, the middle of the three children’s suites, just as he had been the middle child, the two quietly waited, listening to see if their entrance had been noticed. Deciding everything was fine, Billy nodded for Alister to get ready, which led to the younger brother removing his cloak and dress, handing both to his brother to be stuffed into a cupboard. Next, he removed the ribbon from his hair, to be exchanged for the nightcap in Billy’s coat pocket, first letting his pin-curled hair fall down, before gathering most of it underneath the cap. He was ready.

Ghosting along behind Billy, Alister followed him through to the next suite, Eleanor’s, the simple lock on the door adjoining the two rooms proving no hindrance to Billy’s talents. It was a test of his will. He did not believe in ghosts, yet he felt if they did exist, this would be the moment he found out about them. But it was just another quiet and dark room, no spirits waiting to avenge his usurpation, its emptiness offering the only impact upon his psyche.

Cracking the door open a slit, Billy looked for restless residents. Finding none, he opened it wider, gesturing Alister out on the landing surrounding the wide and open staircase down to the main floor and holding the doors to the family’s suites, only one of which was occupied. It was here Eleanor would haunt.

Arriving at the bookshelf, chosen by Billy as to where he should first be spotted, he looked about in approval. From here he could see almost everything; the doors to the other suites, the open area at the bottom of the stairs, many of the doors on the third floor, where the guest rooms and servant’s quarters were found, and he could even see the stairs, at the far wall, used by those servants. Yet, at the same time, it was close to the escape of Eleanor’s room and within range of whispered orders from Billy. He turned, looked back to nod at his brother, then winced as Billy slammed Eleanor’s door shut, almost immediately opening it again to share the watch.

A nervous wait began, wondering if anybody had heard the noise, if it had woken people from their slumber, if they would come to investigate, or if it would be treated as just another night sound in the big house. In the end, Alister did not need Billy’s hissed warning to hear the clumping walk, he been told to expect from Charles, the night doorman. Turning as if looking for a book in the bookshelf, he did not flinch as the glow of the man’s lantern crept upwards from the floor below.

He waited.

“Now.”

At the whispered command, Alister assumed his most pathetic look, which he used while begging, then turned, looking over the railing towards where the gaping man stood. Watching Charles’ eyes widen and his mouth drop, Alister stared, no change in his own expression. Only when the man took an involuntary step forward, did he react. Letting a pout, which Percival had told him was a common fixture on Eleanor’s own face whenever she was caught doing something improper, wash away the pathetic look, he turned away from the man, almost seeming to glide in his nightgown, Alister moved to and through Eleanor’s door, Billy slamming it shut behind him.

Now was the time for hurry, the two scurried through into Forest’s room, locking this door behind them, waiting to hear if curiosity or fear would earn pride of place in Charles’ thoughts. At first it seemed the second, but then they heard the clumps on the landing outside Forest’s door, lantern light sneaking underneath, accompanied by a steady mutter. “It’s the drink. Has to be the drink. I cannot of seen the young miss. I cannot have.”

Following this, they heard the door to Eleanor’s open, though the doorman did not enter, seemingly content to only look inside. Seeing nothing amiss, Charles closed it again and retreat the way he had come, still muttering. “See Charles, yer just being daft. It wasn’t the young miss, just yer imagination.”

This was as much as they had hoped to accomplish for their night, to create a mystery, it was time to leave. Sharing a grin, they reversed the steps of their arrival, and made their way back to Percival’s. Only then did they let lose the laughter that had been building up inside.

***

The second night of their haunting was an exact replica of the first. They took the third day off, only to repeat it on the fourth. On the fifth they received no response, no matter how many times they slammed the door. Worried, they retreated back to Percival’s, questioning what had gone wrong.

That mystery was solved the next day, when Billy made his way to the tavern that the always talkative Charles visited during the afternoon, to have a drink with his cronies. There he overheard the man lamenting how nobody believed that he had seen Miss Eleanor’s ghost and that he was now ignoring her when she crossed back into the land of the living. Discussing this at supper that evening, the three conspirators decided it was time to go after their second target, the maids. Despite their admiration for the women’s victory over dust, even in the unused suites of the dead children, which allowed the haunters to move about without leaving sign of their mischief.

So one night later, the two brothers once more found themselves in the house and Eleanor’s suite. But this time they had work to do before they drew any attention to their presence.

Opening the door to the bed chamber off the sitting room, the two entered and began opening closets until Alister spotted what they were after, a white linen nightgown, alike enough to the one he wore as to make no difference. Taking the somewhat musty item from where it hung, he arranged it upon the quilt as if it held someone’s sleeping form. Meanwhile Billy opened the curtains in both rooms, letting the full moon shine in, making both nightgowns seem to glow. Lastly, Alister returned to the sitting room, where he took a book of Shakespeare's sonnets, which Percival had informed them was Eleanor’s favourite, from the desk, back into the bed chamber. There, struggling with his poor reading skills, taught to him using the family Bible by his mother, though it had long ago disappeared, he looked for Sonnet LVII, again per Percival’s recommendation. Finding it marked by a folded piece of paper, he passed that to Billy to be shoved out of sight into a pocket, he sat the book, opened to the sonnet, on a pillow.

Taking a deep breath, trying to dispel his nerves, Alister went through the ingrained procedure of opening the door to the landing. However, this time he did not move out onto the landing, instead he stood within its frame, only his shadow, cast by the pale beams of moonlight, establishing his presence outside of Eleanor’s rooms. There he waited, eyes darting about, watching for anybody, while Billy ventured back into the bed chamber to pull a wire, connected to a bell in the room of one of the maids.

They waited, but there was no reaction. Again Billy pulled the wire, then one more time. Alister had begun to think that the bell had been disconnected when he notice a crack appear in the door frame of one of the third floor’s rooms. Turning his gaze towards it, the pout in place, he watched as that crack grew larger, candle-light filling it, then the room’s occupant, cautiously crept out, hesitantly looking over the banister, and locking gazes with Alister.

She screamed.

Not having expected this reaction, Alister quickly backed into the room, turning a questioning look towards Billy. His brother did not even stop to think, rushing into Forest’s room, locking the door as soon as Alister followed. Opening the cupboard he dug out Alister’s old dress and tossed it to him. Catching the urgency, the younger brother spared no time pulling it over his head, not worrying about the nightcap. Just as quickly he wrapped the cloak around him, now hearing shouted questions from beyond the suite’s door. They had stirred up the rat’s nest, it was best to get out quickly. On the balcony, the door locked behind them, Billy did not even wait for Alister to climb down the trellis, instead he picked his brother up and like a trapeze artist, hung him over the side of the railing, dropping him the last number of feet, to tumble upon his bum. In turn, he barely touched more than three of the trellis’ rungs before he jumped down, landing in a crouch, once more picking up Alister, who was holding a foot, a grimace on his face, Billy ran for the shadows, ducking into the alley they used every time they had ghosted into the townhouse.

There he set Alister down, offering his arm as support as they turned to look at the house, watching lantern light chase away moonlight from within Eleanor’s room. Three men spilled out onto her balcony, the same as Forest’s, to look into the dark. One was Charles, who could be heard saying his told-ya-so's, but it was at the other two that Alister looked, guessing one to be his father. His eyes settled upon the thinner of the pair, with dark hair, and features somewhat coarser than his or Eleanor’s, though similar to his son’s, if the portraits of the three children, hanging at the top of the stairs, were to be believed.

And in this moment he realized he felt nothing towards the man. No love, no hate, no disgust, nothing. To Alister he was just another rich bastard who cared not a bit if he and Billy lived or died.

Currently, Leroy Chester did not appear the debonair gentleman he had been reported to be. Standing in his nightshirt, he wildly looked about, finally snapping at Charles. “Quiet man, I’m tired of your blathering. And Doris, do be quiet as well, I’m trying to think.”

The sobbing, which they had heard coming through the balcony door, choked off. A plaintive voice replacing it. “It was just too horrible, Master Leroy, the young Miss standing there looking so sad. My heart broke all over again.”

“Nonsense, it was just the moonlight.” He answered, sounding much less sure of himself than he wished to appear.

“But, how do you explain the bell, and Miss Eleanor’s nightgown, and favourite book?”

Pausing to come up with an answer, Leroy Chester suddenly realized he was standing out in the open, on display for all the world to see his problems. Decorum reared its head, and he waved the two inside, closing the door, and shutting away the rest of the conversation from Alister and Billy’s ears.

“Damn, sorry, Ali. Are you okay?”

“Umm, I think so, though I may have twisted my ankle when I hit the ground.”

“Can you walk?”

“If you give me hand, I think I can.”

“Okay, we better get going. Hisself is going to be quite interested in hearing about this.”

“Aye, we sure stirred them up.”

***

Hearing what happened put a large smile on Percival’s face, but he also decided that it was best to lay low for the next while. Not that Alister was fit for ghosting about, his ankle having swollen to triple its normal size. So while he convalesced, the two men were out and about seeking for any hints of what was going on in the Chester household. It did not take them long to hear rumours of what had happened from multiple sources. It kept Percival in a good mood for the next three days, as the rumours swirled. But then he grew quieter, secretive, coming back to the house later each night.

His fellow conspirators, as conspirators are want to do, grew suspicious, wondering if he was working counter to their own purposes. They knew it to be possible, even probable, for they had received a reminder of how treacherous the Life Guards officer could be.

Such a simple thing. A piece of paper, seemingly nothing more than a bookmark, carried away since leaving it behind would look out of place in their carefully constructed scene in Eleanor’s bed chamber. Yet when they finally took the time to read what Eleanor had written on that simple piece of paper, they realized it was exactly the type of thing that Eleanor’s ghost would want to be found, for it contained the name of her love, who had abandoned her, despite her protecting his own name. Apparently Cousin Percival had used the key for purposes other than helping the drunken Forest home.

Alister and Billy kept this find to themselves, just as Percival kept his plans away from them. They only learned of those via gossip, which told of how the concerned nephew had rushed to his uncle’s side when he heard the terrible rumours. How it had been he who had found a medium willing to keep the matter quiet, to come to Chester house and deal with the ghost of Eleanor. Apparently it had been successful, because there had been no sightings since.

Uncle Leroy proved appreciative, as the two finally found out two weeks after their last escapade. While eating their evening meal, the first together in a days, Percival said, “Well I received a surprise today. An invitation, from dear Uncle Leroy, to spend the weekend with him at his country home.”

“And why would he suddenly do that?” Alister asked.

“I’m guessing that his encounter with the other side made him more appreciative of family on this side.”

“Cut the crap, Percival.” Billy said with a growl. “We know all about your recent dealings with him.”

“And so?” Percival asked, unconcerned, as if he had been expecting this conversation.

“Well you seem to be on your way ta getting what you wanted out of this deal. But what about Ali and me?”

“You will be looked after, rest assured. I am trying to making myself indispensable to Uncle Leroy, for he seems to lost much of his fire. Once I have done that, you will be amply rewarded. Just as I had to wait for you two to plant such a fine crop, now it’s your turn to wait while I harvest it. Of course, you can continue to make use of my hospitality while you wait.”

He then steered the conversation into humorous gossip about the peccadillos of his fellow officers. The two brothers went along with this, knowing they would get nothing more from him. But when he left them to find his bed, Billy looked at his brother and whispered what was on both their minds.

“Hisself don’t need you and me anymore, Ali.”

“Just like he didn’t need Tommy and Dick anymore.”

They had been expecting this day to come and had put a plan in place. Thus, during the night, of the day when Percival and his uncle traveled into the country, the two made one more use of the Forest’s key and entered Chester House. This time it was not for haunting, even Alister wore an old pair of trousers found in the attic, probably from when Percival had been a boy. No, it was to fill the two carpet bags from Madame Heston’s and two more found at the same time as the pants with jewelry and items of gold and silver.

It was quite a haul, Billy had done a good job scouting for more than how best to implement a haunting.

***

The news of the robbery reached the Chester estate late the following afternoon, outraging both its Master and his guest. Percival volunteered to ride immediately to the city, even though it would be late at night before he could arrive, but he promised to look into the matter as early as possible the next day. His uncle accepted the offer with pleasure, knowing such a ride was for a younger man and questioning why he had never noticed this helpful side in his nephew before.

Percival, in turn, had a ride fueled by anger, knowing who was behind the robbery and wishing he had already gotten rid of the pair of brothers. He would only wait to find the goods, before he dealt with them. Hoping they had not had time to fly the coop, he did not stop at the regimental stables to drop off his horse. Instead he rode straight through the city to his house, leaving the poor beast tied up outside while he rushed inside to confront Alister and Billy, wishing he had thought to take his pistol with him to the country. Looking about, the house seemed as empty as when he had lived here alone, before offering his hospitality to the thieves.

Fuming, he shouted. “Alister and Billy, where are you two?”

There was no response, so he shouted again and again, until his rage had begun to cool. Realizing that they were gone.

“Dear, Dear Percy, you are finally home.”

Startled, by the feminine voice, his gaze darted towards the stairs to see Ali descending. But an Ali he had never seen before, looking more like Eleanor than ever before. The boy was dressed as if he had just finished posing for the portrait that hung on the second floor of the Chester townhouse or at a ball. His hair swept up with the assistance of numerous combs, curls sneaking out at ears and onto forehead. Wearing a short-sleeved, evening gown of ivory silk, which dipped low to hint at what was not there, his slender neck circled by three strands of pearls matching the strings around each long-gloved wrist. He was a shocking vision of loveliness as he almost floated down the stairs, his embroidered, silver, satin slippers peeking out from the hems of his skirts.

“Ali, why are you dressed like that?”

“Oh, Dear Percy, you truly are my hero, as you always had promised me you would be. For have you not finally freed me of the cruel shackles that bound me to my father’s accursed house?”

“Ali?”

“No, it is I, your Sweet Ela.”

“Ela? No, you’re Ali, what is the meaning of this?”

“Ali? Who is this Ali of whom you speak? Have you forsaken me for another, I would never do that to you, Dear Percy. Did I not prove it so, when I held your name in my heart, never giving it up to my father, as the symbol of our love grew inside me? I was true to the end, you must know that, don’t you, Dear Percy?”

Percival just stared, he knew this could not be Eleanor, he was a modern gentleman, he did not believe in ghosts. It was Ali. Yet she, no he, looked so perfect, exactly as Eleanor had looked on that night he had decided to seduce her, his first act of revenge against his hated uncle, who had done nothing to help his parents as they lay on their death beds. And how did Ali know his darkest secret? Only he and Eleanor had known the truth. If others had known, surely Uncle Leroy would have known and conducted his own revenge already.

It was almost as if this was Ela.

But no, that was impossible. It could not be. This was Ali, Alister, the beggar boy playing tricks.

He just needed to convince himself, let his intelligence conquer his imagination. He just needed that one thread to grasp, to pull, to unravel the mystery before him. And he knew the picture was not perfect, something was missing, what was it?

The shawl! Eleanor had worn a matching shawl with the gown, against the cold. It had even been included when sitting for the portrait painter. Yes, he needed to latch onto the missing shawl.

But before he could saying anything, something flickered before his eyes. He felt it wrap around his throat. He had forgotten Billy, distracted as he had been by Alister. Reaching up, he tried to squeeze fingers between the skin at his throat and the silken noose, of the missing shawl. He swung a fist backwards, but all he heard was a grunt, Billy undeterred in squeezing the life from him. Struggling, he watched Alister reach the bottom of the stairs and approach. Desperately he reached out, seeking any help.

Alister just stared, before speaking in his own voice. “Really Percival, you don’t believe in ghosts? Do you?”

Brushing aside the reaching hand, Alister took one more step forward, to plant a delicate fist in the stomach of the struggling man. It knocked both the wind and fight from him, causing him to slump. Yet Billy did not let this distract him, instead taking the opportunity to plant a knee in the man’s back, gaining more leverage with the silk, which was wrapped almost as cruelly about his hands as Percival’s neck. Unwilling to chance letting go, he held on as all struggles ceased, then he held on even longer as the body became a limp corpse. Only when Alister nodded at him, did he finally stop.

“Leave the shawl around his neck, Billy. Maybe we can convince them it was Eleanor’s final revenge. Here, can you help me with the buttons of the dress, I think it should stay with the shawl.”

“Criminy, Ali, of course. If’n we don’t, I may end up thinking you actually are Miss Eleanor.”

“Well that was the reasoning behind raiding her closet, as well as her jewelry box. But Madame Heston did take it to another level, didn’t she, and on such short notice. I’ll be right back, I need to get my things.”

Arranging the dress to lie beside the sprawled corpse of Percival, Alister rushed up the stairs, coming down only moments later after having put on his green dress and coat, carrying the two garment bags, once again full of clothes, along with the better quality of jewelry which Billy had hocked during the day, raising the funds needed for their escape. He also carried Eleanor’s letter, but that soon fluttered down to lay upon the dress.

“So, Big Brother, what’s the plan?”

“I’ve got us a room at The Turtledove. The rest of our things are there. The inn’s near where the Portsmouth coach starts out in the morning. We have tickets on it tomorrow. In Portsmouth we should be able to catch a ship to America.”

“America? I think I will like that. Hopefully I will be able to shed these skirts once and for all.”

“You can do it tonight if you want?”

“I do, but it will be better cover for us to disguise ourselves as husband and wife for the time being. I’ve lasted this long, surely I can handle however long it will take.”

“It’s up to you, Ali.”

“Yes. Well I guess that’s it then. Time to go.”

Letting Billy take the two bags, Alister held the door, looking inside for a moment, staring at their recent partner, and said, “It was him or us, Billy. I’m sure he realized that.”

Billy just grunted, though he looked at the horse waiting out front. “You know, I really hope someone comes along to look after that horse. It’s just not right ta leave a fine beast like that in such shape.”

The End

Special thanks to Holly Logan, who noticed problems in the story and performed an edit while reading it. Her edits make the story better and hopefully taught me something about punctuating item descriptions. Too bad I am too dull of student to pick up on her other punctuation lessons, someday though.

Girly Jobs

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Crossdressing

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Life in a production company, like Toboggan to Nowhere Productions, was far from glamorous. Mostly they produced crappy adds or videos for local businesses. However, the rise of reality shows introduced the possibility of striking it rich with the right idea. One night, while eating take-out in front of her television, Colleen Kowalchuk found herself on Discovery Channel watching Mike Rowe catch leeches, when she got an idea. The next Monday she was presenting it to her boss, Winston.

Girly Jobs

by Arcie Emm

A different type of story for me. An attempt to write a story in the real world, which leads me to question my ability to write a story in the real world.

“So Colleen, what do you think?”

“Ehhh...I didn’t see anybody Winston and I could agree upon.”

“Who cares what Winston thinks? This is your baby, who do you want?”

“My initial thoughts were to find your basic every day guy type. Not too macho, not too wussy. Not too tall, not too short. You know, Mr. Average.” Colleen Kowalchuk answered, as she looked through the pictures of the men who they had auditioned during the afternoon.

Seated beside her, Duncan Finch said, “How about that one, he fits the description perfectly.”

Looking at the picture her assistant held, Colleen sighed. “Yep, exactly how I thought our host should look. But damn it, that money grubber Winston is right. We are going to be pushing the boundaries enough, so this show likely will only have a place on late night cable. And to have a chance in that market our show is going to have to be more titillating than I planned.”

“Well none of these guys exude titillating.”

“You got that right Duncan. In fact I doubt some average looking joe is going to cut it. We may have to go in another direction.”

“Like an actual transvestite?”

“Possibly, though that really goes against the purpose of the show. I want to capture someone experiencing the shock of being treated like a woman for the first time. It would be so much better if whoever we get is a virgin at dressing.”

“But you want a guy we can turn into a foxy babe?”

Grimacing at the truth of Duncan’s statement, Colleen said, “Basically, though I am not sure that is possible.”

“So our casting call was all wrong?”

“Looks like it.”

Thirty minutes later the two of them had finished brainstorming ideas, outlining who they want to host the reality show they were developing for Toboggan to Nowhere Productions. Reading his notes, Duncan shook his head.

“What’s wrong now, Duncan?”

“Well we could have saved the last half hour if we had written, ‘We want a girl.”

“Shit. I don’t know what to say. Why don’t you ask around the office, maybe someone else will have an idea. Meanwhile, I have to call Winston and give him an update.”

Happy to leave that conversation to his boss, Duncan left the casting room and began his mission. One in which he did not gain much traction until he found himself talking to the intern, Kerry. A pretty girl, as was the norm when Winston did the hiring, Duncan had ignored her until this point. However, he finally realized a cute male was most likely to be young, someone in Kerry’s age-group After describing his problem her eyes lit up.

“I know someone, well I don’t really know him. But there’s this guy, in a community college course I’m taking, it’s for doing commercial voice work. Well anyway, this guy, before he introduced himself I thought he was a girl, kind of butchy, but when he said his name and it was a male name.”

“What’s is it?”

“I can’t remember. But he definitely looks girlish, he’s really small, shorter than I am and skinny too. Maybe because he’s oriental, which also gives him real thick, black hair. I bet you could make him look real good.”

“Do you think he would do it?”

“I don’t know, I have never talked to him. I think he said he works with computers, though he speaks kind of soft. Maybe that’s why he is in the course, but he may be interested in hosting of a TV show. I don’t know.”

“When’s your next class?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Would you be willing to talk to him about coming in to talk to us?”

“Sure!”

****

Finishing work, Mark Lee decided to skip catching the train home, across the river, knowing he would only have a short time before needing to come back downtown for his course. Instead he headed for the Wendy’s, near the college. Finished eating, he crossed to the college and made his way to the classroom. As normal, he was the first arrival for the 6:30 class, which allowed him to pick a seat near the back of the room, from where he watched everyone else arrive.

Yet he did not mind the wait, in spite of low expectations he looked forward to weekly class. He enrolled in response to complaints, passed on by his supervisor, that he spoke too quietly, which was not good for a help desk operator. Jimmy had recommended Toastmasters, but while leafing through the college’s free catalog Mark spotted a course for commercial voice work that struck his fancy. Now four week in, his job performed had improved, which in turn confirmed how much he hated his job.

As his fellow students arrived, he ignored them as he focused on today’s exercise. He had practiced enough to feel confident in his ability to read his assigned commercial in exactly thirty seconds, but that did not stop him from rehearsing the script in his mind.

It paid off, as he aced the assignment. So pumped was he, that the sound of his own voice hardly bothered him when the teacher played the recording and praised his tempo. The class left him excited about the one minute commercial assigned for the next week. Already rehearsing it in his mind, he headed for the front of the building where his best friend and roommate, Darren, was to pick him up.

Walking down the hallway, he heard someone call his name. Turning he saw Kerry, the cute red-head in his class. Surprised, he stopped and waited for her approach.

“Great work on your assignment, Mark. It was like, real professional.”

“Thank’s Kerry. You did well too.”

“Nah, I just blasted through. I was done in 24 seconds. I should have practiced more.”

“I know it helped me.”

“Yah, I could tell. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you have some time?”

“Well I have someone picking me up.” Mark said, cursing his luck for finally accepting Darren’s offer of a ride, instead of taking the train home.

“Oh, how ‘bout I walk with you? It shouldn’t take long.”

“Sounds good. What’s up?”

“See I’m interning this semester at a place called Toboggan to Nowhere Productions, which makes TV shows. Well they are developing a new reality series and they need a host, but they’ve been struggling to find one. When they asked me if I knew anyone, I immediately thought of you.”

“Me, why?” Mark asked, confused by the very idea.

“You’re real good with this voice stuff and, well, they want someone with a specific look.”

Mark got a bad feeling where this was heading, still he hoped he was wrong and asked, “Is it because I am Chinese?”

“No it’s because you look...umm...you know...umm.” Kerry trailed off in embarrassment at what she was wanting to say.

An equally embarrassment Mark asked, “Is it because I am not the most masculine looking guy?”

“Yeah, that’s it. We are developing this show where we will dress a guy as a girl and film him experiencing life as a female. However, they need someone that can be believable. That is why I thought of you. I bet you would look super cute.” Then noticing his face, she exclaimed, “Oh my God I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Instead of asking her how she expected a guy to react when a pretty girl told him he would look super cute as a female, he mumbled, “I’m kind of used to it.”

And he was, he had been mistaken for a girl more times than he could count. It came from being small, he even had to look up at this pretty girl as she crushed his manhood. That, and his delicate features, made macho a thing for others.

“You are? So you can understand why I thought of you?”

“I guess.” He answered, desperately wanting the conversation to end.

“So are you interested?”

“What?”

“You know, trying out to be the host of the show I was talking about.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s really good money.”

“I’ve already got a job.”

“I bet it doesn’t pay as much as this does.”

“I’m happy with my job.” Mark lied.

“Would you think about it?”

Wanting to end the conversation, he said, “Okay, but I can’t see changing my mind.”

“Cool, here I’ve got more information about the show and the job.” She said as she took a folder from her backpack and handed it to him.

“I’ll look at it. Umm, I see my ride. I better go.”

“Okay, think about it pretty please. If you’re interested, call Duncan Finch, his number is in the folder.”

“Sure. Bye, Kerry.”

“Bye, Mark, hopefully see you before next week.”

Hurrying over to Darren’s fifth hand mustang, he yanked open the passenger door, jumped inside and said, “Thanks for the ride, Donks. The train sucks at this time of night.”

“Not a problem, Chink. So who’s the hottie?”

“Nobody.”

“Shot you down, did she?”

“Nah, she was after my body.”

“Yeah right.”

“She was. Of course, she wanted to dress me as girl and film it. But she wanted my body none-the-less.”

“Dude.” Darren sympathized. He knew all about his buddy’s encounters with confused people, even having been mistaken for the boyfriend a couple of times.

“What’s a guy to do?”

“Listen to rock?”

“Sounds like a plan.” So saying, Mark reached over to turn up the CD player, blasting AC/DC even louder than before.

Once home, a condo owned by Darren’s grandparent’s, which they allowed him to use while he was in university, Mark took his frustrations out by killing Super Mutants on their PS3. Meanwhile, Darren picked up the folder his roommate had thrown on the table and began to read, a smile on his face. Reaching the page with the pay rates he whistled.

“Dude, you could make a shit load if you took this job.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“You sure? It pays lots more than the job you hate.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Okay, okay. Hey, where’s the other controller? I want to play too.”

****

Two days later, Darren returned to the apartment after class to find Mark already at home. “Hey, Chink, why are you home so early?”

“I was fired.”

“What!”

“Well not fired exactly. Instead they decided not to retain me after my six month probation period.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, it sucks.”

“But you hated the job.”

“True, but it was a paycheck. And it took me three months to get after finishing my diploma. Sure the company said they would pay for me to use a placement agency, but I don’t want to go through a job search again. And I don’t have the dough to last me through another jobless stint.”

“What about EI?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about rent, My Grandparents love you, they’ll ignore it like last time.”

“Fuck, I hate taking advantage of them.”

“Dude, it’s only until you get a job.”

“I know,” Mark answered, sounding depressed. “Maybe, I should just go home. Mom and Dad always say they could use my help with the restaurant.”

“But you hate working in the restaurant even more than that shitty help desk job.”

“Yeah, but I would never get fired from it.”

“How about...” Looking towards the table and not seeing the folder, he looked around and spotted it sitting open on the coffee table. “So, have you been considering the offer from that Kerry chick?”

“I looked at it, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not, the money’s good. And you said you like that voice class you’re taking, this would give you a chance to use what you learned. Yeah, you have to dress as a woman, but think of yourself as an actor dressing up for a movie.”

“You didn’t really read much did you? It’s more than dressing, basically they want someone to go undercover for three or four months.”

“Like a spy?”

“Donks, what are you, five?”

“Fuck you, Chink.”

“So if I took the job I would end up having to pretend to be female 7/24, for months. I can’t disappear like that.”

“Why not, you don’t have a job?”

“Well it would be as embarrassing as hell if someone found out.”

“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

“Donks, it’s like you want me take the job. Do you want me in a dress?”

“Yeah right, you’re my unrequited love.” Darren answered, full of sarcasm. “No it’s just that I know you. If you don’t get a job, you’ll spend all your time on the PS3 or WoW. That means I will want to spend all my time on the PS3 or WoW, which in turn means I won’t study for midterms. Thus resulting in my parents shitting all over me for being a goof-off.”

“Maybe it would be better if I went home.”

“Shit don’t think like that. Sure I don’t want the ‘rents to think I am a goof-off, but that doesn’t meant I don’t like goofing-off. And who would I do that with if you headed home to Little Town Bumfuck.”

“So you think I should give them a call?”

“You may as well, hell they may no longer have the position available. And you likely not pretty enough for the job anyways.”

“Really? Reverse psychology?”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe.”

“You going to call?”

“Yeah, where the fuck’s the phone?”

Trying to find the phone, Darren complained, “We really need to clean this sty.”

“Yeah!”

****

Next morning Mark prepared for an audition. It being his first audition he decided to treat it like a job interview, which based upon his past experience doomed him to certain failure. Before phoning the production company he would have seen this as a good thing, since he wanted the job a bit less than toe fungus; however, being left on hold for thirty minutes before and then speaking to a disinterested Duncan Finch kindled his competitive spirit. So even though he recognized the idiocy of someone thinking he couldn’t do something he did not wish to do, Mark wanted to prove the man wrong. Still he was not hopeful, expecting to turn into the babbling fool who usually took his spot at interviews.

Of course he recognized the need to make a good first impression, which briefly led to Darren’s idea that Mark should dress as a woman. However, this was followed by the realization neither knew what it involved and the decision Mark should wear his suit.

Now dressed, he looked into the mirror and tried to figure out why people mistook him for a girl. He could somewhat understand why, on a quick glance or from a distance, a person could be confused, but why when they got closer did people never recognize their mistake? Whatever the reason, maybe it would finally work in his favour. That is, if he truly wanted the job, which was open to serious debate.

With the loan of Darren’s car he headed for the West end of the city, midday traffic allowing him to arrive early at the four story multi-purpose building. Checking the building’s directory, he took the stairs to the third floor, where he found the production company and was directed to a waiting room where five other men waited.

Sitting in the silence of the room, Mark pretended not to look at the other candidates, who in turn, pretended not to look at him. However, he stopped and stared at his feet when he imagined Darren teasing him for checking out other dudes. Yet he had seen enough to reluctantly realize only one of the five, a skinny blonde, was any competition from an appearance stand point. The other four, while not exactly guys’ guys, were definitely more rugged than the two of them.

Yet when he saw each carried a portfolio, he realized he had no idea what he was doing. Nor were his nerves helped when each was called into the next room before him.

When his turn came he introduced himself to Colleen Kowalchuk, the show’s developer, and Duncan Finch, her assistant. Trying to get a read on them, he was sure he saw a flicker of interest cross the woman’s face as she asked him to take a seat and asked to see his photos.

“I’m sorry, I do not have any photos with me?”

“You don’t?”

“I think I can explain, Colleen.” Duncan answered. “Mr. Lee is a friend of Kerry Sanderson, the intern. After our last round of auditions I was talking to her and she recommended Mr. Lee. Talking to him yesterday, he mentioned he had never been to an audition, but based upon Kerry’s recommendation, I asked him to come in today.”

“Yes, I can see why. Mr. Lee, do you mind if I call you Mark?”

“Please do.”

“Thank you, Mark. Did Kerry explain what we were looking for in a candidate?”

“Yes, Ms. Kowalchuk. I also read through the information pack she gave me. From what I gathered, you’re looking for a candidate to pose as a woman while you film him experiencing life on the other side of the gender divide.”

Smiling at the stuttered synopsis included in the folder, Colleen realized for any other role she would have already written him off as a candidate. However, for this project, where appearance was so important, he really seemed too much of a little cutie to dismiss. “Basically. We plan to have our host work in jobs that are considered women’s jobs, filming both his and others reactions to him.”

“Like Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe on Discovery Channel?”

Though she had come up with her idea while watching that show, Colleen wished people would stop making the connection. “Well not exactly, Dirty Jobs plays up laughter more than we plan. Nor do we want our host engaging the camera directly. Instead we plan to observe what happens, conduct some interviews, then fill in the narration to match footage.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“So we hope. However, we want our host to look as close to female as possible. Do you have experience dressing, Mark?”

Knowing this was not the time to be insulted by such a question, Mark answered, “No, Ms. Kowalchuk, though people have mistaken me for female a number of times.”

“Not even on Halloween?”

“No, Ms. Kowalchuk.”

“You say that you have been mistaken for female?”

“Fairly regularly to be honest. I think it’s because of my size.”

“How tall are you?”

“Not quite 5’3”. I take after my parents.”

“Weight?”

“About 135lbs.” Mark exaggerated.

“I see. One more question about your appearance, it appears your face has had some work done on it?”

“Yeah, probably another cause for mistaken identities. When I was twelve, I had an accident on a dirt bike and smashed my face, which required cosmetic surgery to fix. However, I had messed up the cartilage of my nose fairly bad and the plastic surgeon who fixed my nose, chin and cheek had only worked on women. The result made me look more girlish than I like, but it would have been worse without surgery.”

“Well it would help with the hosting job if we choose you. May I ask how you feel when you are mistaken for a woman?”

“Well I have kind of gotten used to it. Sure it’s embarrassing, specially when I am around new people, but most of my friends are used to it and nobody bugs me about it anymore.”

“So it doesn’t bother you.”

“It does, but when I look in the mirror I just see me. And when I think of me I know I am a guy. I’m not sure why people don’t see that.”

“If you get the job, we will completely disguise your maleness. We are shooting for pretty girl. Would you be able to handle that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well that is honest enough. However, you would need to be sure before you proceed, since the job calls for you to be female 7/24 for a minimum of three months.”

“All the time? Why?” Mark asked, surprised despite the information in the folder implying this to be the case.

“Well some of the changes we plan to make will make it difficult to switch back and forth.”

“Changes? What type of changes?”

“Don’t worry, nothing permanent. Just cosmetic things like hair, eye-brows, and fingernails. And since we aren’t a hundred million dollar movie, we can’t be changing your appearance every day. Besides we want our host to experience and talk about the culture shock of being a woman.”

“When I was seven, my family moved from Hong Kong to small town Canada, I doubt it will be a bigger culture shock than that.”

“Ok enough about appearance for now, based on that criteria you are a candidate for the job. However, I would like to run some camera shots and script tests. Would you be able to do that today?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Excellent, Duncan could you handle that?”

“Sure thing, come with me, Mark.”

****

Later that afternoon Colleen, Duncan, Allan Grant, and Janice Wilson reviewed the tests and stills taken of Mark and Arthur Dickson, the blonde haired man from the waiting room, who were the only two candidates considered from the day. However, neither had tested very well, both had been nervous and it had shown.

“Dickson’s tests were better, he did not stumble as much as Lee.” Duncan stated.

Colleen agreed, “True, but he has experience. All Mark has done is that course, while Arthur has been in a number of plays. Honestly, I would have expected more separation between the two.”

“Well they both stood out appearance wise, if they can’t talk that well on camera we could use a narrator.”

“That will boost our budget. Still maybe with practice, one of them could handle it. What do you two think?”

Allan, the company’s head costumer, who had been with the production company since started, spoke first. “I’ll be blunt, I want the China Doll. He’s so petite that we won’t have to worry about major curves. Plus I think we can pull off the super femmy look you want with him.”

“How about you Janice.” Colleen asked the second woman, who looked after the makeup for the production company.

“I could do something with either, both are young and have good complexions. Neither has overly masculine features, specially the Lee kid. I think we could do a more believable job with him than Dickson. Still I would like to spend some time on the computer with their images before I make my final recommendation.”

“Duncan?”

“I’m okay with either, though it may be a good idea if we just continue looking.”

“We don’t have the time, Winston is breathing down my neck. Personally I lean towards Mark, since I think he would be prettier and better at taking instructions than Arthur. I say we bring him in next week to give him some practice in front of the camera, see if he can do better. It will also give Allan and Janice a chance to check him out in person, let them figure out if the real thing and the pictures match.”

Meanwhile, across town, Mark was telling Darren about the audition. “I don’t know, Donks, I can’t read people worth crap. They seemed interested in me after the interview, but when I did a test, I sucked.”

“Doh, what did they say?”

“Nothing much. They thanked me for coming in and said they would get back to me. And you know what that means?”

“It could mean that they will get back to you.”

“Nah, I’m fairly sure I blew it. Though I can’t honestly say I am overly upset.”

“Why not?”

“Donks, I don’t want to be the butt of jokes.”

“Nah man, I talked to some people...”

“What?”

“Dude, calm down. Sure everybody got a laugh out of it, but they know the hassle you get for your looks and think you should take the opportunity to make something out of it. And they’re curious to see how you will turn out.”

“Damn it, Donks. It would have been embarrassing enough without everybody knowing.”

“It’s better if everybody knows. If they found out by accident, hell or if they found out by seeing the show, it would be worse. This way, if you act like it’s no big deal, they would look stupid trying to make it so.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Sure. And fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke. ‘Sides I talked to Doug and Glenn MacDougal, they said they would back you and kick anybody’s ass who says anything.”

Mark smiled at the glory of small-town politics. Everything depended upon getting the right people on your side. One such group were the MacDougals, a large extended family in the town where his parents had settled and who helped them start their restaurant. More importantly Doug and Glenn had that wiry strength and enough craziness to ensure they were feared. Long time friends with him and Darren, Mark was glad to have the on his side, if needed.

“I will have to thank them when next I see them. But for now, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. So how’s ‘bout defending Earth from giant invading bugs?”

“Sounds like a plan. Start the game while I hit the can.”

Ignoring the order he head to the kitchen for a coke, where he heard the phone ring. Answering, he said, “Hello?”

“Hello is this Mark Lee?”

“It is”

“Hi, Mark, this is Duncan Finch from Toboggan to Nowhere Productions.”

“Oh hi, Mr. Finch. What can I do for you?”

“Well first off I would like to thank you for coming in today, Colleen was quite impressed. So much so that she would like to see you again on Monday, would that be possible?”

“Monday?”

“Yep, we would like to run a few more tests. Though this time we will give you time to prepare, do you have an email to which I could send some scripts?”

“Umm...yeah.”

“What is it?” After giving receiving the address from Mark, Duncan confirmed, “Would 10:00 am be good for you?”

“Yes, that will work.”

“Also, I’m guessing you don’t have an agent or belong to ACTRA, I will also include a listing of local agents and information about ACTRA.”

“What is ACTRA?”

“Alliance of Canadian Cinema, Television and Radio Artists, you will need to belong if you get the contract. And since you’re the front runner, if you do well on the tests on Monday we will likely offer you the job.”

“Really?”

“Yep, still interested?”

Despite wanting to say no, Mark answered in the affirmative. After saying good bye, he hung up and turned to see a questioning Darren standing in the living room. Looking sheepishly at his friend, he said, “Well I may need Doug and Glenn’s backing, after all.”

“You know, I think it’s time for you to give your folks a call.”

“I think you’re right.”

****

Three Wednesdays later, the bus trip to the production company had become the norm. With his parent’s surprised, though humoured, blessings, he had gone in the Monday after his first audition well prepared, did well, and received an offer. Within days he had begun preparing for the still unnamed show.

Most of that had involved filming the before picture, showing what Mark was like as a guy. This phase of the project had even put some dollars into the pockets of his friends, particularly Darren, who had been interviewed to learn more about what made his best friend tick. But they had not totally ignored the after picture. Mark spent part of each day with a voice coach who was more pleased than he with the ease they softened the tone and raised the pitch of his voice. Yet that had been better than the second daily lesson with Sheree, the fitness crazy deportment coach, whose exercise and diet program had him under 118 pounds.

Today things would change. Time to begin full immersion in the world of sugar and spice. And though he had been kept mostly in the dark about what would happen, he had been told it was not to be a gradual transition. When he left the office this evening, it was to be as a female, the role which he would continue to play until they had shot enough material for ten half hour episodes.

Scary.

Greeting people as he went, Mark headed for Duncan’s cubicle, who soon had him sitting in front of a camera, as Colleen, acting as the voice off camera, conducted a final interview before the metamorphosis.

“So, Mark, ready for immersion?”

“Not at all. I am nervous as hell.”

“I bet.”

“I’m going to look like a freak.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that if I was you. I have seen the mock-ups and nobody is going to see you as anything other than a pretty girl.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Colleen. Not a thing that most guys like to hear.”

“I can imagine. But think of it as an adventure. You will get to walk in the shoes of the opposite sex.”

“High heeled shoes?”

“Most definitely. Fashionable pumps, pretty sandles, sexy boots, a veritable harvest of women’s footwear will adorn your feet during your journey.”

“A journey where I will spend most of my time falling on my face?”

“Not if what Sheree says is true. And your lessons will continue.”

“Charm school?”

“Well that is one way of looking at it.” Colleen laughed.

“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Snakes on the Plane?” Mark recited in his soon to be expected voice.

“Funny boy. You should hold onto your humour, I know your friends have.”

“What?”

“Well we got together with a number of them and they helped us decide on all types of aspects concerning your new look and persona.”

“Shit.”

“What’s wrong Mark, don’t you trust your friends?”

“Not on your life. I doubt they missed a single stereotype.”

“Not many, no. But would you have been different?”

“Well...”

“Be honest.”

“Probably not.”

“That’s okay, this show is going to be all about those stereotypes.”

Suddenly suspicious, Mark asked, “You’re not planning to punish me as the surrogate male, are you?”

“Not at all, Mark. It’s not about punishment, it’s about understanding. Sure you will be expected to live those stereotypes, but we will all try to make it fun.”

“You’ll be laughing with, not at me?”

“Yes, exactly. Think of it just like that and it won’t be painful at all.”

“Says you.”

“Well we will try at least.”

“Okay, I guess I signed up for it, so I can’t back down now. My next question is what did my bonehead friends think up?”

“Well they gave you a name.”

“Crap, don’t tell me, I bet it’s Marci. Those shitheads know how much I hate that name.”

“They said it was your nickname.”

“They lied, my nickname is Chink. They aren’t politically correct, either.”

“Apparently not. So do you want to go by another name if you think Marci is too whatever?”

“I always thought it was too girly, which looking the way I do, always seemed a nastier taunt than Chink. But I guess with this project, girly is the goal, so Marci works.”

“Anything else you want to know about the new you before you become Marci?”

“Knowing my friends, I can likely guess. I hope I’m not going to end up with huge knockers.”

“No, besides one of your friends argued it would not look right.”

“Who would...wait, was it Spiff?”

“Who?”

“Garnet Williams.”

“Why do you call him Spiff?”

“Umm...well, let’s just say you don’t want to know. Guy stuff. Immature guy stuff.”

“Yes it was him.”

“Shit, did he perv out on everybody with his observations about the Asian girls downtown at the university’s ESL facilities? Babbling about how feminine and gorgeous they are?”

“He did seem to have some rather specific opinions.”

“How about me, do I have veto rights?”

“Not a chance, everything we have planned is covered in that contract your Uncle the Shark negotiated for you. But don’t worry, nothing is permanent.”

“Except the psychological blow to my fragile ego.”

“Exactly, that’s what will make the show watchable.”

“Okay, lets go turn me into Mrs. Frankenstein.”

“Not a chance Marci. I saw the mock-ups, your going to be a doll. And Gus is going to catch every moment of the transformation.”

“Oh goodie, it will be so much easier if it is filmed.”

“That’s the spirit, Mark.” Gus the camera-man laughed.

“Then let us head to my doom. Which is to be found where?”

“Gus knows the way.”

“Okay Gus, where to?”

“Time to put you into Sarah and Julia’s hands.”

They were a couple of Janice’s employees to whom Mark had been introduced. Also at that time he learned Janice did not work directly for the production company. Instead she owned a spa on the second floor of the office building and contracted with the production company to provide makeup services. Taking the stairs that provided easy access between the two businesses they were met by Sarah, in her light blue smock.

Smiling in welcome, she asked, “Ready for your big day, Mark?”

“Scared witless.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie, we will try to make this as painless as possible. But it will be a long day so we better get started. Follow me.”

“What is going to take so long?”

“You’ll see, Mark, being beautiful isn`t easy.”

“That’s what scares me. And by the way, you may as well call me Marci, supposedly that will be my new name. I might as well start getting used to it.”

“Marci it is. We are going to start with a full body wax, so why don’t you pop into this room and change into the robe waiting inside. Then come outside and the show can begin.”

Sarah stopped Gus from following Mark into the small change room where he wondered if he could sneak out unseen and run away. A burgeoning plan cut short when Sarah yelled for him to hurry. Cursing Jimmy for firing him from the help desk job, he undressed. That accomplished, he begin his penance in pink as he slipped into a terry cloth robe, belted it around his waist, and slid his feet into the pink flip flops before he left this last sanctuary.

Seeing the camera on him, he did a sheepish pose and asked, “So how much is this going to hurt.”

“It varies, but I am sure you can handle it. It won’t hurt as much as smashing yourself up in a bike accident.”

“I would hope not.”

“It helps that you don’t have much body hair. Plus I promise to be as gentle, but it would help if you relaxed.”

“I’ll try, but it’s going to be hard with Gus filming everything.”

“Actually, do you really need to film the entire affair? It’s going to take awhile and I am sure there are some parts that Marci would prefer not to show.”

“Sorry, Sarah, Colleen ordered me to film everything. Pretend I’m not here, I’ll stay out of the way.”

“Is that okay, Marci?”

“I was the idiot who signed up for it.”

“Let’s get started, take off your robe, hop onto the table, and lay face down.”

Blushing at being naked in front of two strangers, he moved as quick as possible, while hoping neither laughed at his slender form, or even worse, his rather small genitalia, Following directions he felt relief at the other’s professionalism. His relief proved short lived, for the waxing deviated far from fun, particularly after he learned all his body hair had to go. Still a desire to act tough in front of the camera combined with Sarah’s care and lotions allowed him to survive. In fact he did not even flinch as she turned his brows into two, thin arches. While Sarah performed final clean up with tweezers, they were joined by Julia.

Complimenting Sarah on the job, she said, “Hiya, Mark, I see you have lost some weight.”

“Call me Marci. And yeah, they have me on a fitness plan and I lost close to twenty pounds.”

“It’ll make our job easier. So, ready to become a girl?”

“I though we had already started.”

“That was just prep, the real body work is about to begin. And we owe it all to modern technology.”

“Am I getting a new bumper?”

Laughing, Julia answered, “That’s one way of looking at it, though I think the end result will surprise you. We placed an order with a special effects company who created some rather spectacular prosthetics to match your skin tone. Want to see them?”

Still embarrassed at being naked, Mark accepted the two pinkish silicon blobs from Julia. Surprised by their size and weight, he said, “I don’t know, I may be semi-colour blind, but there is no way these match my skin.”

“Marci, Marci, yee of little faith. Those just provide the foundation, more will be needed to create realistic cleavage.”

“Cleavage?” Mark gulped.

“Most definitely Marci, what good would this experience be if you were unable to learn the power of cleavage over men.”

“Oh I already know about it. I have fallen victim to it a time or two myself.”

“Then take this as an opportunity to learn how to defend yourself against them. After packing a pair of 34Bs for a number of months, I am sure you will be become immune to their sway.”

“I hope not!”

“Boys, aren’t you just the simplest creatures. However, the breasts are only the start, we also have....Taadaa!”

With that she pulled another form from the box, one that Mark had no problem in identifying. Something that immediately put him on the defensive. “No way. I’m not wearing that. No way, that’s going too far. I’ll just wear one of those gaffs like I read about on the internet.”

“Nope, Colleen thinks that will be cheating. And she spent a lot on this.”

“But...”

“No buts, it’s in your contract. Besides this will allow you to wear pants, rather than being forced into skirts all the time.”

“Why does everybody think they can use reverse psychology on me?”

“Does it usually work?”

“No it doesn’t.” Mark sighed as he admitted, “Well maybe.”

“So are you going to let us fit you with these girly bits?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want to get paid.”

“Okay then.”

“That’s the spirit, Marci. Now I recommend this would be a good time for you to take a bathroom break. When you come back we can proceed.”

After a quick pit stop, the two woman went to work attaching the prosthetics. Sarah created realistic looking breasts with the forms, some foam, and layers of latex. That should have been the most bizarre experience in his life. However, it paled in comparison to what Julia was doing between his legs. most depressing that the second time a woman touched his happy guy, it proved to be even less of a sexual act than the first, which had occurred when Sarah removed all boyish humour from the idea of a Brazilian. Rather than getting a rise out of him, he actually shrunk, which made it even easier for her to hide his member with the latex camouflage after pushing his testes into their sockets.

Mortified, he kept his eyes closed until Julia told him they were done and helped him sit. Ignoring the bouncing weights on his chest, Mark instead focussed on the vacancy between his legs. Feeling both annoyed and relieved it did not feel more uncomfortable, he found himself almost hyper-ventilating as he chanted, “Oh my God. Oh my God...”

“Wow that looks fairly good.” Julia stated.

“Oh my God. Oh my God...”

“It sure does.” Sarah agreed.

“Oh my God. Oh my God...”

“Marci, are you ok?” Julia asked.

“No I’m not.”

Gus who had been just as shocked as Mark, finally murmured, “I can’t believe it.”

“Not you too.”

“Well damn it, Marci, I never thought everything would look so real.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God...”

“Calm down, say something clever for the camera.”

“What?”

“We have more than enough freaked out footage, let’s see some of the vaunted sarcasm of youth.”

“Huh?”

“Just say something semi-intelligent.”

Closing his eyes, Mark worked to regain control of his breathing, while trying to think of something to say. The idea helped him calm down and so he sang, “I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world. Wrapped in plastic...”

Waiting for him to continue, Sarah finally finished, “It’s fantastic.”

“I was going to say craptastic.”

“Hopefully not too craptastic, Marci. You’ll be wearing those prosthetics most of the time, though every Monday we’ll set you free until Tuesday morning.”

“Won’t it be hot?”

“We were promised it would be okay.”

“Damn it!”

“Language my dear, it’s not lady like to swear.”

“Bleh.”

“Or to utter.”

“Gah, okay. What’s next?”

“Lunch.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry.”

“Well you have to get something in your stomach, we still have a lot of work to do.”

“Okay.”

“But first.”

Seeing the two wispy pieces of pink silk Julia held, Mark once more found himself chanting, “Oh my God. Oh my God...”

“Geeze, calm down, Marci. They don’t bite, put them on.“ Julia commanded, then after watching him pull the panties on, said, “Wow, you can’t tell you’re not natural. Turn around for a moment. You know, when they took your measurements a couple of weeks back, everybody was quite happy with your tush. Now after your weight loss, it looks even better. I can’t wait to see what heels do for it and your legs. Need help with your bra?”

Mark, blushing at her words, gratefully accepted Julia‘s offer of assistance. Then once more in the almost normal robe and flip flops they went next door, for a lunch of wraps and fruit.

Hungrier than he had believed, Mark ate his share after a joking warning to keep his legs closed so his panties did not show. A joke that caused him to concentrate on keeping his legs together. It proved the first time he felt happy with his lack of size, recognizing that, even with the prosthesis, anyone better endowed would surely have felt a lot more uncomfortable. Yet his thighs tired as he held the unnatural pose So sneaking a glance at Sarah, he momentarily admired her legs, before seeing she sat with legs crossed at the thighs. Experimenting with the decidedly feminine pose, he found locking his legs in place, as it did, provided some relief. Pleased with his success, he took another bite from his wrap.

At this point he noticed the other three watching him fidget with amused expressions. Gus even had camera trained on Mark. However, deciding not to feel embarrassed about being comfortable, he asked what came next.

Julia answered. “Well I am going to be giving you hair extensions.”

“Long?”

“Just about to that nice tushy.”

“Crap, how long will that take?”

“With the thickness of you hair, it could easily take close to five hours.”

Shocked, Mark exclaimed, “Really? That long?”

“Yep, think of how sore my fingers will be by the end.”

“Then we should go with shorter hair.”

“Good try, but the orders are for long hair, with bangs. Besides the length does not impact the effort much.”

Sarah said, “We’ll also be giving you some of our customer favourites. First a facial, which I’m sure you will enjoy more than the waxing. Then a pedicure and manicure.”

After finishing her meal, Julia asked, “Everybody done? Good, take a bathroom break and we’ll meet back at the room in ten minutes? Marci, remember you should wipe, front to back, after going.”

Blushing, Mark nodded his head in understanding before heading for the same toilet he had used earlier. After washing he found Gus waiting, who greeted him with a laugh before saying, “I see Julia missed a lesson.”

“Huh?”

“You’re back too quick. Women take ages in the bathroom.”

“Very funny, but I am not there yet.”

“True, it’s likely an advanced lesson.”

“Yeah, likely. So you bored yet, it must not be that exciting to be filming my...umm...I guess transition?”

“Nah, I’m used to it, you wouldn’t believe how many hours of filming we need for a half hour show.”

“I guess I’ll learn over the next while.”

“Probably, Marci.”

“So why you, who did you annoy to get this punishment detail?”

“Actually it’s not punishment, it’s a reward. Colleen has enough trust in me to get the needed shots and capture your reactions by myself. Other shoots will actually require a crew complete with a director. How about you, holding up okay?”

“I guess. Though I feel like I am on a quick slide down into the unknown.”

“That is a good way to define the land of women, as far as I am concerned.”

“So what are you two talking about?” Sarah asked as her and Julia joined the two of them.

Gus was quicker on the uptake than Mark and responded for both. “Telling dirty joke, talking about sports, cars and chicks. Guy stuff.”

“In that case, it is a good thing we arrived to rescue our pretty Marci before you moved onto farting and belching.”

“How did you know my master plan?”

Joking complete, they began the next phase of the transformation. A long boring phase, only partially rescued by listening to his iPod while his head grew heavier. Gus even set his camera on a tripod and spent most of the time reading a book, while Julia and Sarah worked away, beautifying Mark.

The first break found Mark’s fingers sporting glistening, gel extensions. Finished in a French manicure, he knew he would find the half inch tips dead sexy on any woman, but they looked daunting from his current angle. Still complaining did no good, as he was informed she had already gone shorter than the one inch recommended by his idiot friends.

From that point, knowing how little control he had in this situation, Mark did not complain, accepting he may learn things guys really did not need to know. Things like, how cute his small feet looked with pretty pink toenails. Or how painstakingly slow it is to glue on individual eyelashes and the weirdness of blinking when they were complete. Yet his favourite lesson turned out to be how nice it was to be pampered, despite the results of that pampering.

However, even the pampering grew old. And by the time Julia finished with the glorious head of shiny, black hair, all four were beginning to drag. Even Mark, who had spent most of the day either laying down or reclining, found himself tired. Emotionally drained at having his appearance herified.

Though tired, Mark could not help but wonder what the final result looked like. With his hair was finished he actually felt excited to see the finished product. So he asked, “Julia, is there anything more?”

“Just about done, Marci. We just have the piercings to do, then we are finished.”

“My ears?” He calmly asked, having expected this to occur at some point.

“Colleen also specified your navel and tongue.”

“My tongue.” Nicked exclaimed in surprise, not even seeing the tacit approval this complaint offered for the navel piercing.

“Yep, Colleen was very specific about that. She said you found them fascinating.”

Another blush when he realized Colleen, who was quite attractive and had such a piercing, had spied his none-to-subtle focus on her mouth when she talked. He could not help himself, finding it so damned sexy, triggering something primal in him. And he knew it impacted a number of his friends in the same way, for during drunken chats he had heard multiple admissions about what sprung to mind when they saw a girl with a tongue piercing. Mark did not want to be the cause of such thoughts.

“Isn’t that kind of permanent? I was told nothing permanent would be done.”

“It will close once you remove the stud.”

“I don’t want a stud.”

“Honest it doesn’t hurt much.”

“Aren’t they hard on teeth. And unsafe.”

“Not if you treat them right. Look, Marci, it’s not any worse than anything else you’ve had done to you today. Colleen really wants it and I really want to head home for the night. Please?”

“Please, Marci.” Sarah echoed.

“You sure it’ll be safe?”

“Yes, though we will have Iris perform the piercings. She’s the expert, really good at it.”

“But I really don’t want one.” Mark whined.

“Well in this matter your opinion weighs less than Colleen’s.”

Knowing he should continue the fight, he could not work up the nerve. He found Colleen, in spite of her appearance, rather scary, so he reluctantly agreed.

“Excellent, let me make sure that Iris is available.”

His silent pleas of ‘please don’t be available, please don’t be available’ proving ineffective, they walked to another room where they found Iris. Unlike Sarah or Julia, the piercer was not the most sociable person, but that did not stop her from being good at her job; therefore, in a short time he sported new piercings. In each ear were rose quartz studs. This stone, which he learned was an alternate to the garnet he thought was his birthstone, also centred the silver flower at the lower end of his belly ring, topped by a pink ball. Finishing him off was a surgical steel barbell through his tongue.

After instructions on the proper care and feeding of his new holes, Julia and Iris headed home, while Sarah and Gus led him to a room with a full length mirror. What he saw was, well himself. Sure himself with pretty hair whose bangs caressed thin, arched brows framed a face looking younger and cuter than normal, but still him. Admittedly, his body, when he opened his robe with feminine hands, was definitely that of a woman. Still was a person not defined by his eyes, and when he looked past his long lashes, did he not see his eyes?

“So, Marci, what do you think?” Sarah asked.

“Umm...I don’t know. I kind of expected to look a lot different.” Mark responded, imagining his tongue was already swelling and affecting his speech.

Incredulously Sarah asked, “You don’t think you look a lot different?”

“In ways I guess. But I mostly see myself.”

“You mean you always see yourself as super-cute girl?”

“Very funny, Sarah. No I don’t. And I don’t see it now.”

“Wow, it is surprising I didn’t notice you were a blonde. Tell her, Gus.”

“Sarah’s right, Marci. You look really good. Hell, you even pout cutely.”

“I’m not pouting.” Mark pouted, annoyed his opinion was being ignored and at how casually Sarah referred to him as a her. “And I just think you’re seeing what you want to see.”

Smiling slyly at this accusation, Sarah said, “Well that’s true for someone, but that someone is not Gus or I. Maybe if you get dressed, you’ll see what we see.”

“Is it time for my first dress?”

“Not today Marci, today you get to stay casual.”

Casual turned out to be the ubiquitous workout suit. First he was given a white, spaghetti strap shirt, cropped so it did not rub against his new navel piercing. Then he stepped into a pair of boot tights coloured space and mid orchid. Though to him space appeared purple and the three, mid orchid stripes appeared pink, though he did not disagree with the term tights. Flaring at the bottom, they hugged his thighs and bum above the knee, showing curves where there should be curves, and flatness where it should be flat. While pulling on a ankle socks and thin soled runners, with three pink stripes, he wondered if his judgment was impaired. However, by the time he pulled on the matching jacket, left unzipped because of the piercing, he had regained his sense of self. Still unwilling to admit that a girl looked back at him from the mirror.

Finally in consternation, Sarah said, “Well if you won’t believe us. Let’s go and see what Colleen and Duncan think, their view will be unbiased.”

“But they need to make it work.”

“You’re impossible, Marci. Still when they see the final product. I bet you they’ll agree with Gus and I.”

“No way am I betting on what they think.”

“What’s the matter?” Sarah teased, “Not so sure of yourself now?”

“Not at all, I know I’m right.”

“Very well, lets see what the boss has to say with no strings attached.”

Returning to the now empty offices of the production company, they heard three voices coming from the break room. Two sounded like Colleen and Duncan; however, that third voice, Kerry’s, caused Mark to grow nervous and slow down. He still had the hots for her and did not want her to see emasculated. Yet slowed does not mean stopped, so he followed Sarah and Gus into the room and brought all conversation to a end.

For the first time that day, Gus’ camera did not point at Mark. Instead it captured the stunned reactions of the threesome in its lens. Watching them, Mark glanced towards Sarah, who stared back triumphantly.

Kerry broke the silence, when she shouted, “I knew it. Look at you.”

This unlocked the voices of the other two, with Duncan uttering an amazed, “fuck me,” while Colleen exclaimed, “Wow, Marci, you look even better than we hoped.”

“Marci still thinks she looks like a boy.” Sarah responded.

Colleen’s eyes opened even wider, as she looked at him and said, “How can you think that, look at you.”

“It’s not that, I just think I look like me.”

“Maybe if you were your own sister.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll believe you all. I look like a girl. Happy?”

“Ecstatic, Marci. Absolutely ecstatic. This is going to work sooooo good.”

“Well I guess it will make it easier for me if people don’t see me as a guy.”

“Definitely. I can’t wait to see the surprise when people find out.”

“I hope it’s surprise, not anger.”

“Don’t worry we will look after you.” Then surprising them all, Colleen raised her hands in triumph and squealed happily.

“So now what? Can I head home?”

“No we have something else in mind for you.”

“But I’m really tired, Colleen. I don’t think I can handle anything more today.”

“Well we are done for today, but you aren’t going to head back to your place.”

“Huh, I’m not sure I’m following.”

“We sub-leased a fully furnished apartment a couple blocks away, where you will stay during filming.”

Mark’s first thought was to complain about this additional imposition on his life, but realized how unexcited he was about Darren seeing him like this. He also knew he could do without the long daily bus rides, particularly as Marci. He said, “Actually that sounds good.”

“Fair warning, Marci, we placed some cameras in the place to capture footage for the show.”

“Crap I thought I signed up for Dirty Jobs, not Big Brother.”

Gritting her teeth, Colleen answered, “You didn’t sign up for Dirty Jobs. Nor is it as bad as Big Brother, we don’t have the entire place wired, just the common area. You will have your privacy in the bathroom or bedroom, though I ask that you don’t hide away all the time.”

“Why film at all?”

“Well we want to see if you go back to acting like a guy when alone.”

“Bleh!”

“Yes, like that.”

“Okay, I will try not to hide out in the man-cave of my bedroom. Is there anything else? I really want to go chew on some ice.”

“Some more good news. We also rented you a car.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle. It is, isn’t it? Those bastards.”

Colleen and Duncan just laughed, while the other three looked on in confusion. Finally Kerry asked, “What’s wrong, I saw it and it’s really cute?”

Still laughing, Colleen answered, “Marci’s Neanderthal friends think you can’t find a girlier car than a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle.”

“Boys are stupid.” Then blushing, Kerry bungled an apology to Mark. “I don’t mean you, Marci, but you’re not like most boys.”

Knowing the futility at getting upset by this, Mark closed his eyes to regain his sense of self. Then asked one more time, “Anything else?”

“Your voice.”

“What?”

“Time for you to switch to that sexy purr you and Paul created.”

“It’s not a sexy purr.” Mark answered in his not quite a sexy purr.

“And you need this,” Duncan said, holding out a pink duffel bag for Mark to take. “It contains some things to tide you over for tonight. Tomorrow Allan will fit you for your wardrobe, so be here by 9:00 AM. Also, here’s your purse, for now it only holds keys, a wallet and a cell phone, so enjoy it while it’s light. That’s about it for tonight.”

“Umm...where’s my place?”

“That’s where I come in.” Kerry answered. “We’re going to be neighbors. Plus I’ve been tasked with helping you out during off hours.”

“You’re my babysitter?” Mark asked, not sure how he liked that. Sure he was happy to spend time with her, but also worried she already had lost track of his gender.

“Think of me as your mentor.”

“Okay, mentor, lead on?”

With duffel bag over one shoulder and holding the purse like a bag of dog doo in the other hand, Mark followed Kerry out of the building. With the nearly empty parking lot he easily spotted his new wheels, proving everything he expected it to be. Yet deep down he felt some pride at having his own car, specially a new one unlike Darren’s piece of junk. Thus he admired the vehicle until Kerry reminded him the keys were in his purse and that he should unlock the doors.

Opening the surprisingly non-pink, black leather purse he saw such restraint had not been shown for his wallet or cell phone. However, spotting the Blackberry Pearl made him realize he needed to make a call. “Just a moment, Kerry. I need to call Darren, my roommate, and let him know about my new living arrangements.”

“No need, Marci. Duncan phoned him earlier today. Also, umm, Colleen was hoping you would hold off talking to him for the next few days, until you’re done with all your changes. She wants to film his reaction to how you look and act when we’re done Marcifying you.”

“We’re not going to embarrass him, at least no more than he deserves, are we? He’s my best friend.”

“Don’t worry, he volunteered.”

“Okay, it’s not like anybody can every protect Donks from himself.”

Digging further into the...his purse, he found an angel key chain with a Volkswagen key fob. Opening the hatch back, he tossed the duffel bag inside, then climbed into driver’s side white leather seat. Leather usually meant power seats, so reaching for the control he moved the seat most of the way forward and adjusted the height. After that he reached to adjust the mirror, stopping for a moment when he thought how much the hand looked like a females. Pulling his eyes away from long finger nails, he finished adjusting the mirror. He had to play around with the seat belt, finding the first setting resulted in the shoulder strap rubbing uncomfortably against his neck as it snaked its way between his breasts. Finally he was comfortable.

“Which way to the new place.”

“Actually, Marci, we have to stop at the grocery store first.”

Suddenly nervous, he asked, “We do?”

“Yep, the apartment isn’t stocked with anything, so we need to grab a bit of food, including some ice cream. I had a friend who had her tongue pierced and she lived on ice cream for like four days. Plus we have to pick up some things from the pharmacy section to look after all your new piercings. So put these on and lets go.”

These turned out to be a pair of large-framed sunglasses, with DG on the legs. Sighing, Mark put them on. Putting the car in reverse, he soon had his new car pulling out of the parking lot. Pleased the car seemed fairly zippy, he turned onto the street and headed for the StupidStore he knew to be a short distance to the West. With the setting sun, he was pleased that despite fashion first sensibility, the glasses did serve a more practical purpose. Arriving at the store’s parking lot, he took a spot well away from anybody, so his new car did not get dinged. Then he realized that he was expected to go inside and froze.

“I can’t do this Kerry.”

He did not need to explain himself, as Kerry looked at him with understanding. With reassurance in her voice she said, “Honest Marci, we’re not lying to you. You look amazing, nobody will guess you’re not who you appear.”

“But I don’t share your confidence, Kerry. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”

“I thought you were doing okay with this, you haven’t been embarrassed yet.”

“Well all of you know what’s up. It’s easier. With others, who aren’t in the know, the potential for bad seems to be worse.”

“I can’t promise anything bad won’t happen, Marci, but I don’t think it will. And if we run into an asshole, all we have to do is tell him the truth. Besides, why let a stranger’s opinion bother you?”

“It’s not their opinions that scare me.”

“I’ll protect you, Marci. I have a black-belt in karate.”

“You do?”

“Well not really, but I can scream really loud and I have a can of mace in my purse. You should get one as well, though maybe you can convince them you’re a black-belt, ‘cause you’re Chinese.”

“Nice stereotyping.” Mark laughed, surprised to hear the comment from Kerry. His buddies, yes. The pretty girl in the passenger seat, not so much.

“Say’s the chick wearing Paris Hilton’s sunglasses.”

“Did you just call me a chick and compare me to Paris Hilton?”

“Sure did cutie-pie, want to make something of it?”

He just had to laugh at her words and grin. “Okay, I’ll give it a try, but please stick close.”

“Don’t worry Marci, I will.”

“Your supposed to say something like I`ll stick to you like snot on a door-knob or stick on a skunk.”

“Bah, if we were two boys in some skuzzy old car, maybe. Luckily we’re two cute girls in our pretty, blue car.”

“Hey don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Ditto.”

“Okay, point taken. Let’s just get this done, I’m really beginning to look forward to some ice cream.”

“I bet. Don’t forget your purse.”

It turned out to be rather anti-climatic. Even though, once inside, Kerry had to take off his sunglasses, setting them on top of his head with the legs threaded into his hair, nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary. He hardly thought anybody looked at him. Something he mentioned to Kerry, who giggled in response, before telling him, “Marci, guys were checking you out constantly. In fact I thought one guy was going to drop his basket when you bent over to get the ice cream.”

“No way! Who?”

“The big buff guy in the frozen food section.”

“Umm...”

“You don’t have any idea who I am talking about, do you? He was with the brunette in the short skirted suit.”

“Oh her!”

“Yes her, no wonder you did not see him, you were too busy checking out his girl-friend.”

“Umm...I was wondering how I would look wearing.”

“Were you, then I will tell Allan you want one just like it.”

“Excellent, Kerry, I’ll look real professional.”

“It appears someone is trying to distract the conversation away from her admirers.”

“Maybe he was actually mad at me for staring at his girlfriend.”

“Now I’m no expert on guys Marci, but do jealous boyfriends smile happily when staring at the ass of whoever checks out their girlfriend?”

“He wasn’t smiling, was he?”

“He sure was.”

“God how oblivious could he have been?”

“Asks she who did not notice the drooling attention.”

Desperate to end the conversation, Mark switched topics to ask the directions to the apartment building. Though Kerry never barely stopped talking about the finer qualities of Marci’s new boyfriend, she guided them to an older, though well maintained, three story apartment building. Dropping Kerry of on the second floor, Mark went to the top floor and found his apartment. Inside, the first thing he noticed was a camera mounted in the ceiling of the combination entrance way, living room. Waving in its direction, he removed his shoes and leaving his duffel bag beside the door, took the grocery bags into the small connected kitchen, then he explored. An exploration over almost before it began, with his identification of which doors opened closets and which opened into the small bathroom and bedroom. Despite his expectations, it was not at all feminine, instead it barely had the personality of a Holiday Inn’s room.

That out of the way, he put his food purchases away before finding a bowl, spoon and dishing himself out a big batch of ice cream. Carrying it to the less than uncomfortable couch, he turned on the TV, found TSN and tried to forget his day, while soothing his swollen tongue. Finished, and remembering Iris’ dire warnings, he moved to the bathroom with the items he and Kerry had bought to look after his new piercings. Overcoming the awkwardness of his new nails he followed the detailed set of written instructions. Even when done at the sink, he took a glass full of a saline solution, returned to the couch, with the intention of giving his navel a saline soaking. Laying on his back, watching highlights of the night’s games, Mark wondered if Kerry was going to show.

Not long after that thought he heard a knock at the door. Not wanting to get up before the soak was complete, he yelled that the door was open. In walked Kerry, wearing a white t-shirt and green shorts, who upon seeing him with a glass held to his stomach started giggling.

“Laugh if you must, but there’s no way I am going to let anything get infected. If they do, it will be much harder to make them disappear.”

Kerry said, “Sorry Marci, I did the same thing, I just found it funny for some reason, though I am really glad you took your piercer’s warning to heart. Speaking of warnings, you shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.”

“Oh yeah, good idea.”

“Who were the big scorers tonight, I’m in a hockey pool at work and all the guys are surprised how good I’m doing. Finally a benefit of having three brothers who watch to much hockey.”

“Sorry I wasn’t paying much attention, I was basically just laying here vegging out. But the next loop should start in five minutes or so.”

“Stressful day?”

“Yeah kind of. Though actually less than I expected, more weird than anything. Half the things they did, I didn’t even realize were possible.”

“Yeah, Ms. Kowalchuk told me some of the things she was having them do, she really went all out.”

“Don’t I know it. What did she sound like when she was telling you, I’m a bit worried she has a hidden agenda.”

“What, like try and embarrass you or something? I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. She seems real excited about this project. She was telling Duncan and I, while we waited, that she has all types of things lined up and she was sure everything was going to be a success.”

“What type of things?”

“Well she didn’t really say what, but I don’t think she will do anything malicious to screw up her own project.”

Hoping Kerry was right, the two turned back to TV, for the next replay of highlights. As with any night when the Leafs played, the reporting lasted long enough so that during the Wilson interview Mark decided the saline bath was done. Carefully sitting and removing the glass, he used some hand disinfectant and began drying around the piercing with a couple of cotton balls.

“That’s adorable.”

“Huh?”

“Your belly button ring.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit over the top?”

“Way over. But that’s what they`re shooting for, still you have to admit it’s cute. Kind of like mine. See.”

With that, Kerry lifted her shirt to show a tight stomach and a silver, heart shaped belly button ring with blue gems dangling from it. Staring at her show Mark was reminded of what was trapped below and caused stuttered, “very cute.” Averting his eyes, he stood to put stuff away, before returning to sit cross-legged on the couch.

Seeing her look of surprise, Mark explained, “With my height, I find lots of chairs uncomfortable. I can either rest my feet on the ground, or against the seat-back. So I sit like this.”

“I guess I just don’t expect a guy to be that flexible.”

“Like my size, blame it on my parents. They were both professional dancers before we moved to Canada from Hong Kong, three years before China took over.”

Excitedly Kerry said, “Traditional Chinese dancing? I’ve seen some of it on TV and Youtube, it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, even now my Mom stays in shape by practicing. Dad’s more into assimilation and doesn’t dance much.”

“How about you?”

“Before coming to Canada, it was just part of my life. After arriving I kept it up for awhile, but found myself drawn to sports like hockey and finally quit.” He answered, not telling her about the big blow out with his Mom, when he was fifteen and quit. The argument was not a happy memory for anybody involved.

“So you were seduced by the hockey muse of small town Alberta?”

“I guess you could say that. Couldn’t skate well at first, but my flexibility from dancing allowed me to play goal. After all I was the only guy my age who could do the splits.”

“You can do the splits, show me.” Kerry demanded.

Always ready to jump through a hoop for a pretty girl, Mark quickly ended up on the ground sinking into a sideways split. Halfway down he began to worry what would be the impact of his fake vagina and what it hid; however, it offered no hindrance.

“Wow, it looks like I have found a yoga partner, I’ve been thinking about starting.”

“Umm...maybe.” He said, returning to the couch.

“So did you look in the duffel bag?”

“Haven’t looked yet.”

“Marci, you haven’t looked? Aren’t you burning with curiosity?”

“Honestly Kerry, my curiosity has been burned out for the day.”

“Where is it, oh there.” Getting the bag and opening it on the coffee table, she pulled out a bundle of clothing, wrinkled her nose, and stated, “Boring.”

“Hey those are my clothes. Is my wallet there?”

Reaching into the back pocket of the jeans she pulled out the black, leather wallet, and tossed it to him, saying, “You need to transfer things to your new wallet. Ah-hah, here it is.”

Looking towards her he saw her lift out a La Senza bag with a grin on her face. “Even though you aren’t going to be fitted for clothing until tomorrow, Ms. Kowalchuk and I agreed you would need something for tonight. Therefore, she had me pick up something for you to sleep in. I hope you like it.”

With that she pulled a short nightgown from the bag and brandished it in the air. “It’s a cheetah print babydoll. My last boyfriend bought me a similar one for my birthday, though he didn’t get to see me in it before I dumped his horny ass. But based upon how rapturous he was about it, I guess guys like them.”

“Kerry, cheetahs aren’t pink.”

“Apparently La Senza ones are.”

“Very funny. But why’s it see through?”

“Chiffon."

“It’s really short. Where’s the bottom.”

“These.”

“I can’t wear that.”

“But, Marci, I picked it out special for you.” Kerry answered with a sad look appearing on her face.

“Nice try, Kerry, you’re not fooling me with that look.”

“Worth a try. So if you won’t sleep in this, what will you sleep in.”

“In my underwear.”

“You can’t sleep in your underthings or they will be icky for tomorrow. Plus aren’t you ready to get out of the bra? I bet the straps are driving you nuts.”

They were, so he tried another tact. “I’ll sleep in the nude.”

“Well if you’re that kind of girl, I don’t know if I can be your friend.”

“Keeeerryyyy.”

“Just put it on, Marci. I have to show you a few more things tonight, then I’m going to head for bed.”

“Maybe if you show me your’s, I’ll show you mine.” Mark said, trying and failing miserably at doing the Grucho Marx eyebrow thing, unequipped as he had become.

“Marci, aren’t you a naughty girl?”

“Only a naughty girl would wear a little wisp of nothing like that to bed.”

“Touche. Okay then, you wear yours and I will model mine for you, but...”

“What’s with pretty girls and their buts?”

“I’m not the one who was waving mine at hunky guys in grocery store. But back to my deal. You’ll have to take a rain check, come to my place some other time and I’ll show you.”

“It’s a deal, pass them over and I will go change.”

“You should hang up your boy`s clothes. And fold what you have on so they look good tomorrow.”

Heading to the bedroom, with the offered night wear and his clothes, Mark felt he had done a fairly good job at negotiating. He had known from the start he would end up wearing the flimsy little thing and had worried his male brain had taken it too far when he spouted out his offer. Luckily for him she had taken it goodnaturedly. Even better, she had agreed. Though maybe he better let her out of the deal, he did not want to think he was a creep like her ex-boyfriend.

Deciding that would be the best thing to do, he hung up his Mark clothes, before removing his Marci outfit. Putting on the babydoll, he moved over to the mirror, attached to the dresser, and checked out what the cheetah print did such a good job of not hiding.

Genetically mandated to do so, his gaze went directly to his new breasts. He found himself fairly impressed with their shape, knowing they would make a shirt or sweater worthy of a second look. However, he doubted he could pull of a cleavage producing top. Despite what Julia said, it was just too obvious where the latex ended and his skin began. The skin tones were close, but not exact, it would be totally obvious to anybody who looked.

The rest of his body, well he had to admit it passed inspection better. His legs actually looked good and his hips and butt did have a bit of shape. Rather boyish, but knew that wasn’t unusual for even natural girls.

Before he could explore more, Kerry shouted for him to hurry. Moving towards the door, he found himself mentally singing Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini when he realized how afraid he was to leave the bedroom. However, recognizing this was likely the first of many skimpy outfit and with his audience small, he decided to rip off the bandage. His nerves aflutter, he moved quickly into the common area, standing rather primly in place, with his hands clasped behind him, hiding the one part truly his.

Watching him stand there, cute as could be, Kerry smiled. Twirling her finger and him a couple of times, he finally caught on and turned in place. “Come on Marci, move your hands. You don’t need to protect yourself from a spanking.”

Turning his back to her, flipped the hem of the babydoll upward to flash his bottom, protected only by the string of his thong, at her. Just as quickly, he spun back around to face her with a questioning look.

Clapping for his performance, Kerry said, “Excellent Marci, you look amazing. However, there is one recommendation I would make.”

“What’s that.”

“Well if you are going to prance around in your nightclothes, you may want to wear a robe. After all, you’re being filmed.”

Shocked at having forgotten the camera, Mark’s glance darted to it, before looking back at Kerry who held a matching robe. Hurrying over to her, he snatched it from her hands and scrambled into it, tying it tightly at his waist. And even though barely longer than the babydoll, he felt better.

“You’re a bully, Miss Kerry Sanderson.”

Laughing, she sputtered, “Your face, it was hilarious.”

Watching her laugh, he could not stay mad. “You really got me good.”

“You’re not mad are you, Marci?”

“Nah. However, I was thinking of letting you of your modeling promise, not anymore.”

“Crap. Well it was worth it, I guess. Yeah definitely, it was worth it.”

Her joke out of the way, Kerry taught him some new things. By the time she headed home he had a new routine for bedtime preparation, one that took significantly longer than his norm. Brushes, combs, barrettes and braids combined to prepare his hair for sleeping. While all types of cleansers, creams, and moisturizers were used on the skin of his face, arms, legs and feet. It seemed a daunting nightly task, when combined with Kerry’s orders for the morning.

Alone, he found himself unready to go to sleep. His tongue was bothering him, making the tiny throbs from his ears and navel less noticeable. So he took some Tylenol and had another bowl of ice cream, which led to another mouth cleaning. Then he returned to the front of the idiot box, flipping between channels, finding nothing on but feeling too lazy to go to bed. Well after midnight he finally forced himself to move to the bedroom and climb into bed, where he failed miserably at falling asleep. Everything felt different, the bed, the pillows, his head, and his very body. Tossing and turning found no comfortable position, nor did he feel closer to sleep. He felt wide awake, and he did not have any of his regular distractions. In particular, reaching between his legs to find his plastic, Barbie bits confirmed his main sleep distraction, masturbation, was definitely out.

Finally giving up, Mark put on his robe and dragging a pillow and comforter with him, headed once more for the couch. With the TV on and wrapped in the comforter, he at some point fell asleep. The next thing he remembered was waking up needing to use the bathroom. Despite his waking to unusual circumstances, he fuzzily recognized his situation and did not get waylaid by surprise. Instead, with his business done, he turned off the TV and took some more Tylenol, before taking the bedding back into the bedroom, only to be awakened much too early by the annoying beeping of the alarm clock.

****

Mark was not a happy camper as he rolled out of bed. He felt tired, his sleep being short and not particularly restful. His tongue felt like it had swollen to twice its size. And topping it off with a big, sour cherry was the dance of a thousand steps he was expected to perform before a day of getting female wardrobe. Weeee!

Hungry and grumpy he headed into the kitchen to get a Tylenol and the yogurt Kerry had told him to buy, in place of a real breakfast. A wise recommendation, even the yogurt was a struggle.

Nor was his mood enhanced when he realized he was standing around in his kitchen, without his robe, putting on a show for the cameras. However, unlike the previous night with its playful mood, he did not run to get the robe, instead he offered a single fingered salute. He popped back into his bedroom to obtain the necessary props for the next part of his waltz, one best performed by clowns.

Unwrap shower cap...curse nails..dumb nails
Don monstrosity...pull hair...scratch ear
Dash to the bathroom...flick off...cam ra
Clean all piercings...gargle...gargle
Into the shower...Oh God...too hot
Rinse with body gel...flow ry...girl smell
Remember pat dryyyy...then powder for soft and healthy skin..da dah

Finished in the bathroom, and putting on the underthings, which Kerry had shown him how to hand wash, he looked around and saw he had once more forgotten the damn robe. So he wrapped a towel around his torso and scampered quickly through the common area into the bedroom where he donned the shirt and track suit. Somewhat ready he sat on the couch to brush his hair, suck on an ice cube, check out the weather, and wait for Kerry to call.

Answering his cell when it rang, Kerry greeted him with a chirpy, “Hiya, Marci. How’re you doing this morning?”

“Grumpy. Didn’t sleep good. Tongue sore.”

“Oh aren’t you the little Miss Suzy Sunshine. Do you need any help? Did you do everything, I told you to do, this morning?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay, grab your purse and we’ll head out.”

Despite living only a few blocks away from work, they took the car, because he would be hauling stuff home at the end of the day. During the drive Mark grew nervous about the day, not about the clothes, but about how people would look at him. It was going to be different than going to the SuperStore. At the production company, he would not have any anonymity, which made him wonder how people would react to his appearance?

He passed his first test with flying colours. Kerry having left him to hit the Second Cup, he entered the office alone where Allison the receptionist, who was on the phone, held up a finger for him to wait a moment. When she transferred the call, asked, “Can I help you, Miss?”

Then her eyes grew wider as she asked, “Mark?”

“Actually it’s Marci now.”

“Wow, you look good.“

“Thanks, I think. Though I guess we’ve only begun, I’m supposed to head back to the costume area for the next for the next phase of my metamorphosis.”

“Wait, Marci, I’m supposed to buzz Gus when you arrive. I hear he is your shadow?”

“Yep, poor guy.”

“Okay, take a seat and I will call him.”

Picking up a copy of the Sun, he sat in one of the big leather chairs and tried to read. However, he kept being distracted by people passing through the reception area, none seeming to recognize him, though a number of the guys took a second or third look in his direction. He still waited when Kerry arrived, coffee in hand, and asked what he was doing.

“Waiting for Gus.”

“Umm...Marci, he’s standing over there.”

Looking in the direction she pointed, he saw Gus with his camera pointed in Mark’s direction. “Gus, how long have you been here?”

“Just long enough to get a great shot of Peter from accounting checking you out. How are you this morning, Princess?”

“Princess?”

“Well I heard you don’t like being called Marci.”

“And you thought Princess would be better?”

“No, I knew you would hate it. But bad little girls who flip my cameras the bird deserve a comeuppance.”

“No way, when did you do that, Marci?”

“This morning, when I woke. I was out in the kitchen without my robe, just in that nothing you had me wearing. However, I was too grumpy to freak out like I did last night.”

“By the way, good work on that Kerry. Marci’s reaction was perfect and we got some really good shots for the show.”

“Thanks, Gus, it was fun.”

“Wait how do you know everything that happened already? Don’t tell me you have reviewed the film from my apartment already. Don’t you have a home?”

“Nah, that job falls to Dustin. He’s low man on the cameraman totem pole. He arrives at 7:00am and scans through the nightly feeds to see if anything is worth further review. He’s really enthusiastic about the job and hopes you get animed up at some point.”

“Ewww, you mean you’ve got a perv watching Marci’s place?”

“Nah, Dustin’s just a regular guy with too large of dependency upon google.”

“So in other words, Kerry, he’s a perv.” Mark added.

“Why, Princess, how quickly have you abandoned your own kind.”

“Anime?”

“Okay, okay, I guess it is kind of weird. Personally I’ll settle for the good ole, naughty, school girl look.” Gus agreed, doing a much better eye-brow wriggle than Mark’s attempt the previous night.

Rolling his eyes, Mark turned to Kerry with a scornful, “Boys.”

“Tell me about it.” Kerry agreed, before turning to Gus and said, in an easily overheard, stage whisper, “You’ll likely get your wish.”

“Woohoo, then we better hurry back to see Allan and his team. See you later, Kerry.”

“See you, Kerry.”

“Bye, Gus. Good luck, Marci.”

Even with Gus’ presence, nobody seemed to guess Mark’s identity, at least not until they arrived in the costuming workshop where Allan and his assistant, Joanne, were ecstatic with his appearance. In turn, he was less than thrilled with their wardrobe choices, for it quickly became apparent they subscribed to Spiff’s viewpoint. Pants seemed to be a thing of the past, skirts and dresses of all materials, lengths and tightnesses were designated as his daily wear.

It was all rather orderly, when an outfit was chosen, Joanne would package it with necessary accessories, number it and enter a description in a spreadsheet. Mark received a copy of the spreadsheet, which he would cross-reference each morning when texted a messaged number.

This included a bewildering array of shoes. At the time, each high heeled, torture device had seemed the same as all the others, requiring him to use his natural balance groomed in the same way as his flexibility and the learnings from Sheree’s lessons. Nor did he notice the sly looks shared between Allan and Joanne as they chose higher and thinner heels. Not until the evening, when he inspected his closet, did he realize he should have proven more ungainly.

Though if he had, it still may not have made a difference. He learned quite early in the process that, once more, his opinion was not valued. Combined with finding talking difficult with his swollen tongue, he said very little during the morning. Instead he played automated mannequin, while intermittently sucking on ice-cubes. Mark found it more monotonous than getting hair extension, with most of the conversation occurring between Allan and Joanne as they inspected each outfit. Even the novelty of female clothes disappeared quickly, leaving him in a stupor, not unlike the one caused by the yellow line when driving alone at night.

Nor was Allan particularly aware of the comfort of others, it being past 1:00 before he stood, stretched, and said, “Well that should keep you going for the foreseeable future. Though we will see you again when Colleen needs anything special put together.”

“We’re done?” Mark asked.

“Yep, why don’t you get back into the clothes you arrived in. We can finish making adjustment and pack everything for you to take home. By the way, wear that jumper tomorrow.”

By this point in the day, Mark had quit paying attention to what he wore, beyond figuring out how to put them on. Having given up trying to understand why some looks were chosen, while other, seemingly similar, were discarded, he had zoned out. Now, when Allan’s words woke him, he looked into the mirrors to get a better idea of what he was to wear during Marci’s first non-tracksuit exposure to the outside world.

He saw the theme of the morning, kind of preppy and totally-cute. A gray scoop-necked jumper, over a long-sleeved, white turtleneck, which came down almost to his knees, fetchingly showing off gray nyloned legs. Topping it off, or maybe better to say, bottoming it off, were a pair of black Mary Janes with a thick 3” heel. He reluctantly had to admit it was harder to see himself than when he wore his purple tracksuit.

Returned from changing, Joanne and Allan were already hard at work on sewing machines. So he needed to interrupt to ask, “Excuse me, Allan. But you didn’t include anything casual.”

“Those khaki and jean skirts are fairly casual.”

“No, I mean something just for mucking around my apartment in.”

“Oh, you mean like what your wearing?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, you’re getting more than you tried on today. Including casual and nighttime things, it just didn’t seem necessary for you to try them on.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Allan and Joanne.”

Leaving the workroom, Mark looked at Gus to ask, “So now what?”

“Hungry?”

“Not really, my tongue’s too sore to think about eating.”

“Well I am. And you should have something. How about we hit the strip-mall across the way? I’ll hit the Subway while you go to the Booster Juice beside it.”

“That would work. After all, a man cannot live on ice cream alone.”

Returning to the office and the empty lunch room, Mark spent time bemoaning the fact that nobody noticed anything strange about him and drank a medium Ripped Berry. Finished, Mark had a new concern since he needed to find a bathroom. Gus recommend he go ask Allison, who said, “The women’s of course. You need to get used to it.”

“I don’t know, Allison. Could you stand guard? Tell people I’m not perving up the place?”

“Well I would, but I can’t leave the front desk. How about I call Kerry to see if she can help.”

“That would be great.”

In a few moments the intern arrived, smiled at Mark and said, “You called, Allison?”

“Yeah, Marci needs to use the bathroom and would like a chaperone, can you help out?”

“Sure, come along, Marci?”

“Thanks, Kerry, sorry to bother you.”

“Don’t worry, I was just relabeling tapes. It’s totally boring, any break is good. So how did it go?”

“It’s done for now.”

“So what’s your new wardrobe look like?”

“I don’t know, I guess kind of preppy. Lots of skirt and dresses.”

“Tell me about them.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. Allan talks alot, and I kind of spaced out.”

“Marciiii.”

“Well it’s true. If you want to see what they picked out for me, you can help me unpack.”

“Sounds good. Hold up, let me pop in to see if anybody is here....Nope, its empty, come on in.”

Mark had just sat when he heard the door open and a woman’s voice say, “Hi, Kerry, what are you doing?”

“Oh hi, Melissa. I’m just standing guard to let anybody know that Mark is using the women’s washroom.”

“Mark? Why isn’t he using the men’s? Is it out of order?”

“Not that I know, it’s just that Marci has experienced some changes.”

Melissa, who was a production assistant on a cooking show, must have seen his shoes and bottoms under the stall’s walls, for he heard her say, “Oh my God, was that Mark with Gus earlier today?”

“Likely.”

“Wow, I didn’t even guess. Hiya, Marci.”

“Umm...hiya, Melissa.” An embarrassed Mark answered.

Finished in the stall he performed his oral hygiene regimen before anybody else came to use the facilities, though Melissa stuck around chatting the entire time. Returned to the front desk, Mark asked Gus about the rest of rest of the day and Kerry returned to her labeling.

“Well I just chatted with Duncan, sounds like we are back to the spa for the afternoon. Time for a makeover.”

“Like makeup?”

“Probably.”

“Bleh.”

“You signed up for this, Marci.”

“I must have been drunk.”

“I would hope so.”

“I know. I know. Okay, let’s head down.”

Iris was manning the front desk of the spa when the two arrived. Apparently expecting them, she called Sarah over the intercom then put on a pair of disposable gloves to check his piercings. Complementing him for a job well done, she turned him over to Sarah, who led him back to the room where they spent the prior day.

“How are things today?”

“Ok I guess.” Mark answered for both of them, while Gus fiddled with his camera. “We spent the morning fitting me with a new wardrobe.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m the wrong guy to ask. I remember lots of skirts and dresses. Maybe Gus could do a better job of explaining?”

“Don’t look at me, I glazed over listening to Allan.”

“That’s the best you can do? God, you two are such guys.”

“Thank you, I am glad someone finally noticed.”

“But, Marci, it’s our job to make sure nobody notices.” Said a new voice. Turning, Mark saw Janice Wilson enter the room. “I’ll be working with you today; however, first lets check yesterday’s work.”

Having grown rather used to being undressed in front of others, Mark was soon down to his skivvies. On the whole, Janice seemed pleased with the results, but frowned when looking at his chest. Guessing she saw what he had seen that morning, Mark said, “The difference is fairly noticeable.”

“Yes it is. The seam is easily hid with a bit of coverup. But I hoped the colour would be closer. Luckily we have a backup plan, we’re going to give you a spray on tan.”

“You’re going to turn me orange?”

“No, we use much better stuff than what you get out of a can or tube. And we’re just going to golden you up a bit, hopefully a better match.”

“What about the clothes Allan picked out, won’t he be annoyed if my skin colour all of a sudden changes?”

“Don’t worry, it was Allan who called recommending the tan.”

“Booth 3 should be free, Janice. Want me to take Marci there now?”

“Sounds good Sarah. Also, go one tone darker than we talked about earlier.”

“Will do, Janice. Come along, Marci. Gus, you stay here, most of our customers do not like being seen, almost nude, by a man with his camera.”

Forty five minutes later Mark returned with a nice golden tan. Pleased with the correction, Janice had him take a seat while she studied his face, before saying, “You will have mixed feelings to hear that we have a fair amount of work to do. Happy, because your features are not nearly as feminine as everybody says. However, we won’t be able to go with a natural look, instead you will need to be more heavily madeup, which takes longer and will be more for you to learn.”

“Me?”

“Yes you. You didn’t think you had us on call 7/24 did you?”

“I was hoping.”

“Hope all you want, but that would eat Colleen’s budget too quickly. No, you’re going to have to learn how to do it yourself. So after I find a look with which I am happy, Sarah will help you practice.”

That took the rest of the afternoon, most of which involved teaching Mark the secrets to make his eyes smoky and his lips lusher than they were. The result was a somewhat dramatic look that served as the final factor in making Mark disappear completely within Marci. Finally he saw what everyone else saw, a female. A difficult lesson, harder than learning how to duplicate Janice’s chosen look.

The others, catching his mood, did not indulge in the prior day’s joking as he removed his makeup one final time, before he and Kerry along with his new wardrobe headed home. Mark tried to perk up in her presence, but talked little, preferring to let her carry the conversation. Picking up another meal from Booster Juice, the two hauled the suitcases to his apartment, before Kerry went to change out of her work clothes and have some ‘real food’. Meanwhile Mark tidied up in his bedroom in preparation for Kerry’s return to help him unpack.

Guessing correctly that Kerry was more interested in his new things than him, Mark sat cross legged on the bed, finishing his juice, while she did the work and exclaiming happily at what she found. His presence was hardly needed, as was proven when she sent him to the bathroom to look after his stupid tongue piercing.

Mark returned as Kerry laid out, on his dresser, the cosmetics Sarah had packaged up. However, when he invited her to stick around, she begged off, saying she had some things to do that evening. Which suited Mark just fine, he looked forward to the time alone, to think.

His masquerade had become real that afternoon. For the first time he saw through the eyes of so many others to see the girl hidden from his sight. It rather freaked him out, dealing a serious blow to feelings of smug superiority towards those who could make such a mistake. Yet he would have expected the insight to make him feel even worse. True, he was far from thrilled, but he expected to be angrier. Maybe after being mistaken for a girl so many times, he half expected to see it himself.

Now he had.

And though it did not feel right, it actually wasn’t a huge deal. He knew he was the girl in the mirror, yet despite how he looked, his thoughts and feelings had not changed. So while some may wonder if his true self had been given a chance to shine through, he knew he now saw the mask. A mask he realized would be welcome, serving him well during this silliness, but could be discarded when done.

Maybe things were not as dire as he initially thought. Mark could not deny he was passable. Before the makeup, even with nobody having twigged to his real self, he felt more vulnerable to potential ridicule. With the makeup, that fear was significantly less, which probably was a good thing.

He could handle it.

****

Finishing her morning cereal Kerry worried about Mark. She could tell everything was starting to get to him and wondered if she should have stuck around to keep him company. However, she had errands to run and Gus had told her Mark could use some space that evening. Having guessed he would understand another guy better, she had taken his advice after putting away the clothes.

Now she regretted following the advice. So what if he was a guy? It did not mean he was an expert on every male’s psyche, in fact it almost guaranteed he lacked the empathy to understand someone as sweet as Marci. If it had been up to Gus, he likely would have just told Marci to suck it up. Definitely a mistake to follow the cameraman’s advice. She dreaded what state she would find the young man in when she picked him up.

Nervously gathering her things, she was putting on her shoes when there was a knock at her door. Wondering who was there she looked through the peep-hole, then in surprise swung the door open, exclaiming, “Marci!”

“Hiya, Kerry, ready for work?”

“Marci! Look at you.”

Smiling at her statement, Mark twirled slowly in a circle, ending up facing her with arms held in a bad approximation of a model’s pose and asked, “You like?”

“Wow. Oh God, I know you will hate this, but you look so adorable.”

“I would hope so, I spent enough time practicing last night.”

“You practiced? Your makeup?”

“Yeah, I got kind of bored and tried out some of the things Sarah tried to teach me. I think it paid off, I was faster this morning.”

“I can’t believe you practiced, you seemed kind of out of it when I left.”

“Sorry about that, Kerry. I just needed to do some thinking. It was all starting to freak me out, but finally I just said to myself, ‘Suck it up Princess.” After all, it was my choice to get involved and I figure the better I look the easier it will be for me.”

“You look really good.”

“Umm...one question though, does the production company have casual Fridays?”

Realizing how her jeans, t-shirt and sweater made him look over dressed, Kerry admitted, “Yeah, we get to wear jeans on Fridays.”

“Crap, why did Allan tell me to wear this?”

“He doesn’t like casual Fridays. He and a few others don’t dress down, so you won’t be alone. Although I am guessing he didn’t pick your sneakers to go with your outfit.”

Holding up a yellow SuperStore bag, Mark answered, “No, he wants me to wear these. I practiced with them last night, which should provide Dustin with all sort of entertainment. I can handle them okay, but now can guess why women wear runners when commuting.”

“It’s what I always do. You want to walk, the weather is nice and it seems silly to drive four blocks.”

“Yeah, that would be great. I’m used to walking everywhere, The Bug is making me sluggish.”

“You should have come with me to aerobics last night.”

“I don’t think either your classmates or I am ready for that.”

“Nah, it would be okay. It’s not at some fancy gym, so you won’t have to worry about they change room, it’s just a community program. You should come with me tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’re just saying that so I will quit asking, aren’t you?”

“Yeeeeah.”

“How about I try and phone someone today to find out if it’s okay?”

“Well maybe.”

Their walk to the office proved uneventful, though Kerry took great delight in pointing out all the guys who checked Mark out. He in turn kept rolling his eyes at her, but otherwise did not get bent out of shape, accepting they would look since he was cute. He was not even bothered when Allison greeted them with a hearty, “Hiya Girls,” before sending them through to Conference Room D for a planning session. Finding it empty, Mark took the opportunity to switch shoes to show Kerry the results of his practice.

However, his grace disappeared completely when he heard a male voice say, “Nice wiggle.” A spinning stumble left him grasping the edge of the table to maintain his balance.

Colleen also was unimpressed with Duncan, turning to him to say, “Good work. This show has had enough delays already, we don’t need Mark breaking an ankle.“

“Sorry, Colleen. Sorry, Marci.”

“Luckily things are okay, but let’s try to be careful, we all have a lot riding on this project. So everybody grab a seat and we can get this meeting started while I lay out our next three months.”

****

Nearly ten months later, Mark stood in the kitchen, hanging on the open fridge door, wondering why they always let it get so empty. It wasn’t because he was broke, his bank account was still quite healthy. Instead it was due to the innate laziness of the young male. Easier to spend fifteen minutes in the line of a drive-thru than to spend the same amount of time wandering a grocery store. Of course this introduced another problem, it led to times when he was too lazy to go out, which left him into situations where all that was in the fridge was drinks, a tub of margarine, and a chunk of cheese. To bad he didn’t have any crackers.

“Hey, Dude,” Darren shouted, from the living room. “Come see, you’re commercials on again.”

“I’ve seen it.” Mark shouted back, deciding on a Coke Zero and returning to the living room just as the commercial finished.

“Damn it, I keep forgetting Marci’s a babe.”

“Do you keep forgetting it’s me?”

“Why, oh why, I ask, didn’t your parents bring Marci into the world instead of you?”

“Thanks, Donks.”

“Anytime, buddy. Anytime. Hey, where’s my coke?”

“In the fridge.”

“Marci would have brought me one.”

“Fuck you, Donks.”

Laughing, Darren got up and went to the kitchen. Coming back, he took a sip, and said, “Can’t wait until Saturday night. Everybody’s getting together to watch the premier episode.”

“Luckily everybody will be drunk, particularly me, by the time it comes on.”

“We’ll stay sober. We want to seeing your shining moment and understand that since it’s porn it’s going to be after midnight.”

“Damn it, you know it’s not porn.”

“Yeah, I just like how the steam comes out of your ears whenever anybody says it is.”

“Why are we friends again?”

“Because when we were little and you broke the window at the Town Hall, you said we would be blood brothers forever if I kept it secret.”

“Should blood brothers make fun of each other.”

“Yes, Chink, yes they should. So did you hear anything about a second season?”

“They want to see the response, before deciding anything.”

“Which way you hoping?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll likely suck.”

“It won’t su...for fuck’s sake, Donks, quit trying to use reverse psychology on me.”

Gronk

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

TG Themes:

Sweet / Sentimental

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Permission:

Posted by author(s)

A troll without his bridge is like a potato bug without a potato. Let us explore what happens when such a separation occurs. No, not when a potato bug loses its potato. Who wants to read a TG story about a bug? Now such a tale about a troll, a tale of triumph ... that makes a lot more sense. Doesn’t it? Well ... umm ... yeah ... hey look a pterodactyl.

Gronk
by Arcie Emm

It was a calm night, moonlight being disturbed but rarely by the passage of clouds. And nowhere was the result of this better seen than if one were to stand upon the stone bridge and look down at the reflection shown in creek over which it crossed. Of course there was nobody silly enough to be caught upon that bridge at any time, let alone at night.

The reason for this could barely be seen, floating beside the bridge, his grey skin almost matching the darkened colour of the water. Thus camouflaged he would have been impossible to spot. If not for the long nose sticking out of the water and the platter-like eyes reflecting moonlight he would not have been visible at all. Not that Gronk the Troll was interested in the night, beyond the fact that it did not rain like it had for the last week, which allowed him to pursue serious troll business. He was performing bridge inspection.

Many young naturals, when they are making career choices are often drawn to the exciting part of a troll’s life, in particular killing and eating humans. Yet any troll worth his salt would quickly finish off such a task, scaring everybody except stupid adventurers away. Then life became much simpler, though more important to those with the true soul of a troll, it became time to care for and nurture his bridge.

On this night, Gronk was less than pleased to see crumbling mortar between some of the stones in the middle pillar. He immediately got to work fixing the problem. Diving to the bottom of the creek, he looked along its bed, his eyes still bright from the moonlight, at his rock garden. After careful deliberation, he picked a round stone, barely larger than a hen`s egg, and swam to the surface. With better light, Gronk examined the stone before holding it up to a batwing-like ear, listening to it. Hearing the stone give off a faint murmur, similar to the water passing under his bridge, Gronk decided it had cured long enough. Satisfied, he took a bite out of the stone, as if it was a crab-apple. Chewing carefully, he planned out his work. That planning ended just as he swallowed the last bite of the stone.

Drifting towards the centre pillar, he began to use his thick, yet sharp talons to remove all the cracked and crumbling mortar. And when he thought he was done, he dug away at it some more, knowing that even a bit being loose would mean he soon would have a larger repair job. Finally satisfied, he gave forth a great belch and regurgitated a palm full of the recently swallowed stone, now perfectly mixed with the bile of his stomach, into his trowel like hand. Then slapping the gunk onto the pillar, Gronk used fingers and the rounded, back part of his nails to work the new mortar into place, hacking up a new batch as needed.

Not until he had carefully packed it into place and smoothed away all roughness was he happy with the result. Satisfied with his evening`s work, Gronk returned to floating on his back as he stared at his bridge.

She was beautiful. Her twin arches, boldly thrusting upwards to sky proudly proclaiming her bridgeness to all who dared look. Gronk dared, and as always was enthralled by the sight of her, feeling that he could gaze upon her endlessly. And that was what he was doing when something began to break into his concentration. Finally he recognized the sound from his distant past, when adventurers had thought to steal the the pleasures of his bridge. Hoof beats approached along the weed choked, cobblestones that formed the road leading towards his home.

Drifting to the shore, Gronk slipped from the creek’s waters onto its shores. Pulling himself upright, he lumbered to the start of the bridge, his massive form effectively blocking all access. Then Gronk waited as the horse and rider approached. As they did he began to grow confused, for they were not what he expected, seemingly to be a different species than he remembered, for he was sure that humans and horses were not made of shiny metal. Yet he decided it mattered not what type of mutations the gadflies had experienced, it did not alters his responsibilities to keep them off his bridge. So with a great bellow he shouted, “Gronk not allow you to pass!”

The metal human brought its metal horse to a halt and responded in kind. “Fie foul beast, whom art thou to deny my passage?”

“Me said already. Me Gronk, bridge’s troll.”

“And I am Sir Aethelrod, son of Sir Aetherir, son of Sir Aethelton, son of Sir Aethlafro, son of Sir Aethilie. None but my liege, the mighty King Aelambert, God Chosen Ruler of Medigo, Conqueror of Ninsk, Felimd, and Bolth, Slayer of the Dragon Golm, Bringer of Peace, gives me orders.”

Gronk burst out laughing, for the metal humans words sounded almost exactly like the gurgling of his belly after eating cattail fed beaver. He replied, “Gronk not care what you fart from mouth, him still not let you pass.”

“Foul beast you dare to insult me? Prepare for death. MEDIGO!!!”

Seeing the metal human point a long stick at him, clamp feet to metal horses side, and begin charging`, Gronk reached to a willow tree at the side of the road and broke it off so he had his own stick. Then with a battle cry of GRONK, ran at his attacker. Seconds later he felt a tremendous pain in his chest, collapsing to his back he found himself thinking how unfair it was that his stick did not have a metal tipped point.

This was chased from his mind by the realization that he was about to lose his beautiful bridge. Yet he did not despair, for he knew there was always another bridge in need of a troll, his mother would not allow him to be dead for long.

As he opened his eyes, Gronk realized there was truth of his last thought. Looking about he found himself on the shore of an unfamiliar creek, wider than his old one, almost a river. Yet something seemed wrong, looking about it took him time to figure out what that was, but doing so made him feel like he had once more been stabbed in the chest by a metal tipped stick. There was no bridge. True there appeared to have been a bridge, he could see pillars in the middle of the creek and stone work on either shore, yet the bridge was gone. He felt great sadness that he had not arrived in time to save the fragile being.

Then Gronk felt panic begin to well up, for though a troll could keep a stone bridge standing forever, he could not build one himself. And without a bridge how could he be a troll. Yet Mother had placed him here and wherever a natural was placed, there was purpose. Nervously he looked to the glass smooth water at the creek’s edge, the shock of what he saw knocking him to his knees.

Trilling out, so differently than his former bellow, he shouted, “No Gronk a troll, not a nymph!”

***

Days later Gronk listlessly went about her duties. Despite her lack of knowledge about nymphs, she had felt a natural pull towards the plant life growing alongside and within the creek. She instinctively knew how to care for their wants and needs, but found them much given to complaining and dramatics, nothing like the stoic resolve of her old bridge. It was after one such affair, which had involved chastising a raft of greedy algae encroaching upon some water lilies, that she found himself climbing aboard a rock jutting out in the middle of the creek to have a think.

She found herself wishing she knew more about nymphs. Her only prior experience had been visits from the nymph of the creek over which her old bridge had passed. Yet she could mostly remember ignoring the nymph, who had chattered away worse than a magpie with dementia. Her old troll self did not remember much beyond the nymph having worn a water lily tied about her waist.

Assuming it to be some sort of badge of office, Gronk had obtained herself such an adornment. However, she had learned its true benefit was to serve as a pad for her soft behind when sitting upon one of the stones in the river, such as now.

Their she found herself in an all too common pastime, feeling bad about where life had taken her. Missing out on life as a troll and being turned into a silly, fluff-head water nymph. As a natural it seemed downright unnatural. Likely because she was fighting against Mother Nature, going so far as to not believe that she knew what was best for Gronk. After all, had Gronk not been top of the class in troll school? How could she now be a water nymph?

Gronk had even dared to try and prove her mother wrong. On the second day of nymphish existence, she had been swimming in the creek when she had been surprised to feel the touch of water that she had felt before, not over soft, green skin, but over hard, grey hide. Suddenly she was struck with the knowledge of how to find her old bridge, just head up the watercourse from creek to creek, river to river. Excited at the prospect she had immediately headed up creek, against the water’s flow. Yet when she arrived at the river that flowed into her creek she had been dismayed to find she could not pass into its waters, only then remembering that she would be tied to her natural place, the creek, not her old bridge.

The journey had been made even worse as she realized her creek held a number of bridges at which resided trolls. Watching them from a distance she had selfishly resented their fortune to have such a respectable job, while she flitted about settling squabbles between idiotic plants.

Almost she had found herself approaching them, overcome by the desire to find out everything about their bridges. Yet she had stopped herself before going forward like a babbling lunatic, remembering her own reaction to such a visit. No it was best to let the respectable fellows go about their business uninterrupted, nor did she want them to learn that she had once been amongst their number. It mortified her to think about the potential mockery. She just had to make the best of a joyless existence.

So as she sat on the rock, in the middle of her creek, delving into the past for happy memories. While doing this she noticed what initially seemed to be a log floating towards her, one that turned into a river otter floating along upon its back, gnawing away at a fish held between its front paws. Already half in the past, Gronk was struck by memories of how much she enjoyed the taste of river otter.

Before she knew it, she found herself sliding back in the water, adjusting her lily bum pad, and ghosting towards the otter. Approaching the unaware beast she raised an arm and brought it splashing down through the water towards the brown form. In that moment she was reminded how much she had changed. Gone was the great strength and huge hand that would barely have been slowed by the water before it crashed into the otter, instantly killing it. Instead all that she accomplished was to create a splash of water that rained down upon the startled otter.

He jerked upright, dropping his fish, before looking at her with hugely round eyes, showing almost as much shock as hers at what had just happened. Then an otterish look of glee came over his face and spinning in place he swept a wave of water over Gronk’s head with his tail. Battle commenced, Gronk not recognizing what had come over her as she giggling failed to direct more water, with her hands, at the the otter than he could at her with his tail.

It was a losing proposition and finally she found herself covering her head with her arms and shrieking, “I give. I give.”

With one more splash, the otter stopped with a smile. Then in the language of beasts, which was understandable by all naturals, said, “That was fun. My names Squinqel, who are you.”

“Gronk.”

“Gronk? What type of name is that for a water nymph?”

“Well actually I’m a troll?”

“A troll? Babes, have you checked out your reflection recently?”

Glumly Gronk replied, “Yeah I have. Why did you call me Babes?”

“Well I can’t really call you Gronk, can I? That’s a silly name for a nymph.”

“But it’s my name.”

“Sure thing Babes, so why don’t you tell me how a troll came to look like you?”

Gronk did, at least she began to tell the story, until Squinqel fell asleep in mid-sentence. Never-the-less on that day Gronk made a friend, admittedly a fun obsessed, scatter-brain, but having someone to talk to kept her sane and mostly kept her out of the past. Plus Squinqel had more experience with nymphs than her, the pond in which he was a pup having a nymph of his own. So considering himself an expert he was always offering Babes advice, some of which was valid. Still Gronk found herself going along with most, even the silliest thing, stopping when Squinqel could not longer hold back his laughter.

So it was that the two of them were together when once more Gronk was trying to bring peace between the algae and the lilies, Squinqel offering all types of unhelpful advice. She had just gotten the two parties talking when she heard the clip-clop of hoofs along the shore. Turning in that direction she saw a metal human riding a metal horse, but what caught her eye was the symbol on the board hanging from the metal horse’s saddle. She recognized it.

Suddenly seeing the figure of Sir Farts-from-Mouth, all of her rage and loss came crashing back. Completely forgetting that she was now a nymph and not a troll, she rushed to the shore and reached for the nearest willow. Bending it over with her momentum, she had nowhere near the strength to break it off. Instead it recoiled and with snap she found herself flung into the air. Shrieking her dismay, Gronk tumbled ass over tea-kettle through the air, her lily bum pad snapping loose from her waist as she cartwheeled towards the creek.

Fortunately for her, the conquest-minded algae raft spotted an opportunity to earn favour with the authorities and it flowed outwards into the creek. Therefore, instead of splatting down in a belly flop, Gronk found herself gently cushioned as she landed. Sitting up she spotted Squinqel watching her with awe-filled eyes.

Clueless as to what had started her misadventure, he said, “Babes, that was the most amazing thing that I have ever seen. Doitagain, doitagain.”

However, before she could respond, they learned the metal human had been attracted by her shriek. Having moved his metal horse to the edge of the water he shouted, “Who goeth there. Show yourself or face my wrath.”

Hearing Gronk’s whispered explanation about who was on the shore, Squinqel said, “So you decided to go troll on his ass? Babes, that won’t work. Rotting fish knows it didn’t work when you were a troll either.”

“What should I do?”

“You’re a nymph, seduce and drown him in a watery grave.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember when Linqel came by to visit me last fall?”

“Kind of. Umm, how do I seduce him.”

“Maybe offer him a fish.”

“A fish?”

“Well that’s what I did with Linqel, but then this Sir Farts-from-Mouth may not be as discerning as her. Wait, wait, I know. I remember the nymph in my Ma’s pool saying that humans are suckers for songs about love, even better with lost love.”

“I don’t know any songs like that.”

“Come on Babes, you can do it.”

And suddenly a song was there. Opening up her mouth, she brought forth all her loss in a beautiful, warbling voice.

Alas, human, you do me wrong,
To chase me here discourteously,
Making me sing this stupid song,
No longer where I want to be.

Grey bridge was all my joy.
Grey bridge was my delight,
Grey bridge was my heart of stone,
And where is my lovely grey bridge?

“Babes, what are you doing? You’re singing a love song about a bridge, I don’t think that will work.”

Whatever else the song may have done if Gronk had been able to finish it, the little bit sung had drawn the attention of the knight to the nymph on her bed of algae. Pure-hearted and stone-headed, the man instantly knew it was his duty to rid the world of the beautifully, evil, magical creature. Dismounting and taking sword and shield in hand, he moved down to the shore of the creek. Seeing the shallowness of the creek’s bed, all the way out to the algae, he took a step into the lily pads along the shore.

They, being cognizant of the favour gained by their enemy, decided to act. In unison, they entangled the man’s legs in their roots, causing him to trip and fall. Additional roots latched onto arms, neck, and torso as he thrashed about, further hindered by the weight of his armour. Slowly he began to move less violently, then came a point when he moved not at all.

Watching with wide eyes, Gronk suddenly scampered across the algae and out onto the water. Pulling Squinqel out of the water in a hug, she spun him around shouting, “We seduced him! We seduced him!”

Struggling to keep his breath, within Gronk’s tight hug, he finally squeezed forth, “Babes, I don’t think that is how you seduce a human.”

“What do you mean, he drowned in a watery grave.”

Squinqel could not dispute that, besides he found it fun to spin in circles, so he joined in the chant, “We seduced him! We seduced him!”

Finally growing hoarse, and beyond being dizzy, Gronk allowed the two of them to sink once more into the water. Laying on her back and regaining her breath, she said, “You know Squinqel, I think I’m finally getting the hang of this nymph business.”

“You’re doing great Babes.”

The End.

Heart of Darkness

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

A tale of child wronged, who through the love of father is uplifted to succeed beyond all but their own hope and dreams.

Note: If you found this story as a result of reading the Adventures of a Merchant tales, then I would like to warn you that even though it too is fantasy based, it is a very different story in tone.

Heart of Darkness
by Arcie Emm

The child awoke to the silken glory of norm, in a room larger than a Duke's dining room. But the child did not arise, for it was not yet time, instead the child continued to lie under silken and satin coverings upon a mattress of swan down, a mattress upon which even the largest man would be dwarfed, little alone a child. Awake, but abed, the child could only pass time in the same way as every morning, by studying the intricate painting upon the bottom of the bed's canopy that was always displayed by the newly risen sunlight reflecting off the polished floor. The painting was a work of high art, upon that all would agree, but no one believed the child that it was also magic.

Nanny had initially listened with delight when the child had discovered the magic, babbling on about how the woodland scene changed day to day. But as the years passed she became less willing to listen, thinking that it was time for the child to outgrow the fancy, then delight turned to admonishments against lies. The scolding taught the child to no longer talk about the magic, yet it did not stop the magic itself. A magic that upon every morning caused the child to awake to something new, at least if spotted.

For what is new is not always easily seen, time causes change to happen slowly and this results in the new being disguised as something that already existed to those who are not willing to look more closely. The painting had taught the child to be one of those to look more closely, to determine what was different each day as opposed to the day before. Was the fawn's head closer to the delicious green grass or were the butterfly's wings opening wider in the flap that would tear away its grip upon yellow flower or was the falling acorn finally touching the ground. Usually the child could determine the difference, but not on this day. Excitement drove away the ability to do so, excitement that a much larger new would be encountered that day. The child's father was finally returned from the East, a father who had never met the child. A father who would finally give name to child.

Usually the child hated for Nanny to arrive before being able to determining what was different, but on this day was willing to be interrupted and thus was relieved when the door opened by that lady bearing breakfast upon tray. With tray safely placed upon the table under the window she moved to bedside and stated, "Time to get up Sweetheart, today is a big day for you."

Those were the only words spoken between the child and the nanny as they moved through the motions they had moved thousands of times before. The dance started with bed coverings pulled aside so that the child could sit up and swing legs to dangle down from the side of the bed. After the nanny placed delicate and dainty satin slippers upon feet she would hold steady the child during the gentle leap which was required to alight afoot from high mattress. Once standing the nanny helped child into a golden satin robe to cover that matching silken nightdress in order to combat the morning's damp cool. Without guidance the child then glided to the table to eat breakfast of porridge, milk and freshly ripened apple.

So fortified for the day the two began the next phase of the dance. It was ever the longest part, but never had dressing taken so long as on this day, this special day. Only after bathing and once more being robed, slippered and sat in chair was the child's night cap removed, allowing long, black, lustrous hair to cascade down back and front to temporarily blind before the nanny began the involved task of arrangement. Comb and brush restored the desired gloss before ornamental butterflies in colours of lilacs, lavenders and violets were used to control, to keep hair out of face and hanging down past shoulders to lower back. Allowing dangling earrings, matching the jewelry in hair, to swing in and out from behind their sable curtain to sparkle in the daylight.

With hair in place the nanny opened the drawers in the near-bye cabinet holding the powders, paints and lacquers used to decorate the beautiful and disguise those who were less so. On the child they did the first, but again never more than on this day.

First to gain the benefit of the drawers' contents were long, shapened finger and toe nails as they were covered in coat upon coat of pale lilac lacquer that soon shone like the jewelry in hair and ears beneath the sunlight. Next was a powder, lightly dusting face, neck and shoulders. Lightly for the child's complexion needed little assistance due to youth and daily pampering. Much time was spent upon the child's eyes, beneath thinly shaped brows of black, making them hugely innocent though bordered by lashes that despite already being long and full were lengthened and thickened by mascara. With youth and health there was little need of of rouge to colour and accent cheeks, so the nanny used very little before moving to lips. Full and pouty they may have been, but the nanny still had the skill to shape and accentuate them to the perfection defined by those at court so far away.

Once painted the nanny had the child remove robe and patted another powder, smelling of the flower whose colour graced the child's nails, upon body before opening armoire to remove clothing that had never before been seen nor worn by the child. Yet curiously none of the items were new. The first were another pair of slippers, like the previous pair they were made of satin but this time they were a dark lilac. The nanny then had the child step into a long underskirt, which brushed the floor to hide slippers. It was made from the finest silk and coloured to match the lacquer that was used to polish nails, a lilac lighter in colour than that of the slippers.

Lastly there was an overdress that did not quite reach the floor, this when combined with long slits upon either side allowed the underskirt to show through. The overdress was also made of silk, but unlike the underskirt it was dyed to match the darker colour of the slippers. With hands of great skill and artistry there had been embroidering done on the front of the dress' skirt, which showed a swarm of butterflies, large to small, lifting away from lilac flowers at bottom right to spiral away upwards to the left. More embroidering of butterflies were done at the cuffs of the sleeves that fell draping down past hand and finger. The last butterflies on the dress were three ornamental frogs below the high collar used to fasten the dress to tightly wrap around the child's torso to show curves decidedly not child like.

With her charge dressed, the nanny slowly circled the child pausing now to adjust a lock of hair and then to smooth a wrinkle of dress. When once more in front of the child there was a smile on her face, "You look perfect Sweetheart, I cannot wait for your father to see you."

She then reached into the armoire one more time to remove a fan in match to the colour of the under dress and once more bedecked in that most colourful of bugs. Handing it to the child she opened the door and led the way out of the room and towards a meeting with the father, the Warlord. And with the room empty there was nobody available to see the acorn after its aeon long fall finally touch the ground and begin the rocking that would come to a stop long after the mortals of the world were long dead.

As the two walked through the halls the child was surprised by the amount of activity. Usually the estate was a place of calm, bordering almost upon neglect, seeming to house so many fewer than its size called out to hold. But on this day it was different, brighter. Windows that had been shuttered were no longer so closed off though men upon ladders were seen at many cleaning away the grime. Floors and walls and statues also were being cleaned by others, more people than the child had ever seen. But all of the cleaners stopped what they were doing to bow or curtsy as the child and the nanny passed by.

And that too was different. None of those who lived at the estate before the Warlord's arrival offered courtesy to the child. Not the nanny, the cook or the maids. Nor any of the child's tutors in dance, manners, poetry, letters, history, archery, horse riding or any myriad of other things throughout the years. And definitely not the guards, the stern faced men in yellow were unlikely to even acknowledge the child's presence unless to block a path or door.

The nanny headed to one such door that had previously been blocked and only then did the child noticed that the men who bracketed the door no longer wore yellow. They were just as stern faced but now wore brown and did not block the door through which the child had never gone. At least they did not block the child, the nanny was not so lucky. Even though she had lorded over the men in yellow, these new men reserved for her a scowl that those in yellow had often directed at the child. When she argued that the child was her responsibility the elder man, with death in his voice, bluntly asked, "Hag, do yee seek to usurp the father?"

At the words and tone the nanny blanched white before mumbling something and hurrying away, leaving the child alone with the suddenly fearsome guards. So it was with nerves aflame with worry that the child entered the room, barely noticing the figure sitting behind a table before folding into a deep and graceful curtsy. A curtsy that shamed every one of those that had earlier been directed at the child.

Time passed while the child held the pose, yet the entire time felt a steady stare from the figure behind the desk. Finally there was a sigh and a deep voice rumbled, "Rise child, rise."

With those words the child stood up and in turn studied the man. Like the new guards he too wore brown, but of a much finer quality than that of his men. He was in his middle age still being strong and hale though somewhat weathered as if having spent much time out of doors. He had dark hair cut short as was normal for one often under helm and his face was adorned with a tidy beard. Was he handsome? The child thought that it was likely, though as someone who had been kept away from most people did not feel confident in making such a judgement. Still it was easy to see that the man had presence and that his dark eyes burned with intelligence.

While the child studied the father, the father in turn continued his study of the child. By the shocked look on his face he was definitely surprised by what he saw. When they finally were both looking each other in the eye, he spoke in a voice much quieter than earlier, "I never realized they hated me so much or were willing to be so cruel in that hatred."

That comment, so unexpected in its strangeness, served only to confuse the child even more. Therefore, the question that was on tip of tongue ended up having multiple answers, "Father?"

He must have heard both questions in that word, but his initial response answered neither, "Well they at least did not get the voice right." Seeing even more confusion on the child's face after this reply, he answered the easier of the questions and then asked, "Yes child, I am your father. But I must ask what do you know of my history or your mother's history?"

Though the answer had provided a smidgeon of clarity, the father's question immediately brushed it aside. Still when the child realised the answer to his question was nothing, it became apparent that much of the cloud obscuring the father's words was due to the child's lack of knowledge. So it was with a quiet, yet eager voice that the father's child answered, "Nothing Father."

For the first time the man behind the table smiled, though it was a smile that held little happiness. But with the smile came a gesture to a chair across from his and the invitation, "Then sit child, it is passed time for you to know from whom and whence you came to this point which will likely serve as your beginning."

Watching the child gracefully, oh so very gracefully, move to offered chair his eyes betrayed anger, but at what the child did not know. And then those eyes closed as if to look inward for guidance in his explanation, nor did they open before he began to speak.

"Any explanation must begin with the most simplest of truth, that being that your mother is not the lady who is my wife. Though wife in name only, for it is many years long even before your birth since I have seen that lady. Therefore, it is truer to designate her in the fashion in which she sees herself, Cyratur's daughter. For rather would she see herself as a member of a great family in the capital Armenelos the Golden, than as wife to a minor lord whose demesne contains little more then this estate, rule over the fishing village of Nindamos and watch over frontier fort of Tharbad. And though with her I have heirs and daughters, it is not a joining of love nor even of much liking. She in her world and me in my world has always seemed to be the path of least conflict.

"But then the purpose of the joining was never between the two of us, nay it just served as glue to link me to her father, the Grand Admiral Cyratur. For he has always had need of those men who flock to my banner for victory, in turn he has provided me guidance on paths to adventure and funds to make those adventures successful. With him a relationship continued long past his daughter's and mine had grown distant and cold.

"Still man cannot live on adventure and war alone, he needs warmth and softness. Something that was no longer available to me in my marriage bed and so I found myself drawn to others. Now child, do not look so at me, your mother was not one such as those dalliances, no she was so very much more. Talented and kind, sweet and intelligent, and able to fill a room with her beauty despite being so very petite. With raven hair waving to hide or show eyes that sparkled as stars or ruby lips smiling in welcome or in lilting, laughter. Yet why describe what is in your sight whenever you look into a mirror, no it is better to tell you of her, my beautiful Merendel.

"In ways it is also Cyratur to whom I owe for the pleasure of the discovery of my love, for it was at his invitation that I was in Armenelos and his guesting that I found myself staying at the Inn of Flowers. Fortunately for me the proprietor of the inn had at that time hired the Troop of Angwyun to entertain his guests at meal or while in cup. The dancers of the troops were graceful and beyond lovely but my eyes sought not to linger upon them, instead it was drawn as unerring as a loosened arrow to she who played the lyre, your mother Merendel.

"Let me tell you that she led me on a merry chase, teaching me much along the way. The man who started the chase was much more cocksure in his status and worthiness than the man at the end, for she was unwilling to be caught. Her parents had warned her away from men of noble birth, specially those who were soldiers, as they would see her only as toy. They were correct, for many of my caste would have seen her so, but not I. For in battle I had witnessed the honour and pride of those who served beneath me and knew that it was only accident of birth which separated me from them. So despite the wisdom of the advice, it placed mountains in my way.

"Yet I did not despair, for I too had the advice of my father to draw upon. And he had warned me that despair was the ice upon the path of your desires, that to accept despair was to make your trail treacherous and impossible to tread. So I persevered, smartly never trying to buy my way to her heart for I now know that would have doomed me to failure. Yet there seemed to be no way to batter down the walls that surrounded her, and of course this only made me want her more. I admit it was luck, rather than plan, that finally gained me entry to her sphere. I had not quite stalked her and her troop, yet the distance between them and I was never further away then a ride of horse, a ride often made. It was after one such ride that I found their troop diminished of one of the men who had been hired to port and manage the props and stage upon which the troop performed. The man had been caught stealing and Angwyun, Merendel's father, had been forced to let him go even if it left the troop short handed. Having been a frequent spectator of the performers, I had also often watched the work performed after the show. Observing the struggles and chaos of the post performance I had found myself without thought pitching in to help.

"This act of humility, repeated on many a night after served to gain me acceptance by the men of the troop. And with their acceptance their posture of watch dog over the women was also lowered. From that point it still took much time and charm for me gain my way Merendel's heart, even though she had already gained her way into mine. But it was far from difficult for everything about her was fascinating to me. And fortunate was I to find that my hard work and effort was rewarded beyond my belief."

While pausing to quench a thirst built up by his speech the man could not help but internally shiver at the pose of his child sitting across from him listening raptly to what he said. For the pose and demeanor, the wide open eyes and slightly parted lips reminded him so very much of his Merendel. She too had listened with her entire being, waiting through pauses such as this with recognition that continuation would soon occur and never interrupting until the end. It reminded him of his loss, though he hoped that it also promised something that may be good. And so he offered his first true smile to his child, which when hesitantly returned grew larger and launched him into the next phase of his story.

"Thus we were finally together; however, that did not mean we became one as I was already in a marriage that could not easily be ended, nor did Merendel desire it to end. After all it was the individuality of each that we both so admired and in each of our hearts we knew that music and war were also required to make us who we were and whom the other loved. Plus our partings made the time spent together so very much sweeter. Thus became our life, totally in one another's thrall no matter if the distance between us was measured in inches or measured in leagues.

"It was bliss and it should have gone on forever, but the world was unwilling to cooperate. Annatar the Lord of Gifts and Celebrimbor had their falling out and true war, not that at which I played, came to the mainland. We here on our island retreat initially thought the conflict would be short, yet then Eregion was destroyed and soon too Eriodor fell leaving only Lindon in Annatar's path. As we watched the happenings from our safety the High King, Tar-Minastir, began to worry that we too would not be safe from Celebrimbor's enemy who had turned out to be someone greater and deadlier than any had expected. Therefore, the King decreed that we must intervene and called before him Grand Admiral Cyratur to form a great expeditionary fleet to go to the aid of beleaguered Lindon. So tasked, Cyratur immediately sent out the call for leaders of marshal men such as myself.

"I will be honest and say that my initial thoughts were only of the glory that could be won at such an opportunity. But such thoughts were quickly pushed to the side with understanding of the scope of the effort that was required to even form the fleet. Darker still could have been my spirit if I had known that my light dreamt dire prophecies about the future of the endeavor, yet she troubled me naught with them. Though nor did I ask why she left her family for the first time to be constantly at my side. I admit that my selfishness, being close to my two great passions, may have left me unwilling to listen if she had spoken.

"Still when we set sail for the land to the East she stood silent, tears in eyes, dressed in a pale lilac underskirt and dark lilac overdress with both she and it decorated in butterflies until wind took me out of sight and she out of mine. Then I forced my heart to go cold, to focus on my duty for if I did not then I would not be fully in the present and in combat one must be so or they will soon fall into the past.

"During the following days Cyratur and his captains were much in debate as to our plan of attack. Many wise words were spoken by all before agreement was reached just before land once more came into view and we came to the harbour of Lond Daer at the mouth of the Greyflood. We tarried over night to restock and to take on troops from Lond Daer, but during the night our plan truly began. In the darkness those who we had loaded and many more quietly disembarked and stole up the river on boat with muffled oar under the command of the Duke of the Great Sea, Vanger of Lond Daer and his sons of oak. To them was granted the long, arduous row that would take them to Tharbad where they would build defenses stout as their hearts and firm as their will.

"In turn we sailed further North to the shores of Lindon where most of the host, under my command, put ashore to confront the dark invader and his forces. I do not wish to dwell long on the battles that took place, it is a topic best left to history books and kept out of polite society, instead I will say that though the enemy's number was large they were also weary of the fight. Therefore, they were dismayed when we joined the fray against them. Soon they ran Eastward and we pursued, harrying them on every step on which they had last walked triumphant. But soon they could run no more, for in their path was Vanger acting as anvil upon which we could crush the enemy host. And we did, until their leader with only a handful of bodyguard flew away, leaving his followers to our not so tender mercies angered as we were by the terrible price that Vanger and his men of Lond Daer suffered in a defense of Tharbad. And I still believe that the acts of those men defy the ability of song to properly glorify.

"And so we were victorious, terrible though it may have been. After these battles it was one of those times when I was in need of warmth and softness, but to me it was denied. Somebody had to stay to serve watch on the enemy for though he was fled, he was not wholly defeated and so I who was ordered to linger, to rebuild Tharbad, to ever be watchful of the East. It was in that outpost far away from home that I received a letter from fair Merendel and in it I did learn of your imminent birth and felt great joy, I immediately sought to return but was halted, only able to send letter in return. In response to this her next letter included her dreams that we would never see each other again, again I sought to return and yet again I was halted."

Once more he paused, but this time he did not look at his child nor did his gaze hold anything that was not frustration or anger. Therefore, the child was surprised at how low his voice was as he continued, "Her dreams were correct. Letters in plentitude were exchanged, allowing me to learn of your birth. Exchanging each of our stories, yet we could not be together. And then the letters from her stopped, it was only through rumour that I learned of her death by horseback. Nobody thought me worthy of that knowledge, instead they kept me away. I could not return to see my love on her way into the next world, I could not return raise you, I could not return to name you on your name day, I could not return."

This last fierce utterance broke the spell of rapt attention in which the child had listened to the story and into the silence asked, in voice as low as father's, "Why? Why could you not return?"

"I always though it was jealously. Jealousy of my wife who could not stand to allow me to love, who would beg her father to keep me banished to the frontier. He would listen, for she was always spoiled by him, yet he too I believed held jealously towards me. Yea, though he commanded fleet, it was I who led the men to victory while he lingered upon ship. But Cyratur the Wise, nay let others name him so while I name him in truth as Cyratur the Usurper of Glory, was unwilling to share in the gifts gained in victory. No myself and men of like accomplishments were ordered to fortify and watch, meanwhile he and his cronies returned to fete and honour.

"Yet now I see that it was not just jealously, but also hate. For what darkness of heart must lurk inside someone for them to use a child to punish the father. What cruelty is it to take a man's son, and turn him into his lost love."

With those words, the forbidden truth was spoken, made real. The truth that had always been known by all but one at the estate and even that one, despite the silence of the rest, suspected the truth, but had been unwilling to admit it even to self. Sheltered and alone he had always accepted the lies and the liars; after all, a child cannot survive alone. He needs hearth and home, care, support and teaching. These all are worth more than truth and worth even more when wrapped in luxury.

But now the child, the son, felt shame believing that he should not have been docile nor so accepting. He realized he should have rebelled, so it was with a voice full of bitterness that he asked, "Then I am nothing but a weapon aimed at my father?"

A wealth of emotions were on the Warlord's face and his child's statement only caused more to appear. Yet he controlled his face and his turmoil as he stepped from behind table to kneel before the one who reminded him so much of she who was the his mother, then taking a hold of the child's hands he comforted, "Nay, you are so much more. To see yourself so is to see with the eyes of those who have done this foul deed and their souls are twisted beyond measure. You are innocent of all but birth and form, neither of which you controlled. Nay, when I look upon you I do not see a deadly arrow aimed at my heart, instead I see someone wondrous and beautiful and worthy of love, love that your mother had in abundance, love that makes me glory inside to feel."

Again the son knew the father spoke truth, but this time the truth brought not thoughts of shame instead it uplifted. Tears running dark down face no longer dimmed, they sparkled and a smile of joy blossomed to fill the room.

It was a smile that the father could not help but return as he began the final ritual needed in this their first meeting, "One more thing must we determine before we can leave this room and live our life, we must find you a name. In fact It is long past the time that you had a name for you have grown beyond child hood and have become your own person. Yet it is difficult, for though with all my being I know that you are the son of my heart, still I see daughter of eye. I have a name in mind but I know that while it is largely a greedy reminder of the past for me, it may serve as a terrible reminder for you."

"What is the name father?"

"Wilwarin."

Looking at the nervous, hopeful face of his father the son absentmindedly reached up to fondle one of his dangling earrings while he considered the name and its meaning, actually the multiple meanings. He knew the path that acceptance would open, yet the name felt right and he found his voice to say, "It is lovely father. I will be Wilwarin."

With the acceptance the Warlord raised himself to his feet, pulling his child upwards as he stood. Wrapping his arms around his son he marvelled that, though grown to young adulthood, the figure in his arms was so tiny compared to him. Then bending down to kiss forehead above beautiful face, he whispered in a delicate ear, "I am so very happy to be finally able to meet you Wilwarin."

At this statement the no longer child nodded his head before burying head in burly chest and beginning to cry.

Now in his child's life the Warlord was more then willing to accept him as son, but curiosity burned and he desired to know what had been done to make him appear as daughter. Knowledgeable in many obscure arts he quickly realized that they were only helpful on the field of war and that he required help of experts. From these he learned that it was through witchcraft and herbs that his son had been turned into daughter of eye and that only a useless piece of manhood would ever exist to show that Wilwarin was different than he appeared. Accepting as he was of his son's fate, much less forgiving was he of the hands who may not have initiated, yet perpetrated the misdeed. So from that day forward the child no longer had a nanny, instead Wilwarin was attended by handmaids.

With understanding both he and Wilwarin were able to banish what had been done to child to the past and proceed with building a relationship. A relationship that flourished for truly was Wilwarin the son of heart to the Warlord. They shared many interests and were intrinsically able to understand one another with a minimum of words. Rare was the time that they were not in each other's company whether it be on horse about the estate or to village (that was much more than name implied), or whether it be a meal or silently reading book in shared silence.

In only one thing did the father deny to the son, no longer was music teacher allowed through the door for too raw was the Warlord's memory of Merendel for one so much like she to be so occupied beneath his roof. Still they both had love of song and to so honour it Wilwarin continued to dance and to see his son in full grace always gladdened the Warlord's heart anew. While the look in the eyes of guests who also saw the willowy moves left him alternating between bemusement and nervousness.

Thus their feelings to each other blossomed beyond either's fantasies would have led them to believe. And with the growth Wilwarin grew less docile, stronger though the newborn iron was hidden behind velvet glove. With this confidence the Warlord determined it was time for him to return temporarily to the far outpost of which he still held command to ensure everything was in the state it should be. Hearing of his father's planned journey, Wilwarin immediately pressed a desire to go along but after much discussion the Warlord was able to convince his pouting offspring that it was not safe and that it would be better if he was to travel alone.

There were tears spilled at this parting, but no prophecies told of unending separation and they knew that they would see each other again. Surprisingly to Wilwarin, after this parting he learned that he did not need his father to be his own person. In fact he smoothly moved into rule, with belt hanging with keys about trim waist and commands in dulcet voice, he had become not Master, for there could only be one of those, but Mistress of the Estate and Village of Nindamos.

When the Warlord returned from Tharbad he felt pride at what he saw and the bow he returned to child was as deep as the curtsy of welcome from son. That night they supped alone, sharing all that had befallen each other while they were apart. Son admired a ring with a large stone of opal that now bedecked his father's hand and father listened appreciatively to decisions made on crops and investments made in ships and men. They were pleased to see, though time together was wonderful, that each could succeed and thrive on his own.

Thus was established the ebb and flow of their life, days into months and then months into years. The Warlord continued his endeavors allowing his fame to grow and more wilderness on the mainland came under his watchful eye. Not even aging and ailing Cyratur, nor any of his family were able to loom overhead, casting shadows upon those who they controlled for so long.

With comfort and confidence as norm, it becomes natural for the mind to think of what else is possible, what the future should hold. Yes things were good, but the Warlord had a fear of stagnation, he had seen it bring down many a great man who had decided to rest upon his laurels. Furthermore, he realized that in order to approach greatness it was necessary to venture beyond the comforting walls of home. So he began to seek a path upon which Wilwarin could seek his own fortune, but he was frustrated and angered by the prejudices that he found against the child whom he loved with his entire being.

Returning to Nindamos once more his frustration showed in his frown and the quiet of his staff. Wilwarin seeking to understand the problem sought him that night for a private meeting in the Warlord's office, where they had first met. Once each was in the chair in which they always sat, the son asked, "Father you return to your home not your normal self, what makes you wroth?"

"Child you know I seek place for you to show the world your worth, as you have shown your worth to all in our employ?"

"Aye Father, and though I thrill at the opportunities you present me, I wish to challenge myself in the wider world. Is there none who are willing to accept one such as I in their employ or company?"

"It pains me to admit it, but your reading is mostly correct, only one offer did I receive. And though it has much benefit for me, it asks too much of you."

Receiving such an answer made the question that Wilwarin needed to ask obvious, "From whom was the offer father?"

"It is from the remaining son of Vanger, he who is named Vascal the Duke of the Great Sea at Lond Daer."

Of Vascal, Wilwarin realized that he had only heard scurrilous rumour, but his mind tried to understand what role he could in Lond Daer. It was a great harbour known mostly for ship-building and as gateway to the mainland upon which adventures made their fortunes. It was a city that required many administrators and seemed like a perfect place for someone of his talents. Therefore, he stated his confusion, "I do not understand father, what could be asked of me by Lond Daer that they would not ask of any of their administrators?"

"You understand not child. Vascal does not want seek you for your skills, he wants you as his lady."

Wilwarin was struck dumb, unable to utter a reply to this statement. Realization came that maybe the rumours he had heard about Vascal were not as wrong as he had assumed. When he found no words, his father continued to explain.

"Now Vascal is of stoutest heart, having stood beside his father on the ramparts of Tharbad while the dark host attacked, yet as you may have heard he is not as normal man. He craves not the attention of women preferring the company of men who are like him. Yet he scorns not the grace of female and has long realized that such a presence is sorely lacking in his court, yet he has done naught to end that lack. However, from a mutual friend, one who has guested with us and seen your grace in dance, he learned of you and realized your potential. But even though he is my ally and even a friend he said nothing to me, fearing my reaction. It was only with knowledge of my search of a position for you and an understanding of my failure that he approached. If he had been arrogant as one with upper-hand then he would have been met with harshness indeed, but he came as a humble petitioner."

"What does it mean that he wants me as his lady? Does he want Mistress of House or more?" Wilwarin asked after moments of silence while considering the explanation.

"It is more," the Warlord replied quietly. "Vascal would make of you his wife."

"But how is that possible?"

"I asked the same question and he said that he had his secretaries search the laws of the land and they found nothing to forbade such a marriage between he and you. And..."

At his son's held up hand he stopped himself from saying what he had to say, realizing that Wilwarin wanted to hear no other words but those that were answers to his questions. Now the decision was his son's hands and that the decision could not be swayed.

"Father before you presented me with this Lord of Lond Daer's proposal you stated that his offer would provide you benefit, what benefit would you gain from me in such a union?"

He would have smiled in pride at the steely edge in the question, yet he knew that a smile would be greeted with more steel and so the Warlord kept it hidden and answered with truth. "Lond Daer is vitally important to all of my endeavors on the mainland. It is the hub for all my supplies be they weapons, clothing, food or other. It is my conduit to this island and my home. It is also where I recruit most of my men and where they go when they seek pleasure unavailable in wilderness. Finally it is strong haven if ever I am overrun by he who is to my East. But Vascal though I would trust him at my back in battle is not given to great rule and some of those with whom he is surrounded I do not trust. Whereas, you who have shown me your abilities in the running of this estate and village would be a comforting presence giving me confidence in Lond Daer."

Considering further for a moment, the Warlord this time did let a smile cross his face before he continued, "Additionally, even more greedily, it would allow me to spend much more time on my ventures as you would be close to me. Instead of having to make a trip of weeks to visit you here in Nindamos, it would be a trip of days to visit you in Lond Daer. I worry for you when you are too far away, yet it is much to dangerous for you to be with me on my adventures."

Offering a quick smile in recognition of this last reason, Wilwarin hesitantly spoke, "I wish to consider this offer for more time, is that possible?"

"Of course my child, it is never wise to rush in such weighty matters as this."

Wilwarin had always loved the sea, its smell and sound, so it was in that direction that he walked as he contemplated what had been offered. But his love for it was much diminished nearly three months later after a long journey when its smell and sound had been overpowered by the ship upon which he sailed. Glad had he been to reach Lond Daer the prior week and leave the ship to be ensconced within a mansion of his father's. But recuperation was over, it was time to take the next step in the saga of Wilwarin.

As he waited his father as escort he studied himself in a full length mirror and was pleased with what he saw. Black hair intricately braided to hold a tiara of diamonds and pearls, rested above a face that was made up though it was unblemished and beautiful. His gown of the traditional red satin was a work of art with a flowing skirt of flowered pleats, over crinolines of the finest lace, that flowed into a long train making the dress unwieldy and forced a slow pace and grace to any movement. The bodice had been fashioned to accent his femininity. It was cut tight to torso wrapping tightly to cling to curve of waist and breast, disappearing to show the swells of the latter in the front and blades of shoulder in the back all the way up past narrow arms joined to thin, graceful neck. Neck that was wrapped in a five strands of pearls ornamenting the expanse of skin, powdered and unmarred by sun, showing above the bodice.

He knew he basked in vanity, yet he was pleased beyond words at what he saw. It showed him in his fullest glory, despite any disagreement that accident of birth would argue. So there was a pleased smile on his face when the Warlord entered the room, a smile soon mirrored upon the father's face when he beheld the vision that was his child. Gently brushing a powdered cheek the man offered his arm to guide his offspring out of the room, only to be slowed by a gently spoken, "Slowly father, it is not easy to walk in this wondrous gown."

On this day even the Warlord was ready to be commanded, so he heeded the request and moved at a more gentle pace until they reached the courtyard where he reluctantly handed his child over to handmaids who would arrange Wilwarin and particularly the train of his gown upon the covered yet open sided palanquin which would transport the bride to husband. By the time the arrangement of dress was complete, the Warlord had mounted upon steed. Therefore, at the senior maids gesture he gave orders to the four strong bearers dressed in his brown to lift and follow him, as he in turn followed fifty of his men marching in step. The procession was completed by the maids, also dressed in beautiful new dresses, who walked behind the palanquin but in front of another fifty men armed, armoured and in brown.

As they marched through the gates of wall around the courtyard they moved onto streets lined with the town folk of Lond Daer who were there to see the spectacle. For knowing the likes of their Duke and hearing rumours of the Warlord's son it was spectacle that all thought they would see, yet to all it was denied. None who looked upon Wilwarin saw freak, just innocence and beauty.

With his mind focussed upon the realization that he would soon be married to a man he had never met Wilwarin barely noticed the throngs of people he was carried past, nor heard their murmur that followed in the wake of his procession. Yet he held his head high and looked forward to his destiny with eyes clear and unclouded. And soon the procession moved through another gate into a much larger courtyard where the palanquin was gently lowered to the ground.

Again it was the Warlord, dismounted from horse, who approached and offered steadying arm to guide towards another group of men, who waited upon their slow advance. In the centre of the group, dressed also in wedding garb, was a man not much younger than the Warlord. Wilwarin had not known what to expect but now realized how wrong he had been to expect someone effete instead of the strong warrior that would be required to stand up to enemies beyond numbers. The misjudgement caused him to become even more demure and it was with downcast eyes that he moved away from his father for those last few steps to sink into curtsy, before his soon to be lord and master.

It was a new deep voice that bade him to rise and then lifted his chin so that he looked into eyes that twinkled with merriment and a face wreathed in a smile, which he shyly returned. At this the man laughed and in a voice whispering low enough so that only Wilwarin could hear, "My what a prettily decorated gift, I so look forward to unwrapping it and playing with whatever I find inside."

These words, so irreverently and gleefully spoken caused a blush to creep into cheek and down to the darker red of bodice, but it also caused Wilwarin to be caught up in the joyful tempest that was Vascal, Duke of the Great Sea, Ruler of Lond Daer. For the rest of his wedding day he barely observed the passing of time so often did his new husband reduce him to giggles with outrageous statement after outrageous statement. But from what his handmaids told him on the day after, the wedding had been as one out of a fairy tale.

It had to be the next day that he was told this as soon after dark's arrival the new husband had scooped up his wife and stole to wedding bed where he fulfilled the promise of his first words spoken. And Wilwarin found that his husband could play with great skill, bringing him to heights of pleasure unexpected, but so very welcome. Therefore, by the time he had fallen asleep Wilwarin had learned nothing to make him regret made months before.

For weeks after that day Wilwarin had little opportunity to use the abilities that his father thought would be beneficial to their cause in Lond Daer, instead during most hours of day or night he was instead found in the company of Vascal. It was not until the arrival of a returning adventurer that he was able to expand his duties beyond those demanded by husband.

Patrick of Tol Uinen was an explorer who spent much of his time to the East or to the South mapping terrain as the Royal Cartographer. When not opening wilderness to man he usually returned to the harbour by the Great Sea and to his long time lover, Vascal. The reunion of the two initially pushed Wilwarin into the background, but after a short period he was drawn reluctantly into their circle. But as one would expect this state could not continue and one day Vascal drew Wilwarin aside to express his fears.

"My lovely butterfly I am worried by what I see shaping between you, Patrick and myself. See I am a greedy old lecher, selfish in my wants and jealous of those I consider mine; therefore, I like not what is growing between the two of you. Now though I adore you it is he that I have long loved. Thus it makes me nervous when I see how he looks at you."

"My Lord, I do not seek to come betwixt you and he," Wilwarin protested.

"I know child, but you do not need to do anything other then be yourself, for you are quite desirable. Nor has anything yet occurred that is amiss, but I wish to ensure it continues to be that way. Therefore, I seek to put distance between you two, yet I do not know how."

"My Lord, you have made me your wife and it is a great honour to be so made, but in this your city I am nothing more. Why not put me to work, make me your chá¢telaine?"

Vascal was surprised at this offer, for he himself loathed the thought of the work and effort that would be required to fulfill that role. "You make good sense, besides which I have heard rumbles that not all is well in my city. It may be time for this to be investigated, are you willing to take upon this task."

Wilwarin was surprised to be offered so much, but readily acquiesced, "I would be honoured my Lord."

"Excellent, then I will let it be known that you are so empowered, though I warn you not to betray my trust."

At this first show of hardness, different than any he had ever seen before, Wilwarin understood that something more lurked beneath Vascal's hedonism. Therefore, he responded with a solemn and honest promise, "I will not my Lord."

Quickly a smile chased away the temporary scowl, "You will likely want to talk to your father about how to proceed, I am sure he has already given some thought to your task just assigned."

Wilwarin's chagrined nod of agreement brought a burst of laughter from the Duke, "Well I must admit this was a productive discussion. I was able to pawn off a task that I did not want to do myself and we found a solution to my worry that was different than the one I had previously considered."

Curiosity peaked, Wilwarin found himself asking, "What would that be my Lord?"

"Well I was thinking that you should seek yourself a lover, one accomplished in arms. A man from whom Patrick would be unwilling to poach."

"Oh," Wilwarin replied in a tiny voice.

"Still now that I think of it again, it may still be good idea both to make you off limit to my love, but also to provide you protection in the task I have set for you."

So tasked by his Lord, and with the advice of his father, Wilwarin first found himself exploring the state of the court and city guard. The first group, closer as they were to the sight of the old soldier that was the Duke, were as impressive as those men who served in the Warlord's own command. Wilwarin with recommendations from both his lords and with good sense, wisdom and learning at father's knee was able to gain inroads and respect amongst this group of men. Also amongst them he found a young lieutenant, highly skilled with sword, to fulfill the last recommendation of the Duke's.

With this backing, Wilwarin then came down upon the city guard, which was full of sloth and rot. It took many a month to bring them up an expected caliber and involved a purge of the officers and men.

With this accomplished he could proceed to explore the rest of the bureaucracy of the city and port. Wilwarin fell heavily upon many a man who thought he was cleverer than truth proved him to be. Soon the sight of the little inspector and his bodyguard were met with heartfelt pledges of innocence. Only during the absence of the Royal Cartographer, when the Duke monopolized Wilwarin's time, was there pause in the investigations.

During one of those times when Patrick was away two missives about old foes, one after the other, made their way from the island to the mainland. The first of these told of the death, from age and illness, of Grand Admiral Cyratur. Following soon behind was word that Cyratur's grandson, the Warlord's son, had marched to Nindamos to proclaim himself lord.

It had likely been done as a statement that the line of Cyratur had not died with the death of its father. But it had also been done with fortunate timing, for the Warlord was on an expedition along the River Glanduin and far away from easy response. Wilwarin felt it was up to him to respond and cajoled his lord to give him leave to do so until it was granted.

Thus on a moonless night a few weeks later Wilwarin and two companies of men rowed ashore in a nameless cove not far from the estate in which he had grown up. Two companies was not a large number, yet Wilwarin felt it was enough for they had a number of advantages. The first, the most important, was surprise as it would be unlikely that Cyratur's grandson would be expecting so quick a response, nor from such a quarter. The second advantage was Wilwarin's knowledge of land and home, which had helped more in planning than it would assist during implementation. The last advantage, almost as important as the first, was the estate itself. Built in a land of peace it was no fortress and they were easily able to gain access to grounds and buildings.

By the time Wilwarin, armoured and armed with a drawn yet unbloodied sword, arrived even the mopping up was almost complete. As he walked with bodyguard through halls that were once his prison and then his home he felt satisfaction at the yellow clad corpses that lined the paths taken by his men right up to the doors of the seldom used throne room. Steeling himself he marched through door and focussed his gaze on the young man sitting on the throne, and in so looking saw nothing of father or self in the man's features.

However, the man immediately recognized Wilwarin for with a snort of humourless laughter he stated, "So it is my unnatural brother, or is it sister, that is behind my downfall."

"What you see is of you and yours' making, but it tells not all. For what I am was forged by my father, unfortunate for you that you had never been placed in the hands of such a smith, else never would you have found yourself such a strait."

"What strait is that?" the man hissed. "Banishment to fair Armenelos instead of this sty in the South? It matters not sssister, this will still one day be mine."

"Banishment?" Wilwarin asked with feigned puzzlement. "But that is not the punishment for usurpation."

"You wouldn't."

"Lieutenant, please exact punishment upon the usurper."

In moments the deed was done though the lieutenant moved quickly to chastise those of his men who had missed. But Wilwarin gently reached up caressing his cheek to calm and state, "Worry not Love, he moved as fast as man can move. In his last moment did he finally prove that he was my father's son."

Wilwaring then set lieutenant and troops to establish defense in case of counter-attack. But it came not and Wilwarin lingered unmolested, reestablishing control over Nindamos, for days and then into weeks. During the wait there came news from Lond Daer that was shocking, but despite a desire from the men to return home to confirm the truth, he would not leave his post until he who held his greatest loyalty returned. So it was that on his father's arrival did Wilwarin learn the unhappy news that he had been widowed and the story behind his husband's death. He wanted to mourn the laughing, joyful Vascal, but knew he had one more task before he could do so. Therefore, after asking leave of his father he boarded his ships with his men and returned to Lond Daer which was still bedecked in black to honour the passing of the last of Vanger's sons.

Upon his return to Lond Daer Wilwarin did not even wait for lengthy docking, instead he immediately took to launch and rowed ashore so that he could go directly to dungeon to see he who had killed Vascal. Upon arrival he looked upon the man who showed none of his usual dapperness and asked, "Why Patrick? Why would you kill he who loved you so."

Returning the look with eyes of the dead Patrick answered, "It was an accident. We argued so in my drink I struck him and he in his drink stumbled causing him to strike his head against a table."

"Over what did you argue."

"You know very well over what we argued foul seductress," Patrick cursed with worn and exhausted anger. "He offered me everything else, but he would not let me have you. He selfishly kept you to himself, unwilling even to share."

Wilwarin sighed, for he had expected this truth having often felt Patrick's eyes boring through his clothes. "But I did not want you Patrick, I always found you lacking. I only wanted Vascal."

"Matters not! He should have shared. You're so pretty. Yes how could he say he loved me when he would not share?"

"I know why he would not share, but I do not understand how he could love such as you. You know what I must do now, don't you Patrick?"

"Of course I do you witch. But I will be cursing you every step of the way."

There was now only anger and madness in Patrick's eyes, neither past lusts nor sanity remained. Patrick was only left as a shell, defeated in every way. Yet Wilwarin still remembered the night of their meeting; therefore, with a somewhat malicious smile he repeated words he first heard spoken to him by the man now in his power, "Worry not Sweets, it won't hurt opverly much."

But like Patrick on that first night so too did Wilwarin lie. And even in lies did Wilwarin encompass the cartographer for impalement is a painful way to die, specially for one as strong as Patrick who would linger long.

At that point only one thing remained between Wilwarin's becoming both Lord and Lady of all Lond Daer, the will of the High King. Therefore, he watched Westward for vessel bearing judge until one day a sail of royal blue was spotted upon the horizon. Forewarned of a landing party Wilwarin had his maids dress him in a lace gown of the purest white. Thus showing the colour of his innocence he welcomed, with great humility, one by the name of Atanamir who was the new Grand Admiral after Cyratur.

He initially came across as harsh over both the death of the Royal Cartographer and Scion of Armenelos, but soon was much taken both by Wilwarin's reasoning and appearance. He saw not how one as tiny and yet so very brave could be held in the wrong for acting to put close to wronged lords, father and husband both. Innocence could not be debated.

After this meeting fully did Wilwarin come into his own and so too did Lond Daer blossom under his rule. Yet he did not do it alone, his father was always close at hand to advise to listen. And soon father welcomed him into a select company and as a sign of his membership Wilwarin was given a golden ring upon which was mounted a large diamond. It was a thing of beauty and wearing it made Wilwarin even more so, causing many who glanced upon the vision to fall in love. But none fell harder than the Grand Admiral. For despite his title and birth the man was weak and venal, as easily ruled by his lusts as poor, departed Patrick.

Central to those lusts was Wilwarin and he never tarried long away from Lond Daer. And despite the Ruler of Lond Daer's disgust at the man's touch he accepted them, for it was in bed after passion was spent that he could whisper in the future King of Numenore's ear.

Whispers provided by he who presented Wilwarin, his father and their company of nine with rings, the Lord Sauron.

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Immortality of Emotion

Author:

Arcie Emm

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Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

This story has taken a long time to get to this point. The prologue was written for the 2009 TG Terror Contest and has been in the works ever since, with it being my primary focus of my writing since the finishing the last Manny and Maude, almost two years ago. A lot of time to invest in a single for a casual writer. A lot of opportunity to doubt whether it was worth writing or if it made sense, never-mind whether anybody would enjoy it. Even now while starting to post it, those questions remain and the answers, in my mind, tend to lean in the negative direction. Confidence in my writing remains a fragile thing.

Anyways, back to a few explanations. This world in which this story takes place (basically the real one) and the magic utilized within comes from another story, a detective novel called Twice Born, which I expect I will never complete. It involves different characters, but a couple of the groups and concepts used here would also be used in this.

I admit that while writing the prologue, I felt influenced in the direction of horror, but I can’t create in that world. You could say I am more comfortable in the horrible, which is intended in this story, which is revolves around terror.

Hopefully, some will get some enjoyment out of the story, which I expect to post in six sections, likely one every 4 or so days. It’s complete, just need to my usual level of dull lustre before posting and since it is around 50K words, I find it easier to polish and post smaller chunks.

Immortality of Emotion - Part 1 of 6

Author:

Arcie Emm

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CAUTION: Violence

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Restricted Audience (r)

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College / Twenties

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Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

Part 1 of 6

Prologue

The clear, summer night brought out the competitive spirit in both the full moon and surrounding stars, each challenging the other to chase away the night’s veil. Yet neither felt brave enough to penetrate the gloom of Hambley Woods. Those woods they unhesitatingly ceded to the dark, knowing how unwelcome would be their incursion. However, the flickering flame that pierced the wood’s canopy showed not all felt the same concern.

Approaching the light, one could see why, for it came from the lantern of a man. Only man, of all the beasts who walked the earth, sought such petty victories over nature. Maybe because few other beasts were as ill-suited to deal with it. Thus he harnessed fire for warmth or to cook his meat. Or on a night and in a place like this, he used it to chase away the dark, to expose terrors that lurked inside the shadows.

However, for this particular man, the lantern provided nothing more than light to see, for he knew the woods held nothing more dangerous than he. So had learned the predators that slunk, just beyond the lantern’s light, and so learned the pathetic, defeated survivors of the late war. Little more than scarecrows, skeletal from hunger and clothed in tattered rags of gray and brown, they shambled homeward, unsure if they would find house and family victimized by the madness supposedly ended. Ill and injured, Hambley Woods seemed a sheltered haven in which to rest or to scrounge for food. None suspected what waited for them.

The Man with the Lantern.

Like them, he too once fought in the war. For a time he served as an officer in the same army and possibly some of the scarecrows fell under his command. But where the war took their innocence, he willingly surrendered his own. Where the war broke many, it helped him understand he was already broken. It taught him what could make him whole. In the chaos and mayhem, death and destruction, he found himself adrift in a sea of emotion, floating upon waves of anger, hate, fear, and despair. Sometimes, though rarely, even love or compassion.

He discovered this miasma during a skirmish, for some meaningless hill, during his first hand-to-hand encounter with an enemy soldier, Though the enemy remained face less, as with most who followed, he always remembered the terror emanating from the man. Sudden knowledge that he caused the fear struck him like nothing ever imagined. Empowered, it took no effort to block the thrusting, bayoneted rifle and riposte with his sword. And if the initial fear struck like a bolt of lightning, the shock and terror he felt from his dying enemy proved a moment of unholy awakening. Never before did he feel as strong. So addictive to stalk that skirmish and future battlefields, creating and wallowing in the cacophony of emotion felt by men who fought and died.

Initially his commanders celebrated his prowess in leading men to victory. However, as the years passed and the horror of the war increased, they found themselves worried then sickened by his actions. After they turned him into a hero, they could not let the world know their mistake, particularly in their desperation to stave off the defeat all secretly expected. Instead of prison, they sent him home to rest. Home to the manor named for his grandfather, just like Hambley Woods.

After instilling so much fear, it surprised him to learn how those safe behind battle lines felt towards him. No fear, just pity, scorn, and very little love. At first he blamed that on rumours about his actions while in uniform and shrank from that version of himself. Yet in time he discovered a staleness, a mustiness about their feelings, as if kept too long without airing. Shocked to learn the level and the length of his family’s dislike, he often retreated to the woods, there he hunted, riding the lesser waves of a beast’s death.

Until one day, he smelled a fire. Finding it, he also found a deserter. What lurked reawakened and the man became the first victim he could not explain away as an act of war. Nor did he attempt to convince himself that he punished the man’s cowardice, he knew that he indulged an act of simple selfishness. Something enjoyed too much to provide any redeeming qualities, something he repeated numerous times before the war ended. With defeat and the number of his potential victims increasing, he almost exhausted himself in an orgy of murder. In time the woods gained a reputation as haunted, which led to fewer victims. Only the bravest or most desperate gave him opportunity to free himself from society’s norm.

With this stream of release all but dried up, he hunted further afield. But without the protection of a uniform and away from his own property, he fell into arrogance’s lure and discovered the danger of sloppy. Again he proved fortunate to escape to Hambley Manor with honour intact and his true self undiscovered. Once more left to dine on the sour fare offered by the inhabitants of his home.

It proved too much to bear. No longer could he accept himself as Eric Hambley. That Eric died on the hill at the beginning of the war.

Though Eric Hambley offered him a welcome disguise, he could not ignore the Man with the Lantern, the Hunter of Hambley Woods. His twisted needs finally brought this to the forefront. After displaying his true self to those who thought they knew him best, he set out on his final hunt. A chase that enraptured his mind. He could not believe how pure and sweet Amelia’s terror felt when compared to her false love.

Chapter 1 - Curiosity

Morning. Ken’s least favourite time of the day, tied for that position of dishonour with afternoon and evening, with night following close behind.

Not that he lived a horrid life. The Williams, who despite their name actually belong to the widespread Cabot clan, offered as good a foster home as anybody. And if bullies made him their target, well he long ago proved unmoved by their barbs and quick to heal from their bombs. The problem, his life fit into the category labeled blah. Everything stayed the same, combine that with an expectation that nothing would ever change and he could barely work up the energy to swing his backpack over a shoulder before heading out the door for another thrill packed day.

Head down, he ambled towards the bus stop, stepping upon fallen autumn leaves, unmoved by their normally satisfying crunch. Instead his mind lingered on the possibility of a different life.

Nothing spectacular, realism weighed too heavily for him think about life as a movie star, rock star, or secret agent bedding a bevy of beauties, However, how about something other than a nerdish schoolboy? And did he always need to attend private schools with stupid uniforms. Sure the traditional foundations of these schools, all eleven, no twelve now, worked to hide family secrets, but attending them sucked.

Arriving at the most recent of these schools, Ken attempted to make himself even smaller. An approach that did nothing to make life better; however, it always made life easier at St. Whoever or Whatever Academy. On this day his strategy worked perfectly. Doubtlessly enhanced by the natural sloth of the teenage, male bully on Monday mornings, he received little more than scowls in his direction.

From the entrance he headed for the silence of the library, the habitat preferred by those students in search of similar safety until first bell. Ignored by them, friends complicated secrets, Ken walked towards the back, past the history section, where he slipped into the room labeled as Records.

Inside he found the broom where he left it on Friday and with which he kept the floor spotless. His escape from reality, not even Mr. Edwards, the librarian, regularly visited Records.

Even after the bell rang he continued to sweep, knowing no one would miss him. Only when finished did he look out, through the section of the fogging on the door’s window he scraped away during his first day here. Nobody in sight, he returned the broom to its spot and walked through the back wall. Leaving nothing but false memories for his scheduled classmates and teachers.

So freeing to pass into the pocket worlds. Even if just a nexus, full of nothing but doors, used by the family to travel between the real and numerous unreal worlds. By the time he passed through another of these, which opened into a sterile hallway, Ken stood straighter, no longer worried someone would notice him. Not that his appearance changed, he still looked like a scrawny fourteen year old, but here nobody considered him a schoolboy. In this world everybody knew him as the bearer of the family curse. Something that still made him a pariah, but while here nobody would try to kick his ass.

Amongst family curses, it ranked amongst the least, which might explain why his ancestors tried their utmost to paint its caster as a black-hearted villainess. And though many believed their tale, Ken, the most intimately impacted, felt less sure.

Why would a powerful witch, and only a powerful witch could cast a spell that crossed centuries, survived deaths and reappeared with births, declare war upon an entire family of magic users? What did Alyce Cooper hope to accomplish when she doomed Ken’s ancestor, Jonathon Cabot, to never age beyond his fourteenth year? To never grow into his birthright as a man of power and prestige. And why choose Jonathan, not even a first son?

Ken suspected personal reasons. Battle-scars from thirty years of attendance in upper crust schools across Europe and North America left him an expert judge of youths of privilege. Their propensity to loom as shadows over the weak of both sexes left him doubtful of Jonathan’s innocence.

Just one of many secrets he wished to know, but magic-users zealously guarded their secrets. Most importantly, they hid their existence from the mundane world, but just as often hid their knowledge of magical workings even from family, friend, coven, or clique. This meant a constant loss of and search for knowledge around the magical universe.

For the Cabot family, this world, straight from the mind of a 1970's environmental psychologist, provided a place for the family's scientist magicians to work. And, like any real world researcher, compete for limited resources.

Fortuitously, though Ken proved a failure at the political games, his partner, Dalton, excelled at them. His one true friend, they made a good team. Living on different continents, they mostly worked different schedules, which kept them from getting on each other's nerves. Even better, they enjoyed different types of work. Shy Ken did the brain work, hidden away in their lab. Boisterous Dalton did the legwork, dealing with people, and experiencing life on many worlds.

Today looked no different. The only sign of Dalton's earlier presence, a Post-It fallen onto the floor in front of their lab. No need to read it, Dalton wrote Find Me!!! on it months ago, since which most of the glue on its back disappeared, so often did he stick in on their door.

Despite the multiple exclamation marks, Ken ignored the command. First he needed to commune with his coffee maker. Unconcerned about the old myth it might stunt his growth, Ken needed a cup before starting work. Exciting as he found the project, the day to day work proved a chore, especially after a late night trying to kill, without using an exploit, Old King Allant in Demon’s Souls.

As often happened, their project sprang from personal hardship. In this case, his need to reboot his life every three years. Ken accepted the need, but he hated dealing with the Lintel Men, who saw him almost as a leper.

Actually Lintel People, since the group included women, not least their current leader. Occupying a position of prestige within the family, they served as the custodians of the large stone lintels, split in half, used as foci when opening doors between worlds, both the real one and the magical ones.

Pocket worlds, upon which the magical community depended for sanctuary, prestige and mobility around the real world, did not come cheap. It took significant amounts of energy to open a new world, connect it to others, and fill it with structures or an approximation of life. The result, a necessity priced like a luxury, which kept the energy poor, such as Ken and, to a lesser degree, Dalton, in their place.

For example, Ken always maintained two doors; one at whichever school he attended and another at whoever's house he fostered. And the energy he transferred to the Lintel Men for a relocation equalled nearly a half of what he gathered during the times between using their services.

However, incentive does not equal a solution. Like the coffee in Ken's pot, the problem needed to percolate away in their minds. It took seven years, two and a half cycles through different foster homes, before he and Dalton crafted a theory, proved it in clinical settings, and obtained approval to begin real (pocket) world tests.

No matter how much they tried, the two could not figure a way to divorce the spell from the lintel. Research probed to them these solid blocks of granite, often as large as those used at Stonehenge, were the only thing from the earth strong enough to channel the volume of energy needed to open a new world. A spell intimately linked the stone and the opened world, making it the key to create any other door. Just split the stone in two, place each half in two world, and through the magical law of similarity a portal could be established. Which brought them back to their problem with the lintels, the Lintel Men controlled all physical access to the stones.

They needed a proxy, yet research showed how often others tried to create simulations, some elaborate, some almost the real thing. All those attempts failed.

Almost as a lark, Ken suggested they treat it as a coding issue. If only they could turn each half of a lintel into a object, one they could referenced no matter wherever it rested and they stood. Of course it proved much more complicated, but the idea provided the groundwork for a kludge. If a true programming effort, they knew it would cause a code review tool to crash, but the pilot showed enough promise to obtain blessings from most of the Elder's, an account to draw upon the family’s magical energy and a lab in which to work.

Of course, the one Elder least interested in their project was the leader of the Lintel Men. She demanded th idea first work on something other than her precious stones.

Proof of how much the others Elders wanted the theory to work came when they pressured Julia into providing an alternative. With poor grace, she admitted her people used a simple, two piece telescope as their main training device. With its tubes separated between worlds, trainees learned to establish a link, which allowed them to look through the eyeglass in their world to see what the objective lens saw in its world.

Ken now looked on that roadblock as minor and the work around as a blessing. The two tubes proved easy to manipulate, both from a physical and magical standpoint. It minimized the amount of magic they borrowed from the family bank, which in turn kept them in control of the project.

Pessimist’s mug, full of hot wake-me-up, in hand, Ken felt ready to start using some of what they borrowed.

--SEPARATOR--

One problem with Mondays, it gave Dalton the weekend to place beacons. Admittedly a good test, as it allowed them to discover how long a beacon remained usable (after thirty-one hours, you may as well forget it) and resulted in a refinement to the search spell to focus on specific castings. It just required a lot of casting, which continued long after he emptied the coffee pot.

The bigger problem, Dalton’s maturity level. Always a chance, one of those beacons would show a monitor displaying one of the more disturbing images on the internet Therefore, when he heard the door open behind him, Ken said, "You asshole, you almost burned out my retinas.”

“Pardon?”

Ken did not need to turn in order to identify the voice, but unwanted politeness required it. Spinning his chair, he saw his father at the door. Surprise leapt to the forefront of his mind, both because he rarely saw his father and because of how old he appeared. Sure he looked little different than most men his age, but most men his age did not have access to magic.

In their realm, few found anything more important than to extend the facade of youth. Some lived for centuries, but to do so required great skill and access to tremendous amounts of magical energy. Everybody else used spells that accomplished the promises of all the expensive lotions, anti-aging creams, and snake oils throughout the ages. The decline of flesh and skin, muscle and bone, tendon and blood vessel could be slowed. Sicknesses made to run their course quicker. Blood to flow more efficiently. Continued maintenance kept most alive for double their natural life expectancy and appearing in their twenties or thirties for most of it.

Yet Ken’s father, Angus Cabot, looked his age. The reason, the same as why he and his son rarely saw each other. Angus' wife, Ken’s mother, knew nothing of their powers. His father could not chance her discovering his secret, for he would not chance her reaction.

Secrets.

The hallmark of magic users, yet it played havoc upon relationships, particularly with those who knew nothing of the craft. In general, such a marriage seemed doomed from the start. Even when entered into with good intentions, magic proved a mistress most found themselves unwilling to do without. Few persisted, as the lure of love and want often dimmed over time.

But it never did for Angus. He loved Sandra as much as the day they met, would give her anything, including decades off his life. Never would he allow magic to cause her a moment of worry, so he always portrayed who she saw him as, for that is what he needed. Only once did his secret life almost encroach upon this well oiled companionship, when their son's magical talents quickened. In itself normal, the talents usually manifested in a person's teen years. However, a month before his birth, the family's prior curse bearer died in a car accident and turned him into the heir, triggered when he quickened. The magic Angus could manage, he managed to hide his own, but he knew he could not hide their son’s unchanging appearance. Therefore, he decided Ken needed to die.

Not a true death. Just a tactic employed by magic users throughout the ages, when they sought escape, most often from a relationship. He faked Ken's death. Something growing more complicated in the age of information, but still easy in the late 70s. Angus offered his son no choice. So while Ken grew to understand and even accept the reasons, his bitterness remained.

Thus Angus' age stood out, for he rarely saw the man. And only one reason existed for his presence.

"What do the Elders want?"

"They have a proposal for you." Angus replied, not attempting to counterfeit the reasons for his appearance behind parental goodwill.

"What?"

"They prefer to offer it to you themselves. Some believe if I were to do so, my presentation would be prejudiced by my belief that you should not accept."

A response that told Ken more than the Elders probably wanted him to know. Yet in staying true to his wife, Angus established himself as a trustworthy sort, one who would make a tough decision and stick with it. They should know he would make his opinions felt, no matter their constraints. Doubtless the offer would put his son in danger and though his father loved his wife more, even Ken would not deny his father also loved his son.

Yet curiosity drove Ken to work in a lab. Curiosity always drove him to seek answers to the unknown. Therefore, he needed to hear the proposal.

Chapter 2 - Desire

Since Angus proved unwilling to answer any questions about the matter and Ken's pride would not allow him to ask any personal questions, the two did not speak as they left the lab. Back in the nexus, they walked past numerous doors, each which led to a family, ally world, or traps, some keyed so only certain people could pass. The door they sought, randomly placed and indistinguishable from any of the others opened into a waiting room. There, with a hand on the handle of the next door, Angus broke the silence.

"Remember, they are only allowed to ask a favour, they cannot make a demand."

With these words, he opened the door and allowed his son to enter. Ken did nothing to acknowledge the warning, though it settled in his mind as he stepped into a boardroom worthy of any Fortune 500 company. In fact, the Cabot's would belong to that group if anyone knew they existed, which made the elders, sitting around a mahogany table, as much corporate board as council.

His eyes went first to the chair at the far end of the long table. In it sat Lydia Cabot, head of the family for the last twenty years. And though Angus' aunt, she appeared young enough to play that role to Ken. In general, everybody felt pleased with her leadership, though some thought her over fond of manipulation.

To Lydia's right sat one reason behind the acceptance of her leadership. Old Walter, who held the role before her, whose insular viewpoint saw the non-magical as a distraction. Fortunately, when he recognized the pace of scientific advancements in the mundane world, admittedly after most of the family, he realized he could no longer act as their leader. Yet before stepping down, he finagled a position amongst the Elders, to ensure the family did not completely divorce itself from the past.

The chair on Lydia's left held Julia, the leader of the Lintel Men. An age-mate to Angus. Though whatever friendship the two once shared died with the death of the third victim of the family curse, at a time when both looked forward to the birth of their first child. With Angus' son born a day before her daughter, inheriting the family stigma, she did little to hide her glee. A happiness mutated into a disdain towards Ken and which she transferred to her daughter Rebekka. The two of them, along with their lackeys, saw Ken as the least amongst the family and made no effort to hide that belief. Many afternoons he spent daydreaming about dropping a piano upon the pair of them. Alas, only his life belonged in a cartoon.

One member of the Council of Elders, Elizabeth, did not sit in her chair. The oldest elder, she only appeared for the most important discussions and votes. Her absence supported his father’s contention that Ken could say no to any proposal without fear of sanction. At least, so went the theory. However, the manner in which Angus distanced himself from the others, going so far as to ignore his seat and lean against a wall, caused him to suspect coercion would occur.

Cautiously he offered greetings and took a seat when invited. Sitting in the large chairs made him appear even more child-like, but Ken tried to ignore that as he said, "Angus mentioned you had a proposal for me."

Lydia looked from son to father, trying to determine how much they shared before entering the conference room. When neither face provided an answer, she said, "Your father is correct. An ally approached us to help trap a murderer."

"Magic user?" Ken asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course, they would not ask for help otherwise."

"How can I help?"

"Although they have pursued this murderer for years, they still don’t know determined his identity. But they believe they know the identify of his next victim and plan to replace her with a double."

Ken required no additional explanations before he saw the problems with the expected plan. As casually as Lydia mentioned the double, they both knew it took a crazy amount of magical power to perform the transformation. He should know, he set aside every spare bit of magic he could and still only dreamed at the possibility of becoming an adult. Yet an entire magical organization, particularly if the allies proved those who he suspected, could manage it. A bigger issue would result from physical limitations, which required a person smaller than the target body. Something that would shrink the pool of those able to serve as bait.

"I doubt they need the meager amount of energy I can provide."

"No, that they can cover. But they want to build as many fail safes into their plan as possible. One of which involves the murderer succeeding in stealing their double out from underneath them and takes her to whatever world where he hides."

"Even if Dalton or I teach a double to cast the beacon spell, what good would it do? We don’t have a way to connect to that spot.”

"My team has been working with Dalton using your project's findings." Julia said, always ready to put Ken in his place. "However, we are still in early stages."

While Ken frowned, feeling betrayed Dalton never told him about this, Lydia said, "But Julia, you continue to report your team’s successes. And we were quite impressed with your demonstration."

"How about our numerous failed attempts? We succeed less than one in seven attempts and can only create a temporary portal, not a door. A portal we can only hold open for moments and the beacon needs to be found within an hour of casting or it loses the necessary potency for us to establish a lock. I believe it a flimsy hope upon which to gamble someone's life."

Walter interrupted to say, "However, sometimes when the reward is great enough, the gamble becomes worth it."

At this statement, the elders stared a question at their guest and it all fell into place. He said, "Surely you don't expect me to become bait? No way!"

"As Julia says, the spell is not at a stage where we can promise it to our allies." Walter said. “It may be more than embarrassing, it could damage our relationship, if the spell failed one of theirs. Better for us to take the risk.”

Lydia said, "You know the spell and your size makes you a transformation candidate. Plus, as Walter said, the reward is great."

"To be bait? It won’t be us taking the risk, it will be me."

Julia said, "Exactly, it is too dangerous."

Before he could wonder why Julia cared about putting him in danger, Lydia said, "The Samodivas have contracted the Boiis to spring the trap."

Definitely a pair of heavy hitters, which explained why Lydia wanted the Cabots involved. The question, did he want to get involved? No, but he still needed to ask, "What is this tempting reward?"

"They will transform you into someone else afterwards."

Tempting indeed. Only his very dream. In fact, it almost seemed too much. Even if it required him to become a her, something that should probably upset him more than it did, if only he did not already despise his body. How much worse would it be as a female? Specially if only as a detour around the roadblock on his path to manhood.

Instead he worried about the danger. And the fail safes the Divas built into their plan showed the risk of failure. Never-mind his father's and Julia's concerns.

Surprisingly, Ken found himself focused upon that last thing. Julia's concern? So unlike her, it made him suspect an ulterior motive. Almost as if...he struggled to hide an inappropriate smile. Had Dearest Becky decided to add the next child to their family chain? Did they fear his death would pass the curse into their line. That possibility almost provided enough incentive for him to agree, but he desired one more thing.

"I want to know the truth behind the family curse."

--SEPARATOR--

With agreement in place, all Elders except Angus left the room; Julia in a snit, Lydia off to contact the Divas, and Walter to obtain the necessary records. Meanwhile, Angus finally took his seat, saying nothing and keeping his opinion off his face. Not given a chance to tell his father he forsook the right to make decisions for him, Ken instead asked, "Is Rebekka pregnant?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Julia seemed more concerned than normal about my health. I'm speculating."

"Spiting the two of them would be a very bad reason for volunteering."

"Say, rather than spite, I look forward to them having a few sleepless nights. Because, despite how much my life bums me out, I'm not ready for it to end. But a chance to change it, that I must take."

Angus nodded his understanding, the two settling into silence while waiting for Walter's return. When he did so, he held a leather bound tome, which he dropped, with a thump, on the table. He said, "Here are the writings of Albert Cabot, who kept the family's records during most of the 1500's. You'll find it in the entries for 1571."

The tome proved less fragile than Ken suspected and when he opened he found typed words. Something which caused him to frown in suspicion.

"Even though its a reproduction, it holds the truth. And you'd thank me if you saw the original, Albert's writing left much to be desired."

While Ken leafed through the book, looking for 1571, he found himself stopping on a regular basis. The long reign of Queen Elizabeth I saw much turmoil, but also hearkened the rise of a merchant class that grew into a force almost as powerful as the gentry. A class amongst which the Cabots belonged, though inconspicuously, owning wealth that would surprise most. Centered at the villagers of Wolshire, they employed all who lived in and around it. From and through the village traveled their goods. This required a thriving contingent of blacksmiths, wagoners, craftsmen, and the coopers who made the casks, tubs, and barrels for moving those products.

One of these coopers had a daughter named Alyce. A lovely girl of thirteen, she set many a heart afire, including Jonathan Cabot's, a younger son of a younger son. Flattery and gift-giving from one above her own class enchanted the naive girl. In time she declared her love, which Jonathan regularly exploited in the woods outside of Wolshire.

This led to an all too common result, Alyce’s pregnancy. Unfortunately for her, her discovery of this came at the same moment Jonathan remembered his betrothal to another. Before she knew it, he disappeared to the Cabot facilities in London, leaving her alone, embarrassed, betrayed, and so very angry. A combination that caused her to replace nightly prayers with curses towards the boy who sought pleasure without responsibility, who hid behind parental skirts, who only pretended manhood. Finally, when her child showed, Alyce's despair grew too much and she cast herself from a bridge into the fast moving river below. And with that sacrifice, her curses became real.

Finished reading Alyce's sad end, Ken found himself unable to blame her for what he endured. Blame rested upon the Cabots, particularly Jonathan of whom the remaining records mentioned rarely and only in context of the curse.

“Stupid wasn’t it? She offered the family bloodline more than the twit who seduced her ever could.” Walter said.

“They didn’t know?”

“No, nor did she, nor her family. Here we see the rarest of us all, one in billions, and our family pride destroyed her.”

The rarest of the rare, the most powerful and truest of Earth’s magic users, who harnessed their own emotions for arcane purposes. For emotions fueled magic. But like the fuels known to the mundane, not all burned with the same energy or could be harnessed in the same manner. The majority of magic users relied on the emotions of others, which in turn split into two types; emotion targeted directly at the practitioner and emotions directed towards the world at large. The power of the first equated to gasoline, while the latter would seem akin to burning wood. But, as Alyce proved with her multi-generational curse, the nuclear power of the magic world rested with the personal feelings few could harness. In fact, no Cabot ever owned this ability. No wonder they hid the truth, leadership always desired the appearance of infallibility.

Lydia gave Ken little time to ponder his new knowledge or implied agreement before she returned to ask, "Satisfied?"

About to answer with a negative, if only to tweak her nose, Ken stopped himself when he saw something in her mannerisms brooked no joking. Instead he nodded his head.

"Very well, follow me."

"What? Where?"

"Our allies would meet you. They wish to ensure themselves of your suitability."

"Already? But I thought I would have more time."

"For what, Kenneth? To find an escape from your promise?"

Despite a growing desire to do just that, Ken also wanted to meet the Samodiva. The Divas, as most called them, originated in the Balkans. And while many wondered if they sought to evoke the woodland fairies of Slavic folklore or if their history formed the basis upon which those myths existed, none doubted the appropriateness of their name.

Unlike the Cabot's, the Divas passed their magic only to daughters and, from what Ken heard, each appeared more gorgeous than the last. Which explained why they ranked amongst the most powerful, for they evoked an endless supply of lust. This ready source of energy made them worthy, though frightening allies. In large part, because untempered power created an arrogance in some Diva cliques that led them to take insult from words and acts with no affront intended. This caused the Cabots to develop a relationship with a stable branch of the Divas. And if that branch still took advantage of them once in awhile, they at least provided a channel of communication in case someone ran afoul of a more mercurial member. Always best to hope friendship would offer a chance at discussion before destruction.

That fear did not explain his hesitation. As one who offered a favour, he held no fear of giving insult. Yet insult to his own vanity, what little the curse allowed, seemed assured if he presented himself to a Diva while dressed in his school uniform. Unwilling to admit this truth, he rose from his seat to join Lydia.

When his father also stood, Lydia said, "There is no need for you to come, Angus."

"I will go anyways, Lydia." Angus said, certainty in his voice.

Lydia's turn to accept something she would rather not. With a nod, she led them through numerous nexuses, from the family's into multiple neutral zones. A path that left Ken unsure of the way back.

Most of these shared worlds took the form of a restaurant or nightclub, so the cutesy little pastry shop seemed tame compared to the norm. Empty, except for a pretty brunette wearing a dirndl. Yet no matter how lifelike she appeared, Ken knew a magical construct when he saw one. Almost living, but hollowed of all humanity, both good or bad. A manikin who existed only and entirely within the pastry shop. While harmless, her kind usually made Ken uncomfortable, but on this day his thoughts looked inwards as she led them to a table.

Once seated, she poured each a cup of a tea, offered them a plate of dainties, and said, "Please enjoy."

Angus asked, “Who are we meeting?”

"Ilina Borisova." Lydia said.

“Don’t think I know her.”

While they waited, the feelings of self-loathing and mischief that led Ken to this table dimmed. In their place arose those of self-preservation and wisdom. However, before they could gain a place of ascension, their hostess arrived and all thoughts of retreat disappeared.

Chapter 3 - Disgust

For a woman like Ilina Borisova, men would commit acts of stupidity .

Non athletic, Ken never-the-less enjoyed sports as a spectator. Rarely did he miss an entire day of SportsCenter, few sports' sites did he not avidly read, just as he once read their magazine precursors. Therefore, when Lydia first spoke Ilina’s name, his mind jumped to tennis. Now, with her arrival, he saw his initial thoughts held some truth. A tall, long-legged blond, but softer, less athletic than a Sharapova or Hantuchova. Instead, if Ilina's appeared in a sports magazine it would be that famous February issue of Sports Illustrated

Hard not to stare at her in a navy business suit, the tight, short skirted type appropriate for how the fashion and television industries visualized a young executive on the rise. Without saying anything, her presence demanded their attention, immediately taking charge of the situation when she set a portfolio upon the table and sat in the remaining seat.

In a voice devoid of the expected Eastern European accent, Ilina said, "First, Kenneth, let me thank you for volunteering to hear our proposal. And yes, it is only to hear my words to which we will hold you. For I won’t accept a volunteer who does not know the full story."

Captivated, unwilling to look away from the tense beauty, Ken did not see his father settle back in his chair, no longer as watchful. Instead, he nodded and said, "I would like to hear it."

"In 1978, a non-magic inheriting niece of one of our members went missing from college. We put our collective will, which is no small thing, into finding the girl. However, we did not succeed, nor could we discover the identity of her kidnapper. One year later, to the day, her body was found, dressed as when taken, on the main yard of the university she attended. The brazenness shocked law enforcement, but the state of the body offered more surprise. Except for a single stab wound, judged perfectly to slay and not maim, she appeared healthy. No signs pointed to imprisonment or abuse. To the mundane police it meant nothing, but to us it seemed obvious."

"She'd been reaped." Ken said in a whisper. A suspicion in the back of his mind now made real.

An easy conclusion to reach for anyone who understood how emotions fed magic. At the centre of that understanding sat two scientific principles as old as magic, that of magnetism and distillation. For just as magnetism relies upon the attraction between two unlike poles, so too is there a natural attraction from one person’s feeling towards their target. All the target requires in order to find those emotions is a simple spell akin to scanning for a radio signal. But in their natural state feelings are vaporous things with a short half-life; thus the second spell, which virtually distilled them into a fuel usually stored in foci or elixirs.

For Ken, he used the magnetic strips of credit cards for his foci. The one in his wallet and another at his lab inside a copper kettle from an old moonshine still. An unnecessary part of his virtual distillery, but a cherished gift from his great-great-grandfather, a rare display of humour from a man whose face more comfortably wore a scowl than a smile.

Yet if he looked at either card's magnetic strip, they would appear faded and scratched. A sign of how little emotion he engendered. In part because of his curse, people did not like to think about it or him. But the lack also resulted from a survival mechanism, honed through years existing within private schools, where he attempted to make himself invisible. Yet he needed magic. At a minimum he needed enough to manufacture each new identity, something grown more difficult during his life.

Stinking computers.

More than that, he paid a magical tax to the family, which they used to maintain their magical worlds, most more extravagant than the sterile hallways and labs of the world in which he, Dalton, and others worked. Plus his experiments, the less he borrowed the more control he maintained.

So he understood the desire to reap; in ways he did it himself. Easy enough for an apparent teen to get hired at the local arena, Ken worked a mean concession till, during games and concerts. There he harvested the third type of emotion, a simpler process with no need to find a specific signal, he just took everything felt inside the enclosed building. And though this resulted in a lower proof, the volume he captured took care of his tax payments.

An embarrassing act, but not something spoken about only in whispers.

Nothing like one of the truest sins as defined by the Cabots, the Samodivas, their allies, and even many of their enemies. To use people, to manipulate the emotions they felt towards you. Admittedly some hypocrisy existing in how this sin translated to law. The subject of love led to many a theoretical discussion over a glass of something more naturally distilled, where some described it as a tool of easy manipulation that could lead to hurt. But only the most cynical would equate it to fear, the normal crop for reapers.

"So thought our lead investigator. Even before the body appeared, she suspected a magic user was behind the kidnapping, for who else could hide something from our focused eyes. Now with the body discovered, she jumped to the conclusion that whoever committed the crime could not be that powerful if he reaped."

Angus said, "I have learned that owning riches does not stop people from wanting more."

"A lesson our investigator soon learned. She discovered nothing. In time, our leadership suspected it may have been a result of an assumed wrong we committed. But that too led nowhere. In time the case, as they say, went cold."

"He's back?" Ken asked.

"It took us years to learn he never went away. In 1991, a member who worked for the FBI received a request to help a local police department with a case whose MO mimicked that of our own missing victim. An automated search discovered similar cases, once every four years, going back to 1970. Through another spell, which allows us to perform a similar search of dusty files, we found more cases, one every four years, starting in 1946."

"Twelve of them?"

"And four more since, we hope to stop it from becoming five."

Looking towards his father, seeing softening in previously hardened eyes, Ken asked, "But if you don't know who it is? What good is bait?"

Ilina did not offer an immediate answer, instead she slid an 8" X 10", taken from her portfolio, across the table. On it Ken saw a picture of an attractive brunette, probably in her late teens, reminiscent of someone, an actress. Then he remembered, before the Internet offered so many outlets to someone stuck in a fourteen year old body, his infatuation with music videos. The picture reminded him of Liv Tyler from the Aerosmith videos with the girl from Clueless, their performance burned into his mind for all time. From a time when Tyler exuded a raw sensuality, before her transformation into icy perfection. Not a clone, but the girl's picture bore a close resemblance.

After a few seconds to look, Ilina said, "It is true that the murderer has left few clues as to his identity. However, each of his victims lived her own story before running afoul of him and our information specialists used those stories to create a profile of his targets."

"Her?" Ken asked, pointing at the picture.

"Physically, all of his victims were brunettes with blue eyes, between 165 and 175 cm tall. None overly voluptuous, but neither were they overly slender. Similar enough, but when we delved into their lives we discovered a pattern. At the time of their capture, each was nineteen and away from home, usually at a university. All were considered good girls growing up; popular, decent grades, and active in their schools and communities. However, around the time each left high school they experienced a trauma of some sort within their life, which led them into minor rebellion.

"The picture shows Heather Theis. Nineteen years old, almost 173 cm tall, she played second base for her high school team and has competitively danced since the age of four. Currently in the second year of university, she is struggling with the divorce of her parents. As a result, she has become a bit of a party girl, drinking more than she should and jumping from boyfriend to boyfriend. We believe she is our murderer's next target."

"How can you be sure? There must be hundreds of girls that match the profile."

"Less than many would assume, but you are right, we cannot be sure. That is why we have other teams watching some other girls. But we think Heather is the most likely target and it is around her where we will place our largest effort. We are making an educated guess, since the profile is more in depth than I explained. Eight years ago, it narrowed are potential list down to three girls, one of whom was taken. Four years ago, they picked the exact target, unfortunately he slipped through our watchers both to commit the kidnapping and to dump the body."

"I can’t believe you didn't catch him?"

If not for his tone, his surprise at someone evading the Diva's power, Ilina may have felt upset by Ken's temerity in asking that question. Or maybe, as he gleaned from her response, a lack of personal involvement in the failure allowed her the freedom to ignore the judgment of others.

"I have read through the plan prepared by the team at the time, spent hours thinking about it, yet I cannot see anything I would have done differently. They inserted one of our own as a decoy and brought in the Boiis to help set up the perimeter. But they could not stay within arms reach at all times, not if they wished to spring the trap. Somehow he must have been able to open a temporary door into her room, despite our forensic people finding no trace of one before or after the kidnapping.

"My predecessor took the loss of her agent hard and so it fell upon me to take over the operation. And until a week ago, I worried I may be doomed to repeat the same failure. But one of ours found her curiosity peaked as to why your cousin wandered about a common area, casting what seemed meaningless spells. Do not think poorly of him, she is adept at getting her own way and so he had no chance to conceal your project. The information made its way into my hands and I approached Lydia with an inquiry about your progress."

Placing another mental tick against Dalton's name, Ken said, "Our project is still in preliminary stages and until an hour ago I did not know about the companion project."

"Yet you came, thinking you volunteered." Ilina said, seeing the fear of that action mirrored in his eyes. "However, we will not hold it against you if you now say no. Nor will our organization look less kindly upon the Cabots. All I ask, is that you teach the spell to any volunteer, if we find one."

"How long do you have?"

"Until the 31st, he always acts on Halloween."

"Less than five weeks away?"

"Which is why the potential in your spell has offered us a new lease on hope."

Easy to find blame for Ken's next act. The understanding that, while Ilina may not look less kindly upon the Cabots, others within the Divas would, particularly if their plan failed. The carrot of the reward. Or chivalry, despite Ken's awareness that the lady across the table surely possessed a level of competence to dwarf his own. But none of those provided the reason he did not flee. Instead anger kept him in his seat. Disgust at the heinous murder of sixteen girls. Outrage at one of his own kind willingly committed acts he never considered, even during his deepest despair at the unfairness of his own life.

"Okay, I'll do it."

Four words, quietly spoken. The words brought about no celebratory smiles to either of the women's faces nor sorrowful expression to his father's. None let his appearance fool them, they allowed him to make this adult decision for himself.

Which did not completely hide their reactions. His ever present scan easily detected the combined pride, satisfaction, and happiness the three directed towards him.

I expect to post another of the six sections every 4 or so days. The story is complete, just need to my usual level of dull lustre before posting and since it is around 50K words, I find it easier to polish and post smaller chunks.

Immortality of Emotion - Part 2 of 6

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

Audience Rating:

Restricted Audience (r)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

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Posted by author(s)

Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

Part 2 of 6

Chapter 4 - Pain

Like Lydia, Ilina offered Ken no time to change his mind. After a shared hug, the first in nearly three decades, with his father, she guided him from the shop. However, she proved more entertaining to follow than the Cabot leader. Almost he could distract himself from his decision in watching her short skirt flick back and forth, something she knew, as he did nothing to dampen his feelings. In fact, she seemed to put something extra into her stride as reward for volunteering.

After passing through more hubs, Ilina stopped before a door and looked at him. Briefly she smiled, when his eyes darted upwards to meet hers, before her face returned to beautiful neutrality and she said, "We only have five weeks and Gary never lets us rush his work."

"Gary?"

"He's our changer."

"Gary?"

"Only Gary in his most recent incarnation. From what I’ve heard, this is the first time, while practicing his art upon himself, he did not remain a sister. Without his saying it, we suspect this is the last life he will give the Samodivas."

A transformation, or a body switch as most called it, offered the most common way to extend a magic user's life beyond those techniques used by all magic users. Though, maybe better to say the most accessible, rather than common way. Even then, that was akin to saying that a Lear jet is accessible to a mundane. Both because it required a tremendous amount of magical energy and an incredibly skilled practitioner to perform. Everyone wanted a skilled changer as a member of their clique and a changer’s fees, in magical energy, often equaled that used for the transformation. Which meant they possessed everything needed to achieve their own transformations. A good gig, but it seemed this Gary no longer wanted to use his abilities on himself. And from reading the tone of her voice, Ilina thought him crazy to give up a good thing.

Based upon her early to mid-twenties appearance, Ken guessed her true age as no more than fifteen years greater than his own. Combine that with her assignment, chosen from amongst all the options available to the Divas, and he accepted the confidence Ilina portrayed in herself, it seemed unlike the cockiness others showed when trying to prove their worth. She impressed him, impressed all of them at the tea shop, which explained one reason he did not take the opportunity to back out when she gave him the chance. Yet at the same time, her presence provided another mirror in which to measure himself and in this instance it felt good to find himself wiser.

Understandable when you looked at it from her viewpoint. While he could not say Ilina only experienced kindness during her life, few could say that, he did not doubt Ilina liked herself right now. A life where youth and beauty held a power way beyond vanity for her and her sisters. To give it up would seem almost anathema to her.

Yet Ken knew how life could grow pale. His own unchanging past, present, and future formed the foundation upon which he made this risky choice, just as with his predecessors who made riskier and riskier choices until they need not worry about it anymore. Though each waited longer than he before first stepping on the path to their own doom. To him, it made sense that everything could grow tiresome, even the good life. How could losses of friends and loved ones not grow heavier the more lives one lived? Why would the scene from Highlander with Queen's song, Who Wants to Live Forever, not be true?

"Quit talking about me and come in."

Turning to the voice, Ken suddenly felt less sure of his wisdom. Hulked in the doorway stood a huge man, both tall and wide, with the face of a journeyman boxer, one whose scarred face showed he made promoters happy by his ability to take a punch and put on a good show. Easily could he appear a dark and foreboding character, if not for the smile on his face.

With the eye-roll perfected by every teenage girl, fortunate enough not to fear her parents, Ilina accepted the invitation, forcing Gary to step aside. "Kenneth, this is Gary. Gary, Kenneth Cabot."

After he watched her walk by, something not quite a leer on his face, Gary turned to Ken and said, "Welcome, Kenneth."

"Hello there. Please call me Ken."

"Very well, Ken, let's see if you're a valid candidate for this transformation."

"But I thought..."

"That, because you are shorter than our target, everything thing else is a go? Actually that's just the first trial before you get to the ogre. Time for his test."

In moments he found himself sitting beside Ilina on a leather love seat. Meanwhile, Gary, in a matching, though heavily worn, armchair, stared into space. Knowing the man cast a spell and not wanting to distract, Ken waited. Once more slipping into the ongoing argument about the wisdom of his action.

"Well you are a blood-type match, but the metatarsals and phalanges present a bit of a problem."

Ilina voiced the question that sprang into Ken's mind when he realized the changer spoke. "What?"

"Bones, bones, bones. The key to my magic, the foundation of a transformation. Still they're funny things, they can be lengthened, thickened, even thinned, but none of us can figure out how to make them shorter. And Ken's metatarsals and phalanges, which are foot bones by the way, are longer than the targets. While she wears a size 39 shoe, the best we can manage for you is a size 41."

"That's not much of a difference?"

"True, in fact I expected worse. In the last few decades it seems like most teenage boys are part clown."

Ken said, "I'm older than I look."

"Ahh, you're that Cabot. That's good, I wondered why they let you volunteer."

"Yep, I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And while I'm not familiar with sizes 39 or 41, they seem close enough to go ahead. Let's do it before I lose my nerve."

Ilina asked, "Gary, is everything else good?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Okay I will leave you two boys to it." Ilina said, before surprising Ken by offering him a hug and a kiss on the lips. "Thank you, Kenneth, you truly are one of the good guys."

Dazzled, Ken could barely muster a farewell, Gary jarring him from his reverie when he said, "Distracting, isn't our Ms. Ilina? I tell you, if I weren't so old and weren't so ugly I might be tempted to see if I could distract her myself."

"Because of your last transition?"

"Ahh, did she tell you about how they all think I'm crazy?"

"Not in so many words. Besides, like me, I suspect you're old enough to make decisions about your life all on your own. No I was wondering, ummm...you know, did you like girls before? Or was it because of the change?"

"Ahh, yes that is something that would interest you, isn't it? But it isn't as easy to answer as you probably expect. The reason for that is that I am old, well beyond being old enough to make my own decisions. In my prior lives I had relationships with both men and women, but the latter not until after I transformed into a target who liked women. But it is different now, as a man, the physical attraction is greater - the smell, the visual, while before the attraction was driven by less tangible thing. So yes and no. I suspect the same will happen to you. A transformation links you with a target and though you will not have experienced her experiences, you will remember them. Past pleasures will combat prior taboos in your mind, particularly those driven by outside, societal forces. Not that it means you must act exactly as she would act. It’s just that our target likes men, given the chance, you likely will as well. But that choice is up to you and, don’t worry, if you try it out you’re not going to turn into some sex-mad nymphomaniac."

"I don't know if that eases my mind or not, but nothing about my decision is easy. How does it work, the change I mean?"

"The old stand by, even mundane books about magic, not like ours, but the imaginary type, mention the law of similarity. That concept provides a starting explanation for my ability to link one person to another, to make a finger like a finger or an eye like an eye. Even those organs that are different between a woman and a man have analogues, though each party requires the matching analogue. So if either of you had donated a kidney, had your appendix removed, or lost a digit we could not continue. That not being the case, as proven during my earlier check, we require a trigger. Long ago, changers found the best trigger is the memory of feelings. For weeks I have studied our target, delving into the depths of her mind, searching to find physical memories. During the transformation, I will make your body re-live these experience again and again until it learns to react the same way, as if her body is your own. And after these hundreds of analogues are linked within your consciousness, no doctor could distinguish your body from hers."

"Do I have any part to play?"

"You must accept those memories as yours. Though don't worry, your mind is full of empty space for us to use."

“Will I keep this Heather’s memories when I change again?”

“Yes, though like all memories, they will fade. However, you must take care with overloading yourself with new recollections. I know we’ve promised you another form, but it won’t be possible for at least a year from the completion of this transformation. Does that change your mind?”

Ken thought about it for a moment. His chance to escape, but while the price to pay grew higher, the value of the reward remained worth it. Shaking his head, he asked one last question. "Will it hurt?

"Some of the truest physical memories involve hurt, but there are ways to mitigate the pain."

Mitigate - to lessen the severity, an interesting word for Gary to use. Fuzzy in its actual implementation, being true across a huge range. Yet a lifeline to which Ken would soon grasp. For while floating in a pool of ice water, which held the title of worst thing ever for only a short time, he discovered something even more horrible

It started with a stubbed toe. A metal bed frame, the bane of all, he felt the pain blossom repeatedly, the blood vessels bursting into bruise, the nail cracking and breaking away. He lost count of the number of times Gary made him relive that act, but when he finished, there still existed nine more toes to go. Coffee tables, doors, walls, Ken found himself reminded of all the things one could accidental kick. Lessons in dancing en pointe, led to memories of walking in pointy toed heels, cramming the toes together for awkward boys to step on during junior high and high school dances. And that only accounted for her toes. But it could be worse, didn't Gary say the cold water and the pills he took mitigated the pain?

He ran from first base hundreds, thousands of times. Feeling the his feet pound onto the ground, his ankles, knees and hips rotate, calves and thighs strain, arms pump, jaw clench, all to end with the sliding shorts under his uniform not quite protecting thighs from the pebbles of the hard and poorly raked ground around second base.

Even before experiencing the real thing, he endured and silently cursed as many periods as any teenage girl. But one stood out, since it occurred more than a month after the ill-planned and drunken night when he...she lost her virginity to a clumsy, drunken, and rubber-less boyfriend. It added a dimension of panic and worry that Ken could live without, though it distracted from the memory of thrusts, caresses, and the smell of sweat. A lesson learned, but after learning of her parent's impending divorce, many Friday and Saturdays resulted in that alcohol fueled buzz where the skin of his head felt separated from his skull. Invariably those nights led him to a bedroom with one of a short string of boyfriends, which proved Gary's theory. It did not feel repugnant, yet neither did it feel storybook spectacular. Each time different, sometimes better than others.

But pleasures seemed more difficult to process than the physical pain. Pain proved little different from what he lived through as one of the smallest in many classes of clown footed idiots. Experienced once, he easily lived through it again for Heather. So in time he learned to throw a baseball exactly like Heather Theis. He could perform her steps, both jazz and ballet, from all of her last five years of dance performances and competitions. Heather's friends and families now appeared less like strangers in his mind, he almost felt he could pretend to be her.

Which did not mean he could be her. Too much still made them different. In his entire life, Ken only let himself grow close to two people, the old magical security blanket, and one of those tossed him aside so the other no longer knew he lived. Since that heartbreaking moment, he made friends but kept his distance, became the proverbial loner. But Heather, she loved people, needed them around her at all times. She could never figure out what to do with herself when alone, which explained why her activities always involved teams or groups, why she loved parties and made so many friends. Even when they brought her pain, she would never abandon them. Something that confused Ken, despite feelings of jealously at the pleasure they provided her in the past.

It left her not quite Heather, but also not quite Ken.

Chapter 5 - Shame

"I don't like Russians."

Ilina's statement came from nowhere and caused Ken's focus to shift from a surprisingly tasty dessert of strawberries and peppercorns to the blond's face.

"Though I no longer hate them," Ilina continued. "Time has allowed that blackest of emotion to grey into firm dislike."

Twenty four days earlier Ken exited the pool of freezing water in which, over a period of six days, he did not quite get changed into the person the Diva's deemed necessary. A judgment that led him to a type of beauty salon. There a simple spell turned the stubble on his head into a match for Heather's shoulder length hair. They also pierced his ears twice and his navel once, gave him a manicure and pedicure, and removed all unnecessary hair - from the eyebrows down.

A physical match, Ilina arrived with a suitcase full of workout gear and enrolled him in Heather Theis boot camp, run by Dannika, a petite brunette with a sergeant-major complex. She drilled him on Heather's style, movements, mannerisms, and relationships. Often with intricate role play sessions where the brunette and her helpers cast glamour's of people and places. With every bit of praise for Ken's newly delicate ears hard earned, he barely contained his joy when Ilina rescued him the previous evening. From the boot camp they went to her two bedroom apartment in Karlovy Vary, a city in the Northwest of the Czech Republic. Today she served as his guide in the real world.

It proved more interesting than scary.

Just above freezing, both dressed in the fall uniform for Czech girls; blue jeans, boots, sweater, and leather jacket. True, the boots had heels, the jeans were tight, and the bomber style jacket hid none of that tightness, but Ken found himself surprised how much attention he, not just Ilina, received. The amount of desire he harvested made him feel powerful. Yet it also seemed to lead to Ilina's announcement. Karlovy Vary, a pretty city of old world charm, boasted a spa industry that drew many tourists, particularly from Russia. One group, consisting of five young men, attached themselves to the pair of young looking women during their walk to the Embassy Hotel for lunch. Mostly forgotten Russian language classes meant he understood little, but Ilina knew everything they said.

Ken said, "I've been in too many schools with too many buffoons to think only Russians act like that?"

"What? Oh you mean those boys who just left? You're right, they're all the same."

"I wasn't. You need confidence and friends to act that obnoxious."

"You should have tried, Heather." Ilina said. "Sometimes it even works. Who knows, in a disco, I may have let the one in the red scarf pick me up."

Some lessons during the boot camp proved easy to digest. The easiest of these revolved around the name Heather. Since Dannika insisted everyone call him by her name, he caught on much faster than Homer Simpson becoming Mr. Thompson. More difficult to understand, the new triggers in his mind. Smells, tastes, or songs could lead to memories never lived. Red scarfs must be included in the mix, for Ken instantly visualized who Ilina referenced, pulling his image from an empty drawer in his mind labeled handsome.

"But no, it isn't the buffoons, as you so appropriately named them, who reminded me of my dislike of Russians. It's the two couples who just came in, sitting to our left. The man on the left looks like someone I knew. Him I hated."

Years of movie watching stopped Ken from a whiplash head spin. Neither did he reach into his purse for a compact, both of which he now carried. But the approach of the overly attentive waiter, even as Ilina waved him away, provided the perfect opportunity to look. Two men in their early forties, probably wealthy businessmen based on the quality of their suits, accompanied by two glamorous brunettes.

"It must be tough for you to live in Karlovy Vary?"

"Part of my penance."

"I don't understand."

"We need more privacy and more wine for me to explain."

Ilina proved impervious to all wheedling and cajoling. She paid for the meal and when they left the hotel she did not turn towards her apartment. Instead they visited a number of clothing stores and a wine shop, in which they bought a bottle of LeoÅ¡ Horá¡k chardonnay. All told it took three hours before they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, jackets and boots off, with glasses of wine in hand.

Ilina said, "Physically I matured early, but magically I blossomed late."

"Blossomed? We call it quickening."

"Too gender neutral for the Samodivas. Not that I understood what happened when it happened. The magic died out in my family a number of generations ago, which removed us from the list of those with the right to know. Then it reappeared in me at the age of sixteen. And so...no...first I should ask, what do you know of the Prague Spring?"

Caught up in his appreciation of the chardonnay, it took Ken a moment to comprehend the question. "Was that in 1968, when the Soviets invaded Czechoslovakia?"

"It's more what led up to their action."

"Sorry, I don't know much. I knew it was '68 because Jaromir Jagr wears the number in memory of the event. Oh yeah, there was also a movie, umm...Unbearable Lightness of Being, but I can't remember much about it."

"That's because you probably watched it for the lesbian scene." Ilina laughed when he took a large gulp of wine in answer, before she continued. "Not that the movie would teach you much about what happened, the author, Milan Kundera, thinks the movie poorly portrayed what he wrote. But even his book does not portray it to my satisfaction, though I doubt I can do a better explaining.

"In today's world, with democracy's victory it is easy to consider the Prague Spring as a rejection of communism, but it wasn't, more a repudiation of Stalinism. My mother and father were part of the movement. Yet they were socialists to their bones, they just believed people deserved more freedom. After all, to them, socialism was about all the people, not just the people in charge. So they could not conceive of the idea that the rest of the Warsaw Pact would interfere, not even the Russians, for they were their brothers and sisters as a Slavic people and in ideology. They, along with their cohorts, were so very wrong. Ideology warps around those who love power. Thus my parents made themselves a target. And that made me a target."

With all melody siphoned from Ilina's voice, Ken felt a sense of foreboding. He did not want her to finish her story, but something in her mannerisms would not let him bring it to an end. Probably the almost matter-of-fact way she spoke, matter-of-fact if you ignored how far into the past her eyes looked.

"Not a target of the armies of our allies and self-proclaimed saviors, whose invasion seemed no more dangerous than a training mission. True, some of ours were injured or killed or martyred, but if you give boys guns and the tacit approval to use them then death will follow. Instead we quickly remembered fears of our own Stá¡tná BezpeÄnost and their elder brothers in the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, state security perverted into a proving ground for wannabe tyrants. They first paved the way for the armies and followed behind with coercion, subversion, and threat to return the Czechoslovakian Communist Party to its laughable glory.

“But as the days passed it seemed we may escape their attention. My parents convinced each other they were too small to matter. In truth they were. Small enough not to prioritize, but in the Soviet managed world nobody was too small to terrorize.”

A pause led to a shared drink of wine, before Ilina continued. "The man in the restaurant reminded me of Valeri Ubysh, Captain in the KGB. Who, nearly seven weeks after the invasion knocked on our door along with two local thugs from the StB. I never learned if it was mischance or intent for them to arrive on a evening when my parents worked late, leaving me alone. Whispered tales of horror and missing friends left me cowed as they barged in, took a seat in our living room, and said they would wait for my parents return. With the confidence bestowed upon him by the cheap, dark suit that served as their uniform, Ubysh asked me about my parents and their friends. When it became obvious he knew more than I, overwhelming silence filled the room. Finally, to escape, I offered them a cup of tea, which led to the end of silence as Ubysh spun his cup in its saucer, all the time watching me, judging me.

"I will never forget the sound his cup made nor how much my hope flared when he kept looking at his watch. The relief when he said they could wait no longer. But that relief disappeared at his next words, spoken to the two thugs, 'Time to leave, but as a message to the parents, the daughter is yours.' As much as their ilk now protest innocence, saying they only followed orders, the men who belonged to those organizations were not good men. Cruelty lurked too close to their surface, yet even they were surprised by the command or offer or maybe dare. So while their eyes leered at me throughout their visit, they hesitated. Hesitation Ubysh quelled with a single sneer. A strong, powerful man making other men, who assume they are strong and powerful, feel weak. They needed to respond, to prove themselves."

If truly Heather, he may know how to respond, but she’d retreated into the furthest depths of his mind during Ilina’s telling. The best available option, really the only option, required him to speak the truth. "I don't know what to say."

"There is nothing to say, Heather. Besides I have had over four decades to put that day in the past, besides...no, again I need to close another path before continuing. What did you think about your first time out as a pretty girl?"

"No wonder your order is so powerful."

"Yes the never-ending desire of men serves us well. But it comes so easy that it limits many of us."

"Like someone born into wealth, who enjoys their quality of life and has no desire to work hard enough to make it even better. I can understand their reasoning, it feels good, even if desire is a minor emotion. Better than dislike from bullies, which I know well and have found feels of similar intensity."

Ilina said, "Yes desire and dislike are two sides of the same coin. Could you sense a difference beyond intensity? I cannot"

"No, magically they feel the same. The only difference is an mundane understanding of their impact. Therefore, the awkwardness of desire is something I can manage, for it gives me what I want. But it is not worth reaching the same goal via dislike."

"Because what you gain can do nothing to diminish what you lose?"

Ken said, "Exactly. I can't cast a spell to distract, to impair, to hurt, because it may give me away. My best hope for power required me to run away from those who offered it. I did not feel the same fear today, I could soak it in and it felt good."

"It also makes me feel good, even when I did not understand why it made me feel that way. Unfortunately the first of these times occurred on that terrible November evening. But not knowing anything about magic, I believed these wondrous feelings came from the physical degradation. And you need to remember I was not awash in desire or dislike, instead it was their elder siblings, lust and anger. Probably my mundane, as you call it, terror triggered the blossoming as a defensive mechanism. But since I knew not how to use the power or even that I could, the result caused as much long term harm as short term good. After all, what type of freak would be empowered by such an experience? It was hard to like myself after that day.

"Worse, I did not hide it from my tormentors. I cursed their feeble manhood, which triggered their hate, that most potent of emotions, and made me feel even better. I laughed at them. This amused Ubysh, who stopped any further actions against me. His words, as they left, made it seem he felt proud of me, something I knew would not be true of my parents. Therefore, I did not tell them what happened. The only ones who knew about it were the four of us from the apartment that evening, but only Ubysh and I cared. He, because he saw something in me, and I, because of how it changed me. Over the next weeks he never seemed far away, it allowed him to prey upon my self-loathing and my desires to re-experience that rush. Soon I became his mistress. When he left Czechoslovakia I returned with him to Moscow as his recruit, enrolled in a KGB run school that taught pretty girls to be westerners, in my case an American. A good student, I soon lost my accent and after graduating, became a KGB temptress. That is why I deserve penance, I lured three decent, though weak, men into my sponsor's clutches. If a distant cousin, a Samodiva, had not discovered me, I would have continued to grow harder. Until I could not escape."

"And Ubysh." Ken asked.

"His superiors removed his particularly stain from my soul when he made a mistake they deemed unforgivable and tossed him down the hole into which he had sent so many others. Fortunately when I escaped, I could focus upon healing rather than revenge. But for that I needed to stop hating myself, something my cousin knew I could not do without help. So she introduced me to Brennus the Prausi, he took me in and made me whole."

Brennus the Prausi, a name wrapped in story and myth. A name known by magic users, feared by magic users, for he led the Boiis, those immortal warriors from the past. Feared, for no magic could touch them, because no magic could match what shaped them. Ken's mind flooded with questions about this mythic figure, not least why one would seek a slayer for a healer, but he would not burden Ilina further with her memories. So he did not ask.

Chapter 6 - Nervous

For some unknown reason, he and Dalton found themselves driving through the mean streets of London in a cool car, though whether an American muscle car or a European sports car he could not tell. Something to do with a defensive driving course, but why did police department to which they belonged send them to England and how come they found themselves patrolling the streets? Strange, particularly since they drove on the right side of the road, as if still in the States. A wonder they did not cause an accident. Almost as if...wait, Dalton just turned into an alley full of gang bangers, who surrounded the car, each carrying a bat, tire iron, or chain. Outnumbered, the cousins reached for their .44 Magnums. Still it would have gone horribly wrong if they didn't suddenly find themselves in bus, actually something more of an airport shuttle, driving along a country road. The gang-banger threat in the past, Ken read the course material until they pulled into the farm where they would billet.

"Heather, time to wake up."

"Huh?"

"We had a nice day off yesterday, but today we need to get back to work. So re-pack your bag and put on some exercise clothes." Ilina said, before leaving the guest bedroom.

Probably more time with Dannika, Ken thought with a groan. Unlike his own life, Heather's involved a lot of activity, much of which he virtually experienced during his transformation. But virtual experience did not satisfy the drill sergeant, she made him throw balls until his arm ached and learn every one of Heather's dance competition performances from the last five years. Expecting another exhausting workout, he wore shorts and a sports bra, a pale blue Adidas warm up suit over top. After a breakfast of tea and poppy seed filled kolaches, they stepped into the paths between the worlds and did not stop until after tiredness caused Ken to begin switching the duffel bag of his Heather gear from shoulder to shoulder.

"Choose one off the rack on the left wall." When he did not move, Ilina asked, "You're not one of those anti-fur people, are you?"

Looking at the numerous winter coats hung about the room, he answered, "No, but why do I need to wear a fur to visit Dannika's?"

"You passed her program. Today you start with a new instructor. We're off to Pythia's Retreat where Brennus will instruct you in self-defense."

Many magic users knew of Pythia's Retreat, but few could expect welcome in the Boii's home and even fewer knew the mountain into which to find the entrance into their world. Excitement at joining the first group died when Ken realized Ilina’s plan. Although gender rather than legend caused the sudden case of nerves. Beyond a few moments after his transformation with Gary, who didn't really count, his only post-girlification encounters with men occurred during the prior day's walk, which happened in Ilina's protective sphere. Now she casually planned to place him in the care of a man, probably surrounded by a bunch of other men. He didn't feel ready for such an encounter, which the blond probably knew. No doubt, beyond self defense, she saw this as the next step in becoming comfortable in his new skin.

"I'm not sure I'm ready, Ilina."

"We can call it off if you want, Heather? However, our plan will have you on your own, amongst men as well as women, so it's a fear you will need to overcome if we hope to catch the killer. And you won't find a safer place to get your feet wet than at Pythia's Retreat or a more trustworthy guide than Brennus."

"I'll try, but I won't promise it will work."

The tentative agreement offered all Ilina needed, choosing a full length, sable coat with matching cap and mittens for her charge, she chose a white mink for herself before leading the way through a door into a frigid blast of wind. High in the sky, they stood overlooking a chasm of swirling snow. Familiar with the entrance, she spun in place, a guiding hand on Ken's arm pulling him about. Even then, the frigid air sought the gaps of skin between collar and cap, sleeve and mitten, and the cold seeped through the thin, rubber soles of his trainers. Before them stretched a tunnel, barely wide enough to walk side by side. Bright lights encased with in ice, which formed the walls to either side, made for a strange glow, but showed a metal door at the end of the tunnel. The lights also highlighted disks and cylinders, frozen just beneath the surface layer.

Eyes wide at the network of wires running between the disks, Ken stuttered as he asked, "A-a-are those mines?"

"So I've been told."

"But why? Who would be dumb enough to attack them? And how could they get here to attack?"

"The Boiis climbed the mountain to take the Retreat from its prior occupant, the one who cursed them. And in a time of helicopters it would be easier now, though I doubt anyone could catch them unprepared. There is also the door through which we entered." Ilina admitted. "I don't think they truly fear treachery from us, but they think in longer terms than most. Friendships can end, enmity can grow, which makes them unabashed at reminding even allies what type of foes they would be."

"The stories about them aren't enough?"

"One would think so. But some in the magic community are incredibly obtuse, buoyed by their own power. From what I heard, their ilk were once buried in the ice to serve as warning before explosives."

"Even after we got explosives." Said a male voice, made tinny through a speaker. "But after we became friendly with the lovely Samodivas, some felt the practice would tarnish their views of us."

"That's Brennus." Ilina said, as they hurried along the tunnel. The door, worthy of nuclear shelter, opening into a slightly warmer section of the cave, one stretching only twenty feet before a second hatch barred the way. Two more hatches greeted them before they stepped through into a pocket world.

In a life of blah, magic provided one outlet Ken utilized whenever given the chance. An ability to travel the world greater than even those with money, which over the years provided him the opportunity to visit all types of tourist destinations where a fourteen year old would not stand out as strange. What he saw allowed, combined with the sudden memory of where else he once heard the name Pythia, allowed him to instantly recognize Delphi. But not like he saw it on his visit, instead it stood here in its full glory.

Yet the vision did not hold his attention for long.

From a nearby bunker, its cinder block appearance unlike the columned and white stone buildings of the past, walked a man. Dressed in a grey t-shirt, navy shorts, and a pair of runners, Ken's found himself thinking of a high school gym teacher. When he came closer, Ken realized the man could only exist as a gym teacher in a movie, the one all the girls fantasized about. Just before he stopped, even that idea disappeared, for Brennus would never play such a minor role. The handsome drawer in Ken's mind, which first contained an image a Russian boy with a red scarf, flew open fast enough to bounce off its runners, seemingly eager for another file. A few inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist to match, he wore his reddish-blond hair neatly trimmed, and smiled at them with both his mouth and eyes. The type of man who always made Ken feel small, but who now seemed both less and more frightening through his modified vision.

Smiling at Ken, he reached for the duffel bag and said, "Hello there, I'm Brennus, but call me Bren. Everybody but Ilina does."

"Ke...Heather Theis," Ken answered, allowing the man to slip the bag from his shoulder. "Ilina said you could teach me some self defense?"

"Every pretty girl needs training, Heather. Even more-so for pretty bait."

"She volunteered, Brennus." Ilina said, hearing censure in his voice.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but said, "I suppose. And I can't deny it’s a worthy cause. You sure you want me to run the training, Ilina? Ash is the best."

"I think Heather would find Ashter rather overwhelming right now. But since it is your area of expertise, you decide. Now it's time for me take off, I have a lot of work to do in order to ensure everything is ready on Halloween."

Brennus said, "Here Heather, give me your coat and hat, we have a storage locker for them. I’ll also tell Brice let Ilina out, while you keep her company."

With both arms full, he headed back to the bunker. Once out hearing range, Ilina said, "Don't worry, Heather. You're in good hands with Brennus, he’s fully up to date on our plans."

"I supposes, it's just that I wish you told me where I was going before I got dressed."

"Wearing a pair of those shorts I brought you at Dannika's? Don't worry, they're not too bad." Ilina said, her smile growing larger.

"They have no inseam."

"Think of the view as Brennus' payment for the lessons. But don’t worry, it will be hands off appreciation, you’ll need to instigate any hands on type."

"That won't be happening, Ilina!"

"It would help you get in touch with your feminine wiles."

Pursing his lips primly, as Ilina stepped into the last hatchway of the exit, Ken said, "I don’t think so."

"And it would provide armour against what happened to me. Besides, he is amazing."

Before Ken could reply the door closed, an inevitability since her last statement left him speechless. He also worried about Brennus overhearing the conversation, like before. Therefore, when the man stepped from the bunker and waved towards an electric golf cart, the brunette spent the entire walk to it trying to determine the answer. True a smile did decorate his face, but one no different than during their introduction. Probably best to assume Ilina's remarks went unheard or to accept the man would pretend he did not hear.

The duffel bag, along with a cooler, taking the place of golf clubs and Ken in the passenger seat, they drove towards the hill in the distance. The final gravel path took them to the stadium, complete with Herodus Atticus’ seats and arched entrance. There, in the middle of the track, stood a pole holding a stuffed, training dummy.

“First, what do you know about fighting?”

“If I run away fast enough, I don’t get hurt.”

“A lesson I need to learn, maybe you should be teaching me,” Brennus said. “How about magic, does your family teach either defensive or offensive arts?”

“I’ve never had access to enough power to pursue such knowledge, besides Walter, one of our family elders, does not think it offers much value.”

“Wisdom runs in your family. Of all the magic I’ve witnessed, little is as useless as so-called battle magic. True, it can be deadly as part of an ambush, but there is too much chaos in a fight to control a spell. Things happen so fast that a good idea in one moment is bad in the next. Plus, most casters do not own the discipline needed to ignore the insanity around them. And if they do, the same craziness makes a target react in unusual ways. Often fear will protect a mind from other, normally greater, fears.”

Ken said, “What does that leave for me?”

“Well you are in excellent shape. Over the next four days, we will attempt to mold that fitness into a, well not a weapon, that’s impossible in the time we have, but hopefully into someone who can surprise the bastard.”

“Is that my best hope, to surprise him?”

“Surprise is a wonderful tool, particularly against those who are confident in their abilities. And best to judge this murderer worthy of his confidence, which means he is probably has the ability to physically deal with his victims. We should not plan on you winning a fight with him, but even the most competent can be surprised. With the blows I will teach you, it may be possible to disable him or give you a chance to escape. Since you’ve already perfected running, that should be your main goal. To distract and run away”

“So you’re going to teach me to kick him in the balls.”

“Well it would do the job, but...actually, why don’t you go kick the dummy in its non-existent balls.”

Surprised, Ken looked from Brennus to the dummy and back again.

“Go ahead. It’s hung at a height to simulate a 6” tall man, which is as good as any estimate of our murderer's height.”

Unsure of the lesson, but knowing he would learn one, Ken climbed out of his seat and walked to the dummy. There he wound up and kicked the dummy, as hard as he could, right between the legs, making it jump about on its chain. He turned, a questioning expression on his face, towards where Brennus still sat in the cart.

“That would definitely prove disabling, but what do you need to pull off such a kick?”

With the question, Ken replayed the kick in his mind and saw where Brennus led. “For him to be a real dummy.”

“Exactly. It’s slow, easy to evade, and it does not take much talent to grab your leg. Plus you need to consider what you may be wearing; heels, tight jeans, long skirts, any thing affecting your balance or flexibility makes it an even more difficult possibility. Now don’t think I am arguing against an attack to the junk, given an opportunity hit him right there with whatever is available, be it your foot, knee, fist, elbow or forehead. Beyond that, by the end of our training, I hope to teach you how to strike faster, with more strength, and know more targets where an attack can be almost as effective. But before working on that, let’s do some stretching and then practice your wisest skill, running.”

Again Ken thought of a gym teacher. How many times did one tell the class about some fun activity they would do, only to send them out for run first. The stretching he did not mind, it came natural ever since Heather’s memories synced with Dannika's lessons. Yet it definitely put him in the right frame of mind and unthinkingly, just before starting the run, he removed his warm up suit.

“Va-va-voom.”

And, once more, there went the gym teacher comparison.

Immortality of Emotion - Part 3 of 6

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

CAUTION: Violence

Audience Rating:

Restricted Audience (r)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

Part 3 of 6

Chapter 7 - Confused

A body. A mind. Two vessels, both large enough to hold multiple selves. Intellectually something Ken understood even before his transformation, but over the last four weeks that knowledge changed from theoretical to practical. He now understood you could not throw memories, knowledge, and thoughts into a mind like tossing mementos in a box. Each belonged in a specific place so it could be properly accessed when needed to make decisions or perform actions. However, when two became one, a part of each may belong in the same place, which caused them to stack, only the top being accessible for immediate use. By default, the dominant personality took pride of place; however, such an arbitrary method often resulted in feelings of wrongness, where instinct lost its immediacy.

Despite understanding the need to become the best decoy possible, Ken struggled to cede any control to his Heatherness. Sure, accepting her muscle memory felt like the obvious choice, but sensory perceptions seemed too integral in defining the disappearing Kenneth Cabot to give up. Yet some experiences left him with no choice, when his first cup of post-transformation coffee left him with a burnt tongue and a horrible taste in his mouth he took her appetite. And forsook many long held comforts.

The first morning, after awakening in his host's spare room, he struggled not with a pleasure lost, but one uncomfortably gained. Growing physical attraction to Brennus, which he found different than mental attraction.

At the latter, Ken considered himself an old hand. Ilina representing the latest in a long string of beautiful women who triggered pubescent fantasies. Even now, he grew distracted when he thought about her.

However, she did not feel the same for him. Just like his prior infatuations, most of whom never knew he existed. This could not be said for Brennus. With a thing for damsels in distress, even those newly minted, a day with the man left Ken vibrating with enough magical energy to overflowe his foci, the jewelry in his ears and about his neck now replacing credit cards.

Yet reciprocation did not encompass the entire difference? Just as Ilina dwelt in the upper stratospheres of female attractiveness, he realized Brennus occupied a similar spot on the male scale. Women would find him attractive. So while unready to blame the female hormones now coursing through his body, Ken realized they would support the attraction as normal. Combine this with the addictive rush of admiration, plus Ilina's parting shot, and his reaction during the prior day’s training made sense.

After their run, Brennus focused on palm strikes, worried a punch hard enough to hurt an opponent would break Ken’s hand. Initial attempts showed both Heather and Ken’s fighting inexperience, so Brennus physically guided his student through numerous attempts.

More attempts than someone with dancer’s coordination should need, but the brains of the two combined to make a hash out of things. Brennus, unused to training with women, particularly ones who he both wanted to protect and bed, worried about appearing the brute and forsook the firmness he would use when training with his brethren. In turn, dressed like a octagon girl at an MMA event, Ken felt every unintended caress, which triggered his fight or flight instincts.

Always Ken’s go to move, flight won, but not in the traditional sense. Like with taste, he abdicated control of the sensory receptors in his skin to Heather. Desire for flight disappeared, but happy distraction from the man’s touch took over, further delaying a breakthrough in Ken’s form.

This breakthrough signaled a change.

From that point until lunch, supplied from the cooler, and then until Brennus called a stop for the day, the only thing to push training from the front of their minds were a few cart rides to the bunker and its sterile bathrooms. Each time he grew slightly comfortable with the strike, Brennus introduced a new body part into the equation; feet spread, back heel lifting, knees slightly bent, hips turning, torso rotating, both shoulders and arms relaxed.

Exhausted by the day, Ken gratefully climbed into a golf cart. A longer drive took them to a modern three story apartment building almost invisible behind a stand of trees to the West. There Brennus parked his golf cart amongst an assortment of vehicles, ranging from scooters to four, what her host described as, Merkava Mark IV tanks. Taking the duffel bag in one hand and the arm of a drooping Ken in the other, he led them up two flights of stairs and to the end of the hall, where they entered a luxurious apartment.

“Living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, my bedroom.” Brennus said, pointing to different locations, before turning into a short hallway on the left. Opening its single door, he walked in and tossed the duffel on a king sized bed, complete with the pillows and comforter straight from a hotel. “Closet right there and your bathroom is through that door.”

“Okay.”

“Now I just have time to share a quick meal with you before I try to get some sleep. I’m assigned to the midnight watch, which means we won’t start tomorrow until at least nine.”

In the kitchen, while Brennus made sandwiches from ingredients most artisanal producers only dreamed of emulating, Ken asked, “Are you worried about attack?”

“Not really, but as shown by our entranceway display, we are not adverse to paranoia. Besides, it’s good practice for when we’re out on missions. Let’s see, anything I need to tell you? Oh yeah, just throw your clothes in the hamper in the bathroom, we have a laundry service. If you have any questions while I’m gone, use the phones in your bedroom and dial zero, which will reach the watch, me, and I will answer or patch you through to the outside if you wish to talk to someone.”

With this advice, Brennus finished his sandwich and left for his room. Alone, for the first time since before his father showed up at his lab, Ken enjoyed the silence as he finished his meal.

However, his abused muscles, ones slightly different than those used for dancing, grew stiff and he hobbled to the guest bedroom and its en suite bathroom. There he found an upright shower and a jacuzzi tub. Using the first to wash away the day’s sweat, he settled in the latter for a long soak. A heat induced lassitude chased away all thoughts about the insanity of his life, allowing him to drift in place, barely awake. Only the cooling water energized him enough to get out, dry his hair, and perform Heather’s night time routine. Around 9:30 PM on the alarm clock, 8:30 on his watch set in Karlovy Vary, he snuggled into bed and fell asleep.

An excellent sleep; deep, relaxing, and recuperative. However, such a sleep can only last so long and when complete there is no need to continue. By six o’clock Ken knew he would get no more sleep. Wide awake, thoughts rushed into his head. The excitement felt from Brennus’s touch the noisiest of all.

Better than the recent morning fare, thoughts of serving as bait for a serial killer

The truth, Ken one-upped The Tragically Hip song, being over forty-four years old and never having kissed a girl. Not for want of hoping, but lack of confidence when it seemed okay to kiss girls who appeared his age and lack of prospects ever since kept him unfulfilled. And while Brennus could not end that streak, he definitely was not a girl, would it be so bad to learn if the truth could match a few of Heather's memories?

Over the next hours he alternated answers for that question with yes, no, and maybe. In the end he decided he thought too much and settled on the last option. No need for him to decide right now. Nor should he expect Brennus to make the choice for him, as Ilina said, she felt perfectly safe with him.

And in leaving the capris and tank top in the duffel, instead choosing gear similar to the day before, this time in red, Ken did not close off any options.

--SEPARATOR--

His smile maybe a bit smilier than the day before, Brennus cooked a breakfast of sausage, potatoes, and eggs, while Ken prepared sandwiches and cut up vegetables for lunch.

“Anybody invade last night during your watch?” Ken asked.

“A herd of mammoth, which I fended off with well placed palm strikes. Maybe a couple more sandwiches and another bag of carrots.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a backpack cooler in the front closet, ice packs in the freezer, and drinks in the fridge. And don’t forget the thermos of coffee, I will need it.”

By the time Ken finished packing lunch, two full plates of breakfast sat on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Amused by how much more he ate since becoming female, probably because of his insane amount of exercise, he dug in while Brennus hoovered down his plate and two cups of coffee. Immortality minimizing the lessons of manners compared to those that named breakfast as the most important meal of the day.

With Brennus shouldering the backpack, they left the apartment, not locking the door, then the building. As he stretched, preparing for another run, Ken followed along and said, “It’s quiet.”

“Only six of us are in residence at any time. And we keep different hours, usually synced to the part of the world we call home when not here. Other than that, there are the constructs, mostly created by the prior owner, who keep things running in tip top shape.”

“Constructs kind of creep me out?”

“Most of us as well, but usually they only appear when nobody is around, keeping everything pristine. Let’s go.”

“Can’t we take the golf cart?”

“It’s not far,” Brennus said, starting off towards the South at an easy pace. “Besides it seems cruel to kill them off because they make us uncomfortable. They’ve existed here longer than us and as shown by our own continued existence, when Pythia cast a spell, she made it to last.”

“The Oracle of Delphi?” Ken asked, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of their curse, which dwarfed even his own.

“Who created this world? Or who cursed us? Both, as you’ve probably guessed. Being an Oracle offered a perfect disguise, in a time of myth and imagination, for a powerful magic user. It allowed her to engender awe, respect, and worship, all the while providing opportunity for transformation while speaking with the same voice. However, we did not know this, when our territories grew too small for our people all we saw was the Greek dragon dying. Torn apart by the selfish greatness of the two Macedonians, who ensured all who followed wanted to lead from above, not amongst a group of peers. The peninsula tempted me and Delphi tempted me more. Yet though stung by the dragon’s death throes, she taught us the limitations of physical might. It took nearly fifteen centuries to build the courage to come against her once more, to attempt to slay the monster.”

“It is a horrible punishment?”

“Well we were the prototypical barbarians at the gate, trying to hit them while down. Not sure if you can really blame her, nor do I think she knew the true impact of her curse upon those of us who confronted her directly. She probably would have felt satisfied with the lightning, earthquakes, and snowstorms that turned our army into easy prey. Beyond that act, when you study her role in the ancient world, particularly if you understand her power, she proved amazingly wise and benevolent. Not even fighting when Emperor Theodosius ended her waned hold upon the populace, retiring here as a recluse.

“But it was not her, we were the monsters who needed to truly die. Monsters reborn after every death, almost like a character in a video game appearing at our last save point. Forced to constantly roam, unable to maintain a home for fear our secret would become known. Mercenaries or bandits, we grew tired of the unending violence, but what else could we do to survive? Maybe if she died there would be nothing to hold us to this world. It became our preoccupation. A wonder we survived the truth, but at least now we have a place to call our own. A world in which to hide when overwhelmed by the problems found in the real world.”

At this, Brennus quickened his pace, making conversation difficult. Caught in the second such confession in the last few days, almost as if they tried to distract him from his own worries with unexplained lessons, Ken slowly realized they did not run towards the stadium. Delving into his memory, trying to find an image of the map that once guided his steps through ruins which hinted at the glory of this world, allowed him to guess they ran towards the gymnasium.

Another reason to stop talking, the gymnasium sat atop a steep hill.

Chapter 8 - Pleasure

On the gymnasium’s lower terrace, within the palaestra, Ken tried not to embarrass past fighters who, for centuries, used this court in the real world for practice. Technique that at the end of the prior day felt comfortable now seemed less so. Possibly due to a change in target dummy. No longer a simulated human, now he struck at pressure sensitive targets strategically attached to a pole anchored to the floor. Targets demanding perfection impossible even for the best fighter ever born, which Ken was not, after only a single day of training.

After Ken settled into the form learned in that single day, a new voice said, “Nice form, but no power.”

Ken turned to see a red haired man standing beside Brennus. Physically of a slightly bigger size and build to Brennus, his facial features also showed the two were not far away from each other on their family trees, yet on him those features appeared colder, harder.

“Heather, can I introduce you to my oldest friend, Ashter. Ash, Heather.”

The overwhelming Ashter, as Ilina described him, though less today than if met yesterday. “Hello Ashter.”

“Heather,” the new arrival said in greeting. “After Bren relieved me last night, we discussed your training. He said you were fit and a good student, but that he did not have enough time to make the lessons worthwhile. He’s right.”

“But what about surprise?”

“It could use some help.” Brennus said.

With a nod of agreement, Ashter said, “Show me a palm strike to the right middle target. Just like Bren taught you.”

Nervous as when he started the prior day, Ken took his time. Visualizing what he needed to do, he did it. The number 58.6 appearing in the display.

“Well done, now hit it as hard as you can.”

That did not go as well, instead of hitting the target in the middle he hit it near the edge. Though the reading did increase to 62.3.

Ashter asked, “Have you ever golfed?”

“Umm, quite a few times. Why?”

“When learning to play golf, people quickly realize the ball goes further the harder they hit it. Just as quickly they learn how far off target the ball goes when they do so. The same, as you just showed, occurs with strikes. Though your second strike was harder, as a glancing blow it would likely prove less effective than the first. And that’s assuming either blow was hard enough, which they were not. Nor is there time for practice to make any difference.”

“Great motivational speech, Ash.” Brennus said. “Heather, he does have an idea on how to help.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to ensure everybody understood the parameters.”

“We’re not filming an episode of Mythbusters.”

“Which explains the regrettable absence of the wonderful Kari Byron. Now will you stop interrupting and let me explain?” Ashter asked, “So my yappy friend said he gave you the magic sucks when fighting speech. Which is true. It can accomplish what I once believed impossible, but how much time and concentration does it take? How careful does a caster need to be in order to ensure everything is perfect? Who can control all the factors in creating a shield of air, a wall of fire, or any such storybook spell while someone is trying to do them harm?”

Ken answered, “It’s beyond my skills.”

“Beyond the skills of all the casters I’ve ever known. In comparison, a palm strike is completely within your control. Which possibly can use a little help from magic.”

“But I thought magic was useless?”

“Better to say completely useless when cast against your opponent, less useless when you cast it upon yourself. It is something I learned while we traveled with a circus, during the 1890s. It included this strongman, what was his name Bren?”

“Wilbur Green, though he billed himself as Baron von Teuton.”

“Yeah, Wilbur. He had muscles on top of muscles, still he needed a shot of magic to perform the tricks of the other strongmen of the day. However, bending bars or performing the bent press were not his only use for magic, once I saw him use it to throw the most amazing punch. Fast and hard, he punched right through the wall behind his target. In an old style English inn made out of brick. If you can mimic him, that is your best bet.”

Soon after he learned of his magical birthright, but before the curse, Ken and his cousins often found themselves on a world consisting of an almost perfect water hole. It only missed a tree with a hanging branch from which they could hang a rope or tire swing. But that proved little hindrance, as the older children passed along a spell that when you ran and jumped, launched you as far as physically possible.

“Okay, I can see how it may work, what do I need to do?”

“Well, throw a strike exactly like Bren taught you, while also doing the magic thingee.”

“Magic thingee?”

Brennus said, “I don’t know how magic works, just how it’s powered. We’ll keep you going while you figure things out.”

“Yeah, between us we have over forty-six hundred years of practice lusting after pretty girls.”

Unable to come up with a response, Ken turned back to the dummy, trying to remember those days at the water hole. Could he translate those memories into something workable? Over the next while he practiced until finally he made it work. As for the two dirty old men, well they fulfilled their part of the bargain, even if they spent much of the time muttering away like Statler and Waldorf.

--SEPARATOR--

“I bet your arm is ready to fall off, Heather.” Brennus said.

“More so now you mention it.” Ken said, taking a drink to wash down his sandwich.

“Then you’ll enjoy the afternoon off. Ash and I have to work with the others this afternoon.”

Ashter said, “Brice makes us run weekly defence drills. He forgets we’re not right off the farm, but drills are better than his contract review meetings. Sometimes I wish you chose a different uncle to come along with us, Bren. Maybe Dannil?”

“You would have loved the last two millennia of him calling you Dungboy, particularly since you couldn’t kill him for long.”

“Can you at least stop Brice from going to conferences?”

“What should I do while you drill?” Ken asked, interrupting a conversation as comfortable to the pair as old shoes.

“You should go into town and do the tourist thing. It’s so much more fascinating alive than dead, both Greece and Roman captured in their marble glory.’’

Finding the idea a more appealing thought than further exercise, Ken asked, “Can I get a ride back to the apartment? I would like to clean up before I go anywhere.”

“There’s a better option, Heather. Once your done your lunch, I’ll show you.”

Sandwich, drink, and vegetables finished, Ken stood, wished Ashter goodbye, and followed Brennus into a corridor. The scent of moisture leached away any surprise when their destination led to the baths, three female constructs, wearing simple white tunics, waiting for them.

Brennus said, “You mentioned constructs creep you out? Well there are times I feel the same way, but never by the attendants of the baths, specially those Pythia gifted with talents of the best masseuses. I recommend their deft touch, but you are also free to head back to the apartment?”

The thought of how nice a massage would feel made the decision easy. “I’m good here.”

“Excellent. By the way, last night ended our triad’s watch set, so how about a real supper tonight?”

“Okay.”

“I look forward to it.”

By the time he left the second pool, the first warm and perfect for swimming, the second almost scalding, Ken’s fears of someone walking in on him disappeared. And by the time the constructs finished cleansing his skin with olive oil and strigil, his nervousness shrank significantly. Shrank completely after quick dips in the frigid and warm pools led to a wonderful massage, complete with scented nardinum oil. Only then did he think about clothes and his suitcase far away at Brennus’s apartment.

Again the constructs provided him all he needed, although in a style that updated Roman wear for the modern woman. Over lingerie, fit for a winged walk down a runway, he wore a sleeveless, white, silk tunic. Held in place by a cameo pin at one shoulder, leaving the other bare, it showed no thought to visiting his knees and nipped in at his waist due to a filigreed girdle of gold wire. A theme copied with the net into which they wove his hair, an armband for the upper arm of his bared shoulder, and a matching bracelet for his other wrist. Even the sandals on his feet, leather dyed a remarkable golden colour, were held in place by braided thongs wrapped about his calves.

The only thing lacking, a mirror. Something solved in the last room before arches led to the outside, where he found a large polished sheet of bronze. In it, Ken at first saw nothing of himself, but recently acquired memories and thoughts, like supplicants who traveled from the darkest parts of his mind, arrived to shout, ‘It is us! It is me!’ A petition that truth, his longtime destination, could not deny.

For every sense knew the she in the mirror as himself. Better, easier at least, to accept me as she and Ken as Heather.

She did.

Upon leaving the baths she smiled in delight at the waiting litter, a true Roman lectica. Unabashed, she lounged upon its mattress covered platform and gestured the four male constructs, complete with oiled muscles and loincloths, to their poles. In this decadent manner she traveled through a living reminder of two great empires.

Glorious only attempted to describe what she experienced.

Floating along on strong shoulders, she passed between the stalls of the Roman market, constructs both shouting their wares and succumbing to the offered temptation. They traveled through the main gates along the Sacred Way. At each monument and treasury she would dismount from the litter and wander about, ignored by all except the waiting porters. Heather sat upon the Sibyl rock, observed the eternal flame, drank from the sacred spring, and watched actors, musicians, and acrobats while eating fruit and drinking wine cut with water at the theatre. For one afternoon, she found herself captured in the timeless grip that held this place across the centuries.

Yet a grip can also strangle. Held too tight, it is impossible to live, to grow. Ancient Delphi released its hold with the arrival of dusk, the signal for construct citizenry to start their nightly exodus to wherever they spent the night. For the first time, Heather found their absence sapped life from a place. Once more she climbed onto the litter, expecting they would carry her back to the Boii’s apartment.

But instead of winding back along the Sacred Way, the porters carried her East to and along the Stoa of Attalos, where Brennus waited to help her from the lectica and ask, “How went your afternoon?”

“Spectacular. Ancient history has always fascinated me and I’ve toured the Delphi ruins many times over the last three decades. Over the years the site and its tours improved, but this is beyond the dreams of the most visionary curator when seeking funding for a new interpretive centre. Does it grow old, living so close to it?”

“Actually I can count the times I’ve been inside the walls on one hand, with fingers to spare. I’ve always satisfied myself with the lands and buildings on the outside.”

“What? Why?”

“I guess shame. It only took one visit, my last, to realize how right you are. It is spectacular. Yet on my first two visits I sought to pillage and destroy. Doubtlessly selfish, but I prefer to minimize my memories of my barbarism.”

Unable to argue, Heather watched the final glory of the day’s sun. As it sank below the western hills, its final rays danced in delight between the pillars of the pathway to form a golden spotlight upon a table set for two. To one of those seats Brennus, dressed in style and class to dispel any final remembrances of the high school teacher, guided her to a seat and poured them both wine. A rather romantic setting for supper, one made even more intimate when the porters trotted back along the stoa. Yet she felt no surprise, she realized she half expected it. Nor dismay, as her recently gained memories made it seem natural.

“Quinta do Vallado,” Brennus said, reading the bottle’s label. “My Uncle Bricius recommended it. I hope you like reds?”

“I’m not sure. The old me did not like any wine, but...” Heather said, reaching for her glass to take a sip. “...the new me likes this quite fine. How went your drills?”

The evening proved as fascinating as the afternoon. Like the buildings in Delphi, Brennus proved himself a relic of history. More so in ways, never chained to a single spot, a soldier who thrived in the battles and warfare but who never ignored the art and society of a time, he answered all of Heather’s questions with a story. Nothing gave him pause until after dessert, a decadent chocolate concoction delivered by a construct appearing from the dark.

“Does this always work?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the whole dress a girl in silk and jewels, have her carried about the city like a patrician’s daughter, feed her a fabulous meal, and place yourself in the running for the most interesting man in the world. All without a bottle of Dos Equis in sight.”

“Oh that.” Brennus said, unabashed at being called out. “It works spectacularly well.”

“I bet. And tonight, do you expect it to work again?”

“It better. Think how disappointed you will be if it doesn’t.”

So utterly corny, but Heather remembered something Ilina said. Confidence was sexy.

Of course she did not need to remember Ilina's last statement. Those words provided background vocals during the entire dinner.

Chapter 9 - Fear

In their sixty plus combined years, both Heather and Ken often experienced 4:00 AM, but only five times after a night’s sleep. Like those mornings, it felt awful early to wake, which at the time led to second, third and more thoughts against going fishing. Even more-so now, when serving as the bait.

Yet, how do you escape a promise triggered by chivalry?

Nothing for Heather to do except rise and stagger across the hall into the shower of her unused room. Maybe that would wake her. It definitely helped, but when she stepped back into her room, towels wrapped around her torso and head, a fully dressed and rather perky Ilina questioned how much.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“It’s still last night.” Heather said, around a yawn. “”But I fell asleep by 10, sleep came easier than expected.”

“Nothing like great sex to put you to sleep.”

“Ilina! I...I nev...I...”

“Now Heather, how often did I visit you at Dannika’s? Combined with the two mornings at my place and not once did you make your bed before showering. Nor, when you did, did you ever make it with the precision of the Boii’s housekeeping constructs. And I know that grin on Brennus’s face. Though honestly I would be shocked if your training did not go full contact. Want to tell big sister Ilina about it?

“No.” Heather said, only slightly embarrassed at Ilina's accurate guess about the prior two evenings, never mind yesterday morning or the gymnasium’s pools after training.

“We don’t have time anyways. Can Gary come in?”

“There is nothing he hasn’t seen before. Why though?”

Ilina said, “To provide a quick refresher on your doppelganger’s activities over the last few weeks.”

This experience with the hulking changer proved quick, but intense. With two gentle fingers upon each temple, Gary made Heather live the experiences and conversations of her original. Amongst these she found relief at the break up with short term Dylan, once so terrifying, but less so after a few days at Pythia’s Retreat. She also obtained an inkling of Ilina's plan.

“Tess, she’s one of yours. But we, I mean they met last year.” Heather said, startled once more by the amount of effort invested by the Samodivas to capture the murderer.

“It took some time for us to determine who we consider is the true target. Fortunately we are a large organization, since we required thirty eight sisters to return to school. Though it is not a terrible hardship on any of them, each will thrive on a university campus. Amongst those thirty eight targets, Heather ranked quite high, which is why we assigned Tess, one of our best, as her shadow. These skills show why she lives in the same building as Heather and how she finagled invites for the two of you to the best Halloween Eve party in town.”

“Why are we performing the switch tonight? Not tomorrow?”

“It would be an unneeded distraction tomorrow. We plan to keep our switch secret and Tess’s place seems the perfect location. So in two hours, around 9 their time, Heather will stop by and pick Tess up before they head out to party. That’s when you will take over.”

“What will you do with Heather while I’m playing her?”

“Keep her knocked out, feed her your memories, then release her back into the wild. Unaware of the danger she skirted.” Ilina answered. “But enough questions for now, you need to get ready. You’ll love today’s costume.”

“I just relived putting together the costume, I know I won’t.”

“But Heather, it’s magical.”

Brennus appeared to agree, for when she exited his spare room thirty-five minutes later, he took one look and said, “Five hundred points for Gryffinborn.”

“You mean Gryffindor,” Ilina said. “And you don’t give points to naughty students.”

“Have you seen how Mrs. Claus is dressing these days? Ever since she started Pilates the naughty and nice spectrum has undergone a serious shift.”

Hard to deny where her costume belonged on that scale, Heather thought, particularly when knowing the reasons behind its choice. The figure hugging, grey dress emblazoned with a Hogwarts crest comfortably established its place amongst the always evolving sexy Halloween costume. The short pleated skirt, along with stiletto heeled Mary Janes and white knee socks showed off legs wonderfully toned by her recent physical regiment. And if the plunging neckline did not match Lyndsay Lohan’s memorable SNL appearance, the gold and scarlet mini-tie pointed out the yeoman’s work done by nature and her push up bra. The worst or maybe best thing, after Brennus’s reaction, she liked the costume a lot more.

“Speaking of which, we should hurry. It’s a round-about path and we need to be in place within the hour, so you may wish to switch to your running shoes, Heather.”

“Good idea. You coming along, Brennus?”

“Yes, along with Ash and Brice. We’ll act as Ilina's reserve.”

Ten minutes later, at the cinder block bunker, Heather met the third member of their triad. Rather than the expected elder statesman, she found Bricius less than a decade older than his nephew and looking enough like him to confirm the relationship. His attitude of bemused charm made him just as entertaining as his colleagues, something she learned during their journey as he and Ash competed to tell their favourite stories about Brennus. Something she found even more humorous when she realized these ancients acted like any older brother around a younger brother’s first girlfriend.

Almost she laughed, but a small part of her being, one mostly on sabbatical scared it away with an internal whimper. Also at this time, Ilina chased the two men away, telling them she needed to talk to Heather.

“So are you all juiced up?” She asked and almost immediately laughed at the look on Heather’s face. “Get your mind out of the gutter girl. I mean magically.”

Hand going to an earring, Heather answered, “Oh, yes. And the overflow has boosted my account with the family higher than I ever imagined possible.”

“Another benefit.” Ilina said, not at all cryptically. “Very well, try to stay topped up. Otherwise, lean heavily on Tess during the next couple of days. She’s in on everything and as I said, one of our best.”

“Do you think he knows? About all of you?”

“We’re unsure. It is probable he learned something the last time around, but our profilers believe it will not stop him. Many serial killers own an arrogance, a belief they are invincible. It is not unusual for them to taunt the police, who in this case is us.”

“And if he doesn’t do anything tonight or tomorrow?”

“There are still watches on those girls who we consider lesser targets. We would also ask you to maintain your masquerade for the next week or so, beyond that time we doubt he would try anything. It would no longer match his MO, which probably provides a significant part of his thrill. Besides it is possible he is dead, in prison, incapacitated, or has decided to stop. That does happen.”

Heather said, “I would like to catch him, but I would be just as happy if he has just stopped.”

“I think we’d also see it as a success.” Ilina admitted.

Reaching the last hub, they crossed through into a nice lounge, complete with entertainment units, table and a kitchenette.

Ilina said, “Grab a seat. We set this up as a crossover and meeting point, we can get into Tess’s apartment through the third door from the left.”

Heather ended up seated between Ilina and Brennus on the couch, Bricius in an armchair, while Ashter wandered towards the kitchenette to look in the fridge. Shaking his head in disgust, he wandered back and flopped into another chair and said, “Light beer and coolers. Let me guess, we’re going to talk about the Sex in the City movie from the summer while we wait?”

“Let’s play the quiet game, Ash.” Brennus said.

The other four appeared so good at the game that Heather found it easy to play along. Instead she focused on the iPhone in Ilina's hands, watching the minutes pass. At 9:10, Ilina finally lost patience and sent a text, Is she there?

Less than a minute later, Tess responded, Not yet.

Before Ilina worried further, which would make her worry even more, Heather said, “You know, we’re not the most punctual person. I mean, Heather isn’t. She’s always late for things.”

This calmed Ilina down, but everybody felt relief when she received the next text, She’s here. We’re having the drink.

“Tess is going to put some knockout drops in Heather’s drink.” Ilina said, eyes still on the screen of her phone. “You guys will need to carry her from there to here.”

Brennus said, “Take Brice and Ash.”

“I’m strong like ox.” Ash said. “I’m waiting.”

Even Heather knew what he expected and said, “And just about as smart?”

“Exactly!”

A few minutes later Ilina and the two men passed through Tess’s door and for a moment Heather found herself struck by horror at the thought she served not as the bait to capture a murderer, but that they used her as a dupe to kidnap this Heather for some nefarious purpose. Each owned a dark past. Yet she could not believe that possibility, would not believe it. They all seemed so sincere, almost normal. Nice. She liked each of them.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I mean I knew it would, but everything seemed so slow now it seems so fast.” Heather said, when the two were alone. “And Gary said it will be months before I can change again. Where will I go? I don’t want to be a burden on the Divas and I definitely don’t want my family to see me right now.”

A veteran of more battles than he ever wished to remember, Brennus could write a thesis on the fears and reactions to fear he witnessed. Not unusual for someone to focus upon the unimportant, though this time he could offer a solution.

“I have a number of places scattered about. You are free to stay at any of them.”

Showing the distance of Ken’s retreat, Heather’s immediately found herself hoping that offer included Brennus’s presence. However, before she could clarify, a strange parade entered the lounge. All of them he recognized, including his unconscious doppelganger carried by Ash. But her memories did not prepare her for Tess showcasing her buxom, red haired glory in the barely there leotard and thigh boots of the superheroine Starfire.

“Now that’s bad, Ilina!” Brennus said. “Wonderfully bad.”

“I do try.” Tess said, pleased at scoring the last goal in her hat trick of stunned compliments from the three Boiis.

Ilina said, “Brennus, if you and Heather will stand, Ash will have somewhere to place...umm...Heather. That could get confusing if we kept the two of you together.”

“No time, our taxi is picking us up at 9:30. Get her cape Heather, your hat and wand are at my place.”

“Okay, Tess.” Heather said, gently undoing the short cloak from her mirror image, before fastening it about her own neck

That accomplished, the redhead ushered her through the door into an eerily familiar room, pointed to a coffee table covered with a witch’s hat, wand, and purse, then rushed to answer the phone.

“Hello. We’ll be right down.”

Just like that, with no time to think or worry, they left the apartment, walking past a familiar apartment door, towards the elevator. Waiting for its arrival, Heather asked some questions.

“No coats?”

“It’s a beautiful California night.” Tess answered, mischief in her eyes. “Oh yeah, you’ll need fake ID tonight. Here.”

“Wanda? Really?”

“In keeping with your costume. Anyways, we’re off to the VIP party at the Melon Ball. It will be full of the rich, stupid, and horny. And since you already fell for a mickey in your drink tonight, let me remind you to only drink from glasses directly from a server and to forget that glass once you hit the dance floor. And girl, we’re going to dance, because one good thing about the rich. They always hire the best DJs.”

Heather’s law and order worries made a quick appearance when they showed their invites and ID at the door. However, doorman at those types of clubs did not make a living by keeping sexy girls out when they pass the sniff test.

Definitely not a world in which Ken could exist, but Heather fit right in. Years of dance classes meant the dance floor offered a home where she as often danced with Tess or on her own, as much as with the rich, stupid, and horny who tried to catch the two with unsubtle combinations of braggadocio and praise. Fortunately, with servers walking about with trays of complimentary champagne, they could not add purchased drinks to their repertoire. And the two ensured the free bubbly did not get them in trouble, taking only a sip or two from a glass before returning to the dance floor.

She could not believe the amount of fun she experienced while surrounded by people and noise. Nor how disappointed she felt when the DJ stopped playing and the lights came on. Feeling buzzed, both by how those sips of champagne added up and by the distillation of emotions that whirled about them all evening, the two left the dance floor one final time.

“Why didn’t I bring different shoes?” Heather asked.

“Solidarity. You knew my costume wouldn’t allow me to change so you girled up and stood perched beside me in my time of...of...being hot.”

“You better believe it, Sister. Although I could use a foot rub.”

“Think Ilina will let your Boii toy, Brennus, visit? If so, ask her to send Ash my way. I like them all muscly.”

Too wrapped up in solidarity to dissemble, Heather said, “Wouldn’t that be nice. But I don’t think that is part of her plan.”

“Well then I will teach you an ancient Diva secret when we get back to the apartment.” Tess said.

As she reached for her purse amongst the clutter of the table shared with some other unattached girls, most who remedied that situation and left earlier, Heather said, “Hey, a rose with a note. Must be from one of your admirers”

“Hold it, something feels off about it. Let me.”

When all merriment drained from Tess’s eyes, Heather snatched the note. She read.

Dearest Not Heather,

Debra, Sarah and all the others hope we are able to enjoy ourselves together.

Yours til the End of Time, Eric

With misfortune once more painting the world brown, it seemed only natural for Ken to return to the forefront. Yet the only thing he could add was a desire to return home to the Williams family house, up in his bedroom playing Demon Souls.

Immortality of Emotion - Part 4 of 6

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

CAUTION: Violence

Audience Rating:

Restricted Audience (r)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

Part 4 of 6

Chapter 10 - Terror

“We can’t let Heather take the chance.” Brennus said, restating his view in case no one heard him the first ten times.

Halloween morning found them in the lounge beyond Tess’s apartment, now converted into a war room. Analysts occupied the kitchen, while others handled communication with Diva and Boii agents in the field. Agents who appeared in the moment as police and left no memories amongst those with whom they spoke.

Still Ken felt all alone.

The prior night, after receiving the rose and message, Tess proved unwilling to trust a cab. Instead the two made their way to a late night pizzeria, which did a brisk after bar close business. While Ken ordered two slices of whatever, she started making calls. One of which led to a car ride home, two untouched slices of pizza left behind.

Back at Tess’s apartment, they answered Ilina's barrage of questions. Did you notice who left the rose? Did anybody seem suspicious? Do you go to school with an Eric? Remember any Erics? But they didn’t and couldn’t remember anything of help. By this point the prior night’s short sleep, combined with the stress and fear inundating his mind since the end of the party, left Ken wiped out. Ilina finally gave up and ordered him to use Tess’s spare room.

After a fitful sleep that barely refreshed, he now sat, wearing sweatshirt and sweats, logoed with his temporary university’s markings, arms wrapped around legs in an armchair while Brennus presented his case and Ilina offered counter arguments. Although the responses from the normally confident woman lacked conviction.

Ken asked, “Is there a Debra or Sarah among your thirty eight candidates, Ilina?”

“Yes, one of each. Unfortunately, they are among those who seemed the most unlikely choices and are no longer under our watch. I’ve dispatched teams to track them down, but...”

“...this Eric probably chose those names as a distraction, neither will prove his real target if not me. He will go after one of the other choices or someone you don’t even know about. Then again, maybe that’s what he wants us to think. Arrrg, I’m suddenly feeling sympathy for Vizzini from Princess Bride. There’s no way to protect them all, even if we know where they are, is there?”

“No, we don’t have the resources with the needed skills.”

“Besides he wants Heather? Me?”

“That is our belief,” said one of the analysts, a brunette in glasses who looked like Hollywood’s template for the pretty but smart girl.

Ilina asked, “Are you sure it is not misdirection, Leeza?”

“Misdirection is a distinct possibility, but as Heather said, until we know more, determining this Eric’s exact plan is a no-win exercise.”

“Has the name Eric led anywhere helpful?” Brice asked.

“It is middling popular name in the US, but that still leaves hundreds of thousands men who use it as there first or second name. Besides, we all know how well magic users hide their tracks. Right now our data miners are excluding those too young or too whatever, but that takes time.”

“And how do we know if it’s an alias or his real name?”

“Exactly, which is why I can’t wait to get my hands on the Melon Ball’s surveillance videos. We’ve already obtained it, now we just need it delivered.”

Utilizing the pathways available, a thumb drive arrived posthaste. Soon Leeza’s team watched each each camera’s video, the files opened on different computers, the best shot of their prior night’s table also displaying on the flat screen TV of the sitting room. After fast forwarding to their last visit to the table before the rose appeared, Ken and his party watched the video in double time.

When the two of them appeared on the screen Ken could hardly believe his eyes. Since the transformation, his daily allotment in front of mirrors seemed much greater than required by his old self, so he knew he looked like Heather, that he inhabited the body of the girl in the sexy wizard costume. Yet seeing her smile, the glow of happiness and health, a gloriously alive presence who belonged within that energetic crowd, he struggled to believe the memories did not number amongst those Gary implanted.

It made him regret life choices made long before he ever met Ilina Borisova. Did he really need to hide from the world? Why shrink away from all contact out of fear that some would be negative? How could he forgot the non-magical rewards of joy?

And joy is what he remembered feeling for most of the prior night. Which may explain why he felt so angry that this Eric asshole tarnished the experience.

“Slow it down,” Brice said, his command pulling Ken’s attention back to the video.

No need for him to point out the man who grabbed his attention. Probably because the man’s demeanor somehow differentiated him from the wealthy dilettantes and their friends. True, he wore a costume, but he walked with a purpose that set him apart, even more than the servers. Not that it left him ignored, men stepped aside from respect and women followed with their eyes.

All along Ken unconsciously thought of him as a loser, not this confident, powerful man. It made the killer’s actions seem even worse, to reap when unnecessary.

Near their table he stopped and looked around. Not in a furtive manner, just curious until he spotted what he sought. The camera from which they would watch his approach. A smile, neither cruel nor overly pleased, appeared beneath his mask as he flicked his wrist and the rose appeared. A parlor trick to those who saw it in the moment, but something else to those in the lounge the next day. True magic, semi-powerful magic to precisely teleport something so delicate into his hand.

“Fucking Zorro,” Ash said, venom in his voice.

As perfect a costume for a villain on Halloween Eve as for a wealthy Spaniard hiding his identity from corrupt officials in colonial California. The mask worked surprisingly well to hide his face and the gloves ensured no finger prints.

Turning from the camera he placed the rose and its note upon the table and, with the same saunter, he moved out of the camera’s view.

Ilina said, “Find the rest of the footage of Zorro.”

While the analysts compiled the footage, Brice asked, “Why would he show himself? It makes no sense.”

Ken needed no explanation, though Leeza offered one to those who listened. Five or so years earlier, he found himself on an A&E true crime kick and remembered how often serial killers taunted the police. They wanted to show their brilliance and prove they controlled the situation. For a moment, this mundane action made him feel better. Until he realized the killer did control the situation.

It took about fifteen minutes to gather all the film that featured Zorro, from his arrival in a cab, until his departure in the same fashion. Of course he used two cab companies with separate dispatches, further splitting their dwindling resources ordered to follow up with both places. But even more they needed to search for a platinum blonde, whose Emma Frost costume pushed Tess’s in second place during the costume contest and who left the nightclub with Zorro.

Those searches underway, they watched Zorro’s entire appearance, cut together from multiple cameras, over and over in the hope he would give something more away. They could guess at his height and his weight, 6’1” and 200 lbs, but the hat left them unsure if he wore a wig and the mask hid most of his face.

“I think that’s a real sword.”

“What does that matter, Ash?” Ilina asked.

“Ever walked through a crowded room with a sword at your waist?”

“No.”

“It’s a real nuisance, if you don’t know what you’re doing. It bangs into people, tables, chairs, what have you. But he’s having no problem, which makes me think he once lived with a sword on his belt. What era do you guys think the sword is from?”

“The hilt doesn’t look like it belongs on a sword that Don Diego de la Vega or his alter ego would use.” Brice said. “What do you think, Bren, you’re the collector?”

Jolted from his brooding, Brennus asked the operator to zoom in, studied the image, and said, “Definitely not a fencing rapier. Nor does it look like a saber, so guessing something used by a foot soldier. And since we’re in the States, I would guess the U.S. model 1850. Not the 1860, which used a different shape for its grip and pommel. I hope it has a CS marking on it?”

Leeza asked, ““Which means?”

“Confederate States. With the size of the US army in the 1850s, odds are this dickhead wore the sword during the American Civil War. And since we fought for the Union during that war, I hope he fought for the Confederates. I don’t like killing someone I may have fought beside, particularly if it was for a good cause.”

“Kill him?” Tess asked. “I think he deserves more than that.”

“He does. But dead is done, while revenge places you on this dickhead’s path.”

Brice said, “Having walked it for centuries in the past, I can tell it’s a terrible place that saps your soul. Better to bring it to a clean end.”

“Well first we need to catch him,” Ilina said. “And if your guess about the sword is correct, then he is older, smarter, and probably more powerful than we suspected. Leeza, will...”

“...that make my job even harder? Actually, you know, maybe not. With more data points it may be possible to spot a trend. And maybe he was not as smart or able when young.”

“You may want to talk to my family, we already spread across the United States by the time of the Civil War.” Ken said.

“If necessary.”

Politer than a blatant refusal, but the same result. Damn secrecy, magic users would not even give it up for the common good, in this case to save his life. It made Ken feel tired beyond a lack of sleep, more-so he felt his years. For the first time he felt old. Nor did the rest of the morning and early afternoon bring any succor.

Yet with speed that would stun most police forces, Ilina's agents tracked down the two cab drivers, both who remembered Zorro, though the second mostly because of Emma Frost, and told them Zorro came from and returned to the downtown Westin. There they learned he checked in the evening prior, dressed already in his costume, used the name Donald Diego, booked the room for two nights, and left the building, sight unseen, that morning.

While those back at the base checked into the obviously fake id and credit card, a Boii’s triad joined the Diva agents at the hotel to visit Eric’s room. However, they only found the blond, hungover and still in bed, who remembered little about her night’s lover other than his rocking her world.

Ken said, “He’s playing us. Burning out our resources while we chase shadows.”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Ilina asked.

“I guess I need to play along, continue as the bait.”

Nobody jumped in to argue, proving they all thought the same thing. Instead they looked towards Brennus, frustration on his face as reality warred with wishes.

“Damn, I hate it, but can’t think of anything else. However, I’m going as your date.”

“That goes without saying,” Ken said, unbothered that the second date of his life, the first not driven by Heather, involved the same man. The same strong, scary, good man. “And Tess, maybe you can go with Ash?”

Ash said, “Thanks Heather, make me out as a charity case. For your edification, I not only understand the meaning of certain big words, but am housebroken, can now use utensils, and know all the steps to the newest dances, as long as they are either the Lindy Hop or the Electric Boogaloo.”

Tess said, “Those will definitely be a real hit at a university dance, but I’d love to see you two in costumes”

“Can we go as musketeers?”

“Doesn't really match our costumes. Why do you want to dress like a musketeer, Ash?”

Brice asked, “He has this theory about how musketeers started the whole women digging a man in uniform phenomena?”

“How else do you explain how you ended up with Duchess Daphne? Besides, it will allow us to wear swords, which means, if given a chance, we can skewer this fucker's heart."

"And you speak such fluent French." Tess said, “But it is rather late to be picky, just rent a costume that fits.”

“We keep hundreds of years of uniforms and clothing stored away at Pythia’s Retreat, all maintained by the constructs as if we wear them every day.”

Brennus said, “And since it takes some time to get to the Retreat, Ash and I better head out so we’re back in time. Ilina, watch over Heather until I’m back.”

“Of course.”

Their departure coincided with a general lull in activity, the analysts busily working away on their magically enhanced computers and network. In the quiet, Ken allowed himself to think only of sleep rather than his alternative problems. Soon he could barely keep his eyes closed.

“Heather, why don’t cross back and try to get some sleep?” Ilina asked. “I’m sure you can use Tess’s spare room again?”

Tess offered her agreement in answer, “Go for it”

“Thank you for the offer, Tess. But I was wondering if I could use Heather’s, I mean my bed? I prefer a firmer mattress.” Ken asked.

This request, which Ilina almost denied, took some time to arrange. First Tess, along with a couple of her sisters checked Heather’s apartment for recently cast magic. Today, like every other time since she helped Heather rent in this building, she sought the creation of a new door, which required so much energy a skilled magic user would notice it weeks later. Even to use a door left lingering effects.

With nothing discovered, Ken and the two Diva agents walked from Tess’s to Heather’s. Trying to ignore the agents, who dragged chairs into the bedroom while he changed, Ken attempted to fall asleep in the bed Heather’s grandma bought her when she left home.

However no sooner did he lay down than he felt himself falling, accompanied by a shouted, “Heather!”

Not the first time he dreamed of falling. When his father forced pretend death upon him, he found it too common. Something that surprised none he knew who studied dream theory, as they said such dreams occurred because of a loss of control over his own life. This understanding once helped him take most of that control back into his own hands, something not given up until he involved himself in this insanity.

But never before did he dream of falling while awake nor land on an airbag that collapsed beneath his weight, the sound of air escaping from side baffles and the smell of rubber assaulting his nose. Eyes open, he the bottom of Heather’s bed above him, a trap door magicked into his mattress and secured against his Diva watcher. She could only stare in dismay.

For a moment Ken felt awe at the man’s preparedness. Then came the terror, as a figure wearing a gas mask appeared and sprayed a mist into his face, which pushed him into unconsciousness.

Chapter 11 - Weak

Upon regaining consciousness Ken found no reason to delve into memory, he immediately remembered falling into danger. Yet that did not make him ready to face it. So he kept his eyes closed, relying on other sensations to tell him how deep the depth of the current danger.

No pain! That offered a spark of hope, dashed when he realized his tormentor might want him awake for that.

But some discomfort. A potential headache from the knockout gas niggled away in the back of his brain. It left him exasperated by bright sunlight sprayed across his eyelids, sunlight without warmth. Not surprising, they always expected Eric used a pocket world for his twisted enjoyment.

At least the bed met his and Amanda’s firmness expectations. Not that it meant he felt particularly comfortable, a restriction about his torso saw to that. Careful to not allow his blankets to ripple and signal his awareness, he let a hand creep up to feel the reinforced satin of a sleeping corset through his nightgown. Of course Zorro would like a bit of kink, though at the moment Ken felt no other restraints.

That gave him just enough confidence to consider opening his eyes. But first he listened for someone’s breath, footsteps, anything. Hearing nothing and unable to bear more suspense he gave in.

Whoever decorated the room liked the colour blue. An old fashioned, sky blue quilt matched the canopy overhead, onto which a cartoon-like sun and clouds were skillfully embroidered. A dark blue wallpaper, accented by small, golden fleurs-de-lis covered the walls in harmony with curtains, thick and heavy like the you rarely see anymore, and the cushions of the antique chairs scattered about the room. Even on the large table against wall at the foot of his bed Ken noticed the markings on the ceramic toiletries, which brought to mind the blue of the Williams’ Royal Doulton china.

Everywhere else he saw a dark, stained wood. The furniture, frames of the two windows, three doors, and even the floor. Although a Persian carpet of blue, gold, and red spread out around the bed.

In general the room struck him as something out of the past. A link that usually caused Ken the desire to explore, but today he only wished for escape. So with a thought towards his cousin, ‘Dalton don’t fail me now or I’ll haunt you until the day you die’, he cast the beacon spell. And nothing happened. How could it when he could not access any magic?

Not unusual for a pocket world to control access to external magical energy. But what about...he raised right hand to an ear and left to neck. The first found stud instead of golden rings and the latter felt nothing. Devastating, terrifying, but ridiculous as well. Of course Zorro would take away his jewelry, the number one foci for both male and female magic users. Comically stupid for them to allow such a simple thing to foil their plan. Only his captor would offer him the needed energy, because Ken suspected he shared the world only with constructs.

Nothing left but exploration.

Foiled in his attempt to roll out of bed by the corset, Ken slid over and swung his legs over the side. Ignoring slippers, the lucite soles appearing forlorn without marabou feathers, he looked out a window. It offered a view of mostly grass, as far as he could see, broken only by a gravel driveway that circled a garden and stretched outwards almost as if it offered escape. The scene only lacked gardeners caring for lawn and garden, but while magic created, it did not allow growth or death.

Through the nearest door he found a bathroom, its modern decor at odds with the antiquey feel of the bedroom. While using the facilities, Ken looked over at the mirror and realized though he could see most of his torso, the end of his loose braid hung out of sight. Apparently long hair went with heels and a corset.

Thinking of which. Ken moved to the mirror, lifted the short nightgown to examine and untie the corset lacing. The reach proved no problem, his body’s flexibility allowed a good grip on the knot, but it fended off all attempts to untie. This led him to search the vanity, which contained brand new tubes, jars, and boxes of everything he remembered Heather purchasing for her own vanity, but did not contain anything to help with the knot.

Returned to the bedroom, he checked the next door and found a walk in closet full of dresses straight from Gone with the Wind. Therefore, when he opened the last door, a sitting room in which waited a construct, he felt no surprise she was a light skinned though black construct, dressed almost like Mammy in the movie.

“Miss Amelia, your breakfast is on the table.”

Her appearance made him remember constructs made good watchdogs. Single minded in fulfilling their assignments, usually stronger than a comparable person, unable to feel pain, and immune to magical tampering, prison worlds used them as guard rogue magicians. With this knowledge and with hunger pangs making their presence known, Ken settled down at the table to eat the oatmeal, fruit, and milk.

Fed and assisted from the sleeping corset, Ken returned to the bathroom to bathe and plan escape. He succeeded at the first, but failed at the second. Beck, he learned the construct’s name from how she referred to herself, firmly quelled any hint at rebellion while she dressed him to exacting standards.

Again a mix of the new and old. Only Ken’s dress matched the fashion of the era, though probably of recent construction, based on how well it fit. In colour, the silk of the dress made him think of celeste, the turquoise blue of the Bianchi Rekord bicycle he owned in the early 80s. The skirts used decorative pleats to ensure they hung smoothly over petticoats that offered width without the insanity of hoops, though their length required heels nearly as high as the trashy slippers. A ruffled neckline left his shoulders and arms mostly bare, while the bodice followed the not quite suffocating boning of another corset. His waist further accented by a wide, sapphire ribbon wrapped twice about and tied it in a pretty bow at the back

In truth, dressing went faster than curling his twice lengthened hair. Which Beck tied into a ponytail with more sapphire coloured ribbon.

Rather elaborate costuming for murder. Though if Zorro kept his victims imprisoned for a year, hopefully he held off mistreating them until the final act. Apparently a shapeless orange jumpsuit would not do and Ken could not deny his inherited form looked rather spectacular in the get up. At least when standing still, walking in the skirt, shoes, and floppy brimmed hat left him less than graceful.

Ken guessed past victims experienced similar problems, since the construct turned into a drill sergeant. Lessons that did not leave him moving as elegant or ladylike as he looked, but at least he would not fall flat on his face.

A belief he questioned when released from the rooms into a hallway that lead to a wide staircase to the first floor of the house. Fortunately the wide tread and a low riser of the stairs, combined with a hand on the banister and the other managing his skirts, allowed him to slowly descend without accident. Another construct waited for him, an older man who dressed in fine quality clothes and watched the descent with pride in his eyes.

“Ahhh, Amelia, if only your mother was alive to see you. You’re beautiful.”

The triviality of Ken’s discomfort around constructs suddenly paled in comparison to a fear of those who created them. Yet while he expected they might provide more welcome company than his captor, he knew not to confuse them with good company. Better to view them as amusement parks guides, specifically those in a haunted house, tasked with ensuring visitors did not walk through forbidden doors.

So how to respond? With no desire to return pleasantries, Ken settled upon the question at the forefront of his mind. “What is going to happen to me?”

As expected, he did not receive an answer, but like pressing any key in an old school MUD, the question initiated the next bit of dialog.

“Amelia, though your beau will understand the delay when he sees you, we should hurry.”

With no magical sword, hunk of cheese, or skin of wine in sight to help on his adventure against that beau, Ken followed the man outside to a cabriolet harnessed to a horse no more real than his companion. Helped aboard, they soon trotted along the driveway, Amelia’s make believe father chattering away about neighbors and crops. It almost made him seem real.

Content to let the man, for that is how Ken found himself thinking of his companion, carry the conversation; he asked himself some silent questions. Why the Antebellum period? Did his kidnapper actually live during the time? He guessed so, which boosted the number of Zorro’s transformations across the years and once more implied the man’s power. And what role did Amelia play in his life? Why would he still seek repeated revenge, one hundred and fifty plus years later. Incomprehensible in the moment, but answers would surely come. Would they come in time? A question that struck too close to his barely controlled fears, best to ignore it for the moment. Maybe the world through which they traveled would offer a clue.

The road traveled along a bay as they passed three other estates, the carriage traveling towards a forest in the distance. Before reaching the trees, they came upon a yard with multiple stone warehouses and wooden piers, with a sign at the entrance that read Hambley Piers. They turned at the next entrance, a three story house made from the same stone. Unlike the prior plantations, Ken found it reminded him of a country manor in England. Somehow more functional, less frivolous.

Yet frivolity existed in the yard at its front, the colours of the flowers competing with the dresses of the female constructs who strolled along its manicured paths. Into this gathering Amelia’s father ventured and curiosity made Ken follow.

To give Zorro his due, Ken recognized the skill and effort that went into creating the world in general and this scene specifically. Almost seventy five constructs moved about, seemingly at random. Each time a pair or group came together a different conversation would ensue. Sometimes they discussed similar topics as his guide’s soliloquy during the carriage ride, but two other topics took predominance. The bombardment, surrender, and potential aftermath of Fort Sumter and the relationship between Eric Hambley and Amelia Walker.

This last made him a focal point for these groupings, guests asking him about the big announcement. Not that his actual answers mattered, be it his stating the Eric had kidnapped he or that Eric had tasked me with procuring him the prettiest sheep I can find. They always just smiled and said they could not wait to hear the announcement.

It seemed the only way to escape these encounters was to ensconce himself in a group of girls, created to appear near Heather and, probably, Amelia’s age. Probably not Zorro’s favourite people in real life, because no other constructs appeared more vain or inane; an attitude that worked like a force field to keep all, except the surprisingly non-African American servants, away. Amongst them, Ken almost felt himself. Old hat for him to disappear into his own mind when in the midst of the popular.

He found himself thinking that he now knw what it would feel like to fall through a looking glass. It made him wonder if he walked into the forest, would he find a mad hatter hosting a more entertaining tea party. However, before temptation led him in that direction, the vain and inane grew quiet.

Impossible not to recognize that walk. Or the smiling lips, the sturdy jaw as the man came closer. The size, the build, the masculinity as obvious in period wear as in Zorro’s costume. Less handsome than all the Boiis Ken met, but like them he wore an aura of health and strength that left him more handsome, to his Heather enhanced criteria, than the boys at the Halloween Eve party. And definitely more real than the almost pretty construct at his side.

“My dearest Amelia, you are radiant enough to seem a new person.” Eric, for who else could it be, said, ignoring what his words implied he gestured to his companion. “Please allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Barnabus Hambley, who is visiting from the old country. Barnabus, my lovely fiancé, Miss Amelia Walker.”

“Enchanted, Amelia.” Barnabus said, with a bow and in an accent that made the most vain and the second most inane simper. Ken just stared.

“Barnabus, be a good fellow and keep the rest of these ladies company, while I speak with my intended.”

Ken ignored the offered arm, but he did follow alongside. Unworried about who may overhear, he asked, “Who are you? Really?

“Most usually ask what I am going to do to them? Or where am I?”

“I know the answers to those.”

“Not surprising. You should also know it does not matter who I pretend I am in the real world, instead let me say that first, last, and always I am Eric Hambley. Now I would ask the same of you.”

“Your prisoner and intended victim.”

“No, my intended victim is Heather Theis, you are not her. Who are you really? You’re not going to answer are you? This is twice in a row, a curious man would wonder about his opponents. While a confident man would realise it does not matter.”

“Which are you?” Ken asked, as expected.

“I am not yet sure. Probably a bit of both. After all, I am curious who will end my game, while confidant someone will. Maybe your allies? But will they be in time for your benefit. You know about the time limit?”

“So it’s a game to you? And you still intend to play it out to the end, despite knowing you are now hunted.”

“That does not matter. Only the game matters for the two of us. And for a game to be enjoyed, its rules must be followed. Why else set up the board if not for enjoyment.” Eric said with a smile.

And like the one captured at the Melon Ball, the smile held no rancor. In fact it held no depth of feeling, nor did the man himself. He offered nothing for his magic using prisoner.

Unlike what Ken towards his magic using captor. For Eric surely benefited from Ken’s fear.

Chapter 12 - Relieved

Even terror can diminish when not properly stoked. In time, the boredom of captivity, surrounded only by constructs while his captor remained absent, took the edge off Ken’s fear. Did not, could not, make it disappear, but on the fifth night of captivity Ken fell asleep naturally, not because fear siphoned away the energy needed to stay conscious.

In large part, he knew this resulted from creature comfort. Real misery for a prisoner is stunted by good food, hot water, and clean clothes. In comparison to the PoWs who Stallone or Norris would rescue, he felt like a princess locked away in a world of solitary gloom. Though even the gloom existed for a short time, just before fake dark. Rather than a bamboo cage, his prison encompassed a county sized world. Instead of hunger, he tried to fight off ennui. And in lieu of rags, he wore dresses of the finest materials.

True the corset annoyed him at times. Usually when first getting dressed, but Beck never attempted to squeeze him in half. Besides, Ken’s transformed body belonged to a dancer used to discomfort, not someone who felt a pea placed under her mattress.

But what a tedious existence. Wake up, eat, dress, kill time, eat, take a nap, kill time, eat, kill time, and try to fall asleep in order to prepare for the next go around. Every day the same thing. Only his previous life as a loner saved Ken from the oppressive monotony. Frequent walks expelled some of his nervous energy and the discovery of a library helped keep his mind active.

Though, since the books consisted mostly of treatises written by early thinkers instead of stories, it led to dry reading. Some of those, particularly the ones that served as progenitors to the areas of Ken’s interests and studies, drew his attention, but he tried to focus on an area he always before ignored, philosophy and its children, psychology and psychiatry. With a case study holding him hostage, he regretted past dismissals of these schools as fake science.

This left Ken with partial, always dangerous, knowledge gained mostly from popular culture. Such as the spree of watching crime documentaries in which he remembered talking heads who referred to Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy as either psychopaths or sociopaths. He did not know the difference or if a difference existed, but he remembered the traits those talking heads attributed to them; charming, intelligent liars who felt little empathy or emotion towards their fellow humans. Nor could he forget their successful run as serial killers.

Like Eric Hambley.

Did that explain why he felt nothing from the man during their first meeting? Instead of a reaper, which disgusted Ken as a magic user, was Eric as psychopath, which dismayed Ken as a person? Which of the two did he need to fear more?

And would a difference help in any way?

Yet the thought offered Ken a research task. Even if the books held nothing to help, at least it provided a purposeful way to kill time. And for a time it worked

Every morning he walked around the plantation, then after lunch read in the library. Both more enjoyable activities than his evenings spent playing The Mansion of Happiness: An Instructive Moral and Entertaining Amusement, a old fashioned board game both in morality and amusement, with Amelia’s stand in father. So passed the first sixteen days of captivity, Ken falling asleep the last of those nights reading the passions section of David Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature.

“Miss Amelia, are you still abed? And on your big day?’

The big day could only reference one thing, as announced at the party on his first day, the wedding of Amelia Walker to Eric Hambley. A wave of confused despair crashed in to wash away the sleep.

Once outside of his morning shower, shivering the whole time no matter how hot he ran the water, Ken took even less of a role in dressing than normal. For a time he stared blankly into the mirror in front of which he sat. Not until Beck finished with his hair, swept into a voluminous bun on the back of his head and covered with a floor length veil of beaded lace, did thought return.

Admittedly, since it manifested within his head as a planning scene from an 80s television show, complete with a jean jacket wearing, big haired version of Heather sitting across from him, not the most rational thought. Personality splitting in the scene allowed Ken to play the lunkhead male. Someone who could intellectualize the concept of rape, understand it as a horrible thing, particularly after Ilina's raw sharing, but who never lived life with it as a constant fear. Neither his upbringing nor imprisonment required him to move it from a bogeyman into real possibility. Even with Heather’s memories, and she learned all those lessons he missed, he could not internalize it; her memories held a lesser impact upon him than her experiences.

Ken said, “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for. If he has any emotions, you sleeping with him will bring them out.”

Heather stared in disbelief and asked, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“He’s the only one who can provide us the energy needed to cast the beacon spell.”

“I won’t do it.”

“But...”

“I won’t do it. It’s your plan, you do it.”

Ken said, “Well I can’t do it. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve watched enough, I think you can figure it out.”

“But I’m a guy.”

“Yeah right.”

“How else are we going distil anything from him? I suppose we could do something to make him mad, but he may get violent. And I’m not ashamed to admit life as a chicken shit hurts less.”

Sharing all thoughts, they reached the same conclusion at the same moment. In a mind with two personalities, it is easy to create a third. They both turned to that third, the sidekick whose eyes widened upon realizing what they expected.

“Me? You can’t be serious.”

“Well you’re the one who got us into this mess.” Heather said, rather unfairly.

“I’m not even here, I’m just your imagination.”

“And I’m not?”

“Good enough for me.” Ken said.

Amelia came awake with a literal “Ooomph”, as the laces of the corset tugged tighter than normal. So for her first words, she said, “Beck, it is too tight.”

“Not today, Dearie. We want your beautiful dress to fit perfectly.”

Entire hoards of wannabe princesses would shriek yes for the dress. Similar to the veil, beautifully beaded white lace covered the sweetheart bodice and the front panel of the skirts. While the rest of the silken skirts draped in the tiers of a cathedral train.

Such a waste to get dressed so prettily for a fake wedding to her kidnapper.

Days in heels and period dresses, even with Ken in control, meant the dress’s train did not hinder Amelia on the stairs. The same could not be said for the fancy, four wheel carriage, which required make believe Dad’s assistance to enter and exit when they reached a little country church; inside of which waited Eric, dressed in a uniform of a Second Lieutenant of the Confederate Army.

Thinking positively, Amelia realized Brennus would not need to feel uncomfortable about killing him. Though at the moment Eric seemed completely in control during the wedding shamerony.

When it finished, she felt the ring, rather than Eric’s rather chaste kiss, burn like a brand. Yet Amelia found some truth lurked in the old belief about the connection between the ring finger and heart. Though instead of love, she discovered a sense of self, different than her predecessors. Braver than Ken, more knowledgeable than Heather. They may not trust themselves nor her, to this task, but she believed in herself. She knew, though she may not succeed, fate did not demand she failed.

While they stood in front of the church, waiting upon a photographer with his historically accurate camera, Amelia felt herself grow stronger. Strength she needed not to punch any of the watching yahoos who shouted to hurry so Eric could get his new bride with baby before joining his unit.

Yet she did not completely dampen her anger. One part of her plan, hardly considered before she acted upon it, involved not caring about what Eric could reap from her. Why worry about it when, from the beginning, he already held a stronger position. Better to attempt to turn it to her advantage. If she proved an honest spendthrift of her emotions, it may create an environment for him to spend some of his.

If he felt any.

Amelia suspected he may. Like a rod with a fish nibbling on a the end of the line, she sensed something in the smile on his face. Did it seem less plastic than before? Did it hold a hint of amusement? Is that all he could feel?

But before she set the hook, he asked, “So Amelia, a choice for you. Shall we do the whole thing, supper and all? Or bring this affair to an end?””

“I will not grow braver the longer we delay.”

Understanding the message, Eric guided her the crown into the carriage. Then, while avoiding stepping on her skirts, he climbed aboard to sit across from Amelia.

“Take us home Stuart.” Eric said,

With a flick the reins, the carriage left the church grounds. Unsurprised when they traveled past the Walker Plantation, Amelia still felt a moment of wistfulness that caused her to turn and look at it. “Worry not, my dear, Beck waits for you at Hambley Manor, now a free woman. My family did not keep slaves.”

Amelia asked, “They realized it is easier to exploit the poor than owning them?”

“Only a happy coincidence, I assure you. It was due to the business we did with family back in Britain. They considered themselves quite the humanitarians, who judged their wayward cousins in the New World based on the laws of the old one. And since my parents were easily influenced by the judgment of others, it also explained why they insisted I join the Provisional Army. We needed to show support for of our neighbors who supplied us with the cotton that made both us and our cousins rich. I also learned, much later, that maybe they did not truly like me.”

Quiet civility accompanied them for the rest of the ride to Hambley Manor. Neither insults or threats exchanged, not a single word spoken, barely a glance shared

However, when the carriage rolled to a stop and Eric helped her down, all of Amelia’s nerves returned. Particularly as he continued to hold her hand. Just short of possessive, yet with strength ready for exertion when needed. Forsaking the option of attempting to pull away, she considered another insult. But while the last did not register, she mostly feared triggering his anger, which may prove fatal.

On the third floor they walked through a suite of rooms into a bedroom. Its neutral colours and large size offering a more mature environment than the blue rooms she’d previously used and suddenly missed. Letting go of her hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room, Eric took a seat in the one chair. When he twirled his finger. Amelia felt another burst of anger, even as she followed his direction. Yet upon the heels of her reaction she sensed a spark of amusement from her captor. Not enough to offer immediate benefit, but the hoped for something.

“You are as beautiful as your namesake on her wedding day. Probably more-so, especially since that pretty dress does not use a hoop skirt, which I always thought, much like a skunk’s raised tail, existed to keep a man at a distance. Still, it must be uncomfortable, maybe you should remove it?”

“What if I don’t want to remove it?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I’ll wait, until I decide, in greater comfort than you.” Eric said, relaxing even further.

It almost seemed he expected a little rebellion and Amelia obliged. First she found his boundaries, as her attempts to sit on the bed or leave the room resulted in a warning cough and head shake. So she explored, finding her clothing, transported from the Walker Plantation, in a closet and chest of drawers. Next, another bathroom to meet her modern sensibilities. All the while she felt his eyes upon her. In an attempt to distract herself from his gaze, she looked out the window towards Hambley Piers to the sea beyond, and asked, “Where are the ships?”

“They never held my interest when this world was real, they’re beyond my imagination now it is less real. In fact, though the sea seems to stretch to the horizon, it marks one edge of my little world. Right at the end of the docks, so watch you don’t bump your cute nose if you go exploring.”

Silence returned. She tried to ignore him, while he watched her every movement. Yet when he moved Amelia’s eyes immediately tracked towards him as he opened the cupboard, beside his chair, and removed a bottle of water. Smiling his shallow smile, he drank. When he emptied the bottle, he stood and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Escape! But to where? Did he want her to run? Did he like to chase?

Probably.

No, best to stay, where Ken’s plan might work. Though she questioned her ability to follow through with it.

When Eric returned he showed no surprise to find her standing in the same spot, instead he resumed his seat. A hunter as happy to wait as to chase. His prey struggling as nature filled her thoughts with the recent sounds of the flushing of a toilet.

“Can you get Beck? I need help me out of this dress.”

“With your able fingered husband eagerly ready to help?”

Inevitably Amelia reached the next fork on her treacherous path as she offered her back. Eric needed no further prompt to stand and approach, his hands neither shaky nor clammy as they brushed the skin of her upper back to undo the first few buttons, which molded the bodice to her torso. Able to now manage on her own, she stepped away from him. But only a few steps before she turned to watch him as she reached behind to finish undoing the tiny, silk covered buttons.

A act that drew Eric’s eyes to her breasts as they pressed against the front of the dress and stripped away some of his control. Instinctively Amelia took it as her own, then sought more. Through the gap, at the back of her dress, she unsnapped a button and unzipped a zipper, which caused her petticoats to puddle on the ground. Stepping closer and from them she watched Eric’s eyes widen as she slowly shimmied her dress into a second silken puddle.

Unable to stop himself, he moved backward, to allow his gaze to explore all of her seductively clad figure. A sign, maybe not quite of weakness, but enough to offer the incentive to take one more step towards him, before she turned and brazenly bent to pick up the dress and petticoats. An intake of breath and leaked emotion, which she pulled into the gold and diamond brand on her finger, accompanied her as she swayed towards the closet. Not until they hung from hangers did Amelia turn to her captor.

Yet one more weapon remained in her newly tapped feminine arsenal. No longer the seductress, she smiled a helpless, cutesy smile as she embarrassedly pointed at the bathroom door. When he slowly looked to where she pointed, Amelia scampered through and closed the door.

If not for the nearby vanity, she may have crumpled to the floor. The act, successfully performed, left her drained. However, the energy already captured made her think she could take more, maybe enough to cast a beacon spell. With this in mind Amelia performed her business and stopped in front of the mirror to banish any small imperfection.

Taking as deep of breath as her corset allowed, Amelia returned to the bedroom.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, Dearie.”

Surprised to find Beck, rather than Eric, Amelia accepted the increasingly normal ministrations before she climbed into bed. Then she waited. And waited some more. But the door remained closed and she remained alone.

Trapped between the dueling emotions of Heather’s relief and Ken’s frustration, confusion kept her awake. Not until she decided she agreed with Heather’s feelings did sleep arrive.

Immortality of Emotion - Part 5 of 6

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

CAUTION: Violence

Audience Rating:

Restricted Audience (r)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

Part 5 of 6

Chapter 13 - Hopeful

Supper with the family. A farcical affair where three dimensional constructs displayed their one dimensional personalities. From Mr. Hambley, Amelia learned more about the cotton industry of the 1850s than she would ever need to know. Also more than Mrs. Hambley wanted to hear, as she ignored her husband and Eric’s younger siblings in favour of Barnabus, who fed her dream of one day moving to London.

This offered Amelia her lone relief from Barnabus's presence. Each day he followed her about, praising what she did and how she looked. Rather comical, but Amelia suspected the real man cut a less humorous figure. Handsome and dressed in the height of fashion, his accent and worldliness would doubtless seem exotic to a young woman pulled away from her family and home to her husband’s, just when he left to go off to war. Easy to guess the original Amelia proved susceptible to the cousin’s charm, doubtlessly proving the catalyst for Eric’s ongoing need for vengeance. If not a hollow shell of person, she would hate construct, instead she used him to drive her around in a buggy.

After all, any plan worth following required lackeys. And during her first family meal, one blossomed in Amelia’s mind.

The catalyst came from a comparison of the contents on her plate with those of her dining companions. As usual, despite Eric’s ultimate intention, Amelia’s meal would warm the heart of any dietician. Completely unlike the constructs’s meal of pork roast, potatoes, gravy, and vegetables soaked in butter. After days of foods meant for good health, with only a nod in enjoyment’s direction, the smell of hearty deliciousness almost made her drool. Yet, magicked into an existence as fake as those who ate it, she knew it offered zero nutritional value. Boring though she found them, her salad, fresh vegetables, and grilled chicken provided actual sustenance.

That reminded her how fresh food accounted for the number one problem when living in a pocket world. To grow crops it took someone who understood agronomy and optics, and who could perform dexterous magic in the creation of real soil and sunlight. A rare skill set that made it easier to source food from the real world.

However, nothing ruined the fantasy of escape into a magical world quite like grocery shopping in the real world. An inconvenience managed, like so many others, by specialists. Entire families and clans earned their wealth and power through contracts to supply magic worlds. They provided goods and food via dual sided pantries. One side accessible from the client world and the other from the supplier’s hub.

With minimum forays by Eric into the world in which he held her, while still receiving fresh food, it seemed he must use such a service. Which meant a pantry door existed, one through which Amelia might pass. Not like the door she discovered earlier that day in the sitting room of her suite, its existence confirmed with a bit of her precious magical energy. The door Eric used, the door through which she suspected he first carried her into this world. Though now, probably with a strand of her hair plucked from her unconscious head, secured against her use.

Yet a pantry door would rarely be locked. The best services offered contracts that allowed customers to secure their accounts against the world being fed, which required the ability to repossess. Hopefully Eric used such a service.

At that first supper, Amelia assigned herself a task. She would find the door. Only the question as to how the constructs would react, stopped her leaving the table immediately to search the kitchen. So she finished her tasteless meal, pretended to read for a few hours and met Beck in her rooms, where they performed the now familiar nighttime ritual before she climbed into bed.

But rather than attempt to sleep, she silently counted to thirty-six hundred and slipped from the covers. Via moonlight lit hallways she snuck down to the kitchen at the back of the house. There, with the light gone, her sight adjusted enough to create a murky gloom of shadowy objects. Fighting primal fears of monsters in the dark, she shuffled around the large room, tapping at walls. A tense circumnavigation discovered nothing, but how much did the dark conceal and cause her to miss?

No choice but to try again in the morning, with the light of day. Hopefully the constructs would permit her search or maybe they would not realize what she sought. Just as carefully, she traveled back to her room. Where, with a goal in mind, sleep came fast and held her long after she normally woke.

This positivity continued.

Nobody cared if Amelia spent her day knocking on walls, tapping the floor, or exploring closets. In fact, she convinced four members of the staff to walk into the wall, at the point she’d found Eric’s door, to ensure it did not serve as the pantry. Finished with the inside, she spent three days exploring the outbuildings and the warehouses at the pier. Again nothing, but Eric would understand the risk of such a door and hide it.

She needed to search further afield and felt rather clever when she convinced Barnabus to take her for a visit with her father. Though less so upon learning he would happily drive her wherever she wished to visit, be it the next plantation, farm, or village along the road.

In the initial days, she discovered only one item that did not belong. A link, but not a portal to the world to which she desperately wanted to return. Stuffed behind a Bible, in a rack on the back of a pew of the church where she became Mrs. Eric Hambley, Amelia found an old spiral notebook, a picture of The Police on the cover, complete with pencil stuck in its spiral. For who knows how long, she looked at the notebook, afraid to reach out, take it, and find anything written inside. Finally she replaced the Bible and tried to ignore the notebook’s existence.

An impossible expectation, as each attempted return to her search soon ended with the distracted realization that she could not pay attention to her task. Morbid curiosity barged into her mind and demanded recognition. To fight it, she fled, before normal, returning to the manor and a sleepless night.

During that night Amelia realized she would give in the next day and when she did, found herself unsure about how she should feel. When her eyes finally lifted away from words written with a flowing, neat hand, they settled upon the cross at the front of the church. Yet neither it nor he who it represented provided answers. Not that Amelia expected any from that direction, but Jan McDermitt, the writer of those words, once believed.

Maybe that is what made the three sheets of flowing script, the rest of the notebook remained blank, so heart rending. Rather than question why me, it documented the demise of belief.

Even worse, while she read, Amelia could not shake two of Ken’s memories. One night, after Dannika freed him from her molding, he allowed curiosity to override common sense. Wondering if he could notice something missed by the professional data miners, he read through sixteen police folders and found nothing beyond nightmares. From that evaluation, two pictures appeared in his mind. One, taken on a Saturday afternoon, football day in Norman, Oklahoma, captured a vivacious sophomore surrounded by friends. The second, taken by a police photographer on Halloween Day in 1982, showed no life at all.

But more than the remembered pictures, more than the read words, just sitting where Jan once sat, caught in the same ordeal she experienced, formed a kinship. Through this Jan seemed to speak, to ask Amelia not to accept a bitter lesson from the cross on the wall. To not demand something from it, but to recognize it stood for faith. And she found faith in herself as powerful as faith in some omnipotent being, one probably too distracted to pay attention to her woes.

Carefully she tore the pages from the notebook, each loop of the spiral popping free of its circle, tenuously wrapped around a thin coil of wire, like a sign of how she hoped to break free from Eric’s grip. Folding the pages once and then twice, Amelia placed them once more behind the Bible. If she failed and if someone else sat where she now sat, maybe that successor would benefit from the same lesson.

The rest of notebook she could use. Rather silly to randomly go somewhere and search, time for a plan. And a plan needed information, she would map out Eric’s world. Though not at the moment, for a time she needed to sit and remember. It gave her a moment to hope and trust in faith.

Well she did. Like George Lucas with his Star Wars galaxy, she guessed Eric would never be satisfied with his world. For in fifty plus years, with his skills and supply of magic, he filled a small county with dwellings and structures. She needed a talisman of faith to combat her own awe, felt towards her captor. Sting, Stewart, and Andy supplied this, guarding her maps and notes that tracked her progress.

Almost two months into her search, three months into her captivity, Amelia now worked her way through the second village on her map. Because of the longer trips, to and from, she found herself with less time to search before Barnabus demanded they return for supper. So the next morning, earlier than normal, she stood at the front door of Hambley Manor, basket holding lunch in one hand, the parasol she used for poking things in the other, and waited for his arrival with the horse and buggy. Fully prepared for everything the day could offer except to see Eric holding the reins.

Surprised, the least of her indignities boiled to the top, as she exclaimed, “You’re not dressed right!”

Hopping from the buggy he stopped, momentarily confused. Realizing the cause of her anger, he looked at himself, dressed in a tight black t-shirt, jeans, and a belt from which hung a sword and holstered revolver. So different from Amelia, looking pretty in a cream coloured and brown accented walking dress, complete with a matching bow with which Beck tied her ponytail in place.

“My apologies, I decided at the last minute to visit. It will not happen again.”

“Where have you been? Why are you here? You know about my search, don’t you? You can’t stop me from looking.”

“Caught in a real life gong show, calming panicked clients and organizing confused employees across two continents. I’m here because I sold the business, time for a new identity anyway, and they are no longer my clients or employees. Yes I know about your search, Barnabus is a dumb but useful watcher. And no, I don’t intend to stop you, since the possibility of your escape adds some missing spice to our affair.”

“Is there truly a door to find?” Amelia asked.

“Of course, if not, you would not have survived my absence, particularly so marvelously well. But it’s very well hidden, I doubt someone who took a month to think about looking will discover its location.”

“Very funny. So what happens when I find it? Will I be able to pass through? Are there guards on the other side who will stop me?”

Eric said, “Aren’t you the suspicious one? Yes you can pass through. And don’t worry about the guards. I use Benburgs, so they will feel outraged at my actions, if you run into any of their people.”

No surprise he used one of the oldest and best grocer services still in use, with a reputation for protecting their client’s identities in a fashion unknown even by the top Swiss banks. A secrecy accepted by the top magical cliques, because Benburgs subscribed to the regular set of cardinal sins of the magical community and never hesitated to out a client committing such a crime. The most egregious of which Eric broke with his murderous reaping. Amelia knew she could trust them, just as he would know they would help bring him down if she escaped.

‘If you’re not here to stop me, why are you here?”

“Maybe I just want to spend some time with my pretty wife?” Eric asked, to which he only received a glare in response. “Well I do, though I guess my pretty wife does not feel the same. However, maybe I could change her mind if I took her somewhere my idiot, though fake, cousin cannot.”

“The forest, you’ll take me to the forest?”

If she turned right, after exiting the gates of Hambley Manor, she soon came to a foreboding wall of trees. The one place into which Barnabus refused to go, telling her stories of desperate deserters and wild monsters. Immediately Hambley Woods jumped to the top of her search list and despite his pleas, she walked to it with the intent to explore, one day early in her search.

Unfortunately his warnings proved true. Barely did she enter the woods before a pair of men appeared, dressed like scarecrows, knives in hand, leers on their faces. Reminded of how many watchers of myth, who guarded a treasure or door, were actual constructs, she felt no doubt about the intent or ability of the two manufactured Confederate deserters. Amelia’s waning athleticism proved valuable as she ran all the way back to the manor, deciding not to attempt another incursion until she checked all other locations.

“Should I change my clothes first?”

“No, let’s go.” Amelia said, eager to explore the forbidden and not give him a chance to back out.

“Are you sure, I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward.”

“I won’t.”

“Is there be enough lunch for both of us?”

“Yes.”

“Let me check.”

Taking the basket from her, he lifted the lid, looked inside, and turned a dubious look towards her. Finding the glare still in place, he said, “Very well, let’s go.”

Chapter 14 - Elated

How fucked up did your life need to become in order to feel more comfortable going into a dark, foreboding forest, with the man who planned to kill you, rather than entering all alone? One of many questions that filled Amelia’s mind, but the only one she answered while riding beside Eric on their way to the forest.

It came down to a matter of immediacy. Whatever lurked inside Eric, he tended to follow a time line. While whatever lurked in the woods might not care.

She also found herself enjoying the presence of an actual human, even him. To sense the warmth of a live body, to hear words not mapped out by a decision tree. It stirred the social aspect provided by the Heather part of her amalgamation, something withered almost to nothing under the burden of loneliness. While the Ken part, the Richelieu to Amelia’s Louis XIII, filled her mind with questions to ask, answers to obtain, and plots to scheme.

“I believe I went overboard.” Eric said, as the buggy rocked its way along the path.

“Pardon?”

“Hambley Woods. My Grandfather turned it into a mystical place with his stories. But since he was a gloomy old bastard, a mystical place filled with evil rather than wondrous creatures.”

“Barnabus told me similar stories.”

“I’m glad you believed them. Just as Grandfather used them to keep me away as a child, when it was just wilderness, I also wanted you to stay away, now that it is something worse.”

“Because that’s where you hid the door?” Amelia asked, surprised he did her one attempt. Away from his constructs, she maybe could do whatever she wanted.

“Because I made it into the place my Grandfather described.”

“A shrink would have a field day with you.”

“If I could only find my very own Dr. Melfi, I would happily submit. However, in this, I don’t need psychological help to understand myself. The truth is I need nightmares to conquer. And what better place than here to create my own, real life video game, full of villains and monsters for me to kill. Speaking of which, if I give you a command, follow it. It won’t be because I’m interfering with your search, it’s because I’m trying to stop something else from doing so.”

Unwilling to trust him, she first studied his face. When he did not look away and she found it clear of the normal wry grin or any hint of menace she nodded agreement.

“In particular, be prepared to get down and stay out of my way. It would be a ridiculous waste of effort to accidentally shoot you instead of whatever I am targeting.”

“Is it really that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous. They’re my nightmares and as you pointed out, I’m messed up.”

Amelia asked, “Then shouldn’t I have a gun?”

While he ignored the question, she turned her attention to the approaching stand of trees. Eric’s warnings, his need to make the forest dangerous, having convinced her it held escape.

“How big is it?”

“Just under seven sections,” Eric answered.

“Umm?”

“You must be a city girl? Each section equals a square mile.”

Larger than she hoped. Too big to expect her to find escape in one search, which allowed her to banish the worry of how Eric would react if she did find the gate. Thus when they reached their destination, she ignored him while trying to decide how to proceed. When no stroke of genius bonked her upside the head, she decided to head straight for the center. That’s where heroes in a book would need to go.

Relying on Eric’s dubious protection, Amelia picked a space between two trees and entered. Almost immediately she grew uneasy.

She could draw upon multiple forays, by both her predecessors, into a wide variety of forests. From childhood romps with friends through neighborhood thickets too treks along trails carved for tourists through the great rain forests on the West coast. Yet none reminded her of Hambley Woods.

Despite the vibrant colours, it felt dead.

Mere steps underneath the trees and she wanted to leave. Yet though Amelia regularly looked over her shoulder to check on Eric, she continued deeper. The fields beyond him, disappearing from the gaps between the trees.

Soon, only the lack of trampled underbrush or broken branches implied she did not lead them in circles. By the same token, this did not imply they walked in a straight path.

“Eric, how long does your forest take to regenerate itself?”

“It depends on the damage done. Days if you ran through with no care, four or five hours to hide our passage, and much less for my lurking denizens. Is tracking one of your hidden skills?”

“Hidden skills?”

“I’m impressed with how elegantly you move, particularly with the way you are dressed. The way you part the underbrush with your parasol is particularly clever. All-in-all, amazingly ladylike...umm, that is your cue to curse at me to prove you’re not a lady. Don’t you watch movies? Myself, I’m a huge film buff.”

Unwilling to present herself as the audience for his attempt to disguise his true self, she continued onwards. Again she focused on the wrong. How, instead of rays of sunlight filtering through branches to create a speckling of bright and dark, the light permeated everything, almost like floor lighting. Or how she felt no temperature change, neither cooling from shade nor heat from unmoving air. But the silence stood out the most. Not even the sound of insects.

She realized how much she dreaded what the return of sound might reveal.

Thus Amelia found herself crouched, head turned questioningly towards her captor, before she fully processed the sound of a breaking branch. In turn, he spared her only a gesture to stay, his eyes flickering momentarily in the direction of the sound, before he allowed them to roam away from possible distraction. At the same time each hand moved through a motion as familiar as if he scratched his nose. Then, with a revolver, right out of a Spaghetti Western, in his left hand and sword in his right, Eric moved to put the bole of a tree at his back

And on his face she saw the same smile worn under the Zorro mask when he made the rose appear.

Every time his gaze momentarily settled, Amelia would turn to look in the same direction, wondering what he saw, imagining what he sensed. Then she no longer needed to imagine.

Amelia recognized the two figures immediately, the scarecrows she’d seen the first time she ventured here. However, this time they did not leer in her direction, but warily watched her companion. It sapped them of much of their power, turning them from frightening monsters into the deserters they emulated, the cloth of their uniforms more brown than grey, more torn than whole. Yet neither their appearance nor their hesitation removed all the danger they represented. Danger grew when two identical pairs, on each flank, appeared.

In the next moment, she learned what it meant to exist as a true predator. As soon as he knew what he faced, Eric acted. Raising his left hand, his finger squeezed the trigger, once and twice.

Unable to look away, Amelia saw blossoms of red appear at the chest’s of the two men on their right, those closest to their location, before one crumpled and the other fell backwards. The rest she only heard, two more shots, shouts, and the sound of running, underbrush and twigs snapping to mark the fleeing passage of the two who escaped. During those brief moments, her attention remained on the two bodies. So still. And though she tried to convince herself constructs did not live, she could not.

They reminded her of what she found while reviewing those sixteen police folders. Made her fear what may, one day, be found in the seventeenth.

She also sensed her companion’s excitement.

Apparently Eric did feel, he just kept his emotions under firm control. And those he felt strongest allowed her to label him, if not a psychopath, at least as a selfish, murderous prick. One could say evil, but that required her to accept he could not stop himself from committing such heinous acts. Amelia would not give him that out. He liked killing. Even just constructs. However, those emotions offered her hope.

Did they offer enough to cast the beacon spell?

In truth, it did not take much magical energy, but Eric, even while enjoying himself, remained miserly with his emotions. Worse, any attempt at a spell, for which a caster did not possess enough magic, would use burn everything available before failing.

Yet she wondered how long her rescuers would wait? Did anyone, even now, continue to watch for her beacon? Would someone spring into action if they spotted it?

She feared the answer to these questions might already be no.

It made her want to cast the spell immediately, to find out the answers. She would, if the reasons to wait did not weigh so heavily. No reason to chance failure, while she could still receive more from Eric before he left, maybe for another two months. Plus, if rescuers did appear, best not to invite them while her captor held weapons in hand.

These thoughts and the decision they formed provided only momentary escape from the sight of the corpses. Moments during which they lost none of their ability to horrify.

“Look away, Amelia. Look at me. Amelia!”

The second time Eric said her name, in a tone little different than he would use on his dog if it sniffed a dead animal during a walk, served to grab her attention. His shallow emotions, once more locked away, acting as a needed calming influence. A performance to make Cesar Milan proud.

“Well done, Amelia, you did exactly what I wanted. Do you want to continue?”

“I think so. Will they be back?”

“Something will spawn to replace them."

Amelia said, “I still want to continue.”

“Okay, where do you want to go? We’ve traveling parallel to the edge for the last while and it’s a long walk back to the buggy if we keep circling.”

“I thought I was headed towards the center?"

“City girl,” Eric said. “Follow the tracks of the two runners, they’re headed the right way.”

After a quick glance in the direction she planned to walk, Amelia stood and moved towards the underbrush trampled by the two deserters who fled. No need for an internal debate trying to determine if he wanted her to follow his advice or if she fell into a trap. Instead she took the path that would not lead past the pair of corpses.

Even a city girl found the trampled path easy to track. Yet Amelia’s pace slowed in comparison to before their violent encounter. Eric’s use of the term spawn brought to mind the MMOs Ken played, though even in the tensest moments, he never felt as anxious as she did now. It caused her to stop more often, watching and listening for Mobs. Where the surroundings once seemed abnormally quiet, the pounding blood in her ears now manifested invisible specters behind each tree.

Because of this, when the scream came from the distance, she ignored it, believing it too came from her imagination. However, Eric’s stealthy approach to grasp her wrist and clasp a hand over her mouth, stifling her reactive shout, felt all too real

Panic threatened, but he only whispered in her ear, “Quiet. I need to get you out of here.”

Not giving her a chance to question, he took off, in a direction almost parallel to the way they’d just came. His hand wrapped about her arm offering no chance but to follow. Before another shriek, louder and closer, added willingness to her steps.

The ladylike grace about which Eric complimented her earlier in the day disappeared. Clothing meant for civilization, manageable while walking through the forest, now proved a burden unfelt since her first days in this world. Her captor, her guide realized this the third time Amelia stumbled. Cursing her outfit, despite being entirely to blame for her wearing it, he pulled her into a small clearing and hurried across to a large tree with a forked trunk.

“Kneel down against the trunk of this tree.”

Goaded by his urgency, Amelia folded herself down onto her knees, the double breadth of the trunk hiding her from its other side. In place, she asked, “What’s going on?”

“Many of my nightmares are more dangerous than deserters. It’s a random spawn, but those who attack the others are always amongst the worst. With them, I prefer to take the role of hunter, but though you are wonderful bait, our pact makes me your protector today. Fortunately, since I don’t hold a death wish, I don’t allow them ranged weapons, but I will still need to face them. Best to do that where I have some room to move. Now quiet, I need to listen.”

Though ever logical Ken pressed for her to mention nothing stopped them from throwing any weapon, Amelia decided to follow Eric’s order. Again she watched him, trusting his senses more than her own, not even looking where he looked.

Immediately she noticed a difference. The absence of his fake smile removed the aura of unreality from the moment. Real danger lurked in the trees, her fear sparked into terror.

However, a smile alone does not indicate joy, particularly to a magic user. To these sensitives, the most extreme emotions, including terror, emanate from an individual with enough force to make expression or action meaningless. More than death, Eric fed upon terror. It made him strong.

At the same time, Amelia sensed the joy he felt at her terror. Understanding the morbid nature of his strength, she attempted to dampen her fear before she realized his joy also made her stronger.

The perfect negative feedback loop of corrupt emotion.

Momentarily their gaze locked with one another, before Eric’s head snapped around as something, multiple somethings burst from the woods around him. Their ferocity seeming so much worthier of her protector’s revolver than before, but he met them with only sword, one more substantial than it once appeared, in hand. Twirling past the chopping falchion of the first, he blocked the second’s blade, which left him open to a bash from the shield, a white hand painted on its center, of the third.

Until a shield appeared on his own arm. Spikeless, without a crest, and, like the armour in which Eric now encased himself, a dull black. Coloured no different than the bulky metal of his foes.

No matter who won this fight, he would still number amongst the League of Villains.

At no point did the beast men concern themselves with defense, trusting in the gauge of their armour along with the unceasing swing of falchion and thrust of shield to overwhelm their opponent. While he took the opposite approach, dodging or blocking, waiting for them to slow or present an opening.

The fight left Amelia forgotten, the trophy wheeled out for the winner. Until fingers, their dirty, horn like fingernails scraping across her scalp, grabbed a clump of her hair and yanked her from her crouch. In the pain and terror, she reached upwards in an attempt to free herself, but found the attackers massive wrist and large hand resisted her panicked fingers.

Someone else experienced all her pain and terror, but it energized him. Unlike Amelia, Eric remembered how many deserters he killed earlier and knew a fourth monster lurked somewhere. He just wished it still lurked, because he could let it take his toy. With a burst, he dashed through the three who faced him towards the forked tree. But he could not leave them his back for long, instead he threw his shield, like and oversized discus before he dove to the left, his revolver appearing in a now freed hand as he rolled to his feet.

The clang of the shield, against the tree, startled her assailant, causing his grip to loosen. Gravity, combined with her tug of war against his pull, dropped Amelia in a heap on the ground. Scrambling along the ground, she finally got a look of her hulking attacker as he walked around the tree. Greasy, black hair pulled into a scraggly top knot, his skin, where not covered by black metal, making it appear he’d been dipped in tar. His only ornament, a marking of a white hand, matching that on his brethren's shields, with the heel on his forehead and fingers down his face.

Scrambling away from his, her hand brushed against something. Her parasol.

When the Uruk-hai reached for her, just as Eric’s first shot sounded, Brennus's training asserted itself. The maelstrom of violence creating an environment where the spell belonged and Amelia’s body needed to react as it did. Only a clenched fist ignored the Boii's lessons, but since her fingers wrapped around the handle of the parasol, extending her reach by nearly three feet, he would not condemn. And the speed and force with which she thrust it forward, the accuracy of it's pointed, metal tip, zipping over a snarling maw into a yellow eye, would only bring praise.

In that moment she exulted.

Chapter 15 - Confident

Riding her wave of exaltation, Eric casually finished the two remaining attackers. Then, allowing his black plate to disappear, he walked over to nudge the one Amelia stabbed with her parasol. When he found it dead, he offered a giant smile, one in line with the feelings of pleasure and goodwill he directed her way.

"Another unexpected talent, my dear? I must remember you are not as delicate as you appear, though I usually don’t forget something I find so terribly exciting."

"I was just lucky. I didn't think, I just stabbed," Amelia said, worried her act of desperate self-defence invalidated the intent behind Brennus' training.

"Then you must be a natural. Are you hurt?"

"He scratched me when he pulled my hair."

"How beastly of him. But, otherwise, are you okay?"

"I think so."

When he reached out, almost a mirror to the Uruk-hai, she momentarily considered treating him in the same fashion. Except she suspected he offered her a test, one she could only pass if she ignored it. Meekly she handed him the parasol, which he switched to his left hand, presenting her with the right once more. Taking it, she accepted his help to stand, releasing his hand immediately to brush at the seat of her skirts before gingerly running her hand through her hair, checking for blood from dirty fingernails and brushing loose locks, escaped from their hairpins, back into a semblance of place.

Allowing her a moment to assure herself of continued health, Eric stabbed the ferrule of the umbrella into the ground, removing the signs of its encounter with the black orc.

But she could not forget, Amelia said, "I can't believe you have Uruk-hai for playmates."

"I told you I like movies. Ready to head back to the buggy?"

"We beat them. Let's continue onwards."

"Yes we did, but those screams we heard earlier means two more orcs spawned to take the place of the escapees from our first encounter. And with the death of these four, the cycle will soon begin again with who knows what."

"So my ability to search the forest is a mirage? You didn't mean to really help me."

Eric said, "There is a physical limit to the help I can offer. Sure we won, but don't let it go to your head. The adrenaline and the link we shared makes us feel powerful, but it is fool's power that can disappear at a moment’s notice. In particular, hand to hand combat saps your energy like no other. Best to go back, eat whatever the basket holds, and rest for a bit. If we feel better afterwards, we can attempt another foray."

"Just to be turned back again?" Amelia asked.

"Maybe. In truth, it’s a matter of luck. Not all my monsters are as quick to attack, some of them, specially the animals, only become aggressive when cornered. We just need luck with the randomizer."

"And they need to be killed before being replaced."

"Correct."

"Just the six of them?"

"In this part of the woods." Eric answered.

"So there are more? What chance do we have to fill the woods with non-aggressive mobs?"

"And plays video games too, can you be any more perfect?"

"Eric."

"That is the first time you called me by name, my beauty."

"Eric!"

"There is almost no chance we will ever experience complete freedom to explore the woods. But what else is there for you to do?"

A riposte more skillfully delivered than any against the three Uruk-hai he just fought. Its brutal truth severing the last thread of shared danger that connected them.

Amelia said, "Lead the way, I'm lost."

Before they broke free of the edge of Hambley Woods, the wisdom in his approach made itself apparent, as she found her mind drifting, the forest fading out of focus, which caused her to stumble in the underbrush. Only the arm that wrapped itself around her waist stopped a fall. An arm she swatted at in annoyance until it saved her from a another attempted spill to the ground. For the rest of the walk out of the woods and from there to the buggy, a decent walk away, she begrudgingly accepted its embrace, while welcoming its release when they reached the two wheeled contraption and its horse like horsepower.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Amelia? I will see what the cooks prepared.”

Given the unsteadiness of her legs, another good idea on his part, though with the seat of the buggy so high, she settled for the ground. Now safe from a fall, safe from all the monsters except the one who pretended to offer protection, Amelia felt the first shudder rattle her body. Just a prelude to the tremors that took control, an answer to the cold she felt, the relief at still breathing.

Eric draped the blanket from her picnic basket, the one she usually sat upon while eating lunch, over her shoulders. It helped. So did the bottle of water, at least the contents she did not spill from shaking.

"I'm sorry, I didn't expect that to happen."

"No worries, Amelia. The first encounter with brutal violence rarely leaves someone untouched. Consider yourself fortunate to be alive and uninjured, to be able to be shocked."

"How did you react?" Amelia asked, before she could attach reins to her tongue.

"I felt more powerful than ever before. If I knew then what I know now about how others react, that moment would have shown me I am broken. Would you like a sandwich, maybe some veggies? Eating will help return the energy you lost."

Not feeling hungry, she never-the-less took the vegetables from him. Maybe eating them would provide relief from his crazy.

It mostly worked. A distracted audience deterred Eric from speaking. For a time, while they ate, neither spoke. Not until they emptied the basket of everything except crockery and napkins did they briefly discuss returning to the forest. Something he recommended against and which she, feeling as exhausted as after any of her dance sessions with Dannika, no longer wanted.

Within the hour she stood underneath a hot shower and when she left it, she found herself alone. It made he remember her desire to escape, of the power taken from her awful host. So powerful a harvest that the beacon spell flowed from her desire as much as from her intellect.

But though she cast the spell again that night, no doorway, not even a temporary portal, appeared. Amelia remained alone on Eric's false world.

--SEPARATOR--

Why did she believe, just as Ken once believed, that if she could access enough magical energy, her life would improve? Did he not, despite access to more power than any mundane, lived in fear of school yard bullies? Just as she now, despite the energy taken from Eric during the fight with the Uruk-hai, greater and more potent than harvesting a month of Bieber concerts, life in fear of Eric.

The cynic in her understood someone always held more power.

Something with which the third, mostly silent member, of their triumvirate agreed, but she just did not let it bother her as much. The legacy of her high school softball coach, Ms. Babcock, queen of the pep talk, who convinced her team they could beat the State’s defending champion in their league tournament. And they did, Heather knocking in the winning run in the seventh inning for the big upset. While Ken worshipped at the altar of despair.com, she believed in the motivation it mocked.

Heather knew one sure fire method for losing, not trying. The single thing she would not quietly accept.

She offered a push to get the other two on board. By nightfall of the day after her first venture into the Hambley Woods, Amelia found herself believing along with Heather, but full of questions.

In one corner, she wondered what went wrong? Why did no rescue appear? Immediate, paranoid thoughts jumped to Julia's enmity. Maybe she exaggerated the success of her team’s progress. Or now interfered in its implementation. These thoughts Amelia brushed aside. For though she now realized the mischievous thought that helped lead Ken down this path held no value, Rebekka's child would be born before Eric finished his fantasy, she realized Julia did not hate him anywhere close to that much.

More likely, the lack of response came from a lack of readiness. If the spell only held potency for one hour, it would not surprise her to learn the resources to mount a rescue were not available. Which led to the attempt around the same time the next day.

That failure led to a more likely reason. The portal spell had not worked, a not unexpected result based upon Julia's report. Amelia remembered the success rate as if just spoken, less than one in eight times. Which just as easily could mean it worked something like one hundred times in eight hundred attempts, possibly in random clumps, not that a success happened every eight attempts. Nothing for her to do except to cast the spell as often as her magical energy held out. And to counter the first alternative, that no rescue team stood prepared to act at all times, she would send out the beacon at the same time every day. Give them certainty around which to plan.

One thing she could not allow herself to believe, that nobody watched. A thought that would defeat all the rah-rah Heather used to yank them from the doldrums.

Another part of her brain considered whether she should continue her search for the door to Benburgs, maybe it did exist somewhere outside Hambley Woods. After seeing some of Eric's forest guardians she would almost stake her life, had actually, that it held the door. But it made sense to ensure another door existed did not exist. Besides, as Eric coldly reminded her, what else did she have to do, other than go stir crazy waiting for his return, to take her back into the woods.

The question as to when that would happen filled the rest of her mind.

Four mornings later, an answer came when Beck did not appear with her normal dress. An olive green t-shirt, sleeveless, with a deep v-neck, and cropped to show her stomach. A matching pair of short shorts and calf high, black boots with buckles. The costume even came with a belt and attached holsters, a band around each thigh to keep them and the toy pistols they held from flapping about. Throw in a ponytail and the only thing missing from her Lara Croft outfit were the double-Ds. Not that most girl watchers would feel much concern about the minor difference.

A group including Eric, who did not want a repeat of her skirt enforced clumsiness, but definitely wanted to admire. She could feel his eyes on her as she led the way into a different part of the forest.

Yet he did not allow her to totally distract. When Amelia led them into an ambush, he moved at the same moment as a group of men, who looked like what she thought of as Zulu warriors, ran screaming towards them. Once more, as she dropped to the ground, as he met them with sword and shield, this time not donning his armour. Their ferocity and skills paled in comparison to those of the black orcs, but, stunned by the loudness of their shouts, she did not realize that fact until the violence splattered to an end and he led her in a detour away from the bodies.

This time she found it easier to convince herself, when momentarily safe from attack, that the bodies they left behind did not belong to real men. No symptoms of the shock that incapacitated her last time showed. Yet as they continued deeper into the woods the tension in her shoulders and neck grew worse, like the time Heather, wanting to make it home for Christmas, drove into a blizzard.

After two more attacks, she realized why Heather finally pulled into a gas station. Tension could hurt, drain all focus and energy from you. When it did, your body demands relief and, as she discovered, you could not deny it.

However, this time, after a break, she felt ready to enter the Hambley Woods again. This time they met dire wolves and her fears escalated to the same heights as during the previous Tolkien inspired attack. That finished her for the day, as she realized, just like training for a dance, she could not expect to perform a routine on her first, second, or tenth attempt. She needed practice, to attune her muscles to the new task.

It explained why Amelia took him to her bed when they returned to the manor, hoping to ensue he would return with little delay to allow her to practice. And while physically unsatisfactory for both, natural when only negative emotional attachments between the two, it worked. Though she silently thanked Ilina for sharing her story.

Besides, forgettable and horrible as she found the act, Amelia could not deny the charge it offered to her magical reservoir.

A reservoir she struggled to drain, between Eric's frequent visits. Besides the daily beacons for the portal team, which she decided she could afford to cast twice a day, Amelia recognized the value in the spell Dalton used during their field experiments. Daily she provided a view of their wedding portrait, he dressed in the Confederate uniform and she in her wedding dress, Mr. and Mrs. Eric Hambley engraved on plaque beneath, which hung in the main sitting room. She also cast the spell to show the sign at the entrance to Hambley Manor. Hopefully someone would see and maybe use the information to track her captor in the real world.

In case someone did not, she continued to look for the door, now with an added tool. A simple spell that acted similar to stretching a string across an entrance way. Initially set up in arcs radiating from each of the manor's doors, then spreading out as she tracked the arrival of food. Never finding the actual delivery construct, Amelia used the arrival of new supplies to extrapolate the direction traveled by the mule.

More evidence the woods led to Benburg's.

And when needed, she renewed the anti-fertility spell Dannika once taught a squeamish Ken. Bad enough to sleep with him, but she did not want an impossible to ignore reminder when she escaped.

When, not if.

For Amelia believed she would escape. She needed to believe, it kept her fighting.

Chapter 16 - Condemned

"Who are you?"

The question Amelia asked herself whenever she looked in a mirror. And with the lack of entertaining distraction, even non-entertaining distractions, she found herself looking in the mirror with greater frequency. Beside, nothing more important existed in her life than that question? Well maybe one thing, but only the elusive answer to this question seemed within her control.

Easiest to start with who she was not.

Not Heather Theis. Neither Amelia Hambley nor Amelia Walker. Not even, eleven months after her transformation, Kenneth Cabot. Nameless, but not faceless, thus the mirror. Maybe it hid the answer?

The face, the body, they belonged to her. True, Heather provided the template, but passing time moulded her confused psyche to comfortably fit within. That is why, when she looked in the mirror, seeing the pretty woman, knowing who lived inside of her no longer felt wrong.

Unless you looked into her eyes. There the wrong lurked. Holding an answer she did not like to admit.

She existed as a mannequin. Whoever Eric wanted her to become, she became. No matter how intricate her hair or elaborate her costume, she dressed to play the role he expected. But never a major role, that he reserved for himself. For her, at most a bit part. Maybe no more than an audience member called on stage as part of his magic show.

For over time, Amelia learned thoughts about his betrayal played a lesser role in the creation of this nightmare than she first thought.

Instead she now understood how much Eric adored his own magnificence, so much so that he needed to share it with someone. Yet he tempered desire with enough arrogance to imagine how others, powerful others, could feel threatened by him. It required him to take his one man show, The Marriage of Eric Hambley, so far off Broadway it required a new world. One where the Royal Command Performance required the audience attendance rather than the performers.

Her.

Eric needed someone to witness his cleverness, to get terrified by the monsters he defeated, to let him show off. Until the final act, when he would became the monster, it almost made him whole.

Like a theater students, watching her friends perform, she gave her all to support his show. The one time she did not occurred on a ridiculous day, with him dressed as Batman and her as Catwoman, which led to her laughter when he tripped over his cape while fighting a ship and ocean less pirate. Miffed at this response to his moment of imperfection, despite escaping any injury through a quick roll away from a flashing cutlass, Eric did not return for two weeks. Long enough to expend all her hoarded energy.

While he never required her to wear the uncomfortable latex catsuit again, his absence taught her a lesson. Amelia needed him. She could no longer survive in a world alone, could not handle the inane chatter of the constructs. It gave her a better understanding of how someone could stay in an abusive relationship; sometimes the need overrode the knowledge that violence lurked.

Amelia remembered the pictures. She knew what waited.

But though outwardly his mannequin, she continued to hope for escape. Because she, not Eric decided what it meant to inhabit her body and psyche. Amelia, Ken, Heather, or whoever she became, could not allow herself to forget that truth.

So when the mirror now asked who looked back, she answered with a simple me, No matter how she dressed, be it as plantation princess or heroine from a game or comic, the mirror showed her.

Today looked like heroine day. A white t-shirt and black skirt, both so small they should only be worn in a virtual world, be it a pocket world or on a gaming console. Fingerless gloves, of red and black, stretched above her elbows, red hiking boots covered her feet, and the distinctive suspenders did nothing. Eric did love his buxom, brunette game ladies; she often found herself dressed as Lara Croft, Chun-Li, or his current favourite, Tifa Lockheart.

Dressed as the last of these, Amelia cursed the feeling of excitement in her belly. She would not be alone today. Sure she would likely feel terrified at some point, angry at others, finally ashamed when they ended the day with crappy sex, but at least not alone.

One final adjustment of her dolphin tail emulating hair do, Beck never let her out of the bedroom until perfect, then she headed for the kitchen to pick up the lunch basket. However, instead of getting the horse and buggy from the barn, she found her captor sitting in a chair at the bottom of the stairs, paying more attention to his revolver, which he twirled about the index finger on his right hand, than her descent. The distracted look on his face made her catch her breath in worried fright.

Too far away for him to hear, but Eric sensed her pulse of worry. That brought an approximation of the normal, bemused smile to his face, as he waved a soothing gesture in her direction.

"Why don't you take a seat, Amelia? I would like to talk in comfort."

At least he did not pat his lap, expecting her to sit there, as he'd done multiple times before. Still Eric did not go unrewarded, since she could not help but flash him when she took a seat wearing her too short skirt.

"It appears your friends are getting close."

Another response she could not hide. Excitement, replaced by more fear when she realized it may provide incentive for him to finish her now. The gun suddenly appeared to grow more substantial in his hand.

"I've placed tags on certain pieces of information. A number of those were recently triggered, though fortunately only things that hint at my history rather than my present. There are questions being asked in the solitaire community, but I won’t worry too much about that, the smart solitaries, people I deal with, are usually unwilling to speak to your type."

"My type?"

"A member of a family, coven, or clan. Whatever you call it. Speaking of which, you never mentioned to whom you belong?"

"The Samodivas," she said in a moment of not quite recklessness, wondering if he knew what that meant.

"Good to know my guess is confirmed. Scary bunch of bitches to have chasing me, but they won't get anything from my friends."

"I'm surprised you murderers are so tight, they always give up their buddies on the First 48."

"Group snobbery does not become you, my dear. Particularly since you would find most of the great murderers come from your type, so much easier to stay hidden when you’re part of a bigger thing being hidden. I'm rather unprecedented, so much so my friends have no idea what I truly am. Most would turn me over if they knew the truth. But for now, they see me as one of them, a solitaire who helps them stay out of harm’s way, particularly from the predators, like the Divas."

Remembering how that nature, widely attributed to the Samodivas, impacted Ken's decisions, Amelia did not argue. Bad enough for the Cabot's, powerful in comparison to most, how would it be when alone. Besides she needed to ask something of vital importance.

"What are you going to do?"

"That is what I found myself considering when you arrived."

"And?"

"I suppose I could throw myself upon your mercy. Would that work?"

"Maybe."

"You really are a terrible liar. We both know you cannot control everybody. I’m guessing my last victim was one of your sisters, so at a minimum I will need to pay for her death. Maybe if you’d been switched around, I would believe, because, unlike you, she proved an excellent at lying. Not that she showed your spunk. Once she encountered the monsters in my woods I couldn't drag her back.”

Amelia said, “It can be terrifying. Both the monsters and trusting you.”

“Your willingness to be afraid is one of the reasons you’re my favourite Amelia. That and how you hardly talk, it’s no surprise I’ve spent more time with you than probably all the others combined. But it doesn’t matter, obviously mercy is out. You can't ensure it for me. And it doesn't exist in me for you."

The pistol no longer twirled about his finger. Instead Amelia stared into its cold depths and, of all things, felt relief. Horrific as this end would be, she often imagined worse.

But the gun did not fire.

"If I ended it now, I could attempt to run. Change my appearance, become someone new. It would be easy, I've done it many times before, have prepared to do it again. But after all the energy I put into this fantasy, what a failure. I don’t think I could live with myself if I did not get everything out of our adventure together, better to shoot myself in the head right now."

"I won't stop you."

"Funny girl." Eric said, then paused to gather his thoughts. "I'm sure you figured this all out?"

"You're wife cheated on you with Barnabus. You found out and this is where I grow less sure. Did you kill her and now like to relive it? Or did you do nothing, come to regret it, and now try to punish her through us?"

“After the war, I often traveled for business. One such journey ended early, when someone almost caught me in the pursuit of my pleasures. So I returned to Hambley Manor, late one evening, before anyone expected me home and proved my suspicions true. Barnabus and Amelia in my bed, not in flagrante delicto as they say, just asleep. Not even curled together.

"I cannot remember what I felt. Maybe angry or betrayed, possibly even satisfaction to be proven right. I do know I turned my back on them, walked from the room with the intention to return to my horse and disappear. But out on the landing I spotted my parents, summoned by some parental sixth sense, prepared to avert the disaster of my finding out about Amelia and Barnabus. In that moment, I realized everyone in my home knew me as a cuckold and I've never handled embarrassment with much aplomb."

Remembering the incident with the Batman cape, Amelia could echo agreement. But she did not need to say anything while playing the audience to his soliloquy.

"That knowledge seared away all familial connection and...no, I should take it a few steps further back. They probably suspected something about me, not because I killed puppies or what have you, I think they just knew, maybe I reminded them of some similarly fucked up ancestor. Whatever the reason, the one lesson I remembered from my father, this from a man who could make another’s ears bleed from talking about cotton, is how all life is important. He made me a disciple in this pact with humanity. Rather a farce when you consider what happened at the plantations all around us. But I never thought about that, instead I cherished the idea, even while not agreeing with it, since he made it our shared secret. Even after thriving in that horrible war, which daily put lie to the truth of that pact, I felt something akin to shame about continuing to kill. But when I saw my parents that night, the shame disappeared.

“The exact chain of events now vary when I try to piece it together. I must have returned to bedroom, woke the two, told Amelia to run and forced Barnabus to get his sword. He showed bravery, I will give him that, confidence as well. Yet confidence undeserved, his bravery for naught, he died as easily as any of my prior victims. That ended my life as Eric Hambley, but not as a free man. Fear bought my continued freedom, as I cowed the entire household with dire threats. They allowed me to leave with money, food, clothing, and two horses.”

"So you let Amelia go and now try to avenge yourself on her through others?"

"I expected she would run all the way to her father's home. She’d lived here or nearby her entire life, how could I expect her to get turned about in the dark. Yet the silly girl got lost outside her own door, not figuring it out until she reached Hambley Woods. Even worse, why did she stay on the road, trudging back in exhaustion? Exhaustion that disappeared the moment she saw me riding towards her. Suddenly terror burst from her like someone turning on a 1000 watt bulb. She ran. That triggered the wolf in me, I need to chase her. I’m glad I did, because it felt fucking glorious.”

In that moment, as he stared past her, a look of fond remembrance on his face, Eric may as well look like alien, so impossible did she find him to comprehend. Anger at betrayal she could understand, but this eclipsed emotion. The oenophilia describing his favourite bottle of wine, the aesthete remembering a poem that spoke to him in a time of need, the connoisseur remembering his last great meal. Amelia did not know how to respond and his waiting silence told her he now expected her to join him on his stage. Tired of his games, still unconcerned about her own safety, she decided his show needed a dose of truth.

“You sick fuck, you get off on terror. Don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Eric said. “Something about it sets my heart all aflutter.”

“And so all of this?” Amelia asked,

“If there is one thing never in short supply, that would be terror. In particular, war offers more than I can consume, though you may be surprised to know it is as a medic where I'm most fulfilled. Even the stupidest or bravest fear their own mortality when injured."

"Well they should fear it with you looking after them."

"You're ignoring irony, my dear. Or at least I think it's irony, the know-it-alls on the internet have left me paranoid to use the term. The thing is, I am a very good medic. I have lots of experience, don’t feel the emotions to get mentally borked by the ugliness, and if they die, I no longer can get off, as you so elegantly stated, on their terror. And think about the thanks they direct in my direction if they survive or the hatred from others I saved to live the life of a cripple. It really is a win win for me. I get to wallow in what I enjoy, at the same time growing more powerful while doing so. It should be enough, but I can never forget chasing Amelia."

“So you killed sixteen girls, and plan to kill me, to satisfy your greed?”

“Is it that many? You know I rarely think about any of them, because none of them inspired me with anything close to my first Amelia. I’ve often wondered why, but only now, as the noose closes in upon me, am I allowed to experience an epiphany, See, I never felt anything for them, I may as well have spent my killing prostitutes like all my unimaginative fellow serial killers. But how many times have you offered me your terror? It's like spicy food, it clears my senses, makes me feel alive. Damn, you'll be spectacular to hunt.”

Immortality of Emotion - Part 6 of 6

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

CAUTION: Violence

Audience Rating:

Restricted Audience (r)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Immortality of Emotion
by Arcie Emm

Part 6 of 6

Chapter 17 - Panicked

Amelia awoke.

She felt no drowsiness or confusion, because she knew, despite her day count being at three hundred and sixty two, she no longer needed to wait.

Someone now shared her bed. Maybe the extra weight caused a subtle change in the mattress and brought her awake. No way could she blame it on body heat, only her’s warmed the space beneath the covers. In that, a construct felt no different than a corpse.

Thankfully Barnabus still remained the former. Better yet, he did nothing to show awareness of her slipping out from beside him.

Impossible to feel prepared for the moment, easier to let despair and hopelessness rule her mind. But Amelia discovered time and use wore them down to nubs of nothingness. In their place she remembered her plan. One that would make a budding tactician, straight out of school, laugh. Yet the grizzled general, experienced at losing against overwhelming force, would understand sometimes Savior Luck did not care about viability of planning. It preferred action.

Hoping to buy herself a moment, when Eric appeared, she took the paperback she finished before sleeping and wedged it into the gap between the floor and the door. It would only delay him only for seconds, maybe less time than it took her to do it, but she watched him hunt, she knew he slowed when his prey seemed aware of him. And since Amelia needed time, right now, she hoped for any delay caused by her awareness.

Opening the window, she jumped.

Not to defiantly rob him of what he wanted, Amelia wanted to live, but to begin her escape. A child's spell, one she remembered Kens using in play, with cousins, before they left him behind once he became enmeshed in childhood.

Like an unwinged angel, her pure, white nightgown glowing in the dark, she floated down from her second floor window like Ken and kin once floated from family warehouses. Practice, every night Eric left her alone, less often as Amelia's friends belatedly closed in upon him, allowed her to float almost to the gate in the fence. Landed, she took off at a hurried walk. Not yet time to jog, nor to run. That would come.

How many times had she envisioned this night? Hundreds, if not thousands. Once a plan formed, the visualization, much like a downhill skier preparing to hurdle down a mountain, of what she needed to do became a constant companion.

Practice, again and again, she'd walked the start of the path she mapped out in the days following her kidnapper’s confirmation he intended to kill her. Discovering the road, towards Hambley Woods, traveled in a long, sweeping curve she realized it would be faster to cut across country to the woods. There she desperately hoped to find escape. So with no shoes, since her closet only held her stupid shoes, not the semi-practical boots that accompanied her impractical heroine costumes, she walked the path tens of times. Until the route, each little bump or dip, ingrained itself in her mind, allowing her to walk it at night. Almost like a midnight dash from bed to toilet, where familiarity guided you instead of sight.

Though her bare feet carried her forward without any guidance, the ambient light from artificial moon and stars, in a sky that never showed clouds, allowed her to watch over her shoulder. Every shadow, in the distance, made her catch her breath. It caused her to want to run, knowing she needed to reach the forest before he arrived, but she knew she needed to stop herself from wasting energy before time.

She succeeded.

Nervous and tense, she skirted its edge, circling towards the road. All the while she watched for Eric, remembering his words after he professed his desire to hunt her.

"But, in order for me to savor our hunt, you must give me your best. Another mistake I made with my prior wives. Okay, victims, happier now? They felt no hope, since I never gave them any reason to believe they could win. Looking back, I probably robbed most of the desire to even try. I don’t believe that is true for you, but in case, let me say one thing. You are right, the portal with Benburg’s is at the center of my family’s woods.”

“Not much hope, with who knows how many guardians there are,” Amelia said in answer.

“If you do not stray too much from a straight path, you will encounter, at most, nine different groups. And before you repeat yourself, there are ways past them.”

Could she trust him?

In ways, despite wearing a mask of gentility to obscure the beast within, he always appeared truthful with her, rarely hiding his intentions or his desires on how he wanted her to act. Furthermore, why did he need to lie. In their deepest foray into the forest Eric dealt with six groups before her nerves and his exhaustion forced them to turn back. In many ways, his one consistent lie revolved around the validity of hope.

Tonight she would attempt to determine that truth. It frustrated the scientist inside of her. Though he implied multiple ways to get past the guardians, only one stood out as a possibility for her. Even worse, she would get only a single attempt to test her hypothesis. Yet an infinitesimally small chance still outweighed zero.

Circling the woods, she dashed across the road, not stopping until she reached a stand of trees thrusting out from their kin. Here, they exited the woods after their first encounter with the Uruk-hai. Here, they normally exited whenever entering nearby. Since Eric always guided them out, Amelia hoped his past exhaustion unintentionally led him into showing her the easiest path through his woods. It did seem less dense, with fewer deadfall. Maybe wishful thinking, but she planned to use this spot as her final night’s entrance.

Though not yet.

Even though she felt no effects from her walk, she breathed deeply, performing the stretches learned from Heather's past. Warming muscles for what waited, watching for, listening for the approach of her tormentor. The next phase of her plan required his presence.

A wait ended by the unhurried approach of a light along the road, before it turned towards her. The man with the lantern.

Just as she started her turn, he shouted, "Stop."

Ingrained habits caused her to look at him, to see him sitting atop a horse in a hooded, black overcoat, the lantern held so he could see her better.

"I thought you wanted me to run?"

"Oh, I most definitely do, probably I want it more than anything in nearly one hundred and fifty years. But the waiting is delicious and allows me to satisfy my curiosity. Who are you truly?"

"Why?"

"You mentioned the Divas. They and their immortal henchmen are like hounds, requiring me to become the most wily of fox to stay out of their focus. But there is another group, clever and sneaky, buying information the others demand, who I suspect will track me down first. At first I suspected an attempt to curry favors from the big girls, but the resources they are spending did not seem worth it. Until I heard a strange rumour. Are you Kenneth Cabot?"

"Not anymore."

"Isn't that the damndest thing," Eric said, as he swung right leg over the rump of his horse to dismount.

All the cue Amelia needed to initiate the next phase of her plan. Spinning, she ran into the woods. And as she did so, she opened the door of her soul to her ever lurking companion, Terror. Always watching from the edge of conscious thought, it's appearance during their prior adventures into the woods had washed away everything that could hold it back. Now it flooded along familiar pathways, filling her to the brink. It belonged. It felt natural.

Eric sensed its arrival, stood still for a moment to bask in its glow. He laughed in joy, his weapons appearing in hands as he finally allowed himself to savor his long awaited treat.

In this moment, her trialiity served her well. Each part of herself fulfilled the task that played to a strength. Amelia, their conscious presence for all these months of captivity, who'd born the brunt of their fear, experienced the periods of terror, welcomed it back as old friend, letting it wash away all other thought, except an awareness of Eric. Another of her strengths, playing the attentive audience taught her to sense where he stood, determining what he wanted from her.

Right now he wanted her afraid, so she allowed herself to feel more afraid than ever before. Nor did it completely exist as an act. She knew Eric intended to kill her this night and he held the power to do so. But she wanted to live.

However, first he wanted her to run. She'd known this for months. So like that remembered high school coach, her Heather part, the athlete of the triunity, took control of exercising, preparing physically for this night. Now her Heather part ran for all of their lives.

Dangerous to do so in the dark, particularly in woods, even this less dense section still contained underbrush, deadfall, and trees that did not form a straight path. Navigation fell to her Ken part.

This depended upon a lesson learned from watching Eric, who always knew from where attackers would appear. And how, outside of the one time, he never stumbled or collided with the trees surrounding him during a fight. That, not the idiotic cape and costume, made Amelia think of him as the bat man, as if he used something similar to the sonar that guided bats through darkened night. A spell from the same school as the one she used to the track the movements of the constructs. It just required her Ken part to cast it continuously, to process it immediately, to fire synapses in response that told her Heather part to twist left or right, duck or leap.

The fear that weighed heavily upon Amelia would surely lead to emotional exhaustion. Just as the physical strain of Heather's running would lead to physical exhaustion and the intellectual drain of Ken's constant focus would lead to mental exhaustion. Linked together, her body may give in before she gave herself a real chance to escape, but when spread across the three of them, maybe it would give her enough time.

"Left," Ken pulsed, as a man shaped object jumped out from behind some trees.

Everybody reacted perfectly to the command. her Heather part dodged, evading the grasp of a goblin. Amelia screamed in fear at the closeness of the escape. And Eric, smiling at her scream, shot the beast in the head.

Just like every other time she entered these woods, her safety from its denizens relied upon Eric’s presence. It did not exist in any of her three parts to kill nor did any of them possess the skill to do so, but neither of those issues hindered Eric. That is why the plan required her to keep him close, it recognized his desire to kill her himself and would ensure he kept her safe from everything else. But she could not give him time to play, to draw his sword and engage them in hand to hand combat as he liked, since that would tire him out. Amelia needed him strong enough to follow her to the wood’s center.

Eric's desire to impress always before kept them from reaching the center of the woods. Tonight she could not allow that to happen. So her Heather part ran as fast as her Ken part allowed, her speed giving Eric no time to do anything other than dispatch all that appeared with his gun. Instantly the monsters died as his gun, like in a movie, always remained loaded.

Another beneficial byproduct of Eric’s nearness, Amelia could efficiently capture his ecstatic appreciation of her terror. It allowed her Ken part to continuously cast the navigation spell without fear of running out of magical energy. Something even more necessary as the woods closed in the deeper they ran.

"Lovely Kenneth, you may want to stop for a moment. Ground control to major babe, I need a break." Eric shouted, after they reached a point deeper than ever before, seven, maybe eight, groups encountered.

Attuned to his presence rather than his words, she sensed him stop. Amelia did not want that, she needed him close, almost unconsciously she came to a halt. Only then, turning towards him, did she question whether she fell for a ruse, but he still held to the truth.

A relief to let her Heather catch her breath, to allow her Ken part to relax for a moment, and to see Eric’s chest heave. She could not let it last long, to let her muscles grow cold, but a short break could benefit her before the final dash.

“Have any water?” Eric asked. “I could use a drink.”

“Do you see a backpack or a bag?”

“Good point. And I suppose I should take the blame that none of your nightgowns have pockets. Function never played the key role when choosing what you should wear. Good plan by the way, none of the others even made it to the woods. If you only you brought water I would give you an A+."

Now wanting a drink herself, she said, "You seem rather unphased for someone about to puke his guts out. Is this all a lie in your twisted little game?"

"I didn't realize I was so out of shape. Instead of dressing you as Tifa, I guess we should have spent more time with you dressed as the maid and me the master chasing you around the kitchen table. God why didn't I think of that before, it's my type of exercising. Or, instead of Lara, maybe the secretary and boss around his desk, well too late for that. Though I'll need to remember for the next time. Oh, is that the confidence you question?

"Well it's like this. You're less of a city girl now, aren’t you, but you still can’t navigate these woods. If you continue in the direction you’re heading, we'll miss the center of the woods. You need to veer a bit to the East. You don't know which way that is, do you? Should I tell you? Would it make this excellent night more enjoyable? Is it better to keep you in the dark or...Fuck!"

Although Eric's monsters could not learn from their encounters with him, all came equipped with a certain level of cunning. None more-so than the Uruk-hai, whose appearance always led to the most ferocious encounters, the sneakiest ambushes, and the fights that drained them the most.

Usually her kidnapper waited upon attack, ready to respond. However, on this night, Eric could not share the burdens of the chase with anyone else. And while he did not need to worry about emotional exhaustion, the physical and mental strain took their toll. It caused him to call for a break, giving him a moment to catch his breath, to rest his body and mind. Just enough time for the black orcs, who patrolled the current section of Hambley Woods, to attack.

Unprepared, talent and practice combined to fling Eric himself barely out of the way of the attack of the first. Yet he did not completely escape, as the orc's black shield clipped his right arm. Continuing to roll away, summoning his own black armour, he did not notice his pistol fall to the ground.

However, Amelia watched it bounce twice before it fell flat. Fighting the feeling of panic that always accompanied the appearance of the Uruk-hai, she moved towards the chrome escape.

Legs covered in black metal denied her chance, striding in front of the gun as she moved forward. Instantly, her momentum turned into a backwards scramble, right into a second set of legs. Twisting away she tried to escape but a hand wrapped around her wrist. Yanking upon it, she twirled like some out of control ballroom dancer to crash into the orc's chest. Momentarily stunned from the impact, she did not notice his other arm wrap around her waist and lift her in the air. Grunting something at the other Uruk-hai he turned and trotted into the woods.

Focus returning, Amelia looked into the face that inhabited so many of her nightmares. The orc whose face showed the white-hand, who she once killed with her parasol.

"Eric!" Amelia shouted, panic wrestling with terror to grab control of her mind.

But her would be killer, circled by five attackers, could not help.

Chapter 18 - Enraged

From the grave born stench of his breath to the rank smell of unwashed dirt, sweat, and rusting metal, everything about her new captor defined the word, foul. In many ways, the beast man served as the perfect physical manifestation of Eric's soul.

Not that the heinous qualities of the beast man robbed him of the physical gifts needed to carry Amelia into the forest, distancing the two of them from his brethren and Eric, her source of temporary rescue. As the sounds of fighting disappeared, the discomfort from his arm, wrapped around her middle, squeezing away breath worse than her tightest corset, left her lightheaded. Unconscious, uncaring cruelty momentarily weighed heavier than conscious, intended cruelty.

Whatever that would be.

Wherever he intended to take her.

But right now Amelia needed to breathe. Grasping at his arm, wrist, with both hands, fingers and thumbs trying to gain purchase on either vambrace or gauntlet and move his arm, even a inch. Unable to obtain anything other than the weakest grip, she stood no chance against the muscle bound freak.

Desperate, she struggled, earning a growl and a tighter grip. Stars bursting in front of her eyes, Amelia fought even harder.

Her wiggling, the slipperiness of her silk nightgown against his armour, the awkward way in which he held her combined to finally overcome his pressure based grip. Feeling her slip, the Uruk-hai tossed Amelia to the ground, where she sprawled clumsily, her head just missing a root as it bounced off the vegetation covered ground. Stunned, she did not fight as he took a length of rope from a pouch at his belt and wrapped it around her wrists, leaving just enough space in between with which to yank her to her feet.

Not letting go, he pulled her along, unworried as she stumbled behind him, marching deeper into the woods. Never had she felt more alone, as she tormented herself with thoughts of what he planned to do to her. Bad enough with Eric. Repellant though she found him, at least he wasn't...Oh God.

"Where is he taking me? Don't think about it, Amelia. Think about how you will free yourself."

It did not bother her that she spoke aloud, she did not allow herself to worry he understand her words, that he knew she looked to escape. Stating the problem turned it into a thinking exercise. And she knew Ken thrived on those. Not quite granting him control, she demanded he figure something out.

After a moment's thought, he ordered her to quit fighting, to conserve her strength for the right moment. Particularly since the orc dragged her the way she needed to go.

That realization required her to ignore what Eric told her while they rested, about how she would not hit the center of the woods, but, for the first time, Amelia felt he lied to her. Now she supported intuition with the understanding as to where the beast man traveled. The spawn point at which the monsters in this area always appeared, a location that experience taught would exist at the furthest point inwards, closer to the center of the woods.

Though what good would that do her?

Don't think, she reminded herself, the moment will come. It led her closer to her destination, so worry about nothing for now, just watch for that moment. Survive. Then escape.

Forget the ache in her head, from the fall. Ignore her bare feet, battered and bruised from running through the forest. Pay no attention to the blood dripping from wrists, tightly bound by the stiff rope. Instead she followed the black orc, not fighting his lead, waiting for her moment.

Thus it took her a moment, after they entered a broad clearing, to notice what stood in its middle. A small hut, log walls and thatched roof, a single door beside a lone window, like something from a fairy tale. Ignoring the hand holding her bindings, she momentarily forgot the reality of her present world and stepped towards the building.

Surely the hut held the entrance to Benburgs.

Reality did not forget Amelia, instead it used the muscled orc to stop in her tracks before he pulled her towards a lone pine, its branches starting well above her head, just inside the clearing. Here, with one hand clenched around her right wrist he used the other to worry the knot of her binding loose on the other hand. Then, despite how much she fought, he forced her arms around the tree before he re-tied her wrists together.

Hugging the tree, her cheek resting against its trunk in an attempt at comfort, Amelia felt more vulnerable than ever. Again she struggled against the horrific thoughts of what he could do to her. None of which included his walking away. Not far, no more than twenty steps, but enough distance to prove she did not occupy the forefront of his mind. Further verification came as she watched his yellow eyes, gleaming in the fake moonlight. Darting about, from point to point in the woods and to an empty spot just to his right, they rarely settled upon her.

Bait!

Eric wanted killers. Why spend any excess energy on lust, when he could imbue his monsters with the cunning of a hunter.

Relief washed over her body. At least she would be spared that indignity.

Now she needed to escape the next, for it appeared the Uruk-hai expected Eric to survive the prior ambush, that he expected the Man with the Lantern to follow them to this clearing. Hoping his brethren would re spawn before he arrived. Nervous they would not, lacking confidence they could win even if they did.

Of course they would lose, Eric would be sure to stack the deck in his favour. Never mind the foul beast that stood nearby, she still needed to escape the foul beast whose fantasy created her nightmare.

Magic should offer the answer. In fact many within the mundane world considered a escape artist as the greatest magician of all time, but Houdini disguised reality through hidden keys and tricks. None of which were available to Amelia nor did her own magic, which truly manipulated reality, offer a better alternative. She did not know how to free herself, as she'd never learned how, and doubted she had enough time to figure it out.

It left brute force as one option, not her forte. She considered how Brennus taught her to harness her energy for a strike, but she also remembered what he said about breaking fingers with a punch. She doubted her thin wrists would fare any better in any attempt to break free of the rope. First she needed to weaken it.

Eyes on her captor, who all but ignored her, Amelia slid her hands along the tree’s trunk, searching for a knot, a broken branch, anything with which she could attempt to cut the rope. The bark offered only semi-sharp edges, brittle more than hard, it tended to crumble under the anything more than the slighted pressure. Yet when left with only bad options, you can either embrace them or give up. So she, gingerly at first, scraped the rope against the tree, pausing only when the Uruk-hai glanced her way.

Unsure if she made any progress, Amelia wondered if she could free herself before Eric arrived. If so, she could use him to distract the orc and vice versa.

Confirmation he would appear came over the next few moments, with the arrival of the rest of the orcs. She half expected them to rise, zombie like, from the ground. If not that, then in a shimmering like a Star Trek transporter. Not just appearing in a previously empty space, but that is what happened. Until she shared the clearing with six instead of one, all of whom now watched the trees.

They all knew, including Amelia, that the Man with the Lantern would be coming for them. And he felt angry.

Although not yet thwarted, even a temporary diversion proved enough to bring Eric’s true self to the surface. The deadly cocktail of anger, hate, selfishness that formed his core released, with Amelia considered the cause, source and target of it all.

A maelstrom of emotion that she felt at his approach. A storm cloud forming on the edge of her consciousness that bore down upon her like a force of nature.

All of them sensed his approach. Each set of eyes turned to watch as a light appeared, filtering through the branches. Brighter it grew, as it came closer, until no trees blocked it from their sight. The gloom of the clearing washed away by light from a lantern more powerful than it owned any right to shine. With the only darkness it could not dispel existing within its bloom. There stood Eric, faceless and larger than life in his ebon armour, the very image of evil intent.

Setting the lantern upon the ground, his shield appeared to take its place as he walked toward the Uruk-hai. They, in turn, spread out in an arc. But when they moved to shrink their circle he attacked.

His explosion of power, magically enhanced, closed the distance with the two who formed the horn on his right, furthest away from Amelia, before anybody knew he moved. One, his falchion moving as if through mud, found no time to even shout before Eric's sword slashed into his neck, not quite severing his head. The second did not receive such a merciful end, the man's shield having slammed into his chest, breaking through the metal of armour to create shards of metal that pierced a chest now full of shattered ribs.

Silent, after the first brief clash of metal, Eric watched his four remaining opponents. He knew what they would do, so when they attacked as one, screaming their rage, he met them with raised shield and sword, along with quick feet that allowed him to dance away, always keeping them to his front.

Now the clearing rang loudly with the sounds of battle. Eric ducking one vicious swing, ramming a shoulder into one attacker, knocking him into another, before crushing his sword against the helm of a third. But before he could finish this stunned opponent off, the fourth attacked with a furious barrage of thrusts and swings, forcing the man backwards, allowing his companion to regain his wits.

Throughout it all, Amelia felt the rage boiling off the man in the black armour. But this she gave him nothing, having shut down all emotion, locking her terror away in a metal box inside her mind. Attempting to no longer care whether she lived or died.

If she thought about it, the latter seemed more likely, with not a single strand of her rope binding frayed. It left her as a spectator, wondering how Eric moved so quick, how he did not tire, how he always guessed what his opponents would do. Not that he toyed with them, they seemed to fight with an intelligence she'd never seen in them before, tempering their normal all out assault with moments of defence and teamwork. But Eric realized this as easily as her and with the skill of a chest player maneuvered the four until two bumped into each other. Again he leapt to attack. One scrambled away, to the safety of the other two, but one remained slumped on the ground.

Nobody could doubt who would win.

But that did not matter to the Uruk-hai, they existed for one purpose. To attempt to defeat Eric. They would die trying, had done so innumerable times before. Instinct, at least as much as a construct could possess demanded they keep fighting. Including the one whose ribs Eric destroyed at the beginning of the fight.

Through pain that would cripple anything truly alive, it dragged itself along the ground. Forgotten, ignored, a sense of presence, rather than sound alerted Amelia to its arrival at her side. She recognized the palm print on its face, the eyes full of demented anger. Arms outstretched, inch by inch, it pulled itself towards her. Unable to escape his approach, she pulled back her legs, ready to kick out when it came closer.

However, just beyond her range it stopped and looked at her, as if trying to communicate. A moment of weakness, the recognition he appeared as much Eric's victim as her, or something else caused her lock to gaze onto his. To follow his eyes to his right arm, watching it inch toward her.

Somewhere in the decision tree that substituted for his mind, he’d discovered a new way to defeat his enemy. Three more times he slid forward. His goal reached, he accepted death.

With legs straightened, Amelia stretched a foot to brush his gauntleted hand away from the grip of his falchion. Hooking a toe over its guard, she dragged the weapon towards her. When a glance confirmed Eric still focused upon his opponents, she spun around the tree, to crouch and grasp the falchion. The blood from her wrists making it awkward to maneuver, as she drove its point into the ground, its back braced against the trunk. Then she sawed her arms up and down, the sword’s edge slowly severing each strand of the rope until her arms sprung apart.

No hesitation. Scrambling to her battered feet, she ran for the hut, all the while she expected to hear a panicked shout from behind. It did not come and when she reached the door she knew why.

Of course there would be a lock on this solid door, a Weiser deadbolt to be exact, which may as well be the door to a bank vault. Nor did the window, covered by shutters offer an alternative. So close to escape, yet when she threw herself against the door, she felt no give.

And she heard his laughter.

Between her moment of building and the dashing of hope, Eric dispatched the last three black orcs. Now, with lantern back in hand, his armour dispelled to wherever it waited, he walked towards her.

And he laughed.

Full of scorn, empty of amusement, he laughed at her.

But where he expected it to trigger terror, he miscalculated. His prior anger, that felt as he approached the clearing, measured nothing when compared to the rage she now felt.

It opened something inside of her.

Chapter 19 - Released

If asked to explain what she felt in that moment of pure rage, she would struggle to do so. Strong, powerful, potent, even magical. All words that approached the right territory of explanation, but all insufficient. Why would words exist to describe something experienced by so few across the span of humanity's history.

Suffice to say, Amelia no longer felt afraid.

The Man with the Lantern sensed her change. Both his laughter and his stroll towards her stopped, but not instinct. Eric's sword disappeared, replaced by his gun. He saw the climax of his pleasure about to escape, he acted to stop it from happening.

Lightning fast though his actions would appear to anyone else, Amelia found herself with all the time she needed to do whatever she wanted. If someone else, she might rip the doors off the hut, dash inside to the waiting door to Benburgs, but none of her personalities ever relied on physical strength and she did not consider that option. Others, Eric or any of the Boiis, would leap to the attack, looking to kill before being killed. But at her core rested the soul of Kenneth Cabot, who always avoided conflict, who once told Brennus about his technique of running away in order not to get hurt.

An interesting comparison. When left with little choice, the choice came easily, rather than give up it is natural to keep trying until the end. While now, blessed with infinite choices, the choice came just as easily. It seemed impossible to chose anything other than what defined her as a person. For her, like Ken before her, curiosity trumped all else.

While imprisoned, only one thought occupied her mind with near the regularity as those of escape, it involved both Ken's and Julia's experiments. What did the latter miss from prior, why did their attempts fail so often? Why couldn't they open a portal to rescue her?

Without conscious thought, she cast the spell, used so many times by Ken within his lab, and found the beacon she'd placed earlier that day. With her new power she saw it in a different way. Rather than just the sense of a beacon's presence, it seemed as if a transparent overlay settled across Amelia's magical consciousness, almost like a traffic controller's radar screen. A single blip flashing brightly, as if her constant casting of the imbued it with never dimming light. No reason Julia's team could not find and use it, unless Ken's theory missed an important factor?

Maybe.

She wished Ken knew more about their tests, that they gave him a chance to study their results, particularly their partial successes. What accounted for success and what for failure? Did a special infinity need to exist between caster and world? Maybe a world in which they regularly visited or one to which they previously created a door. But probably never one to which they never visited, like this one. Did they ever include a secured world as a parameter?

Impossible to say without further information. The only things Amelia could draw upon resided in her head, particularly Ken's problem solving skills. No, her skills. Silly to continue with that fabrication. Why pretend to be three, it only diluted the truth of herself. Time for Ken and Heather's memories to join into one, for the imagined Amelia to disappear, replaced by...

She smiled, it seemed fitting.

Alyce.

Apparently she too belonged amongst the rarest of the rare. So why not take on the name of her figurative mother, the girl who placed her on the path to this moment. One difference did exist, she knew magic existed, she could use it. Though just as with the original Alyce, she did not know what it could do.

However, scientists sought to solve mysteries, for the good of mankind or to satisfy their curiosity. That desire did not change when she accepted new names the prior two times, nor did it change this time.

Satisfied with how easy she solved the mystery of self, once she decided to accept the obvious truth, Alyce turned to the more difficult external question. Allowing her inward gaze to study the overlay in her mind she noticed the shadow of not quite beacons. She catalogued these shadows, finding one near her beacon, the rest usually grouped two together, each pair of varying distances apart, hundreds of them barely visible.

However, thirty three of them, including the one nearby, stood out as black blotches, each a barely different shade of black. What did it mean, what did the number thirty three signify? Why did the nearest appear like a spot, created with a black marker, on the first sheet of a pad of paper, while the rest looked more like the bleed through on sheets beneath?

Obviously they marked a spell, but did the darkness imply distance or something else?

In a burst of inspiration Amelia guessed precedence. The spell sought to find a beacon placed in another world, so these marks might point to something similar. Could it be every time she walked into or out a world's door it would create such a mark. Passive in nature, there would be no reason for it to shine brightly. though a door’s permanence may cause the mark to last longer, at least to her currently enhanced vision of the magical world.

Counting, within her mind, she numbered fifteen different doors she'd passed through after Gary turned Ken into Heather. From Gary's place to Dannika's to Ilina's to Pythia's Retreat to Tess's, all the hubs in between, and finally the trapdoor in Heather's bed. Fifteen of those she remembered both the entry and exit, which numbered thirty. If correct, it meant Eric carried her from the original world in which he captured her into his twisted amusement park, which added three more. The rest, all those barely seen, she guessed came from the time when she'd only been Ken, a time to which all links slowly dissolved.

Another mystery solved, but not escape enacted.

Until she asked herself what better representation of a world did she need than an actual door? In a magical sense, its existence seemed at least as tangible as the lintel stones used to create it. Counting carefully, backwards from the darkest shadow, the one nearest her bright beacon, she found the door that matched the number she wanted. The most memorable door through which any of her incarnations passed, because of its environmental impact.

Just as Gary once used physical memories to create her current form, so saw no reason she could not use the memories from her prior crossing through the door to re-create it.

With that thought, Alyce brought a new door into existence.

A door through which she stepped, just as a bullet flashed through the space now vacated.

Brutal cold, so unlike the unchanging weather of Eric's world, blasted through her body, the thin nightgown and bare feet offering no protection. Yet for a moment welcome. Only something this shocking could separate Alyce from the seemingly perfect mental world in which she manufactured her escape, but which lured her into just as deadly a trap. Too easily could she stay there, in a universe of her own, satisfying curiosity, solving problems, never leaving.

Not even her onetime Ken self could remain sane when that alone.

Cold.

Now she needed to escape from it and the voice she heard cursing on the other side of the door. She ran forward, past explosives frozen into walls of ice, bloody footprints marking her passage.

"Please let me in! Please, I need help."

The first hatch showed only a crack when she reached it, but proved wide enough for her to slip through. Each of the following three provided even less difficulty before they closed behind her. Through the last hatch, she took five steps, along the soft grass, towards the cinder block building and stopped. Unsure what to do, but knowing she no longer needed to run, Alyce sank to the soft grass.

Tremors started. The terror of the chase, the horror of her capture by the Uruk-hai, the expanse of her discovery, the exhilaration of her escape, and the terrible all combined to overwhelm. Despite memories of power, Alyce felt weak. Her body needed to process the physical and mental shock.

On battlefields across two millennia, Harald the Boii lost count of how many people he'd seen struck down by shock. He knew how to handle it, but, as watchman, duty and paranoia always took priority. Not until the hatches closed and before he assured himself of approaching reinforcements did he, carrying his TAR-21 assault rifle and a first aid kit, leave the bunker to help.

Alyce's only reaction to his presence was to clutch at the Mylar blanket he wrapped around her shoulders and to lay down when he helped her do so. Barely could she hear his questions, never-mind understand them.

"It’s really you, isn’t you? Are you hurt?" Harald asked. When she offered no answer, his hands and eyes sought injury, finding her bloodied feet and bloodied wrists, rope still wrapped around them.

Focused on the first, he did not look up at the sound of vehicles approaching. He knew they were the enforcements, that one of them would enter the bunker to secure the monitors, while others would take over for him. First aid never counted amongst his strong point, all his brothers knew that.

By the time Alyce returned from her hard shutdown and reboot, she found her wounds cleaned and wrapped, a large, black hoodie, marked with WisÅ‚a Kraká³w 1906, covering her nightgown, and herself laying on a couch inside the bunker. Six unfamiliar men filled the rest of the space inside the building, their attention as much on the monitors and preparations for an assault as upon her. Yet they noticed when she calmed and her eyes regained focus.

One of them approached, kneeled beside the couch, and said, "My name is Nic. You're safe, Heather, but from where did you come?"

"Oh no, I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go."

"We're happy you came to us. Specially Brennus, who is on his way with the others."

"But you don't understand. I created a new between Eric's world and your entryway. He's who kidnapped me. He was chasing me. I don't know if he can get through."

"Harald, take your triad and secure the passage."

"Too late, Nic." Harald said.

All eyes turned to the monitor on the wall. At their icy entrance stood a man in a black coat.

"That's Eric." Alyce said, stunned to see him. She thought he would already be running.

"Oh, is it?" Nic said, a predatory look appearing in his eyes. "I think we should let him in, before he gets cold."

When all the Boiis, except Harald, moved to the door, Alyce swung her legs off the couch, winced when bandaged feet touched the ground, but stood despite the pain. Seeing her move to follow, Nic stopped, the others continuing outside to meet their guest, and asked, "Where are you going?"

"To finish this."

Not the answer he expected nor one Nic could not argue against. Instead he nodded his head and offered his arm to lean upon, guiding her outside.

Unlike how he opened the hatches for her, Harald cycled Eric through one at a time. It gave the unwelcoming committee time to spread out, Nic and Alyce at their center, in preparation for his arrival.

When the final door slid open, Eric walked through the opening into the Boii's world. Still dressed in his black, hooded overcoat, he no longer displayed the demonic power that defined the Man with the Lantern. Like his intended victim, he too limped, proving neither escaped the chase unmarked. But he did not appear cowed. Ignoring the Boiis and the guns they pointed in his direction, he eyes settled on nearby Delphi. For a moment he stared at it curiously before he looked towards them, a familiar smile on his face.

"Ahh, good, the tour guides are here. I'll let the pretty one in the middle show me around your historical site."

"I didn't expect to see you again, Eric. I thought you would run." Alyce said.

"Well after I exhausted my supply of swear words, I stood there in shock at the realization you’d won. I did not consider running until I got over that harsh blow to my ego. However, when I did, I thought back to all of those I've chased over the years and realized none of them enjoyed the experience, I doubt I would feel any different. So I decided to go out in a blaze of glory and followed you. When I found out where you ran, I assume these are the Boiis, if so, good move, even that disappeared. All I had left was my curiosity. So here we are."

"Drop your weapons," Nic said.

Slowly Eric's hands unbuttoned his overcoat, before opening it wide, showing no weapons.

"Remove the coat."

Just as carefully, he followed the order, tossing it to his left side. Dressed in his regular t-shirt and jeans, Eric spun about, the hated smile never leaving his face. When one of the Boiis moved toward him, Alyce raised her hand to stop the man.

"Don’t approach him, he summons weapons from somewhere. It’s a trap."

"Ahh, Amelia, my dear, how can you betray your husband so. Ruining my cowardly plan to force your stern friends to kill me; death by cop, if you will. Though it’s your right, you did win, and despite my many horrific faults, I am a good sport."

"Bully for you."

Eric laughed and said, "Your treasured sarcasm is just one of the things that made you my favourite. So what's the plan? We just going to stand around all night looking at each other like idiots? If so, I should warn you, you won’t out idiot me tonight."

"Is he always this glib?" Nic asked.

"He likes to hear himself talk. Though this version of him is better than ever-so-casual, I'm-gonna-kill-you-Eric," she said, then gestured for Nic to bend over, so she could whisper a question. "What are we gonna do with him?"

"We're waiting on Brennus and his bunch, along with the leader of the Samodiva's team. They’d been preparing to set a trap to...umm..." Nic's paused and actually blushed.

"To try and catch my murderer when he dumped my corpse."

"Yes. They should be here soon."

So they stood still for nearly ten minutes and if none of them looked like idiots, neither did anybody speak. All felt relief when the hatch cycled opened and eleven people, all in winter parkas, stepped through. Five of them she recognized, when they lowered their hoods, but outside of a quick smile from Tess, none of Ilina, Brennus, Ash, or Brice spared her more than a moment's glance. Eric held their attention.

He liked that.

"Well are we all here? Or do we need to wait for someone else? If not, let me introduce myself. I’m Eric, the bad guy, who are you?"

“Nic, why is he still free?” Brennus asked, staring at Eric like someone watching a particularly hideous bug.

“Heather said he could summon weapons from the air. I didn’t want to chance it until you showed and gave us permission to shoot him where he stands?”

Ilina said, “No we want to ask him some questions.”

“I assume you’re with the Divas? Shouldn’t it be the Cabots who decide my fate, since one of theirs defeated me. I’ll tell everything to Amelia, or should I say Kenneth, but I won’t speak to anyone but her. Not even if you sink to my level. You’d really be better off killing me right now.”

“You don’t get to bargain for your life, murderer.”

“Harsh truth, from one so beautiful, yet you don’t understand. I don’t bargain for my life, I know that’s gone, I’m bargaining for my death. My offer, for up to four hours, I’ll answer any question asked by Miss Cabot, I know her too intimately to think of her as a Kenneth. You can even prompt her, but in return, at the end of those four hours, one of you will fight me. If I win, which we know is unlikely, you give me a day’s head start, if I lose, well you will be smarter than you are now.”

Unbothered by his attempt to embarrass her, of course she slept with him, this bunch prepared her to do so if needed, Alyce found herself wanting to go along with his plan. Maybe a bit of Stockholm Syndrome, but others reason existed. First, she knew he deserved to die, no doubt existed as to his guilt, and she expect to feel no remorse when it happened. The same would not be true if they sank to his level, which may be the case if they handed him to the Divas. She liked Ilina and Tess, but suspected their organization held some true nasties who would put him to the question.

They would want to learn about his accomplices, would not believe he did not need any, but she believed. In fact Alyce suspected she knew when he told the truth better than anyone, which offered another reason. If she heard his answers, she could distinguish the truth from lies. At the same time, maybe protect his friends, the solitaries, from persecution.

But most importantly, she wanted to stop being afraid. If they took him away, locked him up, she would always wonder, worry he might escape and come after her. And newfound power Alyce could not control, did not offer much comfort.

“Ilina, let’s take the offer,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“I just want it finished.”

Ilina did not allow this argument as much power over her decision making as had Nic, but she could not deny her own desire to end it. Only the expectations of her order argued against that approach and those faded when Brice reiterated his viewpoint.

“Better to end it now. Besides, Heather’s earned the right to decide for us all.”

An anticlimactic end, but soothing to Alyce's frazzled nerves. In fact, towards the forty five mark, she left the questioning to the others, Eric warming to a larger audience with whom he could share his brilliance.

Compulsively he searched for victims, the appetizer in his meal of terror. He explained how he always ran an appearance recognition spell, targeted at smaller town newspapers, where pictures of pretty girls, active in their community, provided a staple in space utilization. How he maintained records on hundreds at a time, weeding the list down by any number of arbitrary reasons. Though he never settled on a target until he assured her extraction. Flitting between university town and university town, trying to get a temporary moving or delivery job, so he could magic a door into as many mattresses as possible.

All him, he proudly bragged. Why trust others with your darkest secrets when you did not need their help.

When he started in on his wealth, how he played the stock market, the ways he harvested during war, Alyce could no longer take it. She hobbled back into the bunker, Brennus and Tess keeping her company, not demanding anything from her, silently keeping her company, providing the warmth of humanity and friendship she'd long missed.

At one point, Ash came inside to get a drink, a sword now belted at his wait. Understanding of people, rather than telepathy prompted him to answer unasked questions. "No, Brennus, this is for me to do, it is why you made me your champion. Be happy getting the girl. Don't worry, Heather."

She said, "He's good. He has a forest full of constructs on which he practices."

"I practice with my brothers, living and thinking men born to fight, hardened in battle uncounted. Any of them could slap this mite in oblivion, but it’s my job. I won the right by being our best."

At the right time he left the bunker, replaced by Ilina, who did not want to watch. Soon after Brice appeared and said, "They're tossing him off the ledge."

"It's over, Heather." Brennus said, pulling her tighter to his side with the arm wrapped around her shoulders."

"Could you all call me Alyce?"

Epilogue

As they drove through the streets, Alyce looked for things she remembered. But in thirty years, much can change, not least yourself. Yet the school, the store, the park, all looking older, provided a needed anchor to the past.

Nervous, she pulled down the sun visor to check herself in the mirror.

"Don't worry, Alyce, you look great," Brennus said from the driver seat.

Not taking his word, duty demanded him to say that, she adjusted a few strands of hair, before deciding he spoke the truth. Five months of relaxation, after her ordeal, cleansed most of the horror from her eyes. During that time she became a sun worshiper, loving its warmth and the sound of happy people at a beach. She’d laid about all across the Southern Hemisphere, from Sydney, where the bikinis were small, too Ipanema, where they were smaller.

"So much so she will likely join the long line of those who see me as a cradle robber."

"You are two millennia older than I am, and that's after rounding down. Besides people on that list probably think I am a gold digger."

"Good thing you're rich. I don't have to worry about you taking advantage of me while I'm taking advantage of you."

Something she owed to her unlamented, fake husband. The pretend marriage proved real enough that, with the help of her family and the Divas, along with the embarrassment of the solitaires who knew Eric, she inherited most of the wealth he bragged about in the end. Stocks, property, even her very own world. As long as she stayed away from Hambley Manor and Hambley Woods, the world provided an escape when she needed quiet. And without access to Beck, she doubted she would keep the long hair she vainly enjoyed.

But other than that contact, particularly after she rebuffed a Diva request to change her appearance so people did not confuse her with Heather, Alyce did not have any official contact with either group.

Tess and Ilina, particularly the former, remained good friends, but they did not talk business. While the Cabots, happy with her safety, pleased with her role in earning a favour from the Divas, and worried about her new powers, something those in the know realized when they heard her new name, returned to mostly ignoring her. All except her father, who instantly understood a benefit to her change.

So he recruited Brennus to help her create a new identity. Brennus readily agreed. He liked her very much, knew she sometimes still needed to feel protected, enjoyed how they could silently share companionship, welcomed her independence that allowed them to part for days or weeks without judgment, and hoped that if she one day reversed the Cabot curse, as she planned, she could also reverse that cast by Pythia.

The two men's plan lead to Brennus joining Angus's "company". Which resulted in her wearing another wedding gown, sporting an enormous rock on her finger, and adding adding Prausi after Alyce on her id. The next phase brought them to a street and in front of a house at which she stared. Not until her door opened, Brennus there to help her from her seat in their Escalade did she blink.

"Don't be nervous, Alyce."

"I wish I could let her know who I really am. Though I doubt she could believe it. Do think she will like me?"

"From what you and Angus say, I expect your mother will love you. He says you won't be the first wife, whose husband travels so much due to the business, who she wants to mother."

"I wish I could call her that for real."

Infelftration

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

CAUTION: Language

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

17,500 < Novella < 40,000 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Bonnie Tyler is not the only one who needs a hero. Sometimes even those who seem equipped to handle everything on their own need one just as much. Maybe they don't need him to be strong, fast or fresh from the fight, but they probably don't want him to be a zero.

Fortunately, it is easy to turn a zero into a hero. First you brace the bottom left of the Z, then tie a rope to the top bar and pull until it rotates to form an N. Now reinforce both upright bars, before disconnecting the middle connector. Take the connector and cut it to fit between the two bars. Lastly, fasten the newly sized bar midway up the two vertical bars to form an H. There you go, you now have a H ero.

Infelftration

Note: I submitted the first 6 chapters a few years back. In doing so, I broke one of my rules, assuming I would finish when not finished. Midway through the final chapter, I hit a wall where I did not feel like writing. Earlier, this year I asked Erin to purge those publishings, which seemed to provide some incentive to finally finish.

Chapter 1

Impossible to stop himself, every time the end of shift bells jingled, he looked out the window. Sometimes he would keep watching as the workers excitedly poured forth from the innumerable factories making up The Big S’s Workshop. Watching and wanting to become one of them.

Yet the longer Snorri stared, the greater grew the chance someone would look towards the N&N Building and see his big, fat head. This could result in anything from a pitying grimace to a shouted, "What you looking at, freak?” The only guarantee, he would like himself less as a result. Something that, at some point, should become impossible, but he'd not yet reached bottom.

How could he live in one of the happiest place in all lands, when he felt so miserably unhappy?

Ducking, as much as he could, before anybody spotted him, Snorri indulged himself in a moment with his favourite fantasy. Where the manager of one of the factories presented him with a master's red velvet suit, trimmed in glossy white fur, as the Yule cycle’s top producer. Then nobody would consider him a freak, they would respect and want to be like him.

A silly dream. Rather than the best, he recognized himself amongst the worst. He did not even wear the green of a journeyelf, just the grey of an apprentice. The most incompetent apprentice at The North Pole.

His big head matched his big everything, particularly big hands. Too big to make widgets. He’d tried; taken all the requisite courses, studied all the guidelines, knew all the secrets, but every attempt ran afoul of his sausage like fingers. Backwards Snorri, about as nice a taunt he ever received, yet so appropriate. Everyone knew an elf grew larger with each skill he perfected, providing room for more knowledge. Yet Snorri stood taller than those who turned gadgets into thing-a-ma-jigs, never mind someone who couldn’t make gadgets or even the widgets that became gadgets. Only the masters and grandmasters stood larger, though none of them knew as much as Santa.

It placed Snorri outside the rigid norm, even led to whispers calling him a human changeling. And no evidence, not even the fact he’d lived over ten times as long as the oldest human, changed the minds of the prejudiced. They did not even believe Lore Master Harald’s statement that, as good a story as it made, no examples existed where humans exchanged their baby for an elf baby. Never mind the fact nobody could remember the last elf baby.

So they stuck Snorri, all by himself, to toil from before the others woke until after they fell asleep, prepping silver bell cartridges for the Naughty or Nicerator. Slotting the 10k cartridges, containing judgment bells, into the machine. Only during Yule cycle crunch, with many decisions every second did he share the space, but early in the cycle he remained all alone except when...

“Hey, what a surprise, Snorri is working late again.” Tyr said.

Turning, Snorri looked up and then even further up, to see the newcomer who balanced a tray of food on his single hand. “Hello, Master Tyr, what’s for supper?”

“The usual. Any spectacular naughties today?”

Many reasons existed why the one-handed Grandmaster occupied the top of Snorri's good guy list, beyond the meal deliveries. The elf’s size, almost as big as the Big Guy himself, meant Tyr did not notice his weird size. Plus his place in the hierarchy allowed him some freedom on how to use his time, which often meant bringing some joy to the Pole’s outcasts. With Snorri, this involved reviewing what tarnished a bell.

“I doubt you’ll find anything, Master Tyr. It’s too early in the cycle for the machine to finalize most decisions, particularly with the recent repeal of the extended licentious amendment.”

“About time. The only reason Michael’s staff implemented the rule was because they worried about running out of soul space in seven hundred thousand millennia. They never thought about the amount of business they would lose to their competitor. But don’t get me started on Heaven’s bureaucrats. I’m here to be entertained by the amazing creativity of humanity and with the old school naughty criteria, it takes real planning to tarnish out this early in the year. Go ahead and eat, while I see what the birds found.”

“I didn’t notice anything, Master Tyr. ”

“That’s because you never look, Snorri.”

Warmed by the companionship, Snorri dug into his meal of turkey, dressing, potatoes, peas, gravy, a roll for sopping up the remainder and a steamy cup of cider to wash it down. Good food providing a counter to the distraction of Tyr’s chortled explanation, only stopping the master once to ask, “I didn’t think humans used vacuums for that?”

“Which is why it’s naughty. Though, personally, I give young Leroy points for creativity. But enough with the mortal souls, how’s your immortal one?”

“Same old.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Tyr said, the recent glee siphoned from his voice. “Do you want me to try and find you a new assignment?”

“I don’t know. As boring as it sometimes is, this is the best job I’ve had.”

Standing, Tyr grasped Snorri's shoulder with a supportive grip before he reached for the tray of dirty dishes. He said, “I’ll check and let you know. In the meantime, chin up. I feel, like Rudolf, there will come a time when you’ll step forward as the hero.”

“Master Tyr, if it happens, don’t let me forget my freakish friends like he did.”

“I’ll try ” Tyr said, with a smile. Then with a wave of his handless arm, he left the apprentice to his self imposed overtime.

Thinking about other assignments, he prepped two more cartridges, his self-maligned hands moving in a blur of magnificent efficiency, before Tyr’s prophecy took wing. Working on another cartridge, he heard the machine ding, a warning that it would momentarily spit out a bell. An early judgment, but as Tyr said, humans often proved creative, sometimes creatively evil. Yet, when he spun to catch the bell as it popped out, Snorri felt unprepared to find it a dull, flat black. A symbol reserved for only the most naughty.

Trembling, Snorri ran over to the never-before-used intercom and pushed the button to speak. Not sparing time for pleasantries, he said, “Tell Santa that I just got a black bell.”

‘A black bell?” The operator asked, shock in his voice.

“Yes. Someone wants to ruin Christmas!”

~o~O~o~

An aura of savagery should seem out of place in an office permanently decked out for the holidays, but it's existence made the Grandmasters feel more alive than they’d felt in years. It brought forth Santa’s true self, made him feel like he sat upon Hliðskjálf, rather than a red, cushioned, armchair like throne. But like those days, he sat and listened as one of his sons urged him to go on the attack. Unlike then, his son’s short pants and striped knee high socks stole much of his appearance of ferocity.

“Before we can attack, we'll need permission.” Santa said.

“We do?” Thor asked. “But the pact gives us control over Yule.”

“Just the celebration, not the observation.”

Tyr said, “Which may prove difficult. There are rumours some in the Host grow nervous with the success of our celebration, thinking it comes at the expense of their observation. This is particularly true amongst those who originally disagreed with the pact. ”

“It’s their own fault. For all their blather about their Lord creating humanity, they really don’t understand humans. Short lived, short memory, and shorter attention spans. Some are useful, most are useless. Who cares what the latter celebrate? Why would you want all of them to worship you?" his brother asked.

“There is something to be said for overwhelming numbers.”

“Please, Father. Everybody knows you did not propose the pact out of fear of their numbers, but because you expected their intransigence to trigger Ragnarok .”

“And just imagine my chagrin to learn they’d already co-opted Loki.” Santa said, his expression of beaming benevolence temporarily cracking at mention of the slayer of one of his sons. An enemy with whom the pact harnessed him.

“Where is the two-faced bastard?” Tyr asked. “I expected him to be at this meeting.”

“He’s gone to plead our case before the Host.”

Tyr gawked in disbelief, but Thor turned as red as his cap, which his father expected to squirt off his head when the steam blasted out. Before that happened, his most impetuous son shouted, “What?”

“Trust me, Thor. And trust in Loki’s hate.”

“You expect me to believe he hates them more than us?”

“Of course not, he at best feels ambivalent towards them. It’s us he hates, but...let me explain in a way you can understand. Hatred is like Heiðrún’s mead, while ambivalence is akin to that beer crap in the human world. Like sex with your Járnsaxa versus your hand. Battle to checkers. Living versus existing. For Loki, hatred is breath. Ambivalence is nothing.”

A slight misjudgment. Within the Council of the Host’s antechamber, Loki’s ambivalence slowly turned into annoyance. His visits often lead to curses, even physical attacks, but never before did anyone force him to cool his heels. By the time the golden doors swung open, annoyance transformed into pique. And when he realized that seven deputies, rather than the archangels to whom they reported, sat at the front of the chamber, pique turned to cold anger. A mistake on their part, for this state always brought out his best.

He should have guessed. Sitting in the center chair, he saw the Angel Yesenia, Uriel’s enforcer. Uriel, the last holdout against the assimilation of the Norse pantheon into the Heavenly Host, who’d only agreed when Michael promised to spread them throughout the Host and to marginalize the leaders as a child’s fable. Uriel, whose power waxed as Michael’s waned, as for the first time under the latter’s stewardship the faith lost ground.

“Next item. A petition from the North Pole, speaking for them is one Loki the Trickster.” Yesenia said, pleased at how smoothly she reminded her colleagues to consider his words for any treachery, while not offering him any grounds for complaint. He'd signed the Pact with that very name. “What matter do you bring before us?”

They knew, of course. But that did not diminish the need for a show.

“A bell.” Loki said, holding up the object, drawing their gaze to it by flicking it across his fingers, as a gambler would with a poker chip. “Tarnished beyond all redemption for the laughable sin of thinking about ruining Christmas.”

“You are not disturbed by the thought?

“I rarely value anything Odin, I mean Santa Claus, holds dear.”

Yesenia asked, “May I see it?”

Fighting an urge to toss it to her, in the hope she would fumble the catch, Loki gestured towards a page, to take it forward. Studying it, she settled upon the one distinguishing mark. Aloud, she questioned, “Agatha Lipton?”

One of the others, an angel Loki did not recognize, said, “Agatha Lipton, I recognize her name. She is a believer of one of the Protestant religions, quite devout. She even built a church. I struggle to believe your sign as true. How did you come upon any evidence?”

“Santa’s two ravens gather information for him,” he answered, without answering.

“Muninn?”

“If it came from him, it would be too late to petition. No, this information probably came from Huginn.”

“And you believe it?”

“No more than anybody in this room. After all, I am sure none of you believe thought is as powerful as action?”

“You seem a poor Ambassador?” Yesenia said, not raising to his bait.

“Odin, I mean Santa, who has played victim to it many times, believes I can use my honeyed tongue to convince you to let him send forth an agent who will determine if thought may become deed. Though he’s probably just looking for a chance to remind some of his Einherjar of who they were, before they became his ever so adorable elves.”

“I agree. Any more questions? Then let us vote. I say no to the North Pole’s petition”

Only Kellian, Michael’s assistant, voted yes, everyone else voted no. Bowing in acceptance, Loki said, “Then I guess I will use my honeyed tongue on my old foe. Should I explain to him how nobody will spare a thought for Santa, if Devout Agatha does something worthy of a tarnished bell? That it is not him, but your boss who people will doubt. Do you think that will prove enough to spare me his wrath?“

That thought got their attention.

Naive children, Loki thought, later in the day as he walked from hall. So gripped by the desire to protect their Lord, while faithfully believing he watched over them. Yet when confronted by a known trickster, they proved themselves no different than any of his defeated enemies, rushing to a decision in an attempt to show themselves unaffected by his words.

What they failed to recognize, is how either result made him happy. Admittedly, he did prefer obtaining tempered approval for the one-eyed bastard's plan, since for a time, it would make life at the North Pole less frosty.

~o~O~o~

Neither Tyr nor Thor could restrain a groan as they entered their father’s office and found him staring dubiously at a remote control, while Loki looked on with his normal sneer. With approval to act contingent upon proof, they tasked the Trickster, along with Huginn and Muninn, to gather additional information on Agatha Lipton. Unfortunately the threesome liked to create PowerPoint presentations and, what with two of them being ravens and the third an asshole, they tended to use a Christmas themed template consisting of a border of flashing, Christmas lights while the font evoked candy canes.

Hearing their groans, their father looked up and said, “Good, you’re here. Can one of you get this infernal device to work?”

Taking the remote, Tyr changed the input and a slide with a link labeled 'Infelftration' appeared on their television.

By this time they knew quite a bit about Agatha; from her childhood, with sixteen straight years on the children's nice list, right through today as the president of the family’s road construction business. A role that made her the most important person in Penniesburg County.

Yet in between these periods of small town living, they found fertile ground for conspiracy and years when she did not even end up as a neutral (the default level for an adult on the naughty or nice list). Agatha’s years at university opened her up to a larger world, in particular she found herself, as many did during the 80s, drawn to the nuclear disarmament movement. A cause worth believing in, a cause she did wholeheartedly believe in, and a cause that frustrated her more as the years passed and her government did not respond in the way she wanted. In this frustration, she found a kindred soul in Darren Wynchynski.

Unlike Agatha he grew up on the naughty list. Rebellious from day one, he visited juvi for the first time at age 13 after beating up a classmate who would not hand over his lunch money. In and out of detention centers for the rest of his teen years, he took a hard look at his life when he realized his next time in a jail would result in adult prison. This led to a decision to give up petty crime for rabid anti-establishment.

Easy to believe Agatha fell under his Svengali like sway, as went the story upon her return to Penniesburg, a toddler in arms, her violent, soon-to-be ex-husband locked away for a failed plot to bomb a bar catering to air force pilots. Most everyone believed her, look how great she'd turned out as a boss and how much she did for the community? For a time, only the most cynical of old farts continued to question; however, old farts are a renewable resource and the newest breed now included those who once worked for her.

However, old fart elfs never die off, nor does the joy they bring stop them from growing more cynical. Through millennia they saw too much of the heavens and its reflection amongst humanity for that.

Unmoved by her good deeds, they conducted further investigation and learned she kept in contact with Darren throughout his imprisonment. Never a visit nor a letter, nothing direct. But through friends in the movement, some of whom now lived in Penniesburg County and worked for her.

Even when Darren's sentence ended it appeared they stayed physically apart. In fact, he seemed to drop off the face of the earth. Then a few days ago, Muninn discovered Darren living under an assumed name in Penniesburg county, working for the company who provided security for Agatha’s businesses. None of the elfs believed this coincidental, expecting the two planned whatever triggered the Naughty or Nicerator."

The problem, Santa's team could not discover that plan.

Despite the myths spread by his P.R. team, neither Huginn nor Muninn could read minds. Equipped with Godlike hearing and minds like computers, they could listen in on any spoken conversation. For example, it was something overheard in a parking lot that triggered their investigation; however, in a time of so much written communication, they lacked the ability to open letters or hack emails and texts.

The North Pole team needed to put eyes and ears on the ground.

From his seat behind the laptop, Loki said, "We've been searching for a way to get one of your elfs into either Agatha's or Darren's circles. However, both they and their followers are amongst the most closed off, paranoid people I've ever encountered. Always wary of the authorities sending undercover agents into their midst."

"Is that admiration I hear, Loki?" Thor asked.

"For their lackeys? Most definitely. I can't tell you how often I wished for such a loyal and quiet group; however, I've too often found myself followed by people like their leaders. It's such a nuisance when those who supply the manpower and the human passion think that is enough to make them my equal. It is always great fun to prove them wrong."

"And how will we do that?"

Tapping the right arrow key, bringing up the next slide, which showed a good looking, young man, Loki said, "Here we see Agatha Lipton's son, Justin. Somewhat spoiled, impulsive, and in his second year of university. One reason why I am sure he does not play any role in his parent's plot is because I doubt he could manage a secret like his elders. Yet his mother dotes upon him. This, combined with his general weakness of character, is something that might provide the key to get past their guard."

Triggering the next slide, which showed the cover of Journey into Mystery #85, he waited for the expected interruption. Thor obliged and said, “Hey, that’s one of my picture books. Did you know I’m also in movies? I’m a superhero. I guess you know, since you’re the villain. Is he a fan? Are you wanting me to convince him to help us out?"

"Umm...no! Actually, though Justin does enjoy comic books, he is more interested in ones like this."

"What in the name of Asgard is that?"

"To be honest, I don't fully understand it myself. It's the cover from something called Inu x Boku SS. A type of comic book from the Far East called a magma, though it doesn't seem to have anything to do with volcanos."

"Why does that girl have pink hair?" Santa asked.

"And a leash around her neck?" Tyr asked.

"She looks cute in that black dress, particularly with the apron." Thor said. "Is it wrong that I'm kind of turned on by her? How old is she?"

"I can't answer most of those questions. Though, based on the many picture of drawn girls, all wearing similar outfits, we found on Justin's cloud, it appears you are not alone, Thor."

Tyr said, "Are you sure you are not jumping to conclusions."

"We also found a number of videos like this." Loki said.

Mouth dropping open at another reminder of humanity's 'ingenuity', Tyr said, "Okay, you’re not jumping to conclusions."

"How come my drawing never gets to make thunder with big breasted, blue haired girls?"

Knowing how easily such a topic could sidetrack them, Santa said, "As stimulating as these appears, I don't see what good it does us?"

"There are actual girls who dress like these drawings, who go to conferences and let horny guys, like Justin, take pictures of them. I'm thinking we hook him with one of his fantasy girls. And since he visits home regularly, if he takes her with him, she can snoop."

"We are not what I would term flush with fantasy girls. Even my Valkyrie ended up working with Frejya as part of the Pact.”

Tyr said, “About that, I always wondered. Were you drunk when negotiated the Pact?”

“Well I do admit I kind of pushed Yeshua at first about his powers. And maybe when he transformed some water into wine, I may have asked him if he could transform wine into mead. When he did, I kind of had to drink it, for politeness sake. But only about a hogshead, so I might have been a bit tipsy, but definitely not drunk.”

“Really, father?”

“This is not the time, Tyr. Let’s hear Loki’s plan.”

“Have any of you ever looked at your Einherjar since they got elfed up?”

“Of course.” Thor said.

“Notice anything about them?”

“They don’t have beards.”

Loki said, “No they don’t. Anything else?”

“They’re smaller.”

“That they are. And...”

“I don’t know, they’re just elfs.”

“Anybody else? No? Have you all been in the mead today? Forgive me. Okay, watch this.”

The next slide started out with a picture of an elf on the left side and a picture of Ririchiyo from Inu x Boku SS on the right. Through animation, those two pictures grew closer and closer together, Loki expecting a eureka moment from his audience at any moment.

“You idiots, your elfs are half a breath away from looking like the Asian girls these drawings are based upon. Thick black hair, petite features and bodies. After changing the mouth breathing behemoths into their current form, how hard would it be to change one of them into an Asian babe?”

“But they’re men.”

“They were men, Thor. But now, neutered as they are, they may as well be dolls.”

“I guess I kind of see it,” Santa said, running a hand through his beard while he thought. “How big of elf?”

“Up to about 3.5 ell, which is around 65 inches in our target's parlance.”

“Tyr?”

“Gadget maker size, at least. Probably more like an elf who makes thing-a-ma-jigs.”

"Of course it would be someone that size. We hardly have enough of them to keep up with orders. Why does it take most of these idiots so long to learn anything? It took over a thousands years, as humans measure it, for us to grow enough skill to start my gifting efforts and, since then, only two handfuls have taken any steps beyond gadgeteering."

"Father, it's not like you asked your Valkyrie to gather craftsmen. Most of them were lunkheads."

"Blame it on clever sons and clever enemies who made me wish for the company of simpler sorts in my hall. So clever sons and clever enemy, how are we going to manage this and meet all of our manufacturing deadlines?"

"Snorri!" Tyr said, struck by inspiration. "He's looking for something new to do."

"Who?"

"The elf who discovered the bell. You quarantined him and the other elf he talked to, so they don’t tell everyone and spread panic."

"Oh, you mean Snorri the Berserker. Really, Tyr, do you think he is a good choice?"

“He’s the right size and he doesn’t play a role in production.”

"Was he the one who died at the Battle of Hafrsfjord with thirty two arrows in him, just after biting out the throat of his final opponent?" Thor asked.

"Only twenty seven arrows." Tyr said.

Loki asked, "Isn’t he the one so full of rage and venom that Brokkr needed to pull him out before he broke the Elfing machine? You know we're looking for bubbly and sweet not venom and bile.”

“Life as an elf has drained all of his rage and venom. He’s rather sad, I’m sure he would happily take on a new job. Besides, he is going to need to learn a bunch of new stuff and despite his size, he’s not full of manufacturing knowledge.”

“Okay,” Santa said. “He will work, I’ll give you the job of convincing him to volunteer. Thor, run a production contest amongst the widget makers. A contest should provide the needed buffer so you can take the winning team off the production line and train it as our strike force, in case we get the needed information. I’ll talk to Brokkr to get him and his brothers working on a transformation machine. Loki, start establishing an identity for our agent. Plus, based on that video you showed, make sure to obtain him, well I guess, her a Class 4 Sin license.”

“I’ll make it a Class 5.”

“Is that really needed?”

“I spared you when picking the video. There was this other movie, with a strange plant and...no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Chapter 2

Though somewhat ashamed to admit it, even to himself, Snorri felt a moment of excitement when he learned Santa's plan to quarantine him. The thought of something new, no matter how bad, just felt interesting. He did not get many opportunities with interesting.

Unfortunately the building housing the Naughty or Nicerator served as the best quarantine spot at the North Pole. Life did not change for the better, but for the worse. He now needed to share his space with the elf who manned the other end of the intercom on the night of the black bell. Everything came easily to Dagmar, making him Snorri's opposite, his skills at crafting almost making him a master, which resulted in the cushy job, early each Yule cycle before enough thing-a-ma-jigs were created, of elfing Santa's intercom.

Dagmar did not take to quarantine with aplomb. He ranted and raved, wept and cursed, but, throughout it all, he blamed Snorri the Outcast.

Always before, Snorri could escape the many taunts and jeers tossed in his direction, but not these. They slowly chipped away at the civility in which he always tried to protect himself. With his civility shield blasted away, he found temporary solace in the better-than-hims. Unlike Dagmar, he did not wallow in self pity and selfishness while their very existence faced the greatest threat it ever faced.

But righteous indignation proved difficult to maintain. Instead, when his annoying companion finally grew quiet he found himself thinking, really thinking for the first time about the human world and humans themselves. A world imperfect.

He found the idea of imperfection rather attractive. However, Dagmar would not allow him the distraction, regaining the wind needed to return to his whining.

"Is this all you do? Just place bells in cartridges and cartridges in the machine? You would think we could make a machine to do it, but then what would they do with you?"

If outside, amongst the rest of the elves, this is when everybody would laugh and call Snorri names, which would always cause him to slink away in embarrassment. The N&N building did not allow for escape, slinking or otherwise. Without that option, something new came over him. Actually, not new, it felt too natural, too comfortable. Even though he could not remember feeling this way before. He suspected he owned the power to stop the taunts, he just needed...what did he need?

Fortunately for his tormentor, before Snorri discovered the answer, the door of the N&N building opened and in walked Tyr. Rushing to the one-handed Master's side, Dagmar, almost groveling, said, "Master Tyr, oh, Master Tyr, please, you must know I won't say anything. Just let me go back to my work. Please?"

"Don't worry, Dagmar. You will soon be free, your services in the crafting house is needed."

"Oh, that is so good to hear, Master Tyr." Dagmar said. "I am glad to know Santa recognizes that I can do so much more than this manual job. Best to leave it to the freak."

In that moment Snorri discovered what he needed. Not through thoughtful evaluation, he would never be a thinker. But following behind Dagmar, he found himself stopped just short of an arm length away from the other elf. Something he learned when the sudden straightening of an arm, hand clenched, ran into elf face resistance before fully straightening.

He knew he should feel ashamed as Dagmar crumpled to the ground. In fact, he instantly felt it, but not at the level normally felt after an encounter with someone calling him a name. Probably because he also felt release of pride, adrenaline and anger, all of which felt rather great. Yet as the sub seconds passed, as Snorri watched Dagmar flop upon the floor, then looked up at the wide-eyed Tyr, he suspected those might not number amongst the correct feelings in this instance.

"Sparkling tinsel," Tyr swore. "Where did that jab come from? Actually don't answer, I'm guessing Dagmar proved his arrogant best, which I suspect is my father's true reason for quarantining him. Besides, you're you and we knew the treatment did not fully take."

"I don't understand, Master Tyr?" Snorri asked.

"Umm...ignore that. Won't you, Snorri? There are more important things we need to talk about, but maybe I should run Dagmar to the medics first. I'll be back."

Not giving Snorri a chance to respond, he scooped up Dagmar, with his good hand and hurried from the building. After he did so, Snorri's head exploded with questions.

Why did the punch make him feel so good? Why didn't Tyr immediately punish him? What treatment did they make him undergo, which even a master could not mention? Why did Tyr speak in a strange accent when he said he would be back? Would he punish him? Why did the master appear in the first place, he did not bring the normal tray of food? And why did all of these questions make Snorri feel so excited, so much so he did not want to hide it?

He could no longer deny it, he needed something new. And he hoped his deeply satisfying punch did not ruin his chances to experience it. Satisfying enough that he found himself first reliving it in his mind, then acting it out with appropriate sound effects. Unfortunately he found himself in such a reenactment when the master returned, who did not buy Snorri’s roundabout nose scratch attempt.

"Am I in trouble, Master Tyr?"

"Wrong first question, Snorri?"

"Umm...ahhhh?"

"Is Dagmar okay, Master Tyr?"

"Oh? Oh yeah. Is Dagmar okay, Master Tyr?"

"Just a headache. Plus he is filled with a desire for revenge. Why are you smiling?"

Snorri said, "Because that will give me another chance to punch him. It was fun."

"Fun shouldn't come at the expense of others."

"Someone shoulda told him and his cronies about that."

"True, but...I don't know. Just try not to punch anyone again, even if you think they deserve it."

"Like Dagmar?" Snorri asked, immediately realizing his mistake. The look on the usually mild mannered master’s face caused him to add. “Got it, no more punching.”

About to let out what showed on his face, Tyr took a deep breath and focused on his assignment. He said, “It’s about the black bell, we’re looking for someone to...”

“I volunteer!”

“Please let me finish, Snorri. This might prove very dangerous.”

“Then make me do it as punishment for punching Dagmar. And enjoying it so much.”

“We’re not going to punish you. I just think you need to be fully informed of the dangers and weirdness you might encounter if you volunteer.”

“Master Tyr, you’re real smart. Way smarter than me. I don’t want you to tell me anything because you might convince my head it is the wrong thing to do. But my stomach knows it’s right, so just let me volunteer.”

“It will be dangerous. We will turn you into a human and send you to their world.”

“I don’t care, it can’t be worse than being an elf.”

~o~O~o~

When Tyr, Thor, and Loki took their seats, Santa said, “Thanks for coming everybody. I just wanted to get a quick update on Operation Silver Bell."

"What?" Thor asked. "When did we name it that?"

"We didn't. I did. It's a great name."

"It sucks."

"No, no, hear me out. This all started with tarnished bell, which we want to turn silver. Plus there is the Christmas carol tie in. See it works in multiple ways."

"Really, Father. Can't you ever let Odin out from behind the beard? This is about who we were, not who we are. Can't the one-eyed bastard, we sometimes liked, come out to play? Let's name it something like Operation Vengeance."

"How about Nutcracker?"

"Better, but still too Christmasy."

Loki said, "But you need a good acronym, so you need to use more than one word. It does not even need to make sense, as long as the acronym works. For example, Bangers and Mash gets you BAM!"

"If we flip around the words in Father's option we get a good acronym," Tyr said.

Thor's face momentarily crunched up in thought, before a smile took over and he said, "I like it, so how about Operation Bastard Sword?"

"Boom Shakalaka," Santa said.

Tyr said, "Boom Stick."

"How about Bacon Sandwich?" Loki asked.

"Bacon sandwich," Thor said. "I love any type of sandwich with bacon. Let's go with Bacon Sandwich."

"Very well. Next, let's hear everybody's update on their part of Operation Bacon Sandwich. For my part, I convinced Brokkr to modify the Elfing machine to create our agent. Tyr, did you convince our agent to volunteer?"

"Yep, days ago, though Snorri needed no convincing. He's been going through the material Loki provided ever since."

Loki said, "Additionally, I subcontracted a minor Japanese deity to train our agent and am putting the final touches on a secret identity."

"Okay, let's perform the transformation today, we don’t want to run out of time." Santa said.

Tyr said, "I'll get Snorri."

"And I'll inform Kami Sensual Scroll to prepare for her student." Loki said.

"Let's meet at Brokkr's workshop in an hour."

After the others left, Thor asked the empty room. "Doesn't anybody want to hear about the contest? No? This is such bacon sandwich."

~o~O~o~

Even the incompetents kept busy at the North Pole. Outside of a short break around the big night, the elfs worked full time at crafting, polishing, stacking and stuffing. They liked to keep active, it felt normal and made for the wondrous sleep of the well earned tired. Sure they liked to visit with friends at meal time and for the short period between supper and bed, but staying up late did not exist in their DNA.

Four full work/sleep cycles after volunteering, operating only on intermittent naps, with no all night sleep, left Snorri feeling strange. Tired? For sure, but not ambitious enough to get up from his chair and go to bed. Hungry? Not at all, but still craving sugary treats.

He felt blah.

Yet never more mentally stimulated. Over stimulated if anything. After his discussion with Tyr, the master took him from the N&N building and deposited him in a room inside Santa’s headquarters. Sometime later a most amazing pair of companions joined him, an electric pair who went by the names of television and PS4. Along with these came a number of rectangles, some shaped as plastic cases and others that consisted of flimsy books.

Research material to help him go undercover as a human.

Looking through each, staring at the glossy and fantastical covers, Snorri found himself drawn to one of the less colourful. A plastic case with a number of faces and the words, Sleeping Dogs. Inside he found a circle of strange metal, one side covered in a picture like the box. After some trial and error, followed by a perusal of some books telling him to do the same thing in multiple languages, he fed the metal circle to the PS4. This caused the television to show pictures he could manipulate with a weird plastic wand.

Since this discovery, with only short breaks for food and naps, he allowed himself to become Wei Shen. An undercover cop trying to bring down the Triad in a place called Hong Kong.

Wondrous. And he controlled almost everything. The clothes he wore, so much more diverse and colourful than his normal grey apprentice elf number. Plus the cars and motorbikes, Snorri could only imagine how much better they could make the North Pole. Nor could he ignore the fighting. It spoke to him; he felt that it, not crafting for Santa, defined his purpose in life.

The only problem with Sleeping Dogs, Snorri knew he should read and watch the other rectangles. And he constantly told himself he would do so. He just needed to finish the current mission. But each end led him to the next start, to find out where the story would take him.

Even the diversions distracted him. For example, he currently found himself in Club Bam Bam playing the karaoke sub-game, trying to score over ninety percent at Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

A good start, as he found himself singing under his breath as he played along. He even handled the first ‘when the working day is done’ line with no problems. Palms sweating, worrying about his fingers twitching when they should not, Snorri tried to bring it home. Of course that is when the door opened.

"Okay, Snorri, it's time," Master Tyr said.

A war raged in his mind, politeness versus being so close. However, the war proved a large enough distraction he flubbed the next few marks. Giving it up, he paused the game.

"I guess I'm as ready as ever to become Wei Shen."

"Who?"

"The guy on the screen, he's real tough and he's undercover, just like I will be."

Tyr looked at the screen, then searched through the other boxes and flimsy books. Selecting one he, held it towards Snorri and said, "Not like him, more like her."

"Why is her hair pink?"

"I don't know,"

Setting the plastic wand down, he took the flimsy book, giving him time to think. The concept of boys and girls always existed in his mind; from the different toys he once helped pack, to the different types of trouble each could get themselves in with the N&N machine. But not until he started playing Sleeping Dogs did the difference become real.

While playing the game, it seemed right and natural to control Wei Shen. To go on dates with Amanda or Tiffany. Besides, all the elfs at the pole referenced each other as he.

"Umm...wouldn't it be better if I go like him, instead of her? He's good at dealing with the bad guys. I don't think she could."

Tyr said, "It won't be your job to deal with the bad guys, just to find out their plans."

"Wei Shen can do that too, Master Tyr. He runs errands and missions for them to gain their trust. I can do the same."

"I don't think there is time for that, Snorri. Besides, the only opening we can find requires someone like her. It's not a big deal, the big change is going from elf to human."

It felt all types of wrong, but he could neither understand or verbalize why. For a moment he even regretted volunteering. He asked, "Would you do it if it’s not a big deal, Master Tyr?"

"Umm...yeah...ah...of course. But I can't. It needs to be one of you."

Probably the least convincing Snorri ever saw Master Tyr. But he did volunteer and he could not imagine going back to the way things were before, because he doubted he could stay here playing games forever. Trying to gather his nerves, he flipped through the book. Then he saw it. The girl from the cover, now not coloured, punching a big dude who went flying through the air. He felt relieved girls could beat up people too.

"Can I finish this song first? I need it for a trophy," Snorri asked.

"Sure."

Setting down the flimsy and picking up his wand, Snorri unpaused the game to sing and play along. “Some boys take a beautiful girl, And hide her away from the rest of the world. I wanna be the one to walk in the sun...”

~o~O~o~

No matter where you went in the greater metro North Pole, everybody considered a fat guy with a bushy, white beard the boss. But at Research and Development that did not mean Santa, it meant Brokkr the Dwarf Master, though for him, his appearance did not change much from the days in Asgard and the only time someone called him jolly, it involved enough sarcasm to kill a fairy penguin.

With him, at R&D, you could always find his two brothers, their appearance differing only by girth. In the middle, an even better smith than Brokkr, though without his brother's minimal social skills, stood Eitri. While the skinniest, least skilled, and socially dead Sindri rounded out their numbers.

Ever since the order, from Santa, to build an elf maidening device, the brothers focused on nothing else; Brokkr spouting ideas and orders, Eitri tinkering and tailoring, and Sindri sitting and staring. They did not finalize their prototype until Brokkr lost or won numerous arguments with himself, Eitri attempted and discarded many attempts, and Sindri spun his chair nine hundred seventy two thousand and eighty eight revolutions.

"I don't know if the blasted thing is going to work. Eitri don't know if the blasted thing is going to work. But Sindri is confident and you are in a rush, so we can to try it out if you want," Brokkr said to Santa, Thor, and Loki.

Santa said, "Let's try it."

"You're the boss. Besides, if things go horribly wrong, it's not like you don't have more elfs.”

“I would prefer not to lose any elfs. So cut the bullshit, you're our expert. Is this going to work or not?"

“In theory it should, since it's just a variation of the Elfing machine and we all know how well that worked. Though unlike it, which removed rage and aggression, we want the Girlifinator to add sweet and sexy, hence those."

Those looked like two stainless steel kettles, the larger over blue flame and the other over flickering charcoal coals. If anything, they looked like they belonged in a distillery, glass piping coming out of the top and feeding into the person sized glass tube at the centre of a contraption similar to the Elfing machine, though the glass piping contained pink, rather than the previously used blue neon liquid. An impressive contraption right out of any number of low budget sci fi movies, though these dwarf's special effects came with real consequences.

But they still needed their egos stroked; therefore, Santa asked, "What's with the kettles?"

"The catalysts for the transformation. In the kettle on the right is liquefied wasanbon, which is a fine powdered sugar from Japan. While the left one holds a combination of orange peel, toasted sesame seeds (both black and white), ginger, cayenne, Szechuan pepper, and nori. It was Sindri's idea to toast the spice, to bring out it's full potency."

With his normal disdain barely kept in check by his interest in the current operation, Loki asked, "Are we really going to rely on children's rhymes."

"I'm surprised you continue to doubt our skills, Loki. Would you consider another wager?"

"No wagers. Besides, Loki, as the masters of the North Pole, we shouldn't sneer at the power of children's rhymes or dreams," Santa said.

“Touche,” Loki said. "But I did learn Brokkr is more confident in this contraption than he led us to believe."

“Well, I don't know about...Hey, what's he doing here?” Brokkr asked.

"Who, Tyr? You knew he was coming."

"Not Tyr, that barbarian with him, Snorri the machine wrecker."

"Oh, you remember him?" Santa asked.

"Course I remember him and how he almost broke our beautiful Elfing machine. Wait, don't tell me. He's the elf we're supposed to transform. You should have taken my wager, Loki, it'll likely fail. Brilliant choice guys, two thumbs up."

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"Is that what you think, Thor? Then why did you idiots pick Snorri, of all elfs?"

“It was Tyr’s idea.”

“What was my idea, brother mine?”

Sparing a thought for how he wished his almost all powerful sons, enemy, and dwarfs would act like grown ups, Santa interrupted another probable argument to say, “And here’s the hero of the hour."

Snorri did not feel like a hero, he felt sick, like the time he ate a twenty four pack of candy canes during one shift with the N&N machine. Nor did the presence of all the grand masters help his mood. Sure he knew an attempt to ruin Christmas seemed like a big deal, but he hoped not this big. It both expanded his worry and his curiosity. He wanted to become a human, but to become a human female?

He still could not figure out why that felt wrong. Gender never used to mean anything, at least before he played Sleeping Dogs and awoke fleeting memory fragments.

At least one of Santa's eyes recognized the look on Snorri's face. It held fear, apprehension, but also a doggedness. That look is what he sought in the good old days when he chose a human to help him in the many conflicts that once guided his life. Important to act quickly, to not allow the fear and apprehension to overpower the confused determination.

“I guess there is no reason to wait, is there, Brokkr?”

“Not really.”

“Snorri?”

“Ummmm...”

“Excellent, so let’s get started.”

Almost before Snorri realized it, he found himself undressed and strapped into a glass tube at the centre of a weird contraption. Unable to take his eyes off two nozzles overhead, he never noticed the gas that appeared from the grates at his feet.

“What happened?” Tyr asked, starting towards the machine when Snorri’s body went limp.

"Don't worry, Tyr. Just a protective measure we built in so our subject does not consciously fight the transformation, which, seeing how you bunch picked Snorri the Neck Chewer, shows brilliant precognition on our parts. Now why don't you all join me at the control console?"

When the five red velvet, with white fur trim, clad masters took a seat behind console, the shortest and fattest, who sat in the centre, clicked the mouse to exit the power saving mode and entered his password, the other four politely looking away, to turn off the screen saver on his dual monitors. On the left they saw Snorri, while the left held a 3D image of a beautiful Asian girl, naked and slowly spinning in a circle.

Allowing his visitors a moment of appreciation, Brokkr said, "Based on your requirements and source material you provided, along with additional details we found on the Internet, which by the way is full of crazy shit, we created this composite form. What do you think?"

"What type of crazy shit?"

Santa said, "That doesn't matter, Thor. What do you think, Loki, how does the composite mesh with this Justin's desires."

"Based upon my limited understanding of the genre, I assume so. However, if you wish to see her through a teenager's eyes, you'd better ask Thor."

“You know, Loki, I’m not even insulted by your insinuation. In fact I take great pleasure in studying the magnificence of the fairer sex. So, gentlemen, step aside and let the connoisseur consume. Let’s see...hmm...well that’s nice...how do I spin her around? How about zoom in? Okay, I’m ready to pronounce my judgment.”

“Do tell, oh mighty judger of the female form,” Tyr said.

“Father, can I add that to my title, right after the God of Thunder and Lightning?”

“We’re waiting,” Santa answered.

“Rather spectacular; however, and forgive me for coming off all as expected, maybe she could do with a bit more up top."

"But this is the result of diligent evaluation, they are my best guess at the average size for the character set Loki provided." Brokkr said, in semi-protest.

"I believe you," Thor answered, still looking at the rotating image. "Yet nothing else about her is average."

"He's right," Loki said.

Nodding his head, Santa asked, "Is it possible to make a change, Brokkr? Not up to the size Thor normally prefers, but a bit more?"

"Sure, just need to boost the proportion of spice versus wasanbon in the transformation. Here let me model it, tell me when to stop."

"There," Tyr said, a few seconds later. "Perfect!"

"I agree," Loki said.

"Well, I'm thinking just a bit..."

"No, Thor, they're right. Let's do it, Brokkr."

"Wait!"

Barely stopping himself from growling, Santa asked, "What now, Tyr?"

"How does it work?"

"No, no, no," Thor said, holding out a hand towards the dwarf turned fat elf. "It's probably a bunch of technical mumbo jumbo that either won't make sense or I won't understand. You can talk about it after I leave, after the transformation is complete."

Loki said, "I can't believe I've agreed with two of Thor's last three ideas."

"Do it, Brokkr."

Chapter 3

The shrieking of a demon blasted Snorri from his slumber. Trying to stand, to prepare himself to fight the beast, he flopped about in the darkness, unable to gain his knees, never mind his feet, on the overly cushioned surface upon which he lay. Finally, with flailing arms and a heave-ho flip he spotted the three, red eyes of the beast. With a mighty lackadaisical swing, he brought his hand down upon the 5:22.

Before he could work up the energy to groan, additional assaults rained down upon his senses. First, the burning energy of a thousand suns, as the fluorescent lights of the room came on. At the same moment someone started shouting.

"Reveal! Reveal! Reveal yourself! Drop the clock and grab your frock. That means, get out of bed, you slug-a-bed."

Shrugging aside the flowery comforter, Snorri swung his legs over the side. At that moment he remembered everything.

"That is not out of bed, recruit! Stand up, then come stand in front of me. Hurry, hurry, hurry!"

Though the voice pitched itself far below a bellow, it did command him to stand at attention. Even better, it offered a reason not to think. Ignoring everything that felt different, he scrambled to his feet before trotting to the foot of the bed. There he stood in front of a gorgeous Asian woman dressed in a British military officer’s, red tunic dress, if treated to the Prince and the Revolution filter.

From under a fanciful tricorne, which kept long, thick black hair from her face, she stared at him until he found himself fighting the urge to fidget. Before that happened, she asked, "Where are you from, recruit?"

"Umm, the North Pole."

"Do I look like an Umm to you, recruit?"

"Umm, I mean, no, ma'am."

"Do I look like I work for a living? Of course not. Which is why i am neither an Umm nor a ma'am. I am Kami Sensual Scroll, your Divine Instructor, but you can call me Sensational." The woman said, placing her hands on her hips, turning her head to stare upwards and off into the distance. Holding the dramatic pose for a moment, she looked back towards Snorri and asked, "Do you understand, recruit?"

"Yes, Sensational," Snorri said, standing straighter.

"Then once again, where are you from, recruit?"

"The North Pole, Sensational."

"I thought the only presents and pheasants came from the North Pole, and you don’t have any feathers. Are you a present, recruit?”

“No, Sensational.”

Before he could react, she exuberantly wrapped him into an embrace, trapping both of his arms as his side. Rocking him side to side, she said, "Of course you are a present. A pretty girl who your target will want to unwrap and play with, but first you will undergo my basic training program to turn you into a vivacious and curvaceous seducing machine. You do want to become a vivacious and curvaceous seducing machine, don't you recruit?"

"I don't know what that is, Sensational."

"It's you at the end of your training. Can I get an oolah, recruit?"

"Oolah?"

"Once more, recruit. This time with a feeling and a shimmy. You do know how to shimmy, don't you?"

“Yes, Sensational.”

“Show me.”

“Oolah!" Snorri said, shaking his body.

“That is not a shimmy, it is a seizure. Like this!”

“Oolah!” Snorri said, confused but doing his best to copy the slinky shiver.

“That is better. One more time.”

“Oolah!"

"It's a start."What is your name, recruit?"

"Snorri, Sensational," he answered, his head starting to hurt from confusion.

“What type of name is Snorri?”

“Elfish, Sensational.”

"Shouldn't it consist of a bunch of Ls and vowels?"

"Not that I know, it's a semi-common name at the North Pole, Sensational."

"Okay, okay, we're going to need to work on both our names. The new you does not look nor will you soon act anything like a Snorri and, surprisingly, I am not sure I want you to continue calling me Sensational. It loses much of its complementary power when used in a routine. Plus it seems quite a mouthful to keep repeating."

"It is, Sensational," Snorri said, with a nod.

With her hand on her chin, a finger tapping her full lips, Sensual Scroll pondered the importance of names. "Let's see. You need a Japanese name; however, since you are not too smart, no insult intended, we should try for something that sounds similar to your current name. I got it, Shiori. It means bookmark, which is one of my favourite things. And since you are from the North Pole, we'll go with Yukimura for your last name. What do you think, do you feel like a Shiori Yukimura?"

"Not really, Sensational."

"You will. And why don't you shorten my title to Sensa?"

"Yes, Sensa," the once Snorri, but now apparently Shiori said, ensuring to duplicate the long eh sound in the second syllable.

"Okay, recruit Shiori, time to get started. But first you need to make your bed."

Snorri, excuse me, I mean Shiori welcomed this return to familiar ground, even if the way he walked felt so very different. Drawing upon the bed making skills Santa militantly demanded from his elfin minions, the new recruit squared everything off, even going so far as to do the whole cover tuck around the sleeping pillows thingee.

"Done, Sensa," he said, returning to attention.

"I don't think so, recruit. What about those?"

Looking where she pointed, he saw a pile of pillows and cushions, of multiple sizes, many with frilly covers.

"The corner is not their proper place, recruit."

"Sorry, Sensa. Where can I store them?"

"Well place them on the bed where they belong."

"But I don't need them for sleeping, Sensa, they'll only be in the way."

Speaking slowly, almost as if she found herself doubting his intelligence, Sensual Scroll said, "Of course they are not for sleeping."

"But..."

"No buts, recruit. Accepting their place on your bed is the first step on your path to enlightenment. Only when you no longer question their presence will you near the end of time under my tutelage.

~o~O~o~

It took some time, after his arrival at girl school before he quit startling back when he saw the person in the mirror. On first sighting, after the initial bed making, when entering the next room an entire wall covered in mirrors, he initially wanted to believe Sensa Sensual Scroll split in two, but knew the reflection of the figure wearing the pink nightshirt decorated by a cartoonish cat with a red bow over its left ear marked his new appearance. Besides he could see the Divine Instructor, standing behind him in her weird soldier outfit.

Definitely different, maybe Sensa's younger sister. But absolutely more of a Shiori than a Snorri, which left his head spinning as he grasped at a sense of self.

That sense of self did not quite shatter in the days, possibly weeks, which followed. Instead it stretched and grew, bulging out to accept the many new lessons he learned. Foremost among these, hair and makeup exercises that offered him all the time he needed to get used to seeing the new him, while offering him plenty to distract from what that meant.

Surprising, at least to him, he found himself a quick learner. Hands not dexterous enough for widget making, yet nimble enough to efficiently load bells into cartridges, also proved skilled in the art of the makeover. Show him how to do something, at most three times, and he could forever replicate it. The only problem, while he possessed the physical skills of an artist, Snorri did not own either the eye or the soul.

For a time, Sensual Scroll pressed him to colour outside the lines, to add his personality to either hair or makeup styles. However, after a number of efforts that would only get a passing grade if at a Clown College or for a Celtic warrior shaping his hair with clay, they decided to treat him as a forger. Each hairstyle received a letter and each makeup combination a number, though rarely did he need anything other than styles A to F combined with number 3. The choice usually made for him as a result of the uniform he wore each day, many of which matched the school uniforms worn by the girls in some of his favourite manga. For example, today he dressed as a school girl from Highschool of the Dead, which allowed him to choose hairstyle A, while trying to emulate Saeko Busujima.

Slowly he spun in front of a full length mirror, looking over each shoulder to get a good view, to make sure his appearance met Sensa’s high standards. If she spotted anything amiss, she would pick something new out of his closet, expect him to pick another letter number combination, and change his look before she allowed him to eat breakfast. And since he woke up particularly hungry, he did not consider that an option.

Satisfied with his appearance, he spoke aloud the mantra of Sensual Scrolls teachings. “How I look is meaningless if my attitude does not match.“

Before he brought himself before his teacher and submitted himself to her morning evaluation, he needed to achieve the right attitude. Quirky cuteness needed to become second nature. To do this, Sensa began teaching him Kata, multiple movements strung together almost like a dance. No longer a beginner, he now knew seven of those movements and she told him if he continued to improve, she would soon teach him the next.

In front of the mirror, he stood tall though he allowed his body relax, arms hanging at his side. Eyes closed, Snorri took a deep breath and reminded himself that speed did not matter, instead he should strive for perfection of form, grace between movements.

Opening his eyes, he allowed a smile to grow on his face, let it take ownership of what anyone would see when looking at him. Only when it felt right would he start.

The first movement began when it felt right. Instead of his mind telling him to start, his left arm flowed upwards, bending at the elbow. His hand, the thumb and all the fingers except the index, curling inwards, though not tightly, just enough to allow pride of place for the straightened index. Pointed vertically upwards, he centered it just before his slightly pursed lips, the pink of his fingernails lighter than on his lips. At the same time, he allowed his left eye to close in a wink and breathed a gentle ‘shhh’.

Holding the pose for a moment, he then brought up his right hand, his left moving as well, both hands forming an L shape with thumb and forefinger, the rest of the fingers still clenched tight. When both hands came to a stop, the left showed its knuckles, perpendicularly downwards, while the right showed pink tipped clenched fingers, the index finger pointing upwards, which left the thumbs of both hands parallel. Looking through the frame formed, into the mirror, he allowed the gentle smile to return.

From there, he slightly twisted his left shoulder forward, allowing his elbow to drop to the same height as the right. Hands forming into claws, fingers spread gently apart, he bracketed his face, palms facing outwards, and allowed a look of mischievous ferocity to appear on his face. This often did not look right, but today it felt perfect. His pleasure at the success almost broke his form, but the next movement naturally overrode the reaction. Elbows dropping closer together, fingers spreading out as he placed both hands on his cheeks. Forming his mouth in a comfortable circle, showing some of his perfect teeth below the top lip, he opened his eyes as wide as possible.

Over halfway there. Holding the surprise pose for a moment, he regained calm almost lost.

Next his hands dropped away from his cheeks. Eyes back to a normal width, though still exaggerated by his makeup, he smiled, putting even more teeth on display. Dropping his left hand to his waist, he slightly tilted his head slightly in that direction and, once more creating a pointer with his left hand, he pointed at the mirror.

Without pause, Snorri opened both hands and brought them together just below his chin. Shifting somewhat saucily to the left, he blew himself a kiss in the mirror.

So perfect, so natural to sway back to the right, now looking over that shoulder as the matching arm dropped to his side. Then forming a V with the first two fingers of his left hand, Snorri raised it and brought the index finger almost to his cheek in victory.

Three times he flowed through the Kata, leaving him feeling wonderful. It pushed Snorri into the background, allowed him to leave his bedroom, in search of his divine instructor and breakfast, as Shiori

~o~O~o~

"Section 227?" Santa asked, wondering if he heard Tyr correctly.

"Yep, Section 227."

"But there are only 227 sections."

Tyr nodded his agreement. "At this time, that is correct."

“How in the name of our family did the most recent group of lunkheads, as you rightly called them, to become widget makers win a production contest? We’re usually happy if they make it through a couple of seasons without getting impaled on the equipment. Did Thor rig it somehow?”

“Probably.”

Santa asked, “How? Actually, don’t answer that. If that’s who he wants to have on his team, he can have them. Besides, losing them will impact production the least.”

“Very well, I will let him know he can begin training. Thor also mentioned he will need a sled and a team.”

“We recently mothballed the 70s models, he can dig one out of storage. As for a team, get him to round up the bullies who are always calling the smaller reindeers names, he can use them.”

After checking his notes, Tyr asked, “Any word on Snorri’s training.”

“Loki’s last report said that his subcontractor is pleased with her trainee’s progress.”

~o~O~o~

Up to eleven movements in his Kata, Snorri found himself spending more of his time thinking of himself as Shiori. But nothing brought his old self back like emotional reading exercises. Hours spent in front of a television, watching characters interact with each and trying to interpret their feelings left him feeling dumb.

Not since the attempts at free styling his hair and makeup did he struggle this much. In truth, he always found it easier to physically do something, but thinking never left him feeling great.

Therefore, when he heard Sensual Scroll enter the study room, he hoped she would distract him from the video. Though he stayed working until she gave him permission to stop.

“Recruit, give me your attention.”

Given the hoped for permission, Snorri jumped out his chair and hurried to stand before her. “Yes, Sensa?”

Sensual Scroll’s right hand stretched towards him, her palm facing upwards, a pair of shoes appearing to sit just above it. Somewhat like the shoes he wore; rounded toe, strap with buckle, and made of black leather. But unlike his shoes, the heel reached almost as high as Sensa’s shoe, though not quite as spikily.

When she saw his attention upon the shoe, Sensual Scroll said, “This is a high heeled shoe, the preferred weapon of our enemies. It makes a distinctive sound when you walk, which all the boys remember.”

“Who are our enemies?” Snorri asked.

“The Lord of Sore Calves and his mistress, the Lady of Aching Feet.”

“And they make you wear shoes like that? How mean.”

“Well, not exactly,” his Divine Instructor answered. “Nobody makes me wear them.”

“Oh, you mean those aren’t real people. But why wear high heeled shoes if they make your feet sore?”

“See, it is like this.”

The Mary Jane disappeared, in its place appeared a purple pump, then a brown suede pump, and then...Snorri found himself caught in a kaleidoscope of rapidly appearing and disappearing footwear. Every type of shoe, every type of boot, in every colour, both solids and multi-coloured, and so many different materials. The display hypnotized him, reclaimed all Shiori ground lost during the emotional reading exercise.

The kaleidoscope stopped, the high heeled Mary Jane once more resting above Sensa’s palm. With the mindlessness of a zombie stretching through a barred window in an attempt to grasp a victim, he reached towards the shoe. In a dazed voice, he asked, “Can I try?”

“Be careful.

~o~O~o~

Sometimes, you just don't have it. Unfortunately, his D.I. did not believe in that excuse, which meant every time he made an mistake, she stopped the music and made him start again. But, after a certain point, he found himself failing earlier each attempt. Red faced from embarrassment and effort, he watched, over his shoulder in the mirror, as Sensa's face grow stormy. More than focusing on performing the dance right, he began preparing for her anger.

"Stop, stop what you are doing right now," Sensual Scroll said, gesturing for him to turn and face her. "What is wrong with you, recruit? It is like you have forgotten everything you learned."

Unable to provide her an answer he broke out the fourteenth movement of his Kata. Twisting his left side away from her, while keeping his eyes on hers, he allowed those eyes to grow wider. With this questioning expression on his face, Snorri gave a slight bob as he brought both hands shoulder high in questioning confusion.

At this, his Sensa happily clapped and said, "Perfect, recruit. Spectacular timing, combined with excellent form; however, it does not answer my question."

"I don't know, Sensa. Maybe it's the repetitive music making my head throb or the pitch of her voice, which makes me wonder if my ears will start to bleed."

"Now don't exaggerate, if that could happen we would both be sick abed. What is the real problem, recruit?"

"For some reason I'm just not feeling it, Sensa. There is something missing."

"You are a 15th Kata student, this is not beyond you. I will ask you one more time, what is the real problem?"

Snorri knew she spoke the truth. Every step played in his mind, every twist, bounce, and shimmy performed many times before. It just seemed so silly. And realizing this, the answer blossomed within his mind.

"Sensa, can you give me twenty minutes?”

“What? Why?”

“Please, Sensa, I think I know what’s wrong. I just need some time to better prepare. Please?” Snorri asked, accentuating his plea by bringing both fists together, underneath his chin, and allowing a look of puppy dog hope to appear on his face.

“Oh, very well. But you only have fifteen minutes, recruit.”

Smiling his thanks and showing her a heart shaped from his fingers and thumbs, Snorri ran from the dance studio, through the classroom, and into his bedroom. With less time than he probably needed, he rushed into the attached bathroom, while stripping from his workout gear of sports bra, short shorts, and runners. A quick sponge bath, before he used the mirror to create look B-7, which meant long hair hanging loose and slightly more dramatic make-up than normal.

Untold repetition meant the activity only used half his remaining time, but he still needed to hurry getting dressed. First a matching set of white, lacy bra and panties, with lace trimmed black, knee high socks, and a shortish, multi layer petticoat. Snorri needed to wear it to make the skirt of his cleaning uniform hang properly. Actually more of a tidying uniform, being too fancy and skimpy for actual work. Worried about dancing in the shoes he normally wore with the costume, he put on a similar pair but with low, blocky heels.

Still tying the apron around his waist, Snorri ran back to the studio. Placing the lace headdress on his head as he arrived, about thirty seconds past his allotted time, and took his mark. Looking down, arms stretched out to his sides, right leg bent so the knee crossed in the front of the left and only the toes of his shoe touched the ground. In this pose, he did not notice the smile on his instructors face as she started the music.

The music didn’t change, still annoyingly repetitive, but he now felt like the type of person who would dance to the song. For the next four minutes he did not miss a beat, bounce, shimmy or shuffle. Nor did his face lose the happy smile or his pace slow.

Sensual Scroll's happy clap, from before, seemed like nothing in comparison to the enthusiastic way she rushed forward to hug him upon his completion. When they separated, continuing to hold each other's hands and sharing identical, bright smiles, his Divine Instructor said, "Well done, more than well done, brilliantly done. To think, sadly I stood here preparing to explain your failure to your North Pole masters. Just before you return with this gigantic break through. It belongs on YouTube. How did it happen?"

"Well, Sensa, see, earlier I found myself caught up in how silly this seemed. I imagined how everybody would laugh at me, like so many times before, if they saw. But then I remembered how I watched you perform the routine so many times while showing me what to do and nobody would ever laugh at you. You are so much more sensational than any of them could imagine being. It makes no sense to worry about their opinion of where I am being led since it is you who is leading me there. I decided to stop fighting the joy and, instead, just embrace it. And then, oh, Sensa, I never imagined I could experience such spectacular fun!"

"And so you define the truism upon which my newly created Martial Art of Cute-o is based. No longer will I call you recruit, you are my first disciple."

"Oh, thank you, Sensa. I hope I never disappoint you."

~o~O~o~

Underwhelming. Pathetic even. And he could only blame himself.

More proof as to why he made his name as a God of Action, not of Thought. But spending so much of his time with conniving bastards like his father, brother and Loki lead Thor into forgetting himself. A perfect example, his thinking that Section 227 took so long to become widget makers because they retained more of their warlike nature. Now, looking over the twelve elfs, he saw them through Loki’s eyes; twelve crotch high, delicate dolls. In no way more threatening than any of their brethren, just dumber.

Even worse, in re-establishing his god type, he left himself stuck. A Thinking God could convince himself to admit he rigged the contest, but an Acting God would rather charge into disaster than admit making a mistake. Slowly beginning his charge, Thor spoke his first words, consisting of both truth and lies, to his team.

"Welcome everyone, you are probably wondering what prize you won as a result of placing first in a contest?"

"What contest?" The elf called Banki asked.

"The production contest the foreelfs spoke about before every shift, for the last two months."

"We won the contest?" Banki's neighbour Halvdan asked. "But we suck."

While Banki nodded agreement, an elf in the second row, Ragi said, "We probably cheated. Are we in trouble for cheating, Master Thor?"

Infinitely dumber, Thor now realized, though he tried to hide that thought when he answered, "Of course you didn't cheat, your section won fair and square. And as a result you will be trained as an elite fighting force, under my command."

"Murder and mayhem!" Banki shouted, though he did not know why.

"No murder, no mayhem. We will train only to disarm and capture, as stated in the rules under which we will operate."

Erik the Brunette, sitting beside Ragi, asked, "What about the other side?

"If they know what's good for them," Thor lied, without explicitly lying. “Besides you will be trained to use one of the most effective weapons ever invented. This!”

Thor expected his audience to feel let down, by what he displayed. It is just that he did not know how to handle their looks of betrayal.

Halvdan let their outrage out when he said, “You’re kidding right? A candy cane?”

"The good guys are so going to laugh at us if we attack them with candy canes," Banki said.

"We are the good guys."

"Really? Us? For some reason that seems wrong."

Rather than follow instinct, which screamed for him to throw the candy cane at his followers, Thor forced himself to take a deep breath before he said, "Yes really, us. Someone plans to ruin Christmas and it is our job to stop her. And, after significant research, I chose the weapon best able to do that. Let me ask you, what weapon did the one opponent who fought Myamoto Musashi, the greatest swordsman who ever lived, to a draw? Don't be shy, shout out your answers."

"A battle axe?"

"No."

"A battle hammer?"

"No."

"A spear?"

"No."

"A boulder?"

"No...wait, did someone just say a boulder?" Thor asked.

Waving from the end of row one, an elf named Odd said, "Yep, it's how I would fight anybody good with a sword. What you do, is balance a boulder on an overhang, using a smaller rock as the stopper. The little rock is the key to the whole thing. Tie a rope around it, since the big rock is harder to shift. Do something to get the swordsman to chase you or a friend under the overhang and time it so you pull the rope at the right moment, which will cause the little rock to shift and the boulder to fall on your opponent. Bam! Then, while he either staggers about dazed or drops to the ground unconscious, you run up, steal his sword and stab him in the stomach."

Odd's hand clap, which accompanied his bam, worked like a charm. The other eleven looked at Odd like they would follow his genius into the depths of Hell. Even Thor found himself wanting to try out a boulder on his next enemy; however, he knew it would result in breaking all the rules. He needed to distract.

"No, Musashi's opponent, used a staff. And a staff is little different from a shepherd's crook, which is basically a candy cane. Once you all become experts with a staff, we won't be able to lose.

Chapter 4

In early days, soon after Valhalla’s transformation into the North Pole, Santa watched his Einherjar elfs grow restless and bored. No longer allowed to spend their days practicing the art of war or wile away the evening eating the meat of Sæhrímnir or drinking mead from Heiðrún, they grew listless. To combat this he introduced schooling. Most lessons revolved around crafts, but he also required them to learn math and languages.

So before he arrived at Sensual Scroll's academy, Snorri numbered both English and Japanese amongst the many languages he knew. However, there is a significant difference between knowing a language in a theoretical way and using it in real life. He still thought in the bastardized version of Old Norse they spoke at the North Pole and he always needed to translate things in his head. Something Sensa started him working on as soon as he arrived at her school. She accepted the need for him to translate words in his mind, but her high standards for his disguise demanded the translation occur from Japanese to English.

By the time he became a twenty-second level student of their school’s Kata, Snorri attained this level of skill. Not that it slowed his time in the language lab, speaking dialog from books and movies into a microphone, listening back to what he said and his instructors evaluations. In time they crafted a nice voice, breathy but not too squeaky, and a dead sexy accent (Sensa’s judgment) when speaking English.

Today he found himself in a groove, not once hearing a correction or censure from his instructor. And when he finally heard her speak, she said, “Change of routine, Student Shiori. Go get dressed for the club, I will give you ninety minutes.”

Not unusual for her to spring such a test upon him. Some days, when doing stuff he enjoyed, the tests felt like a burden, but today he gladly removed the earphones from his head.

In his bedroom, he found a dress and lingerie already laid out on the bed. This, plus the length of time, told him he needed to go all out, with top marks depending upon face, hair, and how he accessorized. With time to shower, if he did not get his hair wet, Snorri turned on the taps while he quickly cleaned away face #3 and tucked his hair away beneath a shower cap.

Out of the shower, sweet smelling lotion spreading a glow across his body, he put on the lingerie and held the dress against his body while looking into a full length mirror. Definitely hairstyle M, face #14, and probably a change of nail polish. The briefest temptation to not do that flickered through his mind, but it did not stop him from reaching for a polish remover pad and doing things right.

Hair, makeup and nails ate significantly into his allotted time and Snorri found himself waving his fingers, hoping they would dry, while he looked into his jewelry box. Thinking of the asymmetrical cut of the collar on the form fitting little black dress, he chose a silver chain and white onyx pendant, with matching earrings and bangle for his left wrist.

Shoes sometimes got him into trouble. High and spiky, of course; matching his dress. The base requirement, but he owned at least five pair that fit those specs. Trying each pair on, he eliminated two; the 6” platform pumps (they worked better for a different type of dancing) and the booties (just didn’t like the overall look). But amongst the last three, he just couldn’t choose. Once more he tried on the remaining pairs, posing in front of the mirror and getting nowhere. He liked how all of them looked, which paralyzed his ability to decide.

“Definitely the ones with the straps.”

Surprised that he already used all of his allotted time, Snorri gracefully spun around on those strappy sandals in preparation for judgment. When he saw what his Sensa wore, a different anxiety formed a knot in his stomach.

"What do you think?" Sensual Scroll asked, slowly spinning in place.

Throughout their time together, his instructor always appeared in some variation of her Prince and the Revolution uniform. Now she wore a red dress which hugged her figure and showed just as much leg as did his, though her plunging neckline did show a lot more cleavage.

“Oh, Sensa, you are gorgeous,” he answered, dual feelings of admiration arising from the deep reaches where Snorri went to hide and the shallow waters in which Shiori still swam.

“You are not too bad yourself, hot stuff. Give us a spin. Ooh, I adore your choice on jewelry. Here, I forgot to leave this, it holds everything you will need.”

Rather nervously he took the black, leather clutch from her; however, its realness served as a lodestone, as he remembered lessons and checked inside. But only momentarily.

“Sensa, I don’t understand? What’s going on?”

“I told you to get dressed for a club, so we could go to a club.”

“Like, for real?”

“For real. It is time for you to take the next step, to meet some people. Specially some men, to see if you truly learned your lessons.”

In life, there are moments when you get the chance to face your fears. Some are willing, ready to leap head first into the abyss. In the olden days, before Odin’s Pact, Snorri the Berserker numbered amongst those, but neither Snorri the Elf nor Shiori the Student felt that brave, or foolhardy. And while, to some, it might look like he froze, Sensual Scroll realized he just needed a moment to process the idea of facing the world as someone new and, in her opinion, much improved.

Faced with stepping outside of this nice bubble of safety, Snorri found himself thinking of Elf Snorri, the outcast. Not good memories, it left him afraid how people would react. Could he allow himself to believe this training would change how people saw him? Did he believe in his Sensa?

In asking those two questions, Snorri took a leap of faith. How could he answer no to either after the months spent training with her. The only other possibility reason not to believe in her was an elaborate practical joke. But his cynicism did not sink deep enough to consider it and his intellect could not imagine these powerful beings picking him as their target, if they wanted to pull off such a joke. Besides, he trusted his Sensa, knew she would make this test run safe for him.

By the time his hands mechanically opened the clutch, to truly ensure it held everything he would need, the life began returning to his eyes. He kind of felt ready.

"Are you okay, Shiori?" His instructor asked, the look of concern out of place on her normally serene or energetic face.

“I'm absolutely terricited, Sensa!”

Sensual Scroll needed no translation to realize her student felt both terrified and excited. Focused upon the second, she wrapped both arms around his left, in companionship and led him to her hand picked wolf.

~o~O~o~

Although he did not tell anyone, Thor readily admitted to himself how much he enjoyed training his attack force. True, they did nothing to make him change his mind about their intelligence, but they made up for it with enthusiasm and aggression. Exactly what this mission needed.

The one problem, combine those two things when sparring against each other with candy cane staffs and you get bruises or broken bones. Brokkr dug out the healing machines from the good old days; however, Santa demanded a change. He worried their pain and anguish would cause the North Pole to lose its ranking in the Happiest Places in All Worlds list if the auditors from Johnson, Olsen, and Petrovic showed up for a surprise visit.

After Santa's pronouncement, Thor worked with Eitri to produce some high tech armour. Meanwhile his team prepped the old sled, painting some bitching flames on the side and replacing the white velvet seats with red velvet seats, during which they skipped full contact practice. This led to boredom. That worried their leader who knew not trust his followers to handle the tedium well.

A good thing Brokkr's talented younger brother quickly developed something he called a force inhibiting armoured girdle, which looked like a regular Brown belt with a rodeo worthy buckle decorated with curlicues and a reindeer's head. While the dwarf believed it needed some more work before handing them out to the chosen dozen, Thor felt leery about giving him extra time. The training facility still smelt of sour egg nog, a result of Alf’s idea to create a grenade by filling a Christmas tree ornament with drink left over from the cafeteria and letting it sour before he used it. Every moment spent away from them, which did not result in a problem, Thor counted as a win.

“Honestly, Eitri, I trust you completely. When have you ever built me something that didn’t work?”

“Of course it will work, but I can make it work so much better. The interface is clunky and needs work before your band of merry mayhem makers can work with it."

"I'm afraid of them living up to that name, if we don’t get it to them soon," Thor said. "Surely it can't be that complicated."

“They will be easy to use, once you get them calibrated, all you need to do is run your fingers along the curlicues on the left side. Doing the same on the right side will turn it off. But the calibration, now that's another story. Each user needs to be synced to his girdle by performing ninety three different tests. I need to program a method, into the controlinator, to calculate and determine the necessary answers. Everything from the elf's drag coefficient while running through butter to the centrifugal force of his nostril hairs when whirling in a circle."

"Now you're just making stuff up."

"No, Thor, I would never do that," Eitri said, a serious look on his face. "Engineering is no laughing matter."

"Is there a workaround?"

"I suppose we could just conduct the tests and manually enter the results, but that's rather inelegant."

"Inelegant? Really, that's a problem? My team is full of elfs who thinking farting in each other's faces is the height of comedy. They don't need elegant. Meanwhile, I tend to solve my problems with that kick ass hammer you built me. I don't need elegant either. Make eleven more of these belts and get your team to start running the tests on my boys and entering the results."

Memories of Thor's gleeful use of Mjölnir in the past provided a powerful force behind agreement. And, not until he until he found himself alone did Eitri curse all interfering management types.

~o~O~o~

Life can feel so much easier when you can ignore consequences. The time, measuring over a week in the Central Deity Time zone, from the moment Sensual Scroll took Snorri’s arm until now, proved one such period in life.

Now, all alone, again wearing the tight black dress and strappy sandals, those consequences regained all their weight. The heaviest of these, the desire to mourn a death.

Although that probably crossed into the Land of the Overly Dramatic. Death implied a permanent loss, but Snorri still existed, he just no longer resisted the Shiori vortex, aided by Sensa, into which the Masters tossed him. But when she thought about it, they did specialize in giving people what they wanted and, before he volunteered for this mission, she desperately wanted to become someone else. Not an outsider, but a desired part of the group. The lesson, which started at the nightclub, showed Shiori belonged.

This triggered something, not quite a memory, but an inkling that at some point in a forgotten past Snorri belonged, was popular, and liked. Experiencing those feelings again removed any remaining inclination to keep her essence bottled. Shiori's release provided the catalyst to let loose. Now she faced the ramifications of doing so.

Those waited at the end of her ride along the Interdimensional Transit Line and a return to Sensa's school. She feared her instructor's reaction. Would she offer wrath or, worse, scorn? Neither felt fair. Sensual Scroll led Snorri to Xanadu, cheered when the music and energy of the place transformed him into Shiori, and then introduced her to Comus. Handsome and funny, supremely confident Comus, who served as the nucleus around which the party revolved.

Did Sensa really expect her student to resist the charms of the son of Bacchus? Or, at a minimum, break away sooner?

Shiori doubted the first, but worried about the second. Every morning she’d thought about doing so, first thing upon waking, but something always held her in the world containing Xanadu. The ocean air, the soothing sun as she lay upon the beach, and Comus. So much to explore, so easy to relax. It seemed the perfect vacation and she knew, if not for her host needing to attend to some business, she would still remain in his company.

Still, not unreasonable to expect her to break away sooner than never.

By the time ITL dropped her off, back at the school, she’d decided to stoically accept whatever punishment Sensual Scroll deemed appropriate. She only hoped it did not result in her expulsion. Failure, now, struck her as horrific, to come so far and not succeed.

With this in mind, she decided to make herself look as innocent as possible before meeting her instructor. This involved the B1 look, twin braids tied with ribbons and lip gloss only, combined with a school girl's jumper dress, over a white blouse, which almost reached the bright, white knee socks that covered feet slipped into plain saddle shoes. True, Shiori learned this look from Sensa, so while it probably would not work on the instructor, it did not hurt to try.

Satisfied with what she saw in the full length mirror, hung on the bedroom's door, Shiori walked out and found no one waiting in any of the classrooms or the kitchen. Even more worried, she never-the-less took the opportunity to eat breakfast, quelling thoughts about how Comus always served fresher melons.

Finished eating, and with everything put away, she made another sweep through the classrooms. Still no Sensual Scroll. Normally, in this situation, Snorri would begin working on any outstanding assignment, but, though she tried, Shiori could not continue to ignore the tension. Not even performing the Kata allowed her to find her center. She decided to talk to her Sensa now and went to knock on the forbidding door of her instructor's office.

But no one answered.

This did nothing to quell Shiori's fears. The rest of the day that followed would count as the least productive, even worse than the first, at the school. In the end, she flopped on her bed, hugged her oversize Totoro plush toy doll to her chest, and stared into space.

"Meet me in my office in a few minutes."

Still in semi-daze, she scrambled off the bed, as the bedroom door closed behind her instructor. But no matter how ready she felt to face the music, the qualifier of a few minutes combined with lessons now ingrained into her consciousness called for a stop in front of a mirror first. There she fixed any problems with her face and hair, while checking for wrinkles in her clothing. Satisfied, she headed out, only then realizing Sensa did not wear her uniform. Unsure how to take that, fearing the worst, she knocked again on her instructor's door.

"Come in and take a seat, Shiori. I'll be right there."

Nervous, her first time invited into this seemingly forbidden space, Shiori entered. It proved nothing like what she expected, just a simple windowless room containing a desk and chairs on either side. With the correct degree of prim and proper for her outfit, back straight, knees together, and hands folded in her lap, she sat in one of the chairs and waited.

The Sensual Scroll who appeared did not resemble anything like the vixen she'd last seen nor the instructor who turned Snorri into Shiori. Still gorgeous, but barefoot, hair hanging long and loose, she wore a silk robe of sky blue, clouds embroidered upon it. Ignoring the chairs, she leaned against the desk, languidly waved a finger at her student and asked, "What's with the good girl look."

Though confused, this is not what she expected, Shiori went with the words, she'd practiced so many times throughout the day, and said, "I am sorry, Sensa."

"For what?"

"I..I only made it back today. I've been with Comus all this time."

"Well I should hope so, you're not quite ready to be wandering around on your own. Soon, mind you, but not yet," Sensual Scroll said, boosting herself onto the desk, the robe parting to show a tantalizing length of leg.

"But I thought...actually I don't know what I thought. I'm not in trouble?"

"Of course not."

"But...but, umm, Sensa, I'm confused."

"Think about your assignment, how you need to get close to your target. Now based on a study of this Justin Lipton's interest, we developed a profile of his fantasy girl and developed the training regiment you've undergone. You proved a wonderful student, but we focused less on turning you into a girl than into his fantasy. If we get a chance to share more time together, I will try to rectify that. However, we first need to finish turning you into our target’s dream girl, which required instruction I could not provide," Sensa said, watching understanding flicker in her student's eyes.

"Comus?"

"Yes, my old friend Comus. No way would I let you learn such an important lesson in the hands of some grubby pawed teenage boy."

Shiori said, "Oh, Sensa, I am so glad you chose him. He gave me all the time I needed, though I sensed something would happen soon after you introduced us. Not exactly what. Just that a path to pleasure opened before me, similar to one upon which I believe I walked before, though I can't remember when. No, more like it mirrored what I walked before. And for a moment I felt surprised, as if everything was transposed. Which seemed silly, once I realized how perfectly our widgets are engineered to fit together."

"But did you like it? I hope you liked it."

"I spent a week with Comus, we did not talk much."

"Good point. Wait a moment, I want to show you something," Sensual Scroll said. With this, she hopped from the desk and walked into the room behind the office. When she returned, reverently holding a silk covered box in her arms, she asked, "Do you know where I got my name, Shiori?"

"No, Sensa."

"From this. Go ahead and look. Do not worry, it is not as delicate as it appears."

When his instructor set the box on the desk and lifted the top, Shiori saw a Japanese emaki, a hand scroll resting on the silk wrapped base of the box. Curious, she rolled her chair forward, moved the scroll to the right side and unrolled the first portion with her left hand. In that two foot section she saw multiple pictures, most showing a man and woman together. Somewhat crudely though colourfully drawn, descriptions, written in Japanese characters, beside each picture. While Shiori slowly uncurled with her left hand, re-rolling just viewed sections with her right, Sensual Scroll started speaking.

"There are times when humanity find it easier to look beyond their own world for understanding. When this happens, unborn in our world can decide to personify those explanations. Of course, much depends upon the nature of that unborn. Is it ready? What is its level of ambition? Has it wrapped itself in the need of grandeur? Which attempt, by humanity, at understanding will trigger its need to explain? Does it want to provide all answers or just one? Like the vast majority of my kind, my ambition level is low. I did not feel the need to provide the answer to a people oppressed nor to attach myself to one ascendant. That path, an attempt to become one of Humanity's major gods, never appealed to me. It requires too much work, forces you to focus on everything. This is why many of us become spirits, it allows us to concentrate on what interests us, instead of meddling in that where we might not belong. For me, I found myself pulled into existence by the thoughts of a captive.

"Though not one for whom you need to feel pity. An ancient prince in the Imperial Family of Japan, far from the throne, a petty symbol trapped forever in luxury and pleasure. This scroll, created with my so-called divine intervention, details his escape from captivity, despite never being free from the walls that surrounded him for his entire life. It also helps explain why Loki chose me to train you."

While she talked, Shiori continued to view more sections of the scroll, until her eyes grew wide at what she saw. She said, "I don't know, Sensa, I don’t know about this."

"Let me see. Oh that. I'm with you, in fact I'd recommend against scrolling any further. They are the works of my second worshiper and highlight the problem with such eager types, who tend to take the beautiful and twist them in ways you would never guess."

"That's a relief, Sensa."

"The first few sections show enough to keep you and most partners exquisitely entertained. But even that much is somewhat verboten to your bosses.”

"Santa?"

"No, further up your organization chart, Shiori, at Heaven's headquarters. But don’t worry, you’ve been granted a license and Comus belongs to a different faction.”

“Even this?” Shiori asked, scrolling back to the pictures that did not make her feel icky and pointing at one that portrayed a fondly remembered position.

“My understanding, that is a level 3 sin.” Sensual Scroll said, watching Shiori return to the very beginning and point at the second picture, the one with a woman alone. “Nope, that’s level 2.”

“Really, Sensa? Even, just by myself. Why I discovered that on my second night here. It's relaxing after a tough day and helps me sleep. Plus it feels good.”

“That’s the problem as I understand it.”

“You mean, it is not supposed to feel good. Am I broken?”

“No, Shiori, given the right opportunity or right partner, most people will feel good."

A look of thought on her face, Shiori scrolled forward and asked, "How about this, Sensa? Comus really enjoyed when I did that, thought it did not feel as good for me. At least not physically, though it was really fun to make Comus’s eyes roll back into his head."

"Nope, level 4."

"But Santa says, isn't it good to give."

"Don't expect me to explain," Sensual Scroll said, holding her hands up to abdicate any responsibility for the rule’s` creation. "My understanding is you are only supposed to do the level 3 stuff if you want children or something."

"What if you don't want to have children? Wait, wait, never mind, I know they're not your rules. But if I understand correctly, it's supposed to feel good, but you are not supposed to do it because it feels good."

"Supposedly, denying yourself somehow makes you a better person."

"That is mean, Sensa. And doesn't make any sense."

"I know."

"But I can do it, since I've got a license?" Shiori asked.

"Yep."

"What a relief."

Sensual Scroll said, "I should warn you, it's not always mana and honey. Your partner will usually not be as well versed or practiced as Comus. My guess, your target is probably clueless."

"Oh, that is disappointing. Still, you know what, I didn't really know anything on the first night with Comus, but I kind of took charge this morning before we separated. Yeah, now when I think about it, if I could continue to visit Comus regularly during the rest of my training, you know to practice, then I can act as the teacher with this Justin guy. You showed me the importance of a good teacher, Sensa."

"You think so, Shiori."

A look that combined innocence and seriousness appearing on her face, Shiori nodded and said, "I will do whatever it takes to make this mission a success, Sensa."

Chapter 5

Hard to tell who felt more nervous. Sindri, who never handled the presence of beautiful women with great aplomb, or Shiori, who looked at the needle in Sindri's hand like it would turn into an asp. It fell upon Sensual Scroll, reading the set of instructions explaining what the least of Santa’s smiths brought with him, to calm both of their fears.

“See, Shiori, it says here that the Snoop-o-Master Kit, v1.0, includes everything you will need for gathering information during your mission. Should we worry about it being the first version, Sindri?"

Rather than trust speech, the smith shook his head no.

"Okay, so this will serve as her communication hub to the I-triple-HO network." Sensual Scroll said, not even waiting for Sindri's nod before continuing. "It might be somewhat out of character, but it ensures the hub is always with her. Besides, you'll look great with a pierced belly button, Shiori."

"Look at his hand, Sensa, it's shaking like a...like a lot."

Hand outstretched, Sensual Scroll said, "I should probably do it. Pass me the needle, Sindri. Can she use any of these? Yes? That's good, which one do you want to start with, Shiori? The crystal covered panda face, it's super cute. Don't worry, I'm just going to watch a couple YouTube videos to make sure I know what I am doing. Are you okay, dear? You don't look so good."

With a cold compress against her forehead, Shiori woke laying on her back. Immediately she found herself focused on the disappearing pain at her midriff.

"Good idea, Shiori. Your passing out before we started helped things go so much smoother. Though I recommend you say something the next time you are about to do so, since Sindri may not be lurking, with his wasp like reflexes, to catch you before you bang your head on the ground. In fact our smith is twice the hero, also providing this miracle salve that will see everything healed in a few more seconds. Yep, it looks great, what do you think, Sindri?"

"Umm...glirk," Sindri said, his face as red as his normal wear.

"I agree. Let's see what's next. Here, Shiori, put in these contact lenses, they are actually cameras and more. Super high tech, all you need to do is think about taking a picture and they will do so."

"They changed my eye colour, Sensa," Shiori said, looking at the mirror.

"Good thing. I always worried about your baby blues messing up the mission. This hazel colour works better. Hey, this is clever, all earring backs in this bag act as receivers, which will allow your handler to communicate with you, so no one else can hear, and you can wear all the earrings you already own. Now how will she communicate back? Oh, that's a relief, I worried how much further we would need to go with this piercing gimmick."

~o~O~o~

A highly functioning operation like the North Pole requires everyone to stay on top of their jobs and schedules. To assist in this, each section began their shift with a quick Santa Claus Round Up Meeting, where any problems could be identified. Section leaders held a similar SCRUM session, and so on, right up to the Grandmaster SCRUM held with Santa.

Every Yule cycle, with about a quarter of a human year remaining before the big show, the problems always seemed impossible to overcome and SCRUMs lasted longer than desired. This delayed Santa's arrival, along with Tyr, back at his office for an update on Operation Bacon Sandwich with Loki and Thor. Surprisingly, he did not find the two at each other's throat. After an entire meeting discussing production hiccups, he hoped this signalled smooth sailing.

Not waiting for the arrivals to take their seats, Loki said, "Our infiltration attempt starts today."

"Already?" Santa asked.

"University starts in a week and our agent will need a few days to settle in. So she boards a flight from Tokyo today."

"How went the training? Will she be able to blend in?"

"Our contractor is quite pleased with our choice. Besides, remember she is not supposed to blend in. She needs to hook our fish and it sounds like Snorri, who became Shiori, is excellent bait"

"Sindri met her and is in absolute lust," Tyr said.

Thor laughed and said, "Remember, Sindri's lust kicks off easier than most."

"But you know how his scale works, Thor. From those he can't stop talking about to those who cause him to blush and stutter. Well that's what he does whenever Brokkr or Eitri mention her name, which they do whenever they want him to stop telling them what to do."

“Okay, we've done all we can do in preparing our agent. You going to act as her handler?" Santa asked Loki.

"Tyr might work best in that role."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You're the only one who has a pre-existing relationship and, despite their time in the Elfing machine, none of the elfs trust me. Don't worry, though. I'll act as information officer, Huginn and Muninn are not as picky."

"How about the Stinky Dozen, Thor, are they ready?"

"They're idiots, Father, but I trust them to whack whoever's knees and shins I want them to whack."

"Remember, no fatalities."

"Actually, besides their nickname, another positive outcome of the eggnog incident is that it perked Eitri's interest in creating a range weapon we can actually use. He came up with a throwing snowflake made from a solidified mixture of forget-me-not-not and knockout dust."

Santa thought about that for a moment, then said, "Good idea. See if Eitri can also rig their candy cane staffs to shoot the same mixture. We want you and your group to steal in and out like ghosts. Anything else? No? Okay, let's start the next phase of Operation Bacon Sandwich."

~o~O~o~

A hollow pit of impending loneliness served as the only thing to stop the sensory stimulations of Narita International Airport from overwhelming Shiori. Surrounded by more people than she once imagined could exist, she found herself focused on only one.

"I'm going to miss you so much, Sensa." Shiori said, finally releasing her teacher from a hug. "You are like the big sister I never knew I needed."

Reaching out to wipe tears away from her now graduated student's eyes, Sensual Scroll said, “And I never realized how boring my life felt until you appeared on my doorstep. Working with you reminded me of the world I once found fascinating. I'll definitely miss you too, but I'll also be watching. And when this is over, then we can go even further. But for now, check your passport and ticket once more."

"They're here," Shiori said, pulling her purple passport wallet from the front pocket of her carry-on bag.

"Then I guess it is time, you better head through security."

One more quick hug, before Shiori entered the security line. Though she turned numerous nervous glances back towards Sensual Scroll, as she shuffled through the line. Then with a final wave, the two lost sight of each other.

~o~O~o~

Beyond the borderline terrifying flight from Narita International Airport, fortunately experienced in first class, Shiori's first week in the real world did not offer enough pause to worry about her mission. The entire time of which found her dealing with people, people, and more people. Access to a single room in the university residences, a lack of a roommate allowing for some needed alone time. Admissions, where she signed up for a simple course load. And boys, enough attention from boys to provide all types of confidence in her training. Particularly with the frequent pep talks from Tyr via her h-earring devices.

Today, the second day of classes she planned to make first contact, in the University's central square, where the campus clubs set up displays in the hope of recruiting new members. Shiori just needed to wait for Justin to arrive at the booth they expected him to man between 1:00 and 4:00 PM.

"Okay, Shiori, Muninn says our contact has arrived at the booth," Master Tyr said. "Let me know if you don't recognize him."

"Of course I'll recognize him. You sent me an entire batch of pictures to me last night, which is at least the millionth bunch I've seen," Shiori said, sub-vocalizing the words so that only the fake crown on a back molar picked up the sound.

"Right. Good luck."

A number of table attendants looked her way hopefully or lustily, but Shiori ignored both with the same distracted smile she habitually adopted. She scouted the cosplay club's table earlier in the morning and learned its members believed in the idea of cosplay, most appearing in costumes of varying degrees of success. Used to marginalization, they never-the-less enjoyed themselves despite their table's terrible location, at the far corner on a dead chunk of grass formed by two maintenance access roads.

A different story in the afternoon, where the pair manning the booth believed more in their ideal cosplayer, which involved hot chicks in sexy costumes. An attitude that left them mostly alone, though not bothered by this fact, happily soaking in the sun and watching the coeds dressed in their first week of school finery from behind dark sunglasses.

On the left sat Tony Esposito, who the briefings described as Justin's best friend slash follower. Someone straight out central casting, who lived up to all the tropes for the goofy best friend in a family sitcom. Which made Justin the lead character and, if he didn't quite portray his specific role as well as did his friend, he at least looked the part. Tall, with curly, blond hair, his good looks and casual displays of wealth provided an in with many young ladies. But his immaturity and casual indifference always brought any relationship to an end in quick order.

With him single at the moment, Shiori would not need to poach him from some other girl. This made her even more happy than the fact she found him physically attractive. As for his immaturity, well she did not plan on a long relationship, while her appearance and training should provide ready antidotes to his indifference.

Unable to resist the urge, Shiori popped into the library, which bracketed one side of the square, and found a bathroom. Mostly she wanted to use its mirror, where she checked her appearance once more. Temporarily satisfied, she returned outside to initiate contact, only to stop in frustration when she saw two attractive brunettes at the booth. Cursing vanity's delay, she impatiently waited until the girls walked away, laughing at Tony's entreaties to stay.

Time to strike.

Now, not all Gods, be they major or minor, feel confident in their ability to predict what some random goofball on earth will do at any given moment. Dangerous, when making a mistake can begin the fall of a major into a minor or a minor into a forgotten deity. This caused the wise members of the heavenly strata to rely upon an open source human simulation service available from Godall. Sensual Scroll and Shiori, using parameters provided by Loki, Huginn, and Muninn, ran thousands of simulations with their Justin simulacrum. In particular, they war gamed the snot out of the first encounter.

Highly important to either catch Justin alone or only with Tony, preferably the second option since it added a positive impress the buddy factor. They also analyzed the opportune boredom level, which is why now, two hours into their three hour stint at the booth, she moved forward. These tactics they determined within the first eight runs, the untold number that followed focused on dialog planning and evaluation, as well as costuming.

The results of the last she continued to question. For someone who in another, unforgotten life begrudged standing taller than his peers, Shiori now found herself wishing for the height offered by high heels. But they did not go with her current costume.

"Dude," Tony said, nudging his friend and pointing in her direction.

His eyes widening satisfactorily, Justin asked, "Wow, is that a Ririchiyo Shirakiin school uniform?"

Time to remove the distraction from her smile, amp up its wattage and introduce some sparkle in her eyes as she allowed her pleasure at his correct guess to shine forth. With the accent they worked so hard to perfect, she said, “You are right though my hair is still black, not purple. But my wigs, and the rest of my stuff is yet to arrive.“

“You look amazing, even without purple hair. Umm...guessing by your accent, home isn't around here?"

"No, no, I am from Fukuoka, in Japan. I just arrived five days ago, to go to school."

"You decided to come here to school?" Tony asked. "It must seem so boring. It is boring."

"It is not so bad."

"You only just got here."

"Tony," Justin said. "Don't scare her away. I'm guessing you are interested in our club?"

Head nodding agreement, Shiori reached into her Candy Sugar black bag, complete with pink straps, for her tablet. While she did that, she said, "Yes, actually that's the reason I decided to come to school here. My aunt and uncle want me stop cosplaying, so they thought I should come to some small school in the US. Happily they did not learn about your club, but I searched harder than them and when I found these pictures I knew I needed to come here. The places are perfect, I so want to take pictures at some of them."

"Hey, those are mine."

She knew that, Loki knew it as well, which played a large role in his recommended disguise for the North Polish agent. During the prior year, Justin regularly photographed the club members, before posting them in the club's album. Usually at their own events, but he also did location shoots for the more attractive members of the club. Most interesting to the Trickster, a set featuring a blonde girl dressed as Daenerys from Game of Thrones, with a white horse, taken on the Lipton family farm in Penniesburg County.

"They are? You are really good!"

~o~O~o~

The Grand Cherokee motored along the highway, in dawn’s emerging light, with little guidance from its driver. Like every time Justin made the trip home, he found himself thinking about life. In particular, what he planned to make of his. Well actually he knew, he wanted to go into the family business of road construction. He liked the equipment, the tangible proof of progress, he even liked the smell of asphalt. So he went to school to get his business degree, while working on the road crews during summer.

Sure, he liked to enjoy himself, but he worked steadily towards his goal. If only his mother believed his goals measured up to his potential. Instead she thought more highly of his intelligence than he knew she should, while at the same time thinking less of the family business than he did. In her mind, Justin should become a doctor, a lawyer, or an architect and he should want to work in New York, Chicago, or London.

Dreams he knew really belonged to her own past, what she wanted for herself. What she vicariously wanted to lead through him, because his arrival forestalled her living them on her own.

Not always. Most of the time they got along and he knew she spoiled him. Yet, during the drive home, he always prepared himself for that moment of disappointment in her eyes when she asked him about school, that feeling of smallness.

Better when they saw each other regularly, without offering time for her to build the full on judgment look. Unfortunately this separation probably counted as their longest time apart. From the end of summer holidays until Thanksgiving. They talked at least once a week on the phone, but she remained preoccupied by some project, which stopped her from visiting. While he, well his distraction sat in the passenger seat beside him.

Justin wondered how worried Shiori felt about meeting his mother. She seemed awfully quiet.

Thorough though Sensa's training seemed, both at the time and as proven during her mission, Shiori found herself unprepared for the boredom of a five hour car ride. Probably not as bad as the plane trip from Japan, but her fears and nerves kept her from recognizing its monotony at the time. Now, grown into her skin and role, nothing prepared her for this boredom.

What is the protocol for a passenger, she wondered? Could she let herself nod off, let the hypnotic passage of dotted yellow lines lull her to sleep? That seemed unfair to Justin, requiring him to stay awake by himself while doing all the driving. The same problem as digging out her phone to play Candy Crush.

Too bad she could not bother Master Tyr, he always kept her entertained with his conversation. But their hours did not completely synch and she knew the road trip overlapped with the early hours of his night. Short hours too, during the busiest part of the Yule cycle. Selfish for her to bother him with a problem as benign as boredom, when she knew he needed his sleep.

For that matter, she should not be awake either, but Justin liked to get on the road early. Robbing her, once they left the city lights, even of the ability to watch the passing scenery.

Shiori considered trying to speak with Justin. But about what? Based on their last few conversations, he would want to talk about his mother and that always turned him serious. She struggled with serious Justin, particularly since they did not build their relationship on talking.

If with any of his prior girlfriends, Justin knew he would ask her if she felt alright. He would feel dread the question in his heart, knowing she was probably mad at him about something, even if she said different, but he would ask. With Shiori, it did not seem worth the effort. She would answer, I'm fine, and mean it. There never seemed a lot of depth to her, but he found the shallow surface spectacular for the now and near future.

A week after meeting Shiori, he found himself joking with Tony that if Amazon offered a girlfriend service, he doubted they could do a better job choosing her for him. Then, when she came over a few days later to do some cleaning, he almost believed someone dug around in the most hormone impaired sections of his brain and crafted her specifically for him. Not because past girlfriends never cleaned his place, his tendency towards untidiness triggered self-defence mechanism amongst most of them. Nor because she did a good job, Shiori's acceptable level of cleanliness did not really differ much from his own in those instances when he decided he preferred housework over homework. Instead, she set his heart a-pitter-and-a-patter, well maybe not his heart, by showing up to do so while wearing a maid's costume right out of some ecchi manga.

Justin already knew, lessons began after their third date, that sex with Shiori ranked amongst the best things ever. On that night he learned if they added in a costume, it jumped all the way to mind blowing. And when her shipment of cosplay stuff arrived from Japan, she eagerly showed him her many costumes. No wonder he paid so little attention to his mother this term.

Good thing she did not need to rely on talking to stay entertained, Shiori thought. If anything, she often found herself disinterested in conversation, particularly the animated discussions between Justin and his rather large group of friends. When they talked about sports, movies, or games, she did not need to feign interest. But when it revolved around school or the world, more likely their complaints about either subject, she utilized the whole English as a second language excuse to zone out.

Yet even when not a participating member, Shiori remained part of the group, which she preferred to Snorri’s past. It also offered a safe environment from which to people watch. Humans fascinated her, kept her entertained even in the near heterogeneous world where she found herself. This activity could go on for an hour, two, or more, until Justin remembered that, as a teenage male, horniness ruled with more power than the one ring over them all.

Close behind this primal imperative would follow the awareness that the quiet, but hot, Asian cutie sitting nearby all but lived with him and always proved willing to help him deal with his affliction. At which point one needed to take care to avoid the trampling.

For Shiori, what would follow when they returned home proved the fifth best thing about almost living with him, especially after she taught him some of the things she liked. Ranking just below Justin enjoying it even more than her, which kept her positioned to complete the mission. In third spot, how much she preferred sleeping in his comfortable bed, rather than her own bargain basement model at the dorm. While reigning supreme at the top, switching importance constantly as her mood fluctuated, her boyfriend’s Netflix subscription and PS4 game collection. She wished she could watch a movie or play a game right now, maybe she would not feel so bored.

Guilt at not feeling guiltier about how little attention he recently paid his mother played a significant role in turning this trip more introspective than normal. Justin could not deny his distraction, but he did not feel bad about it. Something, an inkling that his relationship with Shiori did not stretch far beyond the physical, convinced him his preoccupation would not last for long. True, he did not want it to end right now, but it would surprise him if they remained together after the school year.

Still, at this point in his life, if at any, he could afford distraction.

"Chicken and waffles!"

"Huh? What?" Justin asked, distracted from his thoughts.

“Chicken and waffles,” Shiori said, pointing into the distance.

There he saw it, a symbol of decades past flickering in morning’s almost light, a sign announcing, Gas Bar and Diner. If anything shattered Justin’s belief in her perfection, Shiori's fascination with The Food Network’s Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives would probably take top spot. The way she waffled between enthralled or appalled by the food served on the show, well that he could understand. But her unabashed willingness to buy into the host’s shtick, how she laughed at all his attempts at humour, that caused him to question. Everybody knew that if you looked up douche in the dictionary, it would show a picture of Guy Fieri. Though apparently not in the Japanese to English version

That said, he always stopped here for breakfast and he did tell her about the place in some weird moment of competitiveness with an on screen personality. Plus the smile Shiori offered him when they turned off the interstate made Justin's lower brain think he just made the best decision ever.

~o~O~o~

Of course Shiori barely made a dent in her order when it arrived, though she thoroughly enjoyed what she did eat. It left her sipping the almost too strong coffee while switching between watching Justin work his way through the Working Man's Breakfast and curiously looking out the restaurant's window.

When her boyfriend sat back in his seat, she finally asked, "What's that man doing?"

Looking over his shoulder, out the window, Justin saw the man who left the diner soon after they arrived standing beside the road. He said, "Probably hitchhiking."

"What's that?"

"Sometimes people can't afford their own car, so they try and get rides with other people in order to get where they want to go."

"Oh, we should give him a ride," Shiori said.

“Umm...it’s not always safe to pick up hitchhikers.”

“He wouldn’t try anything with you around.”

“He will likely get a ride with someone else,” Justin said, while wondering why the women in his life felt so overly confident in him. When the guy walked by, on his way out the door, Justin found himself thinking ex-NFL linebacker, both for his size and the way he moved,. He knew he would stand no chance in a physical altercation. No matter how much he dragged out breakfast, even ate some of Shiori's leftovers, he could tell by how she continued to look out the window that nobody picked him up. Not even a bored and lonely trucker. Justin dragged out paying, visited the bathroom, and even filled up with gas. But still no one stopped for the man.

It placed his pride in a terrible place, on the side of his hormones against his good sense. Justin did not want Shiori to consider him a chicken, but...shit!

Still moving at parking lot speed, he pulled onto the shoulder, just in front of the man, who walked up to the car. Rolling down the side window, Justin asked, "Where you off too, Mister?"

"Reacher, Jack Reacher. Off to a little town called Doulumberg."

"I know where that is, played baseball there a couple times as a kid. We won't be able to take you all the way there, but can get you as far as Junction 232?"

"Happy to get a lift for those thirty miles."

"You should sit in the front, Mr. Reacher," Shiori said, opening the car door to hop out. "You are super tall."

Unsure whether to grab her arm, speed off, or sigh at the actions of his innocent, dare-devil of a girlfriend, Justin waited for her to get in the back and the man to climb into the front. With both of them buckled up, he waited for a passing car before pulling onto the road, speeding up to just over the limit.

Not understanding how proper etiquette required the next half hour to pass in uncomfortable silence, where neither side offered any information, Shiori asked, "Are you going to Douberg for Thanksgiving, Mr. Reacher? Justin's taking me to his home town of Penniesburg for Thanksgiving. This will be my first one. I'm so excited."

"It's Doulumberg, Miss. No I am just visiting. I heard that Dapper Kevin Nickle came from there and I wanted to learn if there are any old stories about him."

"Who?"

"A jazz trombonist from the '50s. My mother owned one of his albums while I grew up."

The following half hour passed in one of Shiori's patented curiosity quenchers, as she asked question after question. During which, not only did their passenger not kill them, he patiently answered her questions, telling them about his strange life on the road. Yet Justin could tell Reacher felt a sense of relief when he finally escaped the bombardment of queries.

Waving her arm out the window, Shiori shouted, "Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Reacher. Have fun in Douberg."

In response, the man waved once, though Justin saw, in his rear view mirror, the gesture end with a temple rub. He asked, "I wonder if he ever runs into any adventure?"

"He seems too nice for that."

"Still, I bet he could handle it."

"The waffles and chicken tasted yummy, but they are making me sleepy."

"Feel free to sleep. Everybody else who has made this trip with me are usually conked out by the time we leaved the city."

"Conked out, that is funny," Shiori said, snuggling against the door.

Chapter 6

What did it mean to describe a town as no where near Walmartable? Soon after they exited the interstate, the turn waking Shiori from her sleep, she learned what Justin meant when using that description for his home town. Named Penniesburg, like the county, it might reach five thousand people during the yearly, agricultural fair when people from the surrounding farms brought in their cattle and horses for showing.

Yet she instantly fell in love with the place. Maybe not picturesque nor quaint, but it held so many less people than cities. They saw maybe ten people walking along Main Street and a total of seven, moving cars or trucks while driving through town, Justin waving at all of them.

Less peaceful on the far side of town, where they needed to wait for four gravel trucks before they could turn into the compound with signage reading, Lipton's Road Services. The sound of a gravel crusher to the right and the smell of an asphalt plant invading the cabin of the Jeep as they pulled into a small parking lot fronting a two story building. The offices where Shiori would meet Agatha Lipton for the first time.

For the first time in month's, Shiori felt her Snorri memories come to the forefront, in particular the moment when the tarnished bell popped out of the N&N machine into his hand. It made his remnants nervous, which in turn made her nervous.

More nervous. She also suddenly experienced the anxiety of so many girls and women about to meet their boyfriend's mother for the first time.

Always the touchy feely type, when she grasped Justin’s hand after they left the Jeep she did so more for comfort than companionship. Sensing some of what she felt, he offered her hand a squeeze before they entered the building.

"Hello, Susan. Is my mother free?"

"Happy Thanksgiving, Justin," the receptionist just inside the main door said. "Yes she is. Just don’t let her keep you too long, she has a phone call she needs to make in twenty five minutes.”

“Will do. This way, Shiori,” he said, leading her down the hall, past three offices with people working inside, to the corner office. A bit larger than the rest and with more windows, but the woman behind the desk rising to greet them is what mainly differentiated it from the others.

“Justin,” she said, approaching to give him a hug.

“Hi, Mom. Umm, this is Shiori, Shiori, my mom”

Like all her targets, Shiori knew what Agatha Lipton looked like, but pictures and videos do not always portray presence. Even in a simple blouse and blue jeans, Justin's mother exuded a somewhat intimidating level of confidence and control. Enough for Shiori's training to trigger her to dip into an abbreviated curtsey, when she said, "Hello, Ms. Lipton, thank you for inviting me to visit during Thanksgiving.”

“Welcome, Shiori. I did not want such a good friend of Justin’s to stay alone at school during a time meant for family.”

Another meeting which she and Sensual Scroll war gamed numerous times, which her Sensa continued to simulate right up until yesterday. Agatha's response, only slightly snarkified, offered the perfect opportunity to slide in optimal response number two.

"I am really looking forward to it, Ms. Lipton. It will likely be my only chance to experience a true American Thanksgiving."

Neither Lipton ranked amongst the oblivious, they both caught the message in that statement. In Justin's case it resulted in no response, as he again considered the time limit built into their relationship. But with Agatha, an immediate thaw occurred, at least as much as her borderline Ice Queen persona allowed. Not quite ready to pass off her son for the long term, she found herself reevaluating Shiori's abilities as an ally in that delay.

"Why don't you two sit down and we will have a quick visit. Yes, yes, Justin, I'm sure Susan warned you about my meeting, but we do have a few moments before it starts.

~o~O~o~

When choosing her outfit for any day, Shiori used two basic criteria; what she looked good in and whatever amused her. However, in some instances the mission overrode, or at least impacted, her preference. For this first meeting with Agatha Lipton, she wore brown, leather cowboy boots as a mandate. The white shift dress and jean jacket, those she chose because they looked cute and made her look countrified for her trip into the country. But, if not for the boots, she would probably wear something different.

Dagmar the Still-Experiencing-Concussion-Like-Symptoms cared about nothing other than those boots, more specifically their heels. Inside of each, waiting for the moment he could free them from their confines, rested four cameraleons. His task, to pilot each of them into locations where they could surveil Agatha and the offices.

The key to this operation, like most examples of espionage, the need to perform it unseen. Making it more difficult, they could never find the blinds on the windows of Agatha’s office open, which meant his first sight of the layout occurred through Shiori's eyes. He would give her some credit, at least she remembered to start filming with her contact lenses, but she barely looked where he wanted her to look.

“Idiot,” he said, making no attempt to mutter under his breath.

“Problem?” Tyr asked Loki, from the other side of two way mirror where they watched both the screens showing what Shiori saw and Dagmar inside the control room.

Loki answered, “No, just Dagmar’s normal sparkling personality. He breaks everyone into one of three categories. Those he needs to suck up too, like us, and most everybody else, the idiots he considers himself better than."

"That's only two."

"There are also those he hates, at the top of which is our agent's alter-ego. So don't let him find out Shiori is Snorri or the poisonous little snake might foul things up on purpose."

"I doubt that, he's always been willing to obey orders."

"Yep, the perfect little brown nose. Right until he spears you in the back and forces you to listen to his insane ramblings while you're dying. How did he end up in your father's hall? He seems more my type of follower, though admittedly the type that makes me feel icky and rethink my career choices."

"We're not sure. Our best guess is that in the chaos of battle, the Valkyrie who scooped him up took a war hammer upside her helmet and chose the wrong target."

Considering all the factors, Dagmar knew extracting each of the four cameraleons and moving them to temporary safety, in the limited time available, would require wondrous dexterity, super clear thinking, and the nerves of master assassin. It suddenly made sense why the Masters chose him, with his superelfen skills. Who else, amongst the great swaths of imbeciles filling Santa’s factories, could even imagine attempting this feat.

“Just I, Dagmar! Soon the masters will be forced to welcome me into their ranks.”

Tyr asked, “Do you think he knows others can hear him?”

“Nope. Snorri’s punch didn’t just knock him out, I think it also short-circuited something in his conniving lobe.”

“No, you idiot, sit against the wall. Bah, amateurs. Fortunately I am here to make everything right. Prepare for release of Cameraleon #1, in 5, 4, 3, 2, Go!”

~o~O~o~

In the surveillance universe, no other device approached the splendor of a cameraleon. Mobile, with the ability to record an unlimited amount of sound and video (by uploading to Godall’s Nebula service), it also possessed a tail that could transform into all configurations, which allowed it to connect to any computer device and download the data stored within. Human’s who belonged to the world's intelligence agencies, even those who just checked for extra marital activity, would, as the wise men of Boogertown might say, cream their jeans at possessing such a marvel. If only they did not require two gewgaws as components.

Not a big deal, right? Simply submalgrify three widgets, eight gadgets, and a thing-a-ma-jig. Boom you now possess a handy dandy gewgaw.

Of course, as already mentioned, elfin DNA did not start with much in the way of smarts. If you asked most Einherjar to use their head to get out a tricky situation, they would put on their helmets and look for the nearest thing needing a head-butt. So while twenty of them could polyfixilarate a thing-a-ma-jig, only one could submalgrify a gewgaw.

Fortunately toyifying with a gewgaw took no more skill than zapifying a widget. Quite a few elfs could incorporate the necessary number of gewgaws into a smart phone or tablet, which every child seemed to want.

Allowing for spoilage, wish reprioritization, and the bodily functions of Gewgawgifier Knut, Santa could only supply his espionage team with twenty four gewgaws. Enough for twelve cameraleons. The first, the prototype, nobody trusted for field work, a second crushed under Santa's boot, a third eaten by Muninn, and the next four deployed at the offices left her only five for use. These they recommended Shiori deploy only when no other option presented itself, since the huge Lipton house required much greater coverage than those five could supply.

Time for old technology. Cameras, mics and bugs fashioned from no more than thing-a-ma-jigs, which required good old-fashioned sneakery to install. A time consuming task that Shiori needed to finish before she and Justin returned to university on Sunday morning.

Busy nights ahead, made a bit simpler by sleeping in her own room, she guessed because of those strange religious reasons Sensual Scroll tried to explain. But in this instance she saw the advantage behind abstinence. No way to wake Justin when she left or returned, nor would he rouse from his sleep and notice her missing.

The disadvantage? How to know if he slept before she began her task. Or if he woke up and wandered out of his room to find her planting bugs.

A worry Shiori dealt with that afternoon. After Justin provided a the tour of the house, ending in his basement bedroom, she used her distraction superpowers learned while working with Comus to leave him temporarily discombobulated. During his follow-up nap she installed two motion detectors, a high powered mic and a triangulated set of cameras in his bedroom. These would allow Tyr to monitor his sleep while she snuck about, informing her of any movement. But no opportunity existed to wire Agatha’s bedroom in a similar fashion. They did not even enter it during the tour.

To compensate for this gap, she deployed two more of her precious cameraleons, leaving Pole control to navigate each into place within Agatha’s bedroom. While she waited for Tyr to assure her both Liptons slept, she finalized wiring her guest room, the attached bathroom, and the second guest room on the other side.

"Mission is a go," Tyr suddenly said, his voice now natural in her head. "Both bogies are in deep REM and expected to remain so for approximately forty five minutes to an hour."

Somewhere, probably on the internet, she read how black did not work as well for night time camouflage as expected; therefore, she wore her dark blue, silk pajamas. Combine this with the matching robe, which might help mask her form, and she considered herself almost ready for night time skulking. To complete her outfit, Shiori slipped her feet into her pair of Mariboo Ghost Slippers. Built so the blue feathers attached to the strap across the top of her foot would provide lift, allowing her to sneak about without the sound of footsteps, while the stabilizer in each 2" heel would ensure she did not teeter forward onto her perfect nose.

Faced with the dark of night, though some moonlight did filter in through the windows, she turned on the night vision function of her lenses. The simplest part of her job; just blink her left eye twice, the right four times and then both together. After filling her pockets with the needed paraphernalia, Shiori stole from her room.

Pole control’s analysis of the video she shot during the afternoon tour identified Agatha's office slash library as the number one location of interest. However, it sat above and connected to the master bedroom via stairs, which meant her and Justin used the single passenger elevator to reach it earlier in the day. Noisy as the elevator proved, Shiori did not plan on using it during the night, instead she hoped they would leave her alone in the house at some point. Tonight she planned to blitz as much as possible, starting with better coverage on the second floor.

A reading area, railings opening to the living room and foyer below, two stairways, three more bedrooms, and another bathroom made up the non-master suite portion of the huge house's second floor. The railings, hallway and stairwell received attention first.

Definitely a few pic-me-ups, but mostly b-lens-dos. Direct ancestors of the cameraleons, film thin stickers that blended against whatever they adhered to, indistinguishable by look and feel. Unfortunately the video range sucked, so she needed to use lots of them. Worse, they stuck to her fingers and she ruined as many as she put in place, waiting after each installation for Pole control to initiate and sequence it into place.

Nor did it help to do this while using night vision. During training, she found it strange but exciting. Now the constant green glow struck her as rather creepy, particularly in a barely familiar house where all sorts of strange things jumped into the edge of her vision. It took much longer to finish the second floor than expected.

“Time?” Shiori asked.

Tyr answered, “You’ve been at it for forty two minutes.”

“So long?”

“Yep, but it was a good night’s work.”

“Are they still asleep?”

“Justin rolled over a few moments ago, but Agatha still seems to be in deep sleep. Are you thinking about the main floor?”

“Yeah. There are quite a few people coming over for Thanksgiving Dinner, it would be nice to get some pic-me-ups installed. That way we can capture any conversations. Though I won’t use any b-lens-dos, since doing both take forever to install,” Shiori said, floating down the stairwell near the master bedroom.

Much easier to place the mics, since they did not deal with the same range limitations. She blitzed through the main floor and began to consider the basement.

"Warning, Bogey One has awoken."

"Which one is that, again?" Shiori asked, moving towards the stairs that would take her up to her room.

"Agatha. Don't use the stairs, we just want to see...shit, she is leaving her room."

"What do I do? What do I do?"

"Be ready to use the stairs on my mark. Ignore that, she is looking towards your room."

"What do I do? What do I do?"

"Is it cloudy out?" Tyr asked.

"What? Oh, you're thinking the City Girl Gambit? Clear enough for that."

"Yep, engage City Girl. Hurry, she is at your door and taking a peek."

Floating back into the living room, Shiori headed for a big old leather armchair. She’d noticed it during her earlier tour, since unlike the other furniture it looked well used. The blanket folded over the back, which she grabbed when she arrived, showed why. Her slippers kicked off, settling to the ground, she folded herself into the chair, wrapping the blanket around herself. Allowing the chair to welcome her into its embrace.

“She’s headed downstairs. Losing visual.”

That did not matter, as she engaged one of the key elfin superpowers. The one that allowed them to work sweatshop like hours in Santa's Workshops without burning out. She turned off her thinker and instantly fell asleep.

"Shiori. Wake up, Shiori."

The hand shaking her shoulder, more than the voice, woke her from the seconds long sleep. A sleep not nearly long enough, even Santa could not get away with keying his elfs to get by on so little rest. It meant she found herself swimming through a morass, filled with shadows and darkness, on her way to semi-awareness. When Shiori reached that state, she pried open her eyes to see someone standing over her, someone who slowly turned into Agatha Lipton. Unable yet to verbalize the question, her look still expressed the confusion at waking from such a deep sleep.

"You shouldn't be sleeping in a chair, Shiori. You will hurt your neck," Agatha said, somewhat guilty at waking her from such deep sleep. "Is there something wrong with your room?"

“Oh no, Ms. Lipton. The room is perfectly fine, it is just so quiet out here in the country. I couldn’t sleep and I found myself looking at the stars through my window. You can’t see them in the city, then I remembered the big window down here in the living room. I must have fallen asleep at some point. The chair is super comfy.”

“Your bed is probably more comfortable, why don’t you go and see if you can’t get back to sleep. It is going to be a long day, my family is a handful.”

"Okay, Ms. Lipton, good night. Umm, are you alright?"

"Yeah, its just that my parents insist on buying a huge turkey from friends and I want to check to see if it is almost unfrozen. Why can't we just get a store bought one you can cook from frozen, like everybody else?"

"Does it taste better?" Shiori asked.

"If I get it cooked right and on time, maybe a bit."

~o~O~o~

"Sometimes I think we are making this more complicated than needed," Tyr said, sitting back in his chair, nerves tensed by the night's espionage relaxing as Shiori returned to bed.

Distracted, focused on killing aliens with the dildo bat in Saints Row IV, Thor asked, “What’s that?”

“This whole affair. Everything from Loki’s involvement to transforming Snorri and sending him, or I mean her, undercover. Why didn’t one of us just put on his Christmas delivery distracto suit, port into the Lipton house and office, then bug both places.”

“Yeah, that probably would have worked.”

“Of course it would and a lot more efficiently than Loki’s plan,” Tyr said, hoping the second mention of their longtime enemy would jar his brother from his present state of indifference.

“Tyr, circumstances may have temporarily turned you into a middle manager, but there is no reason to start acting like one. Efficiency? Don’t you get enough of that drek? You don’t get style points for plans and schedules, budgets and deadlines.”

“Style points?”

“Exactly. Look, think it through. Our enemy is clever and secretive, but still human. Any of us could take an active role, but it would not be particularly fair. It's a bit like this game. I could use the 'Merica gun, but it's ridiculously overpowered. Whereas, using the dildo bat takes a lot more skill.”

“While appealing to your inner fourteen year old.”

“And my inner fourteen hundred and fourteen thousand year old. But do you see how well it works when wielded by a master. Really no different than our plan. So when we succeed, the degree of difficulty should impress the lovelies at Club Xanadu. It's overly elaborate, danger and failure always one step away, plus a follower going to extravagant lengths to prove his, now her, loyalty. It's loaded with style points.”

"And if the plan fails?" Tyr asked.

"Combing my hair, wearing a nice shirt and paying for drinks usually works."

~o~O~o~

What a great day!

Friends, family, food (so good to eat turkey again), fun and football combined to make Thanksgiving special at the Lipton's. It also required a fair amount of work from Agatha, but that offered another opportunity for Shiori to get in her good books. Never afraid of work, genetically disposed to following orders and possessing good knife skills kept her at work in the kitchen when others found themselves chased away by their hostess.

This also offered refuge from the curiosity everyone felt towards Justin's new and exotic girlfriend. Though the times she could not escape always resulted in his, rather than her, embarrassment as they bombarded her with numerous stories that placed him in less than favorable light.

Hard to believe this house hid the desire to ruin Christmas.

Yet the Friday after Thanksgiving found her refocused on trying to prove it. A task made easier by the absence of the two Liptons. Just after a lunch of leftovers, they left to see Justin's great-grandmother who lived at a care home in a bigger city an hour away while experiencing a mother slash son together time trip. One they did not ask Shiori to join and one she would refuse if they did, prepared to say how she got to see Justin so often.

After they drove a few miles away, in Justin's already bugged and GPSed Jeep, she jumped into the elevator and rode up to the library. A huge house, with only one full time resident contains a lot of unused space, but none seemed less used than the space above the master bedroom. The shelving covering the walls did not lack for books, colourful popular fiction rather than leather bound classics, but the Kindle in the TV room implied they existed for posterity and to fill the shelves. She even tried moving a bunch, in case they opened a secret room. No luck. Nor with the older PC sitting on a computer desk, which consisted of three unlocked drawers holding nothing more than stationary. The room felt so unused she expected a cover of dust, but the once a week housekeeper made sure that did not happen.

Not that the lack of use stopped Shiori from bugging the snot out of the space. It just made her eager to move onto the rest of the house.

While finishing the main floor, a task planned for the prior night, before finding herself too tired for such spy games, she asked, "Master Tyr, are you there?"

"Here, Shiori. Problems?" Tyr asked, a few seconds later.

"I don't think the library is important. In fact I am starting to wonder if the Naughty or Nicerator made a mistake. Did we pick up anything from the guests yesterday? Particularly Cousin Mark, there was something about him."

"The fact that he stared at your breasts constantly?"

"That might be it. I did not know you were watching."

"Not always," Tyr said. "Only when you talked to someone different for the first time. Trying to see if I could pick up something. And no, we did not get any answers. But we didn't expect to learn anything too quick, particularly not while you are still there. Have you finished the basement?"

"Just heading down, now."

The basement contained a lot more of the unused space in the house, at least by Agatha. But Justin treated it as his area. So combine the impact of his few days at home with it serving as the escape hole for the younger members of the family the prior day and it now looked used. Too bad she could not wire the huge recreation room before yesterday, though she doubted anybody who spent much time downstairs instilled enough trust to keep a secret worthy of a black bell.

Specially Cousin Mark.

All alone, she bugged the second basement bedroom. The one Shiori admitted to herself she would not sleep in if Agatha assigned her its use, too easy to sneak next door to Justin’s room. In the small wine room, most of the shelves bare, she only placed a single pic-me-up, while the equipment room received a thorough exploration and bugging. Just like the exercise room, which based on the number of boxes stacked on the equipment never got used.

However, when she stepped in the almost empty storage room, she found herself wondering why those boxes sat in the other room. Could it be to provide access to a secret door? The thought made her excited as she started knocking on the back wall and stomping her foot.

Thonk!

In the back corner of the room she heard it and when she looked closer, she spotted the faintest outline of a trap door. If only she could find a sconce, elaborate scrollwork with a hidden button, or even a book she could tilt. Spotting a hidden door is one thing, opening it another. Shiori could not even Inigo Montoya her way through it.

She needed to call in the experts.

Reports placed Justin and Agatha still at his great grandmother's care home when she opened the door and let Huginn and Muninn fly in. Taking them downstairs, she stood watching to see if the door opened while the two of them hopped about pecking at random shit they found interesting.

"Woah, woah, woah, that's it," she shouted, when the edge of the door popped upwards, allowing her to grab hold and swing it open. "How did you open it?"

"Spare light switch in wine room," Muninn croaked, when she came out to see.

"I was going to check there next," Huginn muttered. "Hey, Muninn, is that a bottle of Blue Nun I see in there."

"Sure is, Huginn. A '72, is that a good year?"

"Blue Nun doesn’t have bad years. So, Hot Stuff, what say you, Muninn and I open this beauty and have a glass of the grape?"

“I don’t think we should, Ms. Lipton might notice it missing.”

“Will the three of you forget about the wine and tell me about the secret passage?”

Apparently the two ravens could hear Master Tyr just as well as Shiori, as the two of them beat her to the storage room. Looking down the hole, Muninn said, “It’s dark.”

“And deep,” Huginn agreed.

Blinking her left eye twice, the right four times and then both together before she looked down the hole, she said, "Yep, it's dark, but not really deep. I can see the bottom about ten ell down and the entrance to what looks like a tunnel. There is a ladder."

"Climb down and see what's there," Tyr said.

"Me?" Shiori asked.

"Well I'm not going down," Huginn said.

"Me neither, it's spooky," Muninn said.

"But I'm a girl and I'm not dressed for spelunking."

The ravens just stared at her with their gimlet gazes. She fought back with all the skills taught by Sensual Scroll. A pout, a sad face and a pleading expression, but raven dudes proved more difficult to manipulate than regular dudes.

"Some harbingers of doom you two are. Okay I will go change, but know this, there is no way I'm sharing a bottle of wine with you guys."

Muninn said, "We prefer to harbinge with the open sky above us. Where the power of flight offers us the escape advantage. Not down in a scary hole."

"Yep, that's what has kept us in the game for so long," Huginn crowed. "You might want to take a weapon with you. In case something horrible is lurking below."

"I saw a hammer when I was hopping around in the furnace room. Take that."

Deciding nothing good could come from listening to the two bird brains, Shiori left to go upstairs and change into something other than her nice dress. But she did not move fast enough, particularly since the primitive voice boxes of the ravens did not allow whispering, to miss the rest of their conversation.

"No way a hammer is going to be good enough to deal with anything that lurks below, Muninn. Specially with her spindly arms."

"I know, Huginn. But I thought I would try being a harbinger of hope."

"Good idea."

"Thanks, how do you think I did?"

"If she comes back? Great! If not, you still have the whole doom thing to fall back upon."

Chapter 7

What should you wear when about to descend into a dark, probably dank, hole? A hole surely filled with monsters, real or figurative, who waited to do horrible things to you.

“Umm, Master Tyr, we probably don’t have time for this. Justin and Ms. Lipton will likely be back soon.”

“Justin’s Jeep is still parked at the care home. And didn’t you tell them you would be okay on your own if they went out for supper, before they returned home? You have lots of time.”

“I also have three cameraleons left, maybe it would be better to drop one of those down the hole to explore," Shiori said, not quite allowing herself to plead.

"Control does not believe we will be able to interface with a cameraleon that far underground."

"What? Aren't you like a God or something? You should be able to get it to work."

"I wish, but licensing and architecture of the underground network is controlled by the underworld deities and they’re famous for not being part of the group. They are all about proprietary shit, not open source. Plus they have reserved most frequencies for piping the worst music humanity ever created into whatever hellhole they call home. And don’t forget, one of their most common new customers are the internet providers, guys who they immediately put to work. We applied for an account, but we won't get a service guy here to hook us up until somewhere between the beginning and end of next forever. That's too late for us, we need to take this chance. It's the best lead we've got."

"But what if the bad guys are down there?"

"I'm sure they are taking a break while you and Justin are visiting. But you should follow Huginn's advice and take the hammer, I have a feeling its use will come naturally to you."

"That's not nice, Master Tyr. You know I could never build anything, why would I be good with a hammer?"

"You mean it's not a war hammer?"

"Of course not, why would Ms. Lipton have a war hammer? And why would I be good with a war hammer? Actually, I like the sound of using a war hammer. I bet it would be fun. Can you get me a war hammer, Master Tyr? Please?"

"Umm, umm," Tyr sputtered, as he realized how close he treaded to breaking the ancient pact. "By the way, that's a really cute outfit for sneaking around underground."

“Do you think so? It’s just some yoga pants and my school’s sweater, what Justin calls college girl chic. But the pants are new, I picked them up at the Adidas store earlier this week. I love saying Adidas, it makes me feel I'm so lah dee dah. Hey, are you trying to distract me from the evil men who are going to do horrible things to me down in the hole.”

"Only partially. Besides I don't think there will be any evil men and you really do look cute."

Words, never her strong point, not when she existed as Snorri and not after all she learned during booty camp, did not offer a comeback. What she did learn, the art of expression, she readily exercised. Even if it did not work on ravens, she let a sad and fearful look come over her face as she looked into a mirror while braiding her hair.

Apparently, at least this god was more regular guy than his father’s ravens.

"I'll still be able to communicate with you. Our I-triple-HO interface is on another frequency, which the underworlders do not control."

"Well I've read enough stories and watched enough movies to know voices in your head rarely get you out of trouble."

"Gah, you learned your lesson too well. I'll get you some help."

"Yay, Master Tyr," Shiori said, showing her happy appreciation with an adorable bouncing clap.

"Though first you should let Huginn and Muninn out of the house. Who knows what the pair of them will do if left alone for too long. Besides, if they're not going to help you, they may as well get back to work. We can have them watch for anybody heading towards the house.”

A simple enough task, though it required her to ignore their apology about not being chickens and an almost embarrassing number of pleas to give them the bottle of Blue Nun. Task complete she returned to the basement and looked down the hole, shrieking as she jumped back from what she saw.

"What's wrong now?" Tyr asked, sounding rather fed up.

"Oh my you, Master Tyr. There's something down there. Two of them and they’re huge."

"That's your backup, Geri and Freki, father's pet wolves. They'll keep you safe. Though I hope they don't have to, since we'll likely get in trouble for overstepping our mission rules."

"Don't worry, Master Tyr. Likely nobody is down there."

With hammer in hand and oblivious to Tyr’s put upon sigh, Shiori climbed down into the small space at the bottom of the ladder and saw her protectors for the first time. Well actually, since their dark fur blended perfectly into the gloom of the tunnel, in which they waited, she saw four yellowish eyes and about nine hundred and forty glistening fangs, nearly at her eye height. Careful consideration of this visual stimuli allowed her to decide that standing, well quivering, in place seemed the most appropriate response. Furthermore, closing her eyes did not seem out of place.

Hot steamy breath, rank enough to kill a cow, washed over her face as the two massive beasts padded over to check out their new companion slash toy slash potential victim slash maybe the person to lead them into some fun bad shit. Evaluation complete, Freki gave one of Flower Smell's braids a gentle tug and Geri wuffed a quiet question.

"Feel safer?" Tyr asked.

"From the bad guys? I guess," Shiori said, opening her eyes to see the wolves watching her with more intelligence and hunger than she appreciated. "Umm, why don't you two go scout out the tunnel?"

They did. Noses down, the two wolves turned and moved out of sight into the darkness of the tunnel. This allowed her to move forward into the opening.

"When was the house built, Master Tyr?"

"We'll find out. Why?"

"This tunnel is concrete. It must have been poured when the house was built, which may mean this plot is older than we think. You should also check who built it, they might be involved."

Night vision does not do much when there is no light to gather, something that grew worse the further she moved from the ladder, with a curve and slope built into the tunnel. When her range shrank to little more than a step, she rapidly blinked her left eye until it emitted a low frequency light her right lens could utilize. With hopes that her North Pole technology worked better than anything the bad guys possessed, Shiori continued along the cement hall. In all, she counted five hundred and thirty eight, admittedly small and shuffling, steps before finding the two wolves standing at the end of the cement tunnel.

But a cross tunnel beckoned. Older, broader and higher, cut through the stone and reinforced with old wooden timbers, though recently added metal poles and plates showed someone wanted to make it extra safe. The two wolves looked towards her for instructions.

Gesturing for them to hold still, she said, "I think I found a mine."

"That's how the Liptons made their original wealth, though they closed it in the 1940s."

"What is the chance you can find a map for me?"

"Extremely low and definitely not quickly. There may be plans in a set of dusty records somewhere, but we can't find them on any network." Tyr answered. "You will have to continue to explore. Use their noses."

Unlike conversation with Master Tyr, Shiori would need to speak aloud with the Geri and Freki. But since sound carries underground, she needed to whisper, which would put her closer to wolf teeth than she wished. Life as a secret agent sometimes sucked. Waving the wolves towards her she bent over.

“Do either of you smell humans? No, not me, in the tunnel.”

Life as a wolf sometimes sucked, instead of sniffing Flower Smells, sometimes you’re expected to go stick your nose close to the dusty ground. Then you needed to fight the urge to sneeze, since that could give you and the pack away, which will piss them off because you wasted all their effort and nobody could eat tasty meat. Yet belonging to the pack meant you sometimes needed to take the risk of embarrassment to prove useful, so they started checking out the older tunnel. Both showing much more interest with the right side.

That did not surprise her. For, from that strange source of pseudo memories, another one emerged. When did she hunt? What did she track? Another hint at the secret behind Master Tyr's nervous obfuscation. But the secret played less importance in the moment than the remembered skill. With it she could read the recent passage of people on the ground.

Beyond a few scuffs, old and almost faded from view - how many years would that take - no sign showed of passage to the left. But on the right she saw signs of recent movement. Multiple shoes and boots, but possibly only two pairs of feet. One larger and one smaller.

Too bad. After yesterday's celebration, she wanted to prove Ms. Lipton innocent.

Crap, what if they could also read tracks? They would see her and the wolves' exploration. Well at least hers, despite their meandering search for smells, neither Freki nor Geri left a discernible print. A life lived in myth apparently held advantage.

"Wait here, I will be right back."

The trip to the ladder went much quicker than the trip out, it barely seemed scary. She actually took just as long to climb up to her bedroom. There Shiori faced a conundrum.

Her Mariboo Ghost Slippers held the technology needed to traverse the tunnels without leaving a trace, but they did not fit in with the college girl chic look. She could change, but nothing they matched, never mind the slippers themselves, seemed appropriate for wandering around underground. Maybe she could transfer the feathers to her runners, but that would mean destroying the slippers. Something that struck her as wrong, they were so pretty.

"Just wear the slippers," Tyr said, interrupting the decision paralysis he read on her face.

The tunnels grew more oppressive the further the three traveled. In time the fear of the wolves disappeared, their companionship serving as a counter to the worms wiggling about in terror inside her mind. By the time they passed the fourth spur or fork, journeying briefly down the path untaken by their quarry in case they missed something, she found herself walking with a hand loosely gripping the fur of one companion while the other ranged ahead. Then, three offshoots later, they reached a point with two choices.

A new tunnel, running perpendicular to the one they just finished traveling. Signs and smells showing more than two shoes walking in both directions.

Brief explorations proved neither choice better than the other.

"Okay, Freki, you come with me, while Geri stays here and watches for anyone. Come running if someone approaches."

Unsure if the right wolf came with her or if the other wolf understood and would follow her directions, Shiori floated down the left tunnel. Why left? Well she always followed the law of left when playing RPGs on Justin's PlayStation.

More signs of the mine along this tunnel, rooms carved off to the sides filled with metal garbage, even a set of tracks still remained. Shiny enough to make her think they saw recent use.

Then she found it. Another room, but not filled with waste from past mining. Instead she found rations and medical supplies, boxes of clothing and blankets piled neatly into the room. The next room held guns and ammo of all sorts. While the third scared her the most, filled with boxes labeled as explosives.

Somebody prepared for a war.

Taking numerous pictures, she also planted b-lens-dos and pic-me-ups in each room, with hopes the North Pole could get the underworld service provider to hook them up. Shiori then continued down the tunnel wondering what she would find.

The end surprised her. It came in another larger room, holding a table, chairs and whiteboard, along with a generator and light stands. They did not shine, but here she did not need to continue emitting light to assist her sight. Daylight, filtering down through the shaft, provided all she needed. Maybe seventy feet above, she could see the bottom of an elevator, still working if she read the markings on the wall correctly, but well out of her reach.

Time to turn around and check in the other direction.

Geri, if it was Geri, had maintained his position, though the puppy dog like relief and affection he showed her when she returned proved even such a fierce creature did not like waiting around, alone, in the dark caverns. It made her feel bad about leaving Freki, this time, at the intersection as she traveled to the right.

A straighter tunnel, with no offshoots, she found a newly built mining cart on the rails after walking for about three minutes. It sat at the end of the tracks, but another concrete tunnel now extended towards the left.

No surprise to find another ladder like the one underneath the Lipton basement. But without the ravens, Shiori could not find the way to open the door. Nor did she try. Somebody might wait on the other side.

"Master Tyr, can you tell what house I am under," Shiori asked, bugging the space.

"Best we can guess, it's not a house. It's that big old building you passed on the way from town."

"Justin said it used to be the home for his family's road construction business. They moved to their new location when he was a kid, because they needed a better gravel pit."

Finished with her exploration, Shiori returned to the house. After she hugged the wolves, now her best friends, goodbye before they disappeared, she climbed out of the tunnel, closed the trap door, replaced the hammer and ensured everything looked the same as she found it. Happily above ground, she showered and changed back into her cute jumper dress, then made herself a meal of Thanksgiving leftovers.

"You know, Master Tyr, outside of the guns and explosives, that was kind of anticlimactic."

"Productive though. At least we found a path. The right one? Well, that is still to be seen. We won’t need you to plant the gear at the mine entrance, since it's basically wilderness. But you need to get into that building."

"I've got a plan."

~o~O~o~

For centuries, life at the North Pole proved dull. Not truly bad dull, since the battles and politics that preceded left them all emotionally exhausted, ready for rest and relaxation to act as the balm to wash away that tiredness. And by the time everyone felt rested and relaxed, they started the Yule Cycle gifting program, which kept them busy ironing out kinks in the operation. But less kinks happened each year, as they grew into a smooth working operation.

Boredom made itself known, which is why Thor appreciated Agatha Lipton. Sure, she set herself up as his enemy, but sometimes you need an enemy. It offered him a chance to exercise some parts of his being that lay dormant.

Yet it takes more than exercise to turn the dormant dominant. So when he heard the racket coming from the building in which the Stinky Dozen practiced, he automatically found himself in worried manager slash babysitter mode, wondering what trouble he would find his band of idiots causing. Hurrying forward he opened the door, just as the group let loose an encouraging yell. Doubtless meant to encourage Ragi, who ran full speed past the door, his head down like bull.

Two steps and Thor snatched the running elf by the back of his jacket, Ragi's legs continuing to momentarily churn before he looked questioningly towards the grand master. Who asked, "What in the name of figgy pudding are you dolts up to now?"

"Playing tag?" Eric the Brunette sheepishly asked, when nobody else spoke.

In answer, Thor swung Ragi around to face him. Scrunched up in his jacket, the elf managed an awkward shrug, but the grand master just stared until he started squirming.

"It's Odd, Master Thor. We all know he's smarter than the rest of us, that the only reason he's in our section is because he is the laziest elf at the North Pole. But that doesn't mean he's way lots smarter than the rest of us, I was just proving it."

"How?"

"Well he said if I ran as fast as I could, I would bust through that wall with my head," Ragi said. "But that's stupid and I said there's no way I can bust through that wall with my noggin. He wouldn't believe me, so I was proving him a idiot."

Thor looked into the earnest face of Ragi, then at the terrible attempt of innocence on Odd's own face before walking over to the group and setting his captive down. He said, "I'm sorry I interrupted. Prove away, Ragi."

"Gotcha. Out of my way, you donkeys. I need room to build momentum."

Later that day, when arriving for dinner, Thor winced as he sat. Of course his father noticed and asked, "What's wrong?"

"I guess I needed to stretch my amuse-myself-at-another's-expense muscle before using it. Think I pulled it earlier today."

"Do I want to know what that means? Is there a mess we're going to need to clean up?"

"I don't think so."

"Very well. Though remember to sound more confident when lying to me in the future."

"Gotcha."

~o~O~o~

Shiori initiated her plan that evening, during the first time she spent alone with her boyfriend since the afternoon they arrived. With Justin’s mom doing some work, they went to the basement to try and find something on Netflix. While he manned the controller, she snuggled close, staring at him with adoring eyes.

“Justin, we haven’t taken any pictures.”

"What's that?"

"You know, we brought some of my costumes and your camera gear; however, we have been busy with other things. Which is good, that's why we came, but everything is so different here, I would like to add some more pictures to my portfolio and you take such good ones."

"We can take some tomorrow. I spent all day with today with mom. Went good right up to the end, when old conversations came up. Better to have some space tomorrow, though we need to be back before 4:00, we are going to my grandparents for supper."

"Is that when we are leaving or will I have time to change?"

"I guess we better be back by 3:00. What are you thinking of doing."

"How about your family's old building. I saw those pictures of the blonde girl."

"Amy," Justin asked, immediately nervous at the mention of a past girlfriend.

"Whatever. I liked the lighting and how apocalyptic it looks. Seems like it would be a perfect place for my black rock shooter costume. Plus, I really want to dig out the rock cannon I made. I'm so glad I found that instructional YouTube."

"Black rock shooter? Nice. But we need to wait until midday for the sun to reach a point for decent lighting."

"That's good, I like sleeping in. Better if it is with you, but I guess this way I get more sleep."

Justin just nodded sadly.

Yet she could not truly sleep in, the excitement about wearing her cool costume woke her early so she could get ready. Shiori often wondered what made it so fun to play dress up? The training she underwent played a role, particularly since pulling off a costume always earned praise from Sensa. Looking good also triggered a desire to continue, she liked the attention. But mostly she loved costumes that required weapons, even if fake, which allowed her to dress like a badass.

Nothing made her feel more like a badass than dressing as the Black Rock Shooter, since she got to use two weapons, her fake cannon and a wall display katana she bought from a booth at the mall. Plus the two scars marking BRS's torso showed she was ready to use them.

Good thing she woke earlier than implied the night before, those scars took some time to draw. Awkward and following multiple steps, she struggled without a good mirror to get them looking perfect. Too bad she could not trust Justin to help her, but another YouTube tutorial showed her how to do it. The makeup and the extensions for her left ponytail went much faster. While the costume, a tight pair of black short shorts with a grey belt, a black bikini top, gloves, some knee high boots with white trimmed cuffs and a long black duster decorated with the proper stripes and star, took no time to don.

"Wow, that's a different look, Shiori," Ms. Lipton said, her eyes wide, when she spotted her guest entering the kitchen.

"You look amazing, Shiori. She's dressed as the Black Rock Shooter, we're going to head over to the old headquarters to take some shots. Mom, can I get the key?" Justin asked.

"It is not safe, Justin."

"Mom, you know its okay. Grandpa gutted the place before it shut down, so it's just a big concrete shell. And it probably only quit curing around the time it closed. Last time I was there, last year, it was as solid as ever. Come on, Mom, it's the perfect place to recreate the Post-Apocalyptic feel to match Shiori's costume. Please?"

"I don't have a key at home, only in the office. Kids kept breaking in so we added extra security. I will need to get the security team to open it for you, but it might take some time before their schedule gives them time to do so."

"Thanks, Mom. We won't be able to take any pictures inside until the sun moves into position, which won't be for an hour or two. If you could you get it open by 1:00, it would be great. Until then, we can go get some wilderness shots."

"Okay, let me go make a call."

~o~O~o~

"Master Loki? Master Tyr? Master Thor? Anybody available?" Dagmar's voice asked over the intercom.

Hoping someone else would answer, not wanting to deal with the elf, Tyr continued working through his inventory report. However, neither answered, despite Dagmar calling out again. If only he could shirk his duty as well as his brother and Loki. But he could not, sometimes it sucked being the responsible one.

"Yes, Dagmar, what is it?"

"Someone needs to listen to this call I just recorded. It's that Agatha talking to her paramour."

"Paramour?" Tyr asked.

"An illicit lover."

"I know what it means, Dagmar. You talking about Darren."

"Yes, Master Tyr."

"How do you...bah, never mind, let me hear what they said."

"Hiya, Aggy," a man's voice said. "I didn't expect to hear from you this weekend."

"Hello, Dar. I'll be free tomorrow night, but I needed to check with you about something today. How's the old headquarters, is it clean. Anything there?"

"It should be clean. Who is wanting inside?"

"Justin and his latest distraction, they want to take some pictures. She's wearing a costume from one of those Japanese comics he reads."

Darren ordered, "Tell him it's not safe."

"He knows that's not true. Nobody's been inside more often than him since it closed. If I try to lie to him, he will get curious. You know I don't want that, until it is time."

"Damnit, Aggy, you spoil him."

"Of course I do, he was all I had for years," Agatha said, her tone holding judgment and showing her as something more than a subservient partner. "I need your guys, the ones working security at the plant, to go make sure everything is in order and unlock the door for them. They have a hour."

"I'll look after it myself."

When they hung up, Dagmar came back online to ask, "What are we going to do, Master Tyr?"

"Release the hounds."

"Huh?"

"Never mind, Dagmar. Umm, good work by the way."

"Thank you, Master Tyr," the elf said, not immediately cutting off his side of his conversation. "If you keep this up, Dagmar, you'll make yourself indispensable. Then you can..."

Wondering if they should monitor Dagmar and who they could use to do so, Tyr made another call. "Hello, father, can we borrow your wolves for protection duty again?"

"For our agent?"

"Yep, just precautionary. She may come in contact with Darren. I would just like some backup for her."

"Sure, you can borrow them, they think she's the bee's knees. Let's hope they don't need to do anything. I hate explaining shit to the Council, they take everything so seriously."

~o~O~o~

While taking some shots in the woods behind the house, Shiori learned from Tyr about her potential meeting with Darren Wynchynski. And, as nerve racking as she found her first meeting with Agatha, it felt like nothing when compared to the anxiety at the thought of this meeting. Even noticing Freki and Geri watching her, hidden in the woods, behind Justin did not do much to make her feel better. Hopefully they could keep up when they drove over to the old building.

Hard to get into the picture taking mood.

When they pulled into a weed covered parking lot of the old Lipton headquarters, they found a white F-150 waiting. The doors showing security decals when they swung open to allow its occupants to exit. From the driver's side, she saw Matt Walker step out, long time follower of Darren's, who stayed free when his leader went to jail, soon started working for the Agatha when she returned home, and acted as the main conduit between the two during the prison years.

Beyond a quick glance for recognition, Shiori ignored him, looking towards the passenger. The infamous Darren Wynchynski, in blue jeans and a work shirt, which covered Aryan Brotherhood prison tattoos, turning him into a regular middle aged man. A handsome one at that, Justin's good genes did not only come from his mother. Particularly those leading to height.

Justin muttered under his breath, before he made a big looping u-turn, pulling to a stop so his door faced Matt's. Getting out, he said, "Sorry to drag you out here on your day off, Mr. Walker. If you want, just leave me the key and I will leave it at the plant after locking up."

"It's no problem, Justin. I drew the short straw to work today, though I don't mind the double time straw. And I can wait around until you're done. Geordie is at the plant and can call if anything is happening, which would be the first such instance in three months. Though don't tell your mom, this is a great job."

"I won't. Umm..."

"Taking some pictures?"

"Yeah."

"Your mom showed us some of those pictures you took of that girl where she was dressed like that dragon chick from Game of Thrones. I can't believe how much I like that show. And the pictures were amazing.”

“Thanks, is the door open?”

“Yep, go ahead. But you’ll have to stay out of the North end. We’re storing stuff there and is considered a safety gear area. Hard hats. Steel toes. You know the drill. We wouldn't want your pretty friend to get hurt."

Not quite a threat. But in that moment Shiori found herself wishing her sword did not come from a booth in a mall or that her cannon was made out of gun metal rather than Styrofoam. She even felt herself wishing the wolves would attack. Not for selfless reasons nor for them to go after Darren, rather she wanted them going after Matt. He creeped her out and continued to do so throughout their shoot.

While Darren waited outside, his lackey never left Justin's side. And while he kept a leer off his face, Shiori felt that and worse lurked in his eyes. With no way to explore while he watched, she dumped the her last cameraleon into the shadows, for Pole central to use it to scout, and then tried to enter model mode. But, like earlier, she did not find mood and her boyfriend did nothing to draw her out.

Justin seemed just as out of sorts as she felt. She readily agreed when he said, "I think that's enough."

It did not take long for them to get back to the Jeep and get underway. Halfway back to his house, Justin broke the silence to say, "I hate him."

"Mr. Walker?"

"No. The guy with him."

"Who is he?"

"People don't want me to know, but he's my dad. He's also a criminal, racist and all around thug."

Shiori did not know what to say in answer. She could not even give him a hug until they got out of the vehicle.

~o~O~o~

Loki smiled. They did not make him wait to visit the council this time nor did deputies sit in place of their arch-angels. The briefs they already provided hinted at the shit hitting the fan and even the most powerful know not to leave the ass covering in the hands of a henchangel.

Like them, he examined his own priorities before arriving to present the North Pole’s findings. The desire to manipulate things, to make everything seemed less dangerous appealed to his capricious nature. So much more fallout, which he may use for his own benefit, when things went horribly wrong. Plus it would surely prove hilarious.

Also uncomfortable. Bad though this plot appeared, it did not measure large enough to end the Pact. Lying would just remind everybody not to trust him. Better to act like a good boy, help out some more, then stab everyone in the back at a better point. The right timing made a joke even better.

However, life without amusement is life without living. So in honour of the respect he felt towards the Council of the Host, Loki wore the worst combination of Christmas elfish gear he could find in his closet as ambassadorial garb. Red shoes, with toes curving into bells. Stockings of alternating green and red rings. Pants and jacket of velvet and white fur, the pants in green and the jacket in red. Topped off by a green, pointed hat, also adorned with a bell.

Within the pristine chamber, surrounded by the Council, in their simple white robes showcasing their ethereal beauty, he stood out as special. Loki liked that.

"Esteemed council-members, thank you for offering the North Pole some of your valued time. We hope you will be pleased with our progress and are able to provide us with a kernel of your infinite wisdom as to how we should proceed," Loki said, bowing in an elaborate fashion, which set his bells jingling.

"Spare us your sarcastic attempts at flattery, Loki," Michael said, from the chair-angel’s throne. "What have you learned? What do you want to do about it?"

"As outlined in the briefing provided. We have an inkling of the plot between Agatha Lipton and Darren Wynchynski, which they plan to trigger on Christmas Eve. And while it won't ruin the day for everybody in the world it will do so for a good sized group. What I would like to do? Well actually nothing. It’s doesn’t bother me if it happens. However, those in charge of the North Pole would like to stop it."

Gabriel asked, "Shouldn't they both have had a black bell?"

"From what I understand, Agatha is not a lost cause, her guilt and ability to recognize the impact her crime is why her bell could be so tarnished. While Darren is a hopeless cause. His bell was ejected on the first day of new Yule as institutionally naughty. Besides he probably only sees, what torments Agatha, as a great distraction."

"Does he truly believe this distraction will be large enough so he can steal a nuclear weapon?"

Chapter 8

Best breakup ever.

And, for a change, not his fault.

Not long after they returned to school from their Thanksgiving visit, Shiori told him she planned to return to Japan at the end of the semester. She missed home.

Semi-prepared for the end. Partially wanting the end. Justin nevertheless felt bad about it. He suspected there would never be anyone like Shiori in his life again, which induced some unwanted thoughts about growing up.

Happily Shiori did not cut ties immediately, in fact they spent as much time together as before her announcement. Almost more than before, both of them wanting to cram as much into their remaining time together as possible. Down right dangerous for his grades, what with semester end approaching. Good thing Shiori found something else to distract her part of the time.

Best job ever!

After the completion of the Thanksgiving Caper, as absolutely nobody called it, Shiori's raison d'être came to an end. With the surveillance equipment planted, Dagmar took over the Pole position. Collecting enough juicy tidbits to keep the Host worried and Thor's strike team in training.

The question, what to do with Shiori? Tyr favoured bringing her back into the fold, for her safety. While Loki thought that dangerous for the mission, stating that anything unusual, like the disappearance of their son's girlfriend would probably cause the conspirators to pull in the hole overtop themselves. With Thor busy and not available for an opinion, Santa needed to break the tie. He agreed with Loki, knowing this may be their only chance, worried the Host would take it from their control once Christmas lost its attachment to potential villainy.

So she stayed with Justin, after breaking the news of her future departure, and at school. The first she enjoyed, but the thought of doing any schoolwork made her groan. Why put herself through the hassle of finishing assignments or studying for exams? Unlike Sensa's tutelage, Shiori did not find much of what she learned at university particularly useful.

Yet she realized she should not rely on Justin for full time amusement. He did need to finish his assignments and study for exams. They could impact his future.

This is why she found herself wandering through a mall, allowing her to stumble upon an indoor "winter wonderland". It drew her until she grasped its plastic nature. Artificial Christmas joy, yet it felt welcoming and homey to one of the North Pole’s own. It spoke to her, despite momentary outrage at the obviously fake Santa sitting on his red vinyl covered throne and the commercial co-opting of what she and hers stood for.

She felt herself wanting to become one of its elfs. Not one like her past fellows, instead one of her current sisters.

If only it did not involve children. Crying, sniffling, demanding, walking germ factories who always made her nervous. When around them Shiori found herself remembering where Sensa said they came from. That knowledge left her a wreck for more than a few days. Even now she struggled to believe it possible. Did not really want to believe it possible. And Shiori suspected, if she took on a job as a mall elf, she would likely go catatonic while holding a baby and drop it.

Besides they wore the tackiest outfits. Her old self dreamed about wearing green instead of grey, but not that green. Or such frumpy shorts over bright yellow hose without a single stripe. And who thought floppy shoes made sense? How unsafe? They just begged to get sucked into a lathe or conveyor belt.

Nope, not for her.

Instead she discovered, in an unleased store space, down a barely used hall, a charity organization's gift wrapping service. She immediately realized she belonged amongst that sparkly paper, luscious ribbon and fantastical bows.

Always desperate for helping hands, they eagerly accepted hers when she aced the test wrap. Her work may rank amongst the lowest at the North Pole, but Christmas coursed through her blood and in that small storefront amongst a group of mostly geriatric humans, she became a gift wrapping legend. No box too large, no parcel too awkward, no ribbon left uncurled. They appreciated her skill and accepted her eccentricities, recognizing her marketability amongst those least likely to wrap their own gifts. Men.

How wonderful to feel accepted in a group. To serve as a functioning and desired member of a team. Oh, poor Snorri, to live so long, yet never feel the reward of belonging. Shiori hoped part of him felt what she felt during those days at Cedar Point Mall. Hoped he felt her joy or spun with her every time she twirled away from her wrapping table to present a satisfied customer with his prize.

Definitely the best job ever!

One that, as needs must, came to an end on the day Justin wrote his last exam. Invited to spend her final American days celebrating Christmas in Penniesburg with the Lipton's, she woke next morning, dressed in her best college girl chic, staggered out to the Jeep and then fell back to sleep while Justin drove them to the final showdown.

~o~O~o~

If one walked along the streets of the North Pole, three days before Christmas, you could be forgiven for believing it a ghost town. The sounds of machinery no longer filled the air, announcements did not propel elfs to perform miracles, carols did not keep morale at a level achieved only by those in the midst of an energy drink binge. Unlike many, North Pole Inc. finished their gift making, wrapping and packing for delivery with time to spare. But the feat came with high cost, so now everyelf slept and would sleep until they awoke on Christmas Eve to begin their own celebrations.

The Grandmasters did not number amongst the unconscious. Leaders for most of the year, they now prepared to play their vital role. This year with an added nuisance.

"No, everything we hear makes us think they are still going through with their plan," Loki answered.

"Plus Shiori reports Agatha appears distracted," Tyr added.

"Ho Ho Shit," Santa acknowledged. "I just realized how much I've been hoping they would smarten up and not go through with this madness."

"But, Father, think of all our work."

"You mean the millions of hours we put into getting ready for Christmas, Thor? Preparing for our biggest night of the Yule cycle?"

"I understand, Father. Honestly I do, but you get nervous every Yule. And every cycle we fine tune the process even further. Besides, you don't need my idiots to help. In years past, we would lock them in their rooms so they didn't mess anything up."

"Who’s going to drive your sled, you know we need them all operating in order to make all deliveries."

"My sled too," Loki said.

"What?”

"Well the Host will be running the mission control centre. Probably best for me to join them during the mission to act as the liaison or run interference if Thor let’s the Norse out."

Thor agreed, "Smart idea. You might be an asshole, but at least you won’t trust fate to make sure everything goes right. Although it goes against everything I hold dear to trust you."

"You silver tongued devil, I'm blushing."

"Brokkr and his brothers are going to operate our sleds," Tyr said, trying to head off another Thor slash Loki verbal spar-a-thon.

“You too?” Santa asked “Why you, Tyr?”

“Tyr’s got a girlfriend.”

“Are you eight?” Tyr asked his brother in response to the sing song taunt.

“Umm, I might be spending a bit too much time with the Stinky Dozen.”

“What are you two idiots talking about?”

“He’s talking about our agent, father, but Shiori is looked after as well as I can without breaking the Pact. The real reason I need to be on the ground is to act as spotter. Any extra time for me to translate what Shiori sees may cause an issue. Nor do we think she has the right eye for it, Snorri never acted as the stand off and observe type of fighter. Better to have a stable eye spotting.”

“You mean boring.”

“Shut up, Thor.”

“That was Loki.”

“Yeah, it was me.”

“Though he is right. You are boring.”

“But, but, what about our deliveries?” Santa asked.

“Father, really, it is simple enough that Thor’s numbskulls could do it. The reindeer all know their assigned routes. And this is the ninth cycle using the Bag O'Presents Dispensing system, so all the problems are worked out. All we need to do is eat the cookies and drink the milk, the smiths can definitely handle that.”

“And, I for one, will be happy to go a cycle without drinking who knows how many gallons of warm milk,” Loki said. "Though I'll miss the cookies. At least some of them, specially the ginger snaps."

~o~O~o~

Hours after they arrived at the Lipton house, Shiori felt the anticipation begin playing upon her mind. Helping to prepare for the Penniesburg's Christmas Eve Festival, which Lipton Road Services sponsored, offered some distraction, but those few days of waiting almost broke her brain. When the time came to get ready for the evening, she nearly skipped up the stairs with happiness.

"You know things might get dangerous tonight. If you want, you don't need to go. Pretend you're not feeling well," Grandmaster Tyr said.

"No, I need to be there. To see it to the end."

"That's what I expected you to say. But again, there is no pressure. You've done more than enough, Shiori."

"I'm good. Really I am."

"Okay, umm, but just to help keep you safe, I got you something. On the bed."

"A present?" Shiori asked, excitedly turning to see a box appear, wrapped in shiny red paper and topped with an extravagant bow. Kneeling on the bed, she unwrapped the gift and lifted the top from the box. "Oooh, pretty. But it's red? I can't wear red."

Coming from the North Pole caused her to think of Christmas as a celebration of childhood, but, like most things, humanity took the opportunity to sexualize it. In particular, the uncountable combinations of sexy elf, snowman, candy cane, reindeer and even Mrs. Santa outfits, which left her both embarrassed and excited. The excited part won out, her training left Shiori without a chance, which led to her buying or making some cute costumes to wear gift wrapping and for tonight. However, she could not overcome sacrilegious thoughts and allow herself to wear a Mrs. Santa outfit.

"I think you've earned the right to wear red. We don't have anyone at the Pole with your level of mastery at being female."

"Yeah, you're right, Master Tyr."

"Of course I am, Master Shiori. Besides, ever since that almost unfortunate instance over a shooting range during the Yule delivery forty cycles ago, all our red velvet is interwoven with bulletproof material."

"What about the reindeer?"

"You know what reindeer are like," Tyr said. "We made some prototype suits for them to wear, but the rest laughed at those who tried them on. Calling them all sorts of names."

"Reindeer are assholes."

"Yep, but they have great navigational skills and the ability to fly at ultra mega sonic speed."

~o~O~o~

Unusual for it to make an appearance, but a part of Snorri’s essence leaked out that evening. How else to explain a beauty like Shiori, dressed in her eye catching best, fading into the background. Even when someone did notice her, it would only last a moment. A hint of surprise followed by one of three looks; questioning, lustful or judgmental, depending upon who spotted her. Even those secondary glances rarely lasted long enough for her to see it.

Almost magical.

She welcomed this lack of attention. When they initially arrived at the festival, Shiori entered girlfriend mode, wanting to squeeze the most out her last moments with Justin. But when longtime friends drew his attention, she settled into her foreign observation mode. Soon she felt the disconnect from those around her grow wider. Leaving Justin's side she wandered, observing the humans. Enjoying their excitement, basking in the community spirit, but not truly part of it.

Yes, she definitely felt ready for this adventure to end. But what next?

Could she do what he wanted?

Did she know what she wanted? Shiori thought so, but how to let the masters know.

Two hours after Santa's knee first became available that evening, she saw the line in front of the hired Santa no longer contained children, now early teens and even some girls her age stood waiting. Maybe if she told this fake Santa her desire, it would get back to the real one. Sure fake Santa would feel confused, but the practice should help. With this thought, Shiori joined the end of the still slowly moving line, which offered time to compose what she would say. Only when a single group remained in front of her did she notice the man in the chair.

“Master Tyr, what are you doing here?” she asked the part of her mind reserved for conversations with her handler.

“Playing spotter for my brother.”

“You have a second hand?”

“Yep, Brokkr built me an artificial replacement. I don’t like wearing it, but need it for this gig.”

Suddenly Shiori felt a lot more nervous about her intended interaction with fake Santa. While he dealt with three girls in front of her, she tried to convince herself to still go through with her plan.

“And, you little girl, what do you want for Christmas? Why don’t you come sit on Santa's lap and tell him."

Throwing caution to the wind, she ducked down so it did not smack her in the face, if it blew back towards her, and moved forward to sit on Master Tyr's lap. Head still down, Shiori mumbled more than said, "I don't want to go back to being Snorri."

"That's don't want. What is it you want?"

"I want to stay the me I am now. No, that's not quite right. I want to find out if who I am now is who I should be. And I think I will need Sensa's help to discover the truth."

"Are you sure? What about the North Pole? You once told me to ensure you did not forget your freakish friends, like Rudolph did, when you became the hero."

"I did? Umm, I'm not a hero."

"You did. And if anybody deserves the title for this adventure, it's you," Master Tyr answered.

"Okay everybody, time to head inside for the service," Pastor Jim said over the loudspeaker.

Imaginary Editor’s Note: This would be an appropriate time to go listen to the first minute and twenty seconds (continue watching if you don’t mind hair band cooties) of Europe’s - The Final Countdown - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jK-NcRmVcw

~o~O~o~

Some learn the hard way about battle, while the rest of us read about it in books or see it in movies. From that reading or watching you will likely learn how various soldiers prepare for battle in different ways. Some check and recheck their gear, others write letters or read a bible. The Stinky Dozen preferred a game of full contact Duck, Duck, Goose.

That is why, when he arrived at their training facility on Christmas Eve, Thor first needed to break up a scuffle between Banki and Ragi, resulting from the last round of their game, before he said, "It's time for us to get in the air. We need to be in position to attack when given a go."

"Time to kill us some good guys."

"Damn it, Banki, what do I keep telling you?"

"No killing, Master Thor," Banki said.

"And we're the good guys?" Halvdan added, not quite able to keep the question out of his voice.

A sigh seemed more productive than another explanation, so after offering one up to whoever cared, Thor said, "Just do whatever I tell you, now line up for inspection. Umm, Alf, do you mind facing the same way as everybody else?"

"I'm making sure the good gu...I mean, the bad guys don't sneak up on us, Master Thor."

"I'll watch for that, Alf. Now turn around."

"Yes, sir, Master Thor."

"Everybody, make sure your Belt-a-Shield is turned on and keep it turned on," Thor ordered, walking down their line to check each carried a candy cane staff slash gun and equipped a full assortment of throwing snowflakes. "Okay, finish hooking up the sled and we can launch."

Like a well oiled machine, one built to do something simple, maybe a two hole punch, make that a one hole punch, the Stinky Dozen pushed the sleigh out of its shed and wrangled eight ornery reindeer into place. Then with eight of the elfs mounted on a reindeer and four in the sleigh, ready to elf the giant poppers mounted underneath, Thor took his seat on the bench. Taking reins in hand, he snapped them once and sang those magical words.

"Now, Daschiel! Now, Panzer! Now, Pronger, and Vincent! On, Cornet! On, Lucid! On, Donald and Blitzen!"

As the reindeer leapt into the air, pulling the sleigh painted with cool ass, bitching flames along the sides, Thor reached into the glove box. From there, he pulled out a tape and pushed it into the 8-track player. Soon their war song rang forth, stirring the battle fervor in each elf's tiny Nordic heart, causing him to join his voice to the chorus.

"Waterloo - I was defeated, you won the war
Waterloo - Promise you'll love me forever more"

~o~O~o~

Despite, at least hierarchically, working for the same parent organization, Shiori found herself unsure about church. With her primary exposure including rules against enjoyable things, she found herself predisposed to actually disliking it. But the service seemed okay, particularly when everybody sang a hymn. It felt good to join her terrible singing voice to so many other terrible singing voices. On the other hand, she found the words spoken by Pastor Jim and the kid, who stared as much at her legs as his bible during a stuttered reading, rather boring.

Fortunately, umm...or not, she discovered waiting for the arrival of Darren and his thugs offered plenty of distraction.

Thugs who arrived just after the kid sat down. Twelve in total, with most rushing in through the main door while others appeared at the back door. A foul mouthed mass of leather vests, oily hair, dirty blue jeans, shitty masks and a ridiculous amounts of firepower.

"Everybody get your fuckin' hands up. Arthur if you reach into your coat, so help me, I will blow your brains out."

"What the meaning of this? What are you doing?" Pastor Jim asked, bravely trying to stand up for his flock.

"It's a hostage taking, ya fuckhead."

This led to the hostage takers engaging in a lively game of - who can use the word fuck in the loudest and most creative fashion. No official score keeping took place, but the heaviest of the bunch, a foul mouthed poet, his hair hanging in a gloriously balding mullet, probably won with his imaginative ability to rhyme fucker and cocksucker. A true word smith.

This shouting, and gun waving, left the congregation cowed, angry and completely confused. It allowed Darren Wynchynski, masked as Bill Clinton, to nonchalantly walk to the front and do nothing to clear up that confusion.

"Ok, everybody, listen up. Time to take a collection, my boys are going to pass the plates and all of you are going to fill them up. But don't worry, we're not here to rob you, we just want your guns and cell phones. We wouldn't want any of you communicating with the outside, before we are ready. Now slow and careful like."

"What do you want?" Agatha asked, sounding worried but in control, hardly practiced at all.

"Peace on Earth, goodwill to men plus a few little surprises that don't involve any of you. Let's hurry up. You can all go for a night without posting a selfie. Everybody good? Remember, you're in church, bad place to lie. Very well, now just sit there like a good bunch of ends to the mean. Did you find anybody downstairs?"

"It's clear," said one of the three goons, arriving back on the main floor.

"Very well. You will come with me, you can be my safety blanket."

With this, Darren grabbed Agatha's wrist and yanked her to her feet. Rough treatment that initiated a small Rube Goldberg effect. Justin surged to his own feet in protective anger. Guns swung towards Justin. Agatha yelled to leave him alone. And Shiori jumped up to grab Justin's arm, before he swung it, with years of built up rage, at his father.

"Calm the fuck down, everybody," Darren shouted. "Calm the fuck down. Okay? Okay? We good? You can come too, Justin."

"How about the girlie, let's take her too," Matt Walker said, from behind his Reagan mask.

"No."

"I want to be with you, Justin. I'd feel safer with you," Shiori said.

"Shiori..."

"No. Master Tyr," Shiori mind whispered back. "You need me with them. To watch while you watch here."

Darren said, "Very well, three hostages are better than one."

~o~O~o~

“No, for the fifth time, they are not going to steal a nuclear bomb. They know it is impossible," Loki said, trying to make Ernieon and Bertielle, the two angels tasked with deciding when to release the strike force, understand. Bureaucrats of the first order, he half suspected they intentionally played stupid.

"Then what are we worried about?" Ernieon asked.

"The worry about them stealing a bomb was just an added threat, we started out wanting to protect the church. That is still our main objective. We've long known that the hostage taking would serve as a distraction, despite still not knowing for what. That means our mission has not changed, except for it being even more important than we thought."

"How so?"

"Well we learned this band of heretics rigged the church with explosives. Furthermore, while some of them sneak out to do whatever nefarious thing they plan to do, the most fanatical will stay behind under the command of Mad Dog Kipper Wilson. He's so crazy that you would only expect such a character to end up in charge of something with this much potential to go wrong during an action movie."

Bertielle asked, "What's a movie?"

"Excuse me, did he just ask, what's a movie?"

"Bertielle belongs to the anti-graven image faction."

"It only leads to the sin of vanity. Our Lord knows all are equal," Bertielle said.

"Which is why he made everyone look exactly the same," Loki said, all innocent like.

"To him we all look the same."

"Tell us more about this Mad Dog, Loki," Ernieon asked, frantically trying to stop the brewing argument. He liked Bertielle, but if he started in on one of his rants there would be no way they would finish early enough to make J’s yearly birthday bash.

"He's easily insulted, has the patience of a skunk, is meaner than a tuna fish and can barely control himself. The only reason Wynchynski would put him in charge is because he wanted things to go wrong. The church is a time bomb and this Mad Dog is the unstable trigger that will definitely go off."

"We need to stop that from happening," Ernieon said, while Bertielle nodded agreement.

Sparing a moment to thank his lucky God, himself, that so many thought shouting commands placed them control of a situation, Loki sent a message to Thor.

"Go!"

~o~O~o~

"Okay, boys, latest report from Tyr. There are seven bogeys in the church, three on each side and their leader up front. Odd and Eric the Brunette, since you are mounted on the front reindeer, you two focus on the leader. The other six reindeer elfs focus on the side guys. You know, do them in the same order as you're mounted."

"What do you mean, Master Thor?" Alf asked.

"Well you and Ragi are sitting behind Odd and Eric, so each fire at the two closest to the front.

“How about me, Master Thor?” the elf behind Ragi asked.

“You and Ivar, will shoot the second pair. And before you ask, Leif and Knute, take out the third pair. Everybody good?”

From behind him, Thor heard a hesitant, “Ummm?”

“What have you four been practicing?”

"Ummm, poppers?"

"Yes, the poppers. You all got that? I can't hear you. Ready? Very well then, just blast the snot out of everyone and everything."

"Yayyyyy!"

"In 3, 2, 1," Thor counted down. "Go!"

~o~O~o~

Like Elvis, love had left the building. Specifically the house at the far end of another, super convenient tunnel, which started in the church's basement. In its place now reigned betrayal, ably henched by anger and anguish.

The first combination raged upstairs, between Agatha and Darren, out of sight though not out of earshot. It combusted when she learned how much his intentions differed from hers. Instead of creating a distraction to steal a nuclear device, he planned to use the distraction to knock off the local state trooper’s evidence room, which held a substantial amount of drugs gathered as a result of investigation into a cartel slash biker drug running organization. An ugly argument, which involved progressively more despicable insults from a pair grown used to using the other.

Only Kipper Wilson ended up redeemed by the shouting. When, while trying to calm Agatha, Darren convinced her nothing would happen at the church. Despite world class swearing skills and Loki's insinuation, Kipper was placed in charge of the church operation because of his calm demeanor and willingness to return to the comforting routine of jail, though not as a mass murderer.

Meanwhile, the anguished Justin hunched over on a couch in the living room, trying to process the betrayal he felt upon learning his mother's insanity equaled his father's. And the only comfort he received came from Shiori, which consisted of hesitant shoulder pats and unconfident reassurances that everything would work out.

She wished she could do more. She hated how much he hurt. And she wanted that asshole, Matt Walker, to quit staring at her with those eyes

In general, Shiori decided everything pissed her off.

~o~O~o~

Most people think that Santa’s sleds appears on the roof and he enters through the chimney. As expected, most people are wrong. The sled actually enters the house, which you might think results from magic allowing the sled, reindeer team and attendant passengers to pass through the walls, never mind fit within said house. When in actuality, there is a very sound scientific theory behind what actually happens. A theory that would involve a thesis length paper involving many formulas, graphs, charades and shadow puppets to explain. Therefore, ...

The reindeer pulling the sleigh carrying Thor's strike force ditched most of their speed as soon as they reindeerfied through the front wall of the church. Though even with this speed dump, the pair of elfs, riding directly behind Thor, needed to jump from of the sleigh immediately. Ropes in hand, their weight bursting open the first of the giant poppers mounted underneath the sled, spilling out a plastic toy whistle, a massive tissue paper crown and 32.6 kilograms of knockout powder upon the pews below. And the second pair needed to jump out barely a sub second behind their compatriots, in order to fully snow all the innocents.

Putting everyone to sleep seemed the best approach, since the Host determined the raid did not check enough criteria in the handbook for a miracle. Easier for the Angelic clean up crew, slated to follow Thor's hit team into the church, to mess with everybody’s mind when unconscious.

The passive approach also needed to work on the bad guys, despite their positioning, which is why, in the two seconds after they arrived the eight reindeer riders fired seven thousand, two hundred and thirty eight knockout pellets at the hostage takers. Admittedly, only two thousand, four hundred and twelve actually hit their targets, but that averaged out to a shit load per guy. The only sound to offset the psscht, psscht of the candy cane shooters were the thumps of leather vested bodies falling to the ground.

"Why the heck did we spend months training?" Odd asked, as the sled came to a hovering stop. "I've had more trouble digging out a booger."

"Ummm, well..."

Before Thor needed to admit, both to them and himself, that he always suspected this would be easy, but their existence helped him escape the drudgery of production schedules, Tyr jumped into the sled. Unaffected by the knockout dust due to his godliness, he shouted, "Hurry, we need to rescue Shiori."

"Don't we need permission from the Host?"

"Screw them, she's one of ours."

"You know, Tyr? It's moments like this when I remember why you're my brother. Help me pull the popper elfs back into the sleigh and then tell me where to go."

~o~O~o~

Legend and lore tell of Eikþyrnir, the stag whose antlers exude the liquid that fills the Hvergelmir, which in turn feeds all the rivers of the world. Plus the already mentioned Heiðrún the goat who produces the mead and Sæhrímnir the boar from whose carcass comes the meat that cover the tables of Valhalla (a wholly owned subsidiary of North Pole Inc.). And you've already met Huginn, Muninn, Geri and Freki. Much less is known of Clancy the polar bear, whose pelt provides the white fur that trims all of the uniforms worn by the denizens of the North Pole.

Gruesome when you truly think about how the trim is obtained, so don't think about it. Focus instead on how the soft and snowy white fur felt as it tickled Shiori's legs at the top of her boots. The way it caressed her soft and perfect thighs at the bottom of a short skirt. That it, despite what societal norms might deem appropriate, drew the eye to her cleavage and did not let it leave. Or the way it highlighted thin, seemingly fragile, wrists atop small hands clenched in fists.

Rage and bearskin.

Bearskin and rage.

A potent combination for a berserker. With only rage, Snorri the Elf summoned a punch that broke Dagmar's nose. With both, Snorri the Human berserker once tossed aside all concerns about his own safety, replacing it with a desire to rip his enemies apart. The same well of darkness in which Shiori the Hottie discovered a full heaping of, ‘Fuck it, these assholes need to pay!'

Unfortunately for those involved, Shiori the Hottie did not share Snorri the Berserker's compulsion to tear off all her clothes before putting plan Fuck It into motion. The only sign of the approaching storm came when she muttered, “argle margle bargle.”

No one reacted. Possibly no one heard. Upstairs, Agatha and Darren still argued, though a bit more quietly, three of the hostage takers gossiped around the dining room and Matt leaned against a wall nearby in a state of distraction. But when she said it once more, a bit louder, Walker peeled his eyes away from her breasts, pushed himself away from the wall and asked, “What type of Jap shit was that? Speak English, sugartits.”

In answer, Shiori smiled an overly toothy smile. One that sent a confusing message to Matt’s little man down below. However, before Mattie Logic could convince Little Mattie Lust that something was seriously wrong with the sexy doll on the couch, the sexy doll on the couch launched herself towards him, loudly saying, “Argle Margle Bargle!”

While our heroine flies through the air like a character out of the video game Dead or Alive, one of those who would end up playing volleyball while wearing a bikini, let us reflect on the serious affliction of not wanting to look like a wuss. If you are not some rutting stag or bull, instinct probably plays less of a role than peer pressure. It leads to thoughts like, I wonder if we should tie up our prisoner? Maybe I should say something or tie her up myself. Oh I can’t do that, everybody will think I’m scared of a little girl, that I am a wuss. Thoughts that can leave you distracted, banging heads with the other males on the savanna as a pack of lionesses comes flying at you from nowhere.

Not that Shiori needed her hands to deal with Matt Walker. No, a flying head butt delivered straight to Little Mattie Lust’s headquarters proved breathtaking for spectator and target both, just in different ways. However, such an attack must always end upon the floor and here her hands helped, cushioning the fall. Plus free, they also allowed her to catch Walker’s gun as it slipped from his powerless fingers and fell towards the floor.

A chrome plated, ego enhancing Desert Eagle Mark XIX .50AE, the grip of the hand cannon could barely fit in her hand. Though she never considered using the gun for its intended purpose, a concept much too impersonal for a berserk

Instead, she held the barrel of the gun, scrambled to her knees and hammered the grip against Walker’s nearest ankle. An indignity too many, causing the kidnapper to collapse to the ground.

This initial engagement took less than four seconds. Time for the other three men to realize something was wrong, but not yet react. Overweight, middle age putzes who only imagined they belonged to some group of badasses, instead of only being semi-skilled at drunken brawls and bullying. Therefore, they still clamoured to their feet, while Shiori regained the vertical and shouted, “ARGLE MARGLE BARGLE!!!!!”

That yell even pulled Justin from his misery. Head free of the hands in which he previously buried it, he watched his red clad ex-girlfriend slash ongoing playmate, charge towards the sofa. One step on the seat cushions, another on the top of the couch, her stiletto heeled boots miraculously not snagging at either step, she launched herself towards the group around the table. Berserk with rage, but still in the possession of her tactical instincts, she threw the heavy gun, just as she left the top of the couch, right at the biker standing at the side of the dining room table.

With the luck of the Norse Gods, in one of the rare moments they offered the good type, on her side, the weapon flew true. Nearly four and a half pounds of metal, when flung with all types of momentum for a short distance, will do some damage. The barrel banged against his temple, beginning his journey into la la land. This did not stop the gun spinning, so the hilt smashed against his nose. Ensuring he would wake a bit less pretty.

Now if four point five pounds can do that much damage, think about one hundred and four pounds of screaming fury. If your mind instantly imagines some oversized wrestler catching his opponent in a rib crushing bear hug, you’ve never met Doug Sanderson. Five feet nine inches tall, fifty two years old, owner of a giant beer gut and the proud recipient of sixteen years worth of worker’s compensation after screwing up his back working at the gravel pit. Needless to say, his Andre the Giant moment went horribly wrong.

“Fuck! My back!”

But like the best heel, propelling the crowd’s favourite to victory, he did offer Shiori a springboard onto the solid wooden table. Along which she crawled, like some demented baby, before she scratched at the last thug as he lifted his gun towards her.

Long fingernails paid off. They really did not do much damage, scraping across a coarse haired arm, but did cause a premature shot into the ground. A bit too close to its shooter’s own foot for hit comfort. It startled him, which allowed Shiori to slither off the table, up his torso and spin around to his back. There she wrapped legs around his waist and arms around his neck. Panicked by the rapid deterioration of the situation, he forgot the value of his pistol and reached for her arms.

Unlike Doug, this was a big guy in almost okay shape so it should have been easy to dislodge her, but did you ever wonder why they call it berserker strength? Or what Evander Holyfield felt when he fought Mike Tyson? Well foe #4 learned both lessons.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Darren yelled, as he and Agatha ran down the stairs.

“Shoot the bitch,” Sanderson yelled, from the floor. “She’s some type of ninja. Ahh, fuck, she buggered up my back.”

You can say a lot of bad things about Wynchynski, but you could not accuse him of over thinking when the shit hits the fan. Nor pretend he couldn't shoot worth a damn.

A terrible combination for Shiori, still focussed on choking out her fourth target. The age old problem of the berserk, forgetting completely about defence in the overwhelming desire to obliterate her current target.

She definitely would not be helped by Justin shouting, “No...”

It would take an act of deus ex machina to rescue her. And what do you know, two gods and their minions, in a reindeer powered machine, appeared at that very moment. Those minions, for a change, acted properly and without guidance, targeting everyone in the room. If only they did not use all their candy cane ammo in the church, forcing them to use their flying snowflakes. Particularly since none of them threw any harder than a regular six year old.

Time slowed as Tyr watched three snowflakes, made from knockout dust, head towards Darren. Recognizing two would miss and the other one would not connect before the villain fired his weapon, the sensible and stable God acted, completely forgetting the earlier bulletproof gift for his favourite elf.

His right jab showed perfect form, any trainer would cheer. Of course, since Tyr appeared on the wrong side of the room, his punch fell at least eighteen feet short. Well his arm did, the fake hand, still clenched in a fist, blasted forth from its fastenings. Overtaking the slowly moving snowflakes, it thundered forward to deck Darren right between the eyes. And while it did not cartoonishly fling him backwards, he did crumple to the ground.

And the game ends with a shutout for the North Pole Elfs, downing the Penniesburg One Percenters by a score of two to nothing. Yay, home team!

If only the home team did not include a temporarily insane teammate.

Combining bulletproof material with the last remnants of overwhelming rage left Shiori unaffected by the throwing flakes that missed her choke out victim, but hit her. Unaffected except for the functioning part of her mind that identified a new group of targets, The Stinky Dozen.

From their prior life, they recognized the look she turned in their direction as her horsie passed out. Without waiting for commands they unleashed all remaining ammo in her direction. To the same effect.

However, before a real life test could be performed on the Belt-a-Shield, Tyr stepped forward to save the day. Failing to penetrate her mind with a calming message, he held his arms wide apart in a non-threatening manner and said, “It’s ok, Shiori. Everything is good, we won.”

Seriously unfair that she took advantage of his openness to knee him right in the nads.

Tyr could not help but take this assault as quietly as the now unconscious Matt Walker. Since even a god needs air to make sound. Instead his brother and his brother’s minions provided it for him.

“Ooooooh...”

~o~O~o~

After the devastating knee, Thor ensured no elf made a threatening move beyond pulling his brother to safety. This started sapping the anger from Shiori's mind. The soothing influence of the angelic clean up crew, when they arrived, calmed her completely.

Until she realized the damage she caused.

Not to the four thugs, she definitely gave herself two thumbs up for that mayhem. But poor Master Tyr. Sheepishly glancing in his direction, she saw him sitting on the floor against the wall, eyes closed, just breathing, holding an ice pack in a strategic location and not moving. Shiori knew she should apologize, but searched for any distraction.

Justin, along with all the bad people, remained zonked out from the snowflakes and she knew she would disappear before the clean up crew awoke any of them. She wished she could say goodbye, almost as much as she wished the Angels would not make him and everyone else forget she ever existed. But Chuckielle, despite a good bedside manner when checking her for injury after providing Master Tyr the ice pack, stayed firm on how things would play out.

Nor could she bother Master Thor, who argued with the head angel about his unapproved attack on the residence. Besides he made her nervous.

This left the elfs, all of whom she recognized as recent graduates from the shrinking brigade of the grey uniformed. Because of shared incompetence, most used to treat Snorri as well as any elf treated him, but the way they all stared at her made her uncomfortable. A mixture of interest, wrapped in confusion, sprinkled with a sense of loss. She understood what they did not and desperately did not want to return to their neutered state.

For that, she needed a champion. And she had just nut shotted her best option for the role.

Moving to kneel beside Tyr, she reached out with a tentative hand to caress his arm and say, “I’m really, really, really sorry, Master Tyr. I don’t know what came over me, it’s just like bang I was gone and I didn't know it was you. Honestly, you’re my favourite person ever, I can’t believe I hurt you.”

“Eeewrhh,” Tyr answered.

“Would it help if I kissed it better?

“Glirk?”

“I totally would, cause you wouldn’t believe how big a crush I have on you. Plus I am good at it, better than Snorri was at anything. Heck, I am better at lots of things than Snorri ever was at anything, which is probably a big reason I don’t want to go back to being him. Besides I love being a girl. Even the bad things feel right. And though I expect to discover more of those bad things, I don’t care. Because the good things, oh those good things are so very, very good. The colours, Master Tyr, they are so bright and vibrant and I can wear so many of them. Dress in wonderful clothes and costumes. Be so many versions of myself and people don’t care. And men, how did I exist before I got to play bedroom games with them. I totally want to show you how much I enjoy playing those games.”

Overwhelmed as much by the quiet intensity of this verbal onslaught as by the prior physical one, Tyr started feeling better as he looked into Shiori's fevered gaze with eyes almost as big as hers. Just about to reply, she reached a hand out to press her finger to his lips and spoke into his mind.

“No, Master Tyr, you don’t get to try and protect me from myself. You helped turn me into this amazing version of me. It would be horribly mean to turn me back into incompetent Snorri before I got a chance to find out how amazing. And for that I am going to need Sensa’s friendship and mentoring.”

“Umm, well we would need to ask her,” Tyr answered, struggling with instinct to maintain control of his mind.

“She said she would and I know she meant it,” Shiori said. Sensing his weakening, she went in for the kill. “But the North Pole is my home and I want to live there. I can’t wait to discover the Joyeux that everybody talks about. It sounds spectacular. Besides I realized how I can live up to the promise I made you make, about not forgetting my few friends. Since you already look after them and try to make their life more bearable, you can make me your assistant and I can help out.”

“It’s not that hard and...”

“Do you have an office, Master Tyr?”

“Yeah...”

“And a desk?”

“Of course, it wouldn’t be an office without a desk.”

“I don’t think you understand, Master Tyr. I’m talking about a late night, adult movie assistant. You know the type? Short skirts, high heels, racy lingerie and lots of non-story advancing sex during work hours. That type of assistant. So what’s it going to be, Master Tyr? What's it going to be?”

“Hey, Thor, you got this?”

“Huh?” Tyr’s brother answered, not even turning his head away from never ending conversation with the head angel.

“Um, Shiori, I should probably show you my office first.”

“And I should show you some of my lingerie,” Shiori said, victoriously.

“Yeah, definitely. Let’s go!”

~o~O~o~

Santa sat back in his velvet armchair, a mug of ale in hand, with a contented sigh. Completing a Yule delivery always left him tired and relieved, but the successful handling of this year’s problems offered additional reason to relax and enjoy a drink. Feeling good, he nodded a greeting when Loki entered, with his own drink, and took a seat.

"Good job, Loki. I didn't think the Host would actually give permission to launch Thor's strike force. Feels strange to have your forked tongue work in our favour."

"Easy enough, once I told them about the explosives placed all around the church."

Santa asked, "Won't they get upset when they find out you lied about those explosives?"

"Why wouldn't they find explosives?"

"Did you plant explosives? No, don't answer that."

For a time, the ancient enemies sat in companionable silence. Calm, interrupted by the agitated arrival of Thor. They could ignore how he slammed the office door, plus the way he stomped about the room, but when he stood still, letting his accusatory stare swing between the two of them, it grew uncomfortable.

“What’s the problem now?” Santa asked.

“Do you know what your son is doing?”

“Who, Tyr? He’s supposed to be coming for a drink and a bacon sandwich.”

His smile displaying only part of the nasty mockery of which it was capable, Loki said, “I believe he found companionship rather more engaging than ours.

“Huh?”

“Your spy, father.”

“Oh? Oooh. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course I do.”

“When did you grow so provincial in your views, Thor?”

“Really, Father? Don’t you know me better than that? Plus, you should have seen her down there, she turned into a total smokeshow. It’s that it should have been me, not Tyr, with her. As a god of action, I should be the one getting the action.”

“You know, Thor. You really are self-centred,” Loki said.

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“To grow in wisdom, one first must know himself.”

“Loki, you really are an asshole.”

“Tell me something I don't know."

“I better have Brokkr break down the Girlifinator,” Santa mused.

~o~O~o~

Fading to black, we pause momentarily in the control room. There we see a lone elf performing the chicken dance.

"Da da da da da da!

Da da da da da da!

Da da da Dagmar saves the day!

Da da da da da da!

Da da da Master Dagmar saves the day!"

The End!

Appendix A

The language of the berserk is one like no other. Defined not by borders or cultures, it finds it roots deep in what makes humans, human. As such, all berserks have spoken the same language across time. One made up entirely of guttural sounds that might make some think of pirate speech. However, pirate speech is a Hollywood construct, while berserkerese is real.

Consisting of eighteen words, context defines all. With combinations of those words changing meaning depending upon how loudly the words are spoken, the health of the berserk and how long he or she has been berserkering.

Tense is also very important. The more tension a berserker feels, the angrier are their words. And they tend to feel the most tension before fully entering the berserk state, at which point they grow happier the longer they rage. Similarly, like many languages, gender plays a role. In general, when a male speaks, they tend to want to rip the upper head off their victims, while females are more focused on the lower head.

Which brings us to the most common phrase, Argle Margle Bargle. Which is used to say as many different things as there are combinations of the factors previously mentioned. For example:

When a female berserk, who is about to let loose the demon quietly says the phrase to herself, her words are best interpreted as, “I hate everybody. In particular I hate that guy. I should punch him in the dick.”
Meanwhile, once she begins berserkering and if she speaks the phrase, her words can now be interpreted as, “Woohoo, it’s dick punch o’clock.”
And then when fully engaged, “Yes! Yes! Yes! I love getting to punch dudes in the dick. Even more than I love ponies. And almost as much as I love kitties, which are so soft and adorable. Kittiessss.”

The most interesting thing about these interpretations is how in the first case, she is dealing with negative thoughts, as shown by the repeated use of the word hate. While, in the last, the multiple use of the word love shows how she is now driven by positivity. It is in this tense when the language of the berserk truly blossoms into the beautiful. And for this philologist, what makes it the real language of romance.

Dr. Madeline Uplies, Doctor of Philology, the University of Vikinshit
November, 2015

Making Friends

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Contests:

Stardust Anniversary Science Fiction Story Contest

Publication:

Genre:

Science Fiction

Other Keywords:

Android / Robot

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Bernie the Junkman made a decent living fixing and selling bots and droids out amongst the asteroid miners. He was basically content, sure his life wasn't perfect and he was a bit of a loner, but despite that he didn't mind being Bernie. Then from a broken robot he learned what could make him even more content.

Making Friends
By Arcie Emm

Asteroid mining is a dangerous business. A combination of explosives and heavy equipment mixed with a lack of air and gravity makes it deadly for humans. Yet the profit potential is such that for years many took the risk, some earned great monetary rewards while many others paid the ultimate price. Meanwhile those who were less adventurous or less desperate sought ways to make the practice safer.

The answer was obvious, robots. But obvious does not always equal simple, this was proven again and again during the race to develop a mining robot during what was actually a golden age of robotics. Great strides were achieved in mimicking human appearance and movement, such that androids became the norm instead of the blocky, machine like robots of the past. With an improved aesthetic they became commonplace, but like their blockier brethren of the past they still could only perform tasks that were constant, tasks that were programmable.

Even though androids could perform a concerto with the skill of a concert pianist or dance a solo with the grace of a professional ballerina, they could not think. And that was what required to be a doctor, a police officer, a scientist, a teacher and so many other professions, including asteroid miner. There were just to many variables to build encompassing how-to programs.

The breakthrough came from practitioners, not scientists. A group of prospectors purchased a number of old LMR-1610s (Labour Mining Robot) with programmable brain-boxes. These basic mining robots were used for planetary mining but were not guaranteed for asteroid work. The prospectors accepted the risk, took training to learn the methods for programming the brain-boxes and, with promises to openly share programs developed by each, headed out into the universe to create asteroid mining bots.

They succeeded. Each of the eight men and women was a superb miner; they also had the smarts and ingenuity required to determine the best techniques to mine different types of asteroids and then program their bot to do the work. Within ten years they were rich beyond their wildest imagination, not from mining, but from selling their algorithms. Now most mining was done with fourth generation LAMRs (Labour Asteroid Mining Robot) where all that was required of the human miner was the ability to determine which program to initiate, based upon the asteroid type. A profession that used to be full of the brightest and daring was now the home to the slothful and lazy, independent contractors were replaced by human drones who were only required to choose the right program 1 out of 5 times to keep their jobs.

Not surprisingly, quite a few miners lived down to those expectations. Something that was was a very good for Bernie the Junkman, whose salvage business thrived on the resulting wreckage.

--------------

Despite the miner asking him to stay for a visit, Bernie Sternstein could not get away from the mine-deck at CA-63459:11098 (Claimed Asteroid) fast enough. Every moment he stayed increased the chance that he would break out in a gleeful cackle at his coup or the likelihood that someone up the chain from the miner would figure out what was going on. Therefore, he made excuses that he had to quickly return to Alton 5 to meet up with a customer and rushed to load the damaged bot, before launching The Beachcomber back into space. Forcing himself to be patient, it was with trembling hands that he set course for Alton 5, which was his home and actual planned next stop - though he did not have any planned appointments.

Once on course, he decided to calm his nerves with a drink. Bernie considered pouring from his special reserve bottle, but decided to wait until he confirmed that he deserved a celebratory drink and settled for some of his own self-made rotgut. With his hands steadier he headed back to the hold to verify his prize. Not even taking time to leer at the rack of pleasure droids he sold, Bernie looked down at the broken bot.

Before being caught in an explosion, resulting from the miner's bad decision to have the bot drill into a methane pocket, it had been close to two metres tall and correspondingly massive. Now, after having lost most of both legs, it was much shorter though still heavy. This mass and form combined with its mannish shape, not mannish appearance, had been the first thing to make him surmise that it was an outdated model. But it was not until he hooked it up to his porter that he realized that it was not even a LAMR, instead it was an LMR. Knowing how few of those were in space, he had casually inspected the serial number and been excited by what he saw. He thought it may be one of the original eight used by the prospectors.

It had been difficult to hide his excitement at the find, yet he had buried it behind commiseration with the miner's complaints about Supplies providing him with this old outdated piece of crap. Yes Bernie had agreed that it was a stupid mistake, of course he did not explain that the mistake was placing a priceless artifact in the hands of an moron. But that was the past, now it was time to confirm whether his guess was correct?

Calling up a somewhat outdated copy of the Roboter's Almanac, he excitedly confirmed that it matched the number used by the Vernon "Guns" Gunnerson's LMR-1610, the bot named Sam Cash. Bernie could not believe his luck, Guns was the most notorious of the bunch, infamous as much for brawls as he was famous for his pioneering techniques in the world of asteroid mining. Brawls that stories told were usually the result of someone misinterpreting one of Guns' jokes, which was easily done since Guns claimed (when sober) that the only one to get his jokes was Sam Cash. And that was only possible after a programming exercise that put the mining programs to shame. Any collector worthy of the title would be thrilled to get a hold of this bot.

But he was not quite ready to buy a new ship, it was possible that he just had the chassis, not the priceless brain-box. However, a quick diagnostic proved that he had Sam Cash in its entirety, he was beyond thrilled.

He felt that he had to talk to it, see if the stories were true, did the bot have a sense of humour? Bernie's curiosity burned, but it was mixed with the worry about what could happen if he turned on such a badly damaged bot, he needed to run more diagnostics to ensure it would not burn out if started. The results were not good, the chassis was severely damaged to the point that he did not think it could sustain a charge; however, to confirm this belief he would need to turn the bot on and have it run a self diagnostic. It would be best if he waited until he made it back to Alton 5 and had access to his full workshop, but he convinced himself that that it could run for 5 or 10 minutes without serious threat.

Still it was with nervous stomach that he flicked the switch. It proved to be no more exciting then starting any bot, and soon he was staring at flickering lights behind the panel where modern droids had human like eyes. Just as he began to distinguish a pattern to the lights, almost like clouds floating across the panel, they stopped and a deep voice rumbled, "This one is broken."

The response was not surprising, in his line of work he had heard it many times and he always responded the same way, "Perform full diagnostics."

Once more the pattern began to flash across the screen, but this time they were in place long enough for him to interpret what he was seeing. Although it did not say anything about the bot, it at least proved that one of the previous owners had a sense of humour; after all, he had never seen another such use of bouncing sheep.

After laughing about the sheep, Bernie began to worry when the diagnostics extended longer than he would expect. And the nervous stomach became full on sick when he noticed features beginning to shut down on the chassis. He moved over to the bot and mumbled, without expecting an answer, "What's going on?"

"This one is damaged beyond repair. Must shut down."

"Beyond repair? Crap, what am I going to do?"

"This one requires a new chassis"

Relief swamped Bernie, it likely meant the brain-box was not damaged. His investment was not going to turn out to be worthless, he could sell the old broken chassis to some museum and find a new one for the brain-box. Getting to his feet he looked around the hold and the answer jumped out at him, with a grin on his face he laughed and wondered aloud, "I wonder if Sam has a favourite hair colour?"

There was no answer, nor had he expected one. He did not turn away from his study of the rack of pleasure droids, as he was trying to choose which to use as a new chassis. Therefore, he did not see the final moments of the LMR-1610's last shut down, did not see the final flicker of light in the eye panel. But if he had, he still would not have had time to recognize the final light formation as the two words, 'Bye Sheep'.

--------------

Bernie decided not to experiment any more while on the ship, his nerves would not take it. He knew it was much safer to wait until he was in his workshop with all of his tools, allowing him to be ready for any potential emergency that may arise during the transfer. Instead he spent most of his time drinking from his special bottle and trying to convince himself to follow through with his replacement droid choice. He knew it was silly, was too obvious and would make him seem like a hormone crazed teen-ager. Yet he also had a sense of humour and using the CPD-1977 (Chrissy Pleasure Drone) just tickled his funny bone.

Once back on Alton 5 he did not immediately begin a transfer, instead he took time to place the brain-box in a sensor unit and try to decipher the programming. He was amazed by the number of algorithms and decision trees that had been implemented, resulting in way more personality techniques having been implemented than were used for any other droid he had studied. It seemed that despite the baseness of his nick-name, Vernon Gunnerson was a genius who had placed untold hours into his creation. Sadly, much of that genius was impossible to decipher, the code was protected and written in a short-hand different than any coding language Bernie had ever used. If he was forced to make a guess as to how it worked, he would say that the techniques were based upon implementing actions from a library of books. But the specific details were beyond him.

It proved enough of a distraction that he spent more time studying it than he really should. And he was forced to put off the transfer until he could finish his other work, the work that kept him in credits and home.

Finally, eight days after returning from space, he was able to devote the time to complete the transfer. It turned out to be fairly easy, since both a LMR and a CPD were standard chassis, using the traditional brain-box insert and connectors. But with his initial excitement dampened by the near disaster on his ship, Bernie took no chances. He installed back-ups and performed every incremental check and test recommended by even the most anal testing organizations.

By the time he finished it was late enough that he was ready for sleep. Therefore, after configuring his SAS (Synchronization Alarm System) to ensure that he would be awoken if anything went amiss, he started the sync operation. In the morning he hoped that it would be complete, resulting in the brain-box and chassis becoming one.

Hours later Bernie was slowly pulled out of his slumber by something triggering his subconscious mind, which over a period of minutes became a stronger focus of nuisance. Returning to wakefulness he realized that he was hearing was the same word being repeated again and again, spoken in ever changing voices. He found it as annoying as a feedback loop and crawled out of his bed to investigate.

The sound quickly had him at the door of his workshop where he was greeted by a most peculiar sight. Apparently the sync was still in progress for in the middle of the room he saw the CPD-1977 twirl in a pirouette, come to a stop, flash a smile across its face and then say, "Hello."

Again and again the movements repeated so that each twirl was cleaner, each smile brighter and the voice became more refined. He watched as the brain-box dialed into the droid chassis, making it appear more natural, nearly human like. Bernie suddenly realized that the advanced programming of the LMR's brain-box was allowing it to integrate with the droid's form better than the brain-box that had originally be included. Momentarily he regretted the choice to use the CPD, wishing he not chosen the path of humour. However, this was dispelled by the fact that he did have access to anything better and that the CPD was a high quality droid, diminished only by limited programming.

Seeing that the sync still needed time to complete he decided to head back to sleep. When this failed Bernie once more rose from bed, had a shower for the first time in three days and prepared something to eat. Feeling rather human after these activities and realizing that the stream of hellos had finally come to an end, he wandered back to the workshop while sipping a cup of hot-stim.

Upon arrival he saw that the droid was no longer moving or speaking, instead it was standing in a state of rest, the sync apparently complete. Bernie was suddenly full of the thought, 'now what?' He had not planned anything beyond getting the thing running, but for what purpose he did not know. Nor did he know how to talk to a famous robot, which he immediately realized was foolish, for a famous robot was no different than any other robot. It was only famous because people decided it should be famous.

Grounded by this viewpoint, he asked, "Status?"

The head turned towards him in an almost human fashion and said, "This one has synced to its new chassis. This one is no longer a mining unit."

Bernie was somewhat disappointed by this answer. It was the type of simple, clear-cut message he preferred when dealing with a bot or droid, but he had hoped for more. Pressing somewhat, he queried, "What type of unit are you?"

"This one is a tall drink of water."

"What?" Bernie sputtered, coughing from a mouthful of stim he had incorrectly swallowed during his shock at the answer.

"This one is like a tall drink of water to a thirsty man in a desert. This one is the type of broad that grew up too fast, but is more innocent than she thinks. This one is the type whose hair should be tied up in a style begging to be untied. This one is the type of dame whose gams go on forever."

"Umm...okay...yeahhh...umm, what's a dame actually do?"

"This one only knows that it should sway into offices of detectives wearing fedoras."

"Then what?"

"This one returns to the office after the fedora wearing gumshoe solves a mystery."

Bernie felt a head-ache growing behind his eyes. His morning had started out so positive, yet now he found out that the LMR's brain-box must have been damaged just like the chassis. And it was with a sigh he stated, "You are not a dame."

"If this one is not a dame, this one does not know what it is. This one could be a maintenance bot, but it only has one type of screwdriver on its fingers."

Staring at the hand that was held out towards him, one tipped in long, squared fingernails, Bernie's burgeoning head-ache burst out of the gate to perform a flamenco upon his temples. This time his sigh was even louder as he said, "You don't really know much about women, do you?"

There was not an immediate reply, signifying that a search was in progress. Not that the results helped appease Bernie's aching head, "This one does not."

"Shit, neither do I."

After his admission Bernie decided that maybe there was something that Sam Cash could learn from the brain-box that had been included with the CPD; therefore, he had established a connection and begun a correlation.

A short while later after it had been completed, Bernie had tried again, "What type of unit are you?"

"This one is a painted woman, like those that are written about by the immortal author, Anonymous."

This time the zag did not zig away from Bernie and he was able to correct, "Actually Anonymous is a generic nom de plume used for centuries by writers of erotic fiction, it is not a single immortal author."

He waited for a reply, but none was coming and Bernie suddenly recognized that he had not said anything to draw a response from the droid. With the differences he had noticed about this brain-box, in both the bot and droid chassis, he had unconsciously ranked it as a higher form of life than a regular droid. He had hoped it could carry on a conversation, not just answer questions or respond to queries. It was with disappointment that he asked, "Do you know the purpose of a painted woman?"

"Painted women copulate with men for money. Is the purpose of this one copulate to with you?"

"What?"

"This one is dressed for copulation."

Bernie was so used to having PDs around that he had not even noticed that the CPD was not wearing any clothes. But while he was no prude and had taken each of the droids for test runs, he had absolutely no interest in performing the act with the newest version of his previously favourite model. He liked certain parts of himself too much to trust them to a malfunctioning droid.

"No your purpose is not to copulate with me"

"What is this one's purpose?"

"I don't know."

--------------

Over the next number of weeks it was the question that Bernie tried and failed to answer. Not understanding Sam Cash's programming meant that he fell back upon the methods he understood. So Bernie began the hunt for additional functionality that he could load into the brain-box, but found the results were limited. Sure his home was cleaner than ever as a result of a cleaning algorithm nor had he ever eaten better, still something was missing. In the second week he had moved away from practical and though he enjoyed the variety of dances and songs that Sam Cash could now perform, it was still not enough.

Nor did his attraction to the droid's form rekindle. If he had not been able to sell, for a tidy profit, the Sam Cash chassis to the Nurdenburg Robotic Menagerie he would have been completely disappointed with his find. Instead Bernie was just mostly disappointed.

Therefore, his focus was slowly drawn away, back into his old work. Though having Sam Cash always about cleaning, cooking, singing and dancing meant that the question always lurked in the back of his mind. Though with time the question mutated into being, what purpose did Bernie want Sam Cash serve? This was just as difficult a question for Bernie, forcing him to fall back into his practice of ignoring such quandaries and slipping into his natural state of scattered interests, where Sam Cash was just one of many unfinished projects.

However, one day, after once more returning from a collection run, he was surprised to hear the door chime announcing that he had a rare visitor. It was with curiosity that he went to answer. Yet upon opening the door he found that he was not surprised to see who stood there and so with a respectful tone in his voice he welcomed, "Hello Mr. Gunnerson, won't you please come in."

"Ahh, you recognize me, I assume you are Bernie Sternstein?"

Bernie would not have recognized him before his stop at CA-63459:11098 and his purchase of the broken Sam Cash, but since then he had spent a great deal of time trying, unsuccessfully, to get into this man's mind. "Yes sir, that is my name."

"You can likely guess why I am here?" Vernon Gunnerson asked as he entered to filled the room with his presence.

"Sam Cash," Bernie stated.

"Yes Sam Cash. I learned you bought it after the dolts in my company sent it off to be destroyed by an even bigger idiot. Well I am hear to get Sam back, but don't worry I will pay you a good finder's fee."

"I sold it to the Nurdenburg Menagerie," Bernie protested, suddenly not wanting to lose his prize.

"Bernie, Bernie, now don't tell me lies. I know that was just the chassis, you really don't want to try my patience."

Looking at the hard faced visage of the large man Bernie could see the truth in that warning; therefore, he gestured for Guns to follow him and moved to his workshop. Upon entry he was immediately chagrined by the sight of a still naked Sam standing in the corner, his visitor was sure to think he was a lonely, horn-dog. And it was with embarrassment that he pointed towards the droid.

Guns who had been looked around the workshop curiously turned int the direction that Bernie pointed. After a moment of surprise, Guns walked over towards the droid, circled it a couple of times and broke out into a deep belly laugh. "Nice choice Bernie, I have always had a weakness for the blond, angelic type."

"Umm...thank you," Bernie mumbled still rather mortified.

Still laughing the big man continued to look at Sam Cash before saying to the droid, "Well look at you Sam."

"This one is different than before."

"Cut the bot talk shit out Sam, you know I hate that."

"Sorry Guns."

"That's better, but I can't get over how you look. Woooweee, the face and body of an angel, but no angel would be tramping around around without her clothes on. You're a tramp Sam."

Bernie was startled to see what he could only term a look of innocence appear upon the droids face and was almost thunderstruck when in a voice so much higher-pitched than normal disagreed, "Oh no Gunsy, I'm a good girl."

"If you're a good girl, why are you not wearing any clothes," Guns asked with a mock scowl.

"Oops, I must have forgot," Sam's tiny voice replied with a giggle.

"Ahh, a tramp and an airhead. Don't worry though Sam, I'll turn you into a lady."

"The rhine in Spine falls minely on the pline," the droid replied, once more using a completely different voice.

While Guns broke into even deeper laughter than before, Bernie looked on in astonishment. In the brief moments since the large man's arrival the droid had changed from a something into a someone. Yet for the life of him, Bernie could not understand how it had happened; therefore, it was with some hesitation that he asked, "Excuse me sir, how did you do that?"

"Do what, Bernie me boy?"

"Make Sam so unrobotic?"

"Ahh, so you were trying to plumb the depths of my workings with Sam, were you? And seeing how she looks, I would guess you did some other plumbing the depths with her," Guns said with a leer on his face.

"Sir," Bernie responded in outraged embarrassment.

"Now Bernie, don't take it that way. I recognize a CPD-1977 when I see one and understand their purpose. Lovely droids that they are, I will admit I have indulged in one or two of them myself."

"Actually Mr. Gunnerson I did not do any such thing with Sam since the transfer. I had some concerns about the transfer and I did not have any interest in doing so."

"Thought she would be dangerous, did ya Bernie?"

"Well..."

"I wouldn't hurt you Mr. Bernie, you've been super nice to me," the droid innocently protested.

"Bah, you can't fool me girly," Guns growled. "I know you tramps are always hurting nice young men like Mr. Sternstein."

"Well we don't mean it," Sam giggled.

"I know that girly, that's why I stay away from your type. Well unless I am drunk," Guns admitted. "But I haven't answered your question Bernie. Its the difference between probabilistic and deterministic searches."

"I don't follow what you mean, Mr. Gunnerson."

"Well I am guessing you figured out that Sam's techniques are based on literature?" At Bernie's nod, Guns continued, "Well that is a shitload of information for even an advance brain-box like Sam's to process. As a result I implemented two types of search mechanisms to process that information, probabilistic and deterministic. Are you familiar with the concepts?"

"Yes Mr. Gunnerson," Bernie answered with growing excitement, as he began to see where the man was headed.

"Well then you will know that a probabilistic search requires a quite a bit of information in order to provide a good quality result. However, if you provide only a limited search criteria the results will be rather poor. I guess that being a polite young man, you talked to Sam with questions. Questions rarely provide enough information to perform a good search; therefore, you most likely received inexact responses.

"Meanwhile, I who am much less polite, did not ask questions. Instead I made statements, which results in the more specific deterministic searches. For example, within those multitude of books there are many characters who are called tramps or some synonym. This provides a focussed subset of information from which to draw responses. Sometimes exact responses are available, such as her response to my turning her into a lady. But most times it will require a secondary probabilistic search to determine what Sam should say or do, but as I previously mentioned the scope is narrowed and the response seem more human."

"That's genius Mr. Gunnerson," Bernie stated.

"I know. Well its been good meeting you Bernie, thanks for keeping Sam safe." Then turning to the droid, Guns said, "Let's go Sam."

"Wait, where are you going?" Bernie asked as Guns headed towards the workshop door trailed by Sam.

"I'm off to get drunk."

At this statement Sam began to giggle; however, Bernie did not see the joke. He just saw his fortune heading out the door. "But Sam isn't yours, she's mine. I bought her fair and square."

At this Guns stopped and turned to show what had made him feared in many bars across the galaxy, "Bernie, Bernie. Now I like you son; however Sam is coming with me, despite whatever you may think. Still I like you, so if you submit an invoice to my company, I will see that you get paid."

"But..."

"Now no buts Bernie, I'll treat you fair if you don't try gouge me. But I get my own way and you're not the man to change that."

Maintaining his glare the large man waited until he saw a tiny nod, then allowing a sly smile to once more return to his face he turned back towards the door. The reason for the smile became apparent when he reached Sam and patted her bum while stating, "Despite my appreciation for your form my dear, we are going to have to get you some clothes."

Sam's algorithm quickly scanned its way through volumes of books containing tramps searching for a reaction to Guns' words and pat. The top score of 98.7839% resulted in a hop, a squealed "Eeep", and a seductively purred, "Take me shopping Daddy."

Bernie watched the guffawing man lead his best friend, who just happened to be a naked droid, out of his apartment. He could not help but think he was missing out. Sure he knew that Vernon Gunnerson was a rich as a solid platinum meteor and that he would end up being well compensated for his find. It was just that he finally realized what he wanted from Sam, he wanted a friend.

Oh well, maybe with all the money he was going to earn he could take some time to make his own.

The End

Manny and Maude - 1 - Mirror Mirror

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

Stuck

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Fairy Tale

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

I have sometimes found myself wondering if vampires have problems with the hems of their cloaks fraying, as they glide along with the fancy, satin, floor-length item trailing behind. It seems to me that some type of ball-bearing system, offering both weight, to assist in the dramatic drape of the cloak, and protection, from the ground upon which they are dragged, may be a good idea (ignoring the noise that would make the whole appearing from nowhere more difficult). So it was not surprising that last night this thought crystallized into a Far Side like vision of some salesmen, knocking on the door of a vampire’s castle, with the caption, ‘Rex Simpson, door-to-door salesman of the Heminator-5000.’ And though this story has nothing to do with that vision, it did lead my mind to wander in this direction, rather than letting me go to sleep.

Mirror Mirror
by Arcie Emm

Trudging alongside the wagon, he had been hired to guard, Manny kin Nichino thought of the last words his father said, before he ventured out to fulfill this newest contract. “Careful lad, the Land Beyond can be an unkind place for those of us who are mundane. Always keep one eye open.”

Not that Old Manny had tried to stop his son from crossing the river into the mist on the other side, to apply for the well paying position that had appeared on the posting board, at the midpoint of the Bridge of Happening, overnight. His father recognized that his boy was now a man grown, a veteran trail guard, with numerous contracts already under his belt. Still he liked to pass on what little knowledge he may own about wherever Young Manny may find himself. Advice the son listened to, no matter how obvious, knowing that in sprung from the hope that Manny would make it home safely to gorge, once more, upon his mother`s grunchberry pie. A goal he wholeheartedly supported.

However, neither one of them would have suspected that his most immediate danger involved having his ear talked off, by the witch who hired him and sat on the wagon beside which he walked. In fact, the only time she had been silent was when she appeared before he, Knuckles kin Wildo, and Sare kil Negrano, studied them each intently and gestured for Manny to follow her. Seeing it as a coup, being chosen over the two others, each more famed than he, he had happily followed.

In her wake, he had once more passed through the mist, in the opposite direction from which he had entered, to find himself in a rather idyllic yard, surrounding the prototypical witch`s cottage. There she had spoken for the first time.

“You are a big one aren’t you, what’s your name?”

He could not deny that fact, he had his size from his father, the village blacksmith. Nor could he complain, it served him in his own job, just as well as it did his father. “Ma'am, my name is Manfred kin Nichino, though I prefer to go by Manny.”

“Manny kin Nichino? My what a fortuitous name. Myself, I be Old Maude, though Maude is also acceptable. I am a seamstrist.”

“A seamstress?”

“No, no, I have no skill with needle and thread, would likely end up with my fingers sewn together if I tried. No, a seamstrist fashions her garments via magic. And not to sound immodest, but I am the best seamstrist in the Land Beyond.”

“Pardon me Ma'am, but why does a seamstrist need a trail guard?”

“Maude, Manny, just Maude. Well as my fame has grown, so too has the prominence of my clientele. And as I am sure that you are aware, the famous are often busy, after all it isn’t easy being a tyrant, head of a vampire clan, or any such thing. Therefore, Old Maude goes to them. And after slaving away over cauldron and loom these last months, preparing my inventory, it is once more time to head out onto the road.”

“Will there be many with us?”

“Just you and I. Seamstrists have no need to maintain a large staff.”

Suddenly he gained additional understanding about his hire, his size had caused it to happen in the past. He may have kicked up a fuss, if not for the 25 silver to be paid daily and if he knew how to get home, instead he asked, “Would you like me to begin loading your wagon?”

Following her gesture, he saw a huge, covered wagon, to which a massive auroch, and he heard her say, “It’s already loaded. There is only one more thing to do before we get on the road. We must deal with your garb.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing at all, they seem like perfectly sensible things to wear, nice and clean. But you are now in the employ of the premier seamstrist in the Land Beyond, you need something better. Let’s pop into the house at fix that right up.”

So Manny found himself, dressed in what he considered to be the outfit of a dandy, striding along, listening to Maude talk about whatever popped into her mind. It proved a bewildering array of topics, ranging from stories about the happening in the life’s of her friends, none of whom he knew, to a fascinating dissertation on how best to deal with a pack of goblins. Currently she was back talking about somebody, though seeing as how that person was their first client, living in the foreboding castle they approached, he found himself paying greater attention.

“Living as close together as we do, The Grandwitch Grunhilda has long been one of my clients. And yes, if you were wondering, it is the same Grunhilda who was behind the vanishing of the Plains of Delshire, after its Lord spurned her advances.”

He had not been wondering, being unfamiliar with the either the place or its vanishing, yet nodded his head none-the-less.

Taking this as agreement to continue, Maude said, “Though the fellow must have been demented, Grunhilda is rather lovely. She has the palest skin, almost like a vampire, but she is so much more alive, her fiery temper matching her red tresses. I doubt not that the gorgeous, hunter green, velvet, which I spelled up, will look fabulous on her. Maybe a gown with long draping sleeves, cut close to show of her figure...”

As Maude went on to describe her sartorial vision, Manny turned his attention to watching for an ambush, as the trail narrowed, trees closing in on either side, leading up to the bridge across the moat, around the castle. Nor did the guards, silent figure in suits of plate metal, maybe in fact nothing more than the suits, who gestured them through the castle gates, ease his nerves. Inside it appeared almost normal, until he noticed that the groom, who approached, seemed to have skin of bark. Anxious, he looked to his employer and saw that she was completely obvious to the strangeness around them.

In fact she had a broad smile on her face as she hopped from her seat and moved to the back of her wagon, reaching up to unlatch the tailgate, and looking inside. Suddenly he saw here begin pointing, inside the wagon, and saying, “You, you, you, yes of course you, and maybe you. Okay you too. All of you hop out

Wondering who she was talking too, after telling him they traveled along, he soon saw how she was able to load and unload her wagon. As she stepped back, he saw a number of chests, on well muscled legs hopping out from the wagon, followed at the end by a tall mirror, similar to the one in her cottage. Lining up, like good little soldiers, Maude looked once more into the rear of the wagon, her lips pursed, before shaking her head and closing the gate

Walking towards the entrance of the castle, she turned back and ordered, “Come along all. You too Manny, can’t have you wandering about, I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, particularly with Grunhilda, at least so early in our friendship.”

Trailing behind the mirror, he found himself moving in lockstep with it and the chests. After numerous attempts to set his own pace, he gave in, becoming part of the troupe, as they followed a human-appearing maid. Unsure if he was disappointed that nothing more seemed out of the ordinary, they arrived in a large sitting room, where Maude arranged her charges, Manny being banished to sit in a corner, on a rather comfortable chair. So comfortable he found himself dozing off, as Maude, checking the contents of each chest, went temporarily silent.

Next he knew, he was jerked awake, as a lusciously, vibrant voice purred, “And Maude, who is this fine specimená‰”

Eyes bulging, Manny jumped to his feet, offering a soldier’s bow, as he saw that they had been joined by a statuesque red-head, fetchingly attired in a silk robe, which did little to hide what it covered. Guessing her to be Grunhilda, and forgetting that she was the vanisher of the Plains of Delshire and the mistress of this strange castle, he drank in the sight of her. Fortunately Maude’s voice broke the spell, before he did or said something he would regret.

“He is Manny, my guardsman.”

“Guardsman, since when did you need a guardsman to go anywhere you wished?”

“I’m getting up in age.”

“Nonsense, I bet you hired him so you had someone to listen to you talk.”

“Hmmph, my auroch does a very fine job of that, if that was all I wanted. But enough chit chat, let’s get down to business, I need to make it to Willow Rill by nightfall.”

“Yes, let us.” Grunhilda agreed, before staring saucily at Manny and with a flick of her wrist, untied the belt of her robe, letting it drop from her shoulders, to pool at her feet, proving that all was at it had been hinted at.

The unveiling physically impacted him, like a punch in the stomach, causing to fall back into his chair, breath growing short. Amused that she had obtained the reaction she wanted, Grunhilda turned back to Maude, while Manny tried to distract himself with memories of cleaning out the corral behind his father’s smithy. It proved enough, allowing him to regain his faculties, although when he looked up to see her draped in green velvet, he immediately looked down, thinking thoughts of skinning a skunk.

In his own little world of denial, he did not hear the discussion between the two witches, as they discussed potential modifications to the dress. So far away was he, that it took at least three tries before he looked towards Maude, who was calling his name. Blushing, he bounced to his feet, asking, “Ma'am?”

“Yes Manny, thank you for joining us. Would you do me a favour and come stand before the mirror?”

Trying to make up for his gaff, he unhesitatingly fulfilled the request. Arriving before the mirror, he started in confusion, for instead of seeing himself, there stood Grunhilda, in the green gown. Desperately he patted himself down, feeling the vest of his new outfit and his belt, holding short sword. Appeased, he looked once more at the mirror, still surprised to see the witch, but now curious. He stared it, becoming hypnotized by it, as it seemed to pulse, almost like a beating heart. Then the image began to fade, growing fainter, until it disappeared completely from the mirror. But only for a moment, then it returned, seemingly more realistic than before.

Finally his gaze was pulled away from the mirror by the sound of Grunhilda clapping, as she said, “Brilliant Maude, absolutely brilliant. Turn around for me Manny, I want to see how it moves.”

Still dazed by the affects of the mirror, he asked, “How what moves?”

“Why, your gown?”

“What!”

“You and others were always saying that you wished you never thought a mirror did a good enough job, showing how you look in a particular outfit, so I came up with a solution.” Maude interjected, just before Manny crumpled to the ground. “Oh my, but I did not plan for that.”

Opening his eyes, Manny saw the two witches looking down at him with concern in their eyes and Maude asking for both of them, “Manny are you alright?”

“Alright? Why am I on the floor? What happened? I remember a mirror and then a dress and what! What did you do to me?”

“Now calm down Manny.”

“Calm down, how can I calm down? You turned me into Grunhilda!”

That worthy calmly stated, “I don’t really like me with a baritone, don’t include that in my dress Maude.”

“No I did not turn you into Grunhilda, I just had you take on her image so she could see how she looks in that dress. Just a bit of simple magic, easily reversible when its done.”

“You can turn me back into me?”

“Of course.”

“Then do it.”

“Now, now, Manny, no need to be hasty. I am sure that Grunhilda would appreciate if you tarried in this form a little longer, just until she has finished making her choice.”

“Oh yes, please Manny. I would be ever so grateful.” Grunhilda asked with smouldering look, which served to drown much of the maniacal gibbering in his mind beneath a wave of lust.

“Ummmmm”

“Please. Pretty please?”

“Just for a short time?”

“It will go so fast, you will hardly notice.”

“And then you will turn me back?”

Maude said, “If you wish.”

“I will definitely wish.” He said, panic once more trying to establish its right of place.

“Calm, calm, you can be assured I will change you back.”

“Okay, I guess I will do it. But I won’t like it.”

Grunhilda agreed, “Oh of course not, I know that this is not the way a big manly man like you would like to get inside of me.”

“Exactly. Hey, what?”

Smiling, she just leaned over and, with Maude’s assistance, helped him to his feet. Then taking seats, she gestured once more for him to turn around, which he did with a grimace.

“How does it feel?”

“It’s heavy.”

“Velvet is like that. Actually I was wondering if it feel like it fits properly? Does it feel tight anywhere?”

“It feels tight everywhere.” Manny grumbled.

“Its supposed to be tight, but is it overly tight anywhere.”

“Well I wouldn’t want to get in a fight, but I guess its manageable.”

Maude, who had been ignoring the questions and answers, frowned in his direction and said, “It’s missing something.”

“Do you really think so Maude, I like it.”

“Well that is the main thing Grunhilda, but I think it could be better. Do you mind if I try something?”

“Go right ahead.”

Gesturing to one of the chests, Manny watched its lid pop open and a length of black leather, laces hanging from one end, float out and drift towards him. Before he figured out what it was, the corset whipped about his waist, magically fastening itself in place and causing him to sputter, “Too tight.”

“I’m not sure Maude.”

“Hmm, one more thing.”

From another chest came lengths of golden ribbon and thread, which flew at Manny like so many arrows, forcing him to prove that the dress was not too tight as he danced to the side. But unrelenting, his attackers circled and beelined back at him, specifically the corset. The assault that followed had him squirming and learning that the Grandwitch Grunhilda was amazingly ticklish. However, she was also pleased with the embroidering and decoration, which ended up decorating the previously plain corset.

“Oh yes, that is much better. I’ll definitely take one of those. What else do you have?”

The following period taught Manny that he defined a short period much differently than did a woman after a new wardrobe. They had him in and out of numerous dresses, all the while ignoring his protests, until he finally quit protesting. It left him drained, as much as if he just been involved in a day long flight from pursuing bandits. Uncaring that he was still wore a gown of red satin, he wearily sat in a chair, as the two witches completed their business dealings.

However, he did perk up when he heard Grunhilda say, “And now let us get rid of my doppelganger, after all I am quite capable of getting into enough trouble all by myself.”

“Yes, yes, let us deal with that now. Manny, will come stand before the mirror once more?”

Feeling a burst of renewed energy, he quickly found himself once more in front of the mirror. There he waited as Maude approached the mirror, though he began to get a sinking feeling as a frown appeared on her face, causing her to murmur, “Oh my.”

“What is it?” He growled.

“We didn’t use this mirror when we outfitted you in your new garb, did we?”

“No, we used the one in your cottage.”

“Oh dear, then it appears that I won’t be able to turn you back into yourself until we get back to the house.”

“What?” He yelled.

“What?” Grunhilda asked, the sinisterness that allowed her to be a grandwitch, creeping into her voice. “Are you telling me that you plan on leaving here with your guardsman disguised as me.”

“Oh no Grunhilda, I would never do that. I actually have some other options available.”

Touching the edge of the mirror, Maude murmured some words and her own image appeared. “Oh no, that would be too confusing. Let’s try again.”

This time the image showed a pretty, blonde teen-ager, dressed in a pink satin. “Ah that’s better, Manny stand in front of the mirror.”

“No way, that’s even worse.”

Maude did not seem speak, but he heard her voice inside his head. “Would you rather be clamped in chains? Or maybe turned into a toad? Because I tell you that those are more likely options than Grunhilda letting you out of her castle, looking as you do.”

Suddenly meek, at that thought, Manny turned to face the mirror. Once more he felt hypnotized by the pulsating mirror, though this time he knew what to expect and when the image disappeared, he check that his sleeve had turned from red to pink, to satisfy himself, though it brought little satisfaction, that the change was complete. However, as a fortunate outcome, the smile had returned to Grunhilda’s face as she looked at him.

“Yes, your darling daughter Lirial. How is she these days, Maude?”

“Somewhat trying, I must admit. Her supposed best friend, stole the young warlock she was interested in. Ever since she has been going through a bit of a wicked phase; not coming home to visit, never writing, terrorizing villages of mundanes, you know, that type of thing.”

“We were all young once.”

“Aye, though I hope she grows out of it quicker than I did.”

Pleasantries and good byes out of the way, the strange procession, minus a hulking man and plus a pretty blonde, marched back to the wagon in the court yard. Soon they were once more on the road, this time with there being room for Manny on the wagon’s seat alongside Maude. Unaware how much his pouting silence suited his new face, he tried to ignore her as she regained her chattery form. Only after they had been on the road for a time, did his interest perk up.

“Hey we’re not going back to your cottage.”

“Of course not, we don’t have time, we need to be at Lady Vlidia’s place in two days. We would never make it in time if we went back to the cottage.”

“But, but, you promised.”

“Worry not child, I’ll see you back to your old self. It’s just that I have appointments with important people, people who do not take kindly to us lesser beings not showing up on time. Better for us to keep on going and not draw down their wrath. Besides or journey will be hardly more than three months.”

“Three months!”

“Exactly, no time at all, when measured against one’s entire life.”

Almost in tears of frustration, he demanded, “Why me? Why, if you knew that you may be changing me into a girl, didn’t you chose Sare?”

“Who?”

“You know, the female guard I was with, when you picked me this morning.”

“Oh her.” Maude answered, disdain in her voice.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Did you see her clothes? Has she ever heard of water and soap? Same with that other fellow. I refuse to deal with anybody who would treat their clothes in such a fashion. While you, even though you may not be the most handsome fellow, at least seem to care enough about your appearance to be clean.”

Realizing he would never have ended up in this pickle if he had not spent the prior week at his parents, which had allowed him to benefit from his mother’s laundry efforts, Manny buried his head in his hands, “How will I manage this.”

Patting him on the thigh, Maude said, “Don’t worry, we will whip you up something better for travel when we stop tonight.”

“But how will I manage? How am I going to act as your guard?”

“Oh, we don’t really need a guard. We’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Then why did you hire me?”

Shrugging, somewhat meekly, Maude said, “Well, it’s just that I get lonely on the road, I wanted someone to talk too.”

The End

Manny and Maude - 2 - On the Wall

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Little ditty about Manny and Maude, seamstrist and guard travellin’ the Land Beyond.
Maudie's sellin’ sartorial splendor, Manny debutante of Maudie’s mirror.

Oh yeah life goes on...

Warning: Please brush your teeth after consuming this story, for it may cause cavities.
Warning 2: Contains some funky formatting, which I blame upon my imaginary friend, Imaginary Fred.

On the Wall
by Arcie Emm

One did not need to be Bentolain the All Seeing, Lord of the Seventh Level of Damnation, to deduce that the pretty blonde was not happy with her companion, sitting beside her on the wagon seat. Simple observation skills would allow one to notice how rarely she turned her head from a straight ahead stare, how she spoke just enough to not be impolite, and how she appeared to ignore anything her seatmate said. It would have been downright awkward if her companion, an older woman whose face held similar yet older features to the girl, paid any attention. Instead she just talked.

And talked.

Manny had even learned, while sharing rooms at the Willow Rill and Aspen Rill inns, that Maude mumbled in her sleep. She talked about anything and everything, some of which Manny secretly found interesting. However, most of the time the seamstrist chattered about people, all of whom Maude discussed in the most familiar manner even though Manny had heard of none of them. He sometimes wondered if she forgot he was not her daughter, Lirial, whose form the witch had accidentally trapped him in, while they wiggled their way out of the Grandwitch Grunhilda’s lair. Yet, despite the absent-minded persona Maude usually portrayed, not once had she mistakenly called him anything other than Manny.

“...and that’s how the Lich Lord Volgrom fell in love with the paladin, Zora Bestingle. They truly are a cute couple, particularly since Zora got him looking less like a scruffian and more like his dandy self from before he became undead. All he needed was a good skin peel, a bone bleaching, teeth whitening, and something done with his hair. Let me tell you, all of us girls used swoon over Volgrom’s hair when we were in school, which is why I felt so sad that he let it become such a straggly mess after dying. But no longer, now it is the glorious mane I remember so fondly. Isn’t love a wondrous thing, Manny?

“Manny...

“Manny, what’s wrong? Are you still mad at me?” This was another of Maude’s regular topics of conversation, trying to convince Manny that he had no reason to be mad at her. After all, to her, transformations were just part of life, kind of like stubbing your toe.

“Yes, I am?”

“Don’t you think you’ve held your grudge long enough?”

“It’s only been two days.”

“Yeah, more than enough time to get over it.”

“Two days is not enough time for something a major as getting changed into somebody completely different, particularly a girl.”

“But being a girl is a wonderful thing. Much better than my first transformation, during in my second work term of seamstrist school and the only job I could get was as a silkworm wrangler, which required me to be an actual silkworm. Disgusting creatures, silkworms, all they do is eat and if I never see another mulberry leaf it will be too soon. Still I did make some good friends, though it always made me feel guilty that I never warned them that the only way out of their cocoons was in a boiling pot of water. You can’t very well think that being a girls is anywhere as bad as that.”

For the first time Manny detected a hint of steel in her response to his complaints. Combining this with his belief that she was more powerful than she pretended, he decided to tone down his frustration. “But I don’t know anything about being female.”

“So that’s worrying you?”

”Umm...okay.”

“You should have told me, maybe I could have calmed your nerves. For example, as you have probably notice, you are under the power of a high quality transformation spell.”

“I am?”

“Of course. A poor quality one is like ill fitting clothes. You can tell someone is under one by the herky-jerky fashion in which they move, almost like a marionette. Whereas, you, despite maintaining your baritone, seem as if you had never been anyone different. Doesn’t it feel natural?”

Maude was right, it did feel natural, despite his new form likely being barely half the size of the old Manny. Many things were wrong with what had been done to him, but how he physically felt was not one of them. Yet not wanting to admit this, he said, “Well I felt really awkward after my transformation.”

“That was that pink monstrosity of a gown, which even Lirial struggled with despite wanting it more than life itself for the summer ball. But now that we got you into something sensible you don’t seem to be having any troubles.”

Though not thrilled with wearing any dress, he saw no room to complain about the blue travel dress Maude had created for him, particularly since she was right about the original gown. “I suppose. But there must be more to being a woman then not tripping when I walk.”

“Well that’s true.”

“And I worry that I might do something to embarrass you in front of your clients.”

“Hmm...that is a good point. Most would understand, since they have likely experienced something similar themselves, but others take themselves entirely too seriously. Let’s see now, what can we do? Hmm...I know, do you read, Manny?”

“So-soish. My Ma taught me when I was young, but I’ve had no need for it since I’ve been on my own. Why?”

“Well then, we’ll just have to get you the book.”

“There’s a book on how to be female?”

“Many of them, though most of them are full of tripe. However, one of my old friends, Elmadine Fergoro, wrote a quite wonderful one as part of the ‘So You’ve Been Turned Into a ___’ series of books, hers is subtitled ‘27 Things You Must Know About Being a Woman.’ We will pick you up a copy in the next town we pass through that has a book dealer.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just turn me back into a man?”

“Maybe, but I don’t see how we can do that.”

“Couldn’t we can convince one of the men at this Lady Vlidia’s place to let me take his form?”

Maude burst out laughing, so much so that Manny wondered if she were about to fall off the wagon seat. Not understanding the joke, he finally demanded. “Okay, what’s so funny?”

“Well Lady Vlidia and her household are pixies. I really don’t think you want to be the size of my finger, not that we will we find any males there.”

“Why not?”

“Male pixies are dreadfully shy little fellows, rarer than a leprechaun’s charity. They are absolutely terrified of the females of their species, wisely so since they are rather predatory towards them. Actually towards all men, now that I think about it, which is another good reason for you to be changed. In fact, maybe we better do something about that lovely baritone of yours. Say something.”

“Umm...what are you going to do, Maude? Hey quit that, I like my voice. No way, that’s too high, I sound like an idiot. Okay that’s better, but I still don’t like it. And you really should have asked.”

“There, that sounds lovely. Though I recommend you say as little as possible, that way you won’t speak out of character.”

“What? Why did you change my voice, if I’m not supposed to speak?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Feeling a growl begin deep in the pit of his stomach, the one which told friends to stop the gibes directed at their large, though good natured friend, Manny cut it off when it came out closer to a purr than the normal rumble. Yet it lasted long enough for Maude to notice.

“What was that, Manny?”

“Ahh, I was just wondering, if pixies are only the size of your finger, how do you make clothes for them?”

“With a lot less material. Hahahahahahah! Well no, really you should know, Manny, I use magic. A seamstrist is nothing if she is not adaptable, though to be honest, I did struggle, when I first began dressing pixies to manage the cut around their wings. My isn’t this nice.”

“What?”

“The two of us having this pleasant conversation.”

“I guess.”

“Of course it is. It makes the time pass so much more quickly.”

Notwithstanding the whole completely messing up his life, Maude was a hard person to stay mad at and neither was he the type to stew in his own juices. So offering a prettier smile than he could have offered a few days earlier, he said, “Aye, it does. Doesn’t it?”

Answering with a smile of her own, Maude patted his leg, and said, “Exactly. Now why don’t you tell me how you became a trail guard and I will let my voice rest for awhile.”

“It’s not too complicated or good of a story, because it all happened by happenstance. I had actually expected to follow my father as a blacksmith, but then the Prince of Verkning got it in his head that he wanted to add the County of Burgshirevale to his princedom. Needless to say, the Count had different ideas and so began forming his own army, a contingent of twenty men being expected from my own village of Ganfree. For many reasons, my size, my age, being unattached, being a bit of a dreamer, and so forth, I ended up part of that contingent, right through the Battle of Muddy Creek.”

“You were there? Even in the Land Beyond we heard about the battle. It sounds like it was awful, which is why everybody here calls it the Battle of Bloody Creek.”

“Aye, it was a massacre, we slaughtered them. Despite their leader’s loftier title, Verkning is a poor land in comparison to Burgshirevale. We had the larger army, better equipped, and when the Count’s liegeman, Baron Gustav Frolong, was summoned home with his mercenary regiment, we were better led. And I was right in the middle of it, one of the Beige Baron’s Sergeants-at-Arms having spotted me during training and brought me into their shield and spear line. Victory is a heady thing, even horrible victory, so instead of returning home to the smithy I followed the Baron for another five years, from war to war. Likely would have still been in the ranks if the Baron had not gotten sick and the regiment disbanded. But he did and it did, so I needed to find something new to do. Since none of the other mercenary companies interested me, I became a guardsman for wagon trains, been doing it for just over a year now.”

This quick recitation of his adventuring life proved unsatisfactory for Maude who used the next couple of hours to question and get to know Manny better. In turn, the miles and time seemed to pass quicker, so he answered as best as he could, right until he looked up and spotted something in their trail.

“Maude, there’s a big tree in the middle of the road just ahead.”

“There is? Oh, that’s good, we’re almost there.”

“Umm...Aren’t you going to stop?”

“Hmm?”

“Or go around it? It’s a really big tree. Maude, what are you doing? Maude!”

Eyes opened wide in anticipation of disaster, he spotted a large, straight root puckering the earth as it shot out from the middle of the tree. A tiny obstacle in the path of the massive hoof of the plodding auroch. So expecting to see the root crumble, he exclaimed in surprise when the hoof seemed to delicately rest atop the barked surface. Yet what really caused his mouth to gape was that at the end of its next stride, the auroch’s other front hoof also landed upon the root. He could not understand how the beast, which was more than half as wide as the wagon, could delicately balance upon a root barely two hand widths wide. Yet it did, the back hoofs now following along with those of the front. Shaking his head in confusion, Manny closed his eyes, but opening them brought no end to his disbelief. For now the auroch seemed no bigger than a squirrel, and while it did not scamper like one along the root, it none-the-less continued apace, the traces connected to the wagon as taut as they had been the entire day.

“Wha..wha...what’s...”

Unable to form his question, he felt a jerk as the wagon’s front wheels hit the root, climbing it as if onto a ramp. His eyes told him that it was impossible, yet his ears hearing wheels upon wood and his body feeling itself tilt in gentle incline told him otherwise. Once more he shut his eyes, this time opening them to see the auroch had regained its proper proportion, though he quickly realized that was due to the wagon and its contents, including him, having also shrunk to match the beast. Looking over the edge of the wagon he saw that they appeared to travel along a path, etched into the bark of the root.

“Oh, it’s magic.”

“Of course it is, Manny. Magic is the answer to most of the things that seem impossible or improbable in the Land Beyond. I know amongst your people many consider it cheating, but it’s not always cherry turnovers and berry wine.”

Looking down, seeing proof bulging from his chest, Manny could not deny this truth. Instead he nodded his head and said, “So is this the magic that allows you to make clothes for the pixies?”

“Exactly. Now they will seem regular sized.”

“How does it work?”

“That’s beyond the ken of this old seamstrist. I guess it has something to do with this path upon which we travel, we shrink when we arrive and grow when we leave. But if you want to really understand, you need to talk to a civil engineerist, probably quite a senior one at that.”

Clipping along at a pace defined now by the teeny legs of the auroch they slowly approached the trunk of the tree, Manny curiously looking for the opening in which they would enter. Again he began worry about crashing into the tree, though he dismissed it and wondered what new magic was about to happen. However, he was not prepared for the auroch to continue walking up the tree, as if still on the root. He was even less ready for the wagon to follow. As they climbed Maude’s chuckled ‘hang on’ did little to calm his nerves, though he did take her advice, grabbing on with a death grip to both her arm and the side of the wagon.

“Manny, not so hard, your nails are digging into my arm. Manny?”

His only response, while staring straight ahead with a wild eyed look, was a mewl of fear. A mewl that worked its way up to a keen.

“Oh dear, are you afraid of heights? Manny? Sweety, close your eyes. That’s a girl, you can do it. Now breathe deeply, again, and again. No, don’t open your eyes. Here, let me reclaim my arm, you have quite a grip there, don’t you? Okay, lean forward a bit. Breathe deeply. Good girl.”

Slowly Manny regained his composure, soothed by Maude’s words and how she gently rubbed his back, almost as if he were a child after waking from the night terrors. With composure came embarrassment, both at both his reaction and the way Maude was treating him. Nor did he grow less mortified when the only response he could come up with was to mumble. “Not a girl.”

“Sorry, Manny, I know that. It’s just that you brought out the mother in me.”

“It’s okay. Thank you for helping.”

“That’s what friends do, Manny. Though I wish I had known you were afraid of heights, I could have warned you.”

“Didn’t know.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know I was afraid of heights. It’s never bothered me before.”

“Ahh, that’s likely because you have never been this high before.”

“We’re only waist high to my old self.”

“But you’re not your old self, in comparison this is many times higher than your head. Just imagine a fall, as tiny you, from your old waist, it would be many times your height.”

“Not helping!”

“What? Oh sorry. You just keep your eyes closed and stayed bent over for now, Manny. We’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.”

“Hush, little Manny, don’t throw up. Maudies not going to let you drop. Soon we’ll be at the pixie hole. Then you’ll be safe from Gravity’s pull.”

“Not helping!”

“Sorry.”

“Umm...who’s Gravity?”

“He’s the Lord of the Oceans in the lore of seagulls. They describe him as a giant kraken who reaches into the sky to pull them to their death.”

“You know, Maude, I bet if you just hummed the lullaby that it would help a lot?”

“You really think so? Lirial always liked it when I made up words appropriate to the situation.”

“I prefer it with no words, that’s how my own mother did it.”

So, accompanied by the Maude’s humming, the auroch clip-clopped higher up the tree. The combination of soothing sounds helping Manny to maintain his grip on reality, though he continued to clutch the wagon. So it was a relief to feel the cart once more level off and have Maude announce their arrival.

Slowly opening his eyes, Manny looked around to find them in a cavernous space that he assumed was a hole in the tree’s trunk. Seeing Maude climb down and pull a rope hanging beside one wall, he shakily descended as well, enjoying the tree beneath his feet as he found the auroch’s feed bag. Scratching the beast behind an ear, he looked around the space, noticing a smaller hole in what he could only consider to be the back wall. Looking at Maude, who was marshaling her forces of chests and mirrors on their stubby legs, he waved to get her attention, then pointed questioningly in the direction of the hole.

“They’ll be here soon.”

Sure enough, it was not long before he heard the sound of voices coming through the opening which he watched, while wondering how terrifying they would be if they preyed upon their own men. When the three of them wafted into room, that thought, along with inconsequential thinks like his name, were driven from his brain by waves of lust.

While he, in his current form, was pretty and the Grandwitch Grunhilda had been beautiful, the three pixies were snivel on your haunches, absofriggentutely, drop-dead gorgeous. Looking alike enough to be triplets, each had snowy white hair done up in a flirty ponytail that hung most of the way to their feet, from which delicately pointed ears peeked out. Their faces, with large blue eyes sparkling beneath long lashes, high cheeks, cute nose, and luscious red lips could serve as inspiration for painters. While their bodies could serve as models for sculptures, their long slender necks separated from legs by the perfect amount of curves. And those legs, if they did not go on forever, they were perfectly shaped and made longer by glass slippers with improbably long and narrow heels. Thinking it would be impossible to stand with the shoes, he saw they need not worry for their sparkling, dragon-fly like wings blurred in motion, allowing them to hover just above the floor and causing the hems of their tight gossamer dresses to flutter above their knees. Only in these slippers, veins of their wings, and dresses that one could distinguish each of the beauties from the others, one in blue, another in red, and the third in purple.

Their presence was overwhelming. Manny could not decide whether to caper about like a fool, fawn upon the floor before them, or hide behind the wagon. He did know that if one were to ask, he would immediately stop his wandering, build a house with his teeth to prove his devotion, and have 723 children like Matt Stedbauer the swordsman of legend. In that moment he knew that male pixies were insane and then he heard the three angels speak.

“It’s Maude!”

“Yay Maude!”

“Weeee, time for pretty dresses!”

“And Lirial!”

“Yay Lirial!”

“Pretty Lirial!”

“Actually girls, she’s not Lirial, she’s my guard.” Maude said.

“It’s not?”

“It looks like Lirial.”

“Weeee, someone new!”

“We should really introduce ourselves.”

“We really should.”

“Mamma would tell us that it’s only polite.”

“Hi, I’m Nikki!”

“Hi, I’m Nicky!”

“Hi, I’m Nikkee!”

“Ahh...hello, my name is Manny.”

“Hi, Manny, did you know you look like Lirial?”

“Hi, Manny. You really do.”

“Hi, Manny. You’re pretty.”

Maude broke up the introductions to say, “Now that we now know each other, will the Lady Vlidia be joining us?”

“The Duchess sent Mamma a message.”

“That a male was hiding in a nearby forest.”

“A hunky, hunky male.”

“So she joined the hunt for him.”

“To bring him back to our forest.”

“A hunky, hunky male.”

“You already said that, Nikkee.”

“About the hunky, hunky male.”

“Heeheehee, Nicky wants a hunky, hunky male.”

“So the Lady Vlidia is not available? Will I need to come back another time?”

“Nonono, Mamma left us some shoes.”

“And said you could tell us how much they were worth.”

“So we can buy pretty dresses.”

“Very well, maybe you should show them to me and I can tell you what you can get in exchange.”

“Okay, follow us.”

“And we can look at the pretty shoes.”

“To the bat cave!”

“Why would we go to the bat cave?”

“The shoes are in the workshop.”

“Shoes? I thought you said bats.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Yeah, it really does.”

“Bats are furry.”

With this, the three floated back through the hole from which they had arrived, chattering about how bats and shoes were the same, but different. Much of the glamour removed from Manny’s eyes, he looked unbelievingly at Maude and asked, “Shoes?”

“Aye, that is how Lady Vlidia and her daughters pay for all their wares. They craft shoes, like those that they’re wearing out of tree sap. Despite them being pretty and impractical, the shoes I mean, I am always able to sell them to other women. It really is quite amazing what pixies can do with sap, they can tint it and shape it into shoes or chairs or any number of things, all of which are as sturdy and strong as if they were made of less delicate material. But enough of that for now, we better hurry, otherwise the girls may forget we are here.”

Catching the three pixies, the two were led through an array of tunnels, lit by green lichen and burrowed in the tree’s trunk. Heading mostly upwards they ended out on the ledge on the wall of a hollow in the tree, larger than the one in which they had left the wagon, which stunk enough to make Manny gag.

Unaffected, Maude asked, “Girls, I don’t think this is your workshop.”

“Of course not, silly.”

“It’s the bat cave.”

“Furry, furry, stinky, stinky bats.”

“But we were on the way to your workshop?”

“We were?”

“Why?”

“To look at the shoes!”

“Oh right, shoes.”

“To pay for the dresses.”

“I better lead this time.”

Once more the five trooped, well three floated and the other two trooped, while obediently followed by nine chests and one mirror, back into the warren of the tree. Mercifully, for the non-floating and non-inanimate pair, this time the path led downwards. Reaching the workshop, Manny found it lit by small holes to the outside, which also helped to bring in fresh air, though the smell of sap was still almost as overpowering as the guano in the bat cave. Yet what stood out were the shelves, about the room, upon which hundreds of the sap slippers, of more colours than Manny knew existed, some even containing flowers, leaves, or insects embedded inside the sap.

“Manny, will you be a dear and get the large, feather filled sack out of the brown chest with the silver fastenings? Then fill it with forty of the clear slippers from the left wall, I can cover them as needed with silk, satin, or soft leather to match a customer’s dress.”

Nodding his head, he moved to the chest, which flipped its lid as he approached, and looked inside. There he found many small, velvet sacks and one large, leather one. Guessing it was the only one that could hold forty pairs of shoes, he took it to the wall and stopped in a quandary.

“What sizes, Maude?”

“Silly, they’re magic shoes. They fit everybody.”

Startled, he turned to find Nikkee hovering right behind him. “Oh? That’s handy.”

“Very. Let me get them. You pack.”

This proved to be an efficient method, particularly since many were out of his reach, though not the flying pixie’s. It also proved quite distracting, since, when she did not speak, the allure of her physical gifts could once more descend to their rightful spot in his mind. This was further enhanced by the subtle smell of flowers she emitted, the gentle caresses of her hands upon his when she passed over a pair of the slippers, and the hypnotic purr of her wings. All of which was as nothing compared to his glancing upwards and seeing all the way up Nikkee’s skirts, which ignited a strange fire under his own.

Fortunately, before he could say or do something stupid, Maude distracted him with another request. “Manny, can you take a moment to bring me the empty velvet bags from the same chest.”

“Urk...okay.”

Dragging his eyes away from the not so angelic vision above him, he scurried to the chest to get the bags, each which was soon stuffed with a pair of the more exotic slippers for which Maude chose to barter. Then he was searching in another chest to get a bolt of silk, which the pixies would use to line the insides of the slipper. Then multiple trips to a third trunk for hides of tough leather, which would cover the pointed toes and the tip of the heels on each shoe. So by the time he made it back to the clear slippers, stuffing them into the bag was the only stuffing on his mind. Finished, he placed it inside its chest and began making gender affirming trips back and forth from Maude and the three pixies to the trunk with the purple bags.

“Well that is enough shoes for this trip, now what do you girls seek in exchange?”

“Fancy dresses.”

“For the Duchess’ Ball.”

“After all the Mammas capture the hunky, hunky male.”

“We want him to notice us.”

“To pick our tree.”

“In which to be held captive.”

“Well we could definitely do that, there will also be enough left over to supply you each with a new day dress.”

“Weeee! Me first.”

“Then me!”

“Poo, why am I always last?”

“Mamma says you have to be faster.”

“I don’t like always being second.”

“I know, Manny can pick whose first.”

“Very well.”

“Yay, Manny!”

“Pick me! Pick me!”

This request made him stare in lustful horror at the three, having no idea how to choose. Then inspiration caused him to say, “I am thinking of a number between one and ten, the one who guesses closest will go first.”

“Oooh, a guessing game. I pick 3.”

“We love guessing games. I pick 3.”

“They’re really fun. I pick 3.”

“Umm...well the answer was 6.”

“Yay! I was closest.”

“Congratulations Nikki.”

“Yay, Nikki!”

He did not need to notice Maude shaking her head to spot the offered out, instead he said, “Congratulations, Nikki.”

Letting the triumphant pixie flit about in a victory dance for a few moments, Maude brought it to an end when she said, “Okay, Nikki, come stand in front of my mirror.”

A sinking feeling came to Manny’s stomach as he guessed what was about to happen, something confirmed by Maude saying, “Now go stand by your sisters and we will get Manny over here.”

When Manny did not immediately respond, he heard Maude’s voice in his head, just as at Grunhilda’s, snappishly say, “You’ve had ample opportunity to gawk at them, now it’s time for them.”

Heaving a sigh, he moved to stand in front of the mirror, which still contained Nikki’s image. Despite his attempts to ignore the vision, it captured him, hypnotized him, until it momentarily faded from sight, returning instantly to show the same pixie standing confidently upon high-heeled slippers. But this too was only momentary, for instincts kicked in and her blue veined wings blurred into motion, lifting her to hover like the others.

“EEEeeeek!”

“Wha-what?”

“It’s Nikki!”

“It’s me? I’m pretty.”

“Wha-what?”

“Where’s not-Lirial?”

“No need to be alarmed. It’s just Manny. A simple bit of magic I created to model new fashions for my customers. And who is a better model for what looks good than yourselves?”

“Weeee, this will be fun.”

“I can`t wait until my turn.”

“Magic is so much fun.”

Quicker than a whip, or at least too fast for Manny to get a good look, Maude had him out of blue gossamer dress and stepping into a long, backless gown of white silk, before tying the top straps around his neck. She then turned him around for the wide-eyed pixies’ inspection.

“That’s perfect.”

“Beautiful.”

“Exactly!”

“But maybe shorter, over the knee.”

“Definitely shorter.”

“Show off your pretty legs.”

“And satin instead of silk.”

“I love satin.”

“So shiny and soft.”

“And fitted instead of billowy.”

“Yeah, make it hug you.”

“Like the hunky, hunky male will hopefully do.”

“Make it tighter.”

“You don’t want any wrinkles.”

“Wrinkles are...”

“You’ll need a corset if I make it any tighter.”

“...nowhere as neato as a corset”

“Definitely a corset.”

“Kinky!”

“Heeheeheeheehee.”

“Oomph.” Manny offered as commentary to this addition.

“And strapless.”

“Sexy!”

“Boobies!”

“And make it blue.”

“Definitely blue.”

“You always look good in blue, Nikki.”

Waiting to see if there were any additional changes to the perfect dress, Maude said, “Your turn, Nicky.”

As the pixie in red excitedly moved in front of the mirror, Maude quickly removed the dress and corset from Manny, returning him to the gossamer dress. But that lasted only a short time, for soon he was in front of the mirror and with the minor changes to his appearance required, the magic had him in red quicker than a blink of the eye. Then Maude had him out of it and into a gown exactly like the one that had been transformed by Nikki’s specifications.

“That’s perfect.”

“Beautiful.”

“Exactly!”

Hearing this, Manny incredulously though to himself, ‘There’s no chance, is there?’

“But maybe shorter, over the knee.”

“Definitely shorter.”

“Show off your pretty legs.”

He had his answer. What followed was almost an exact repeat, word for word, to Nikki’s fitting. The only difference being no need for Maude to suggest the corset, so soon Manny ended up bursting out of a tight red dress almost like a bratwurst left too long on the fire..

*** WARNING: Ill advised simile detected. Please remove before continuing with story.

Three burly men wearing hard hats enter from the left margin, stare at the words, and shake their heads.

The one on the right says, “Dat’s just not right.“

The middle one agrees. “It sure ain’t, Chucko. It has to go and like all dirty jobs, we’s the suckers that have to do it. Danno, get the truck.”

“On it, Boss.”

--insert Jeopardy music--- Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep

“A bit further, Danno.”

Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep

“A bit further.”

Beep, Beep

“Okay, good. Now grab a shovel boyos, we have a lot of work to do before the shift is over.”

Shovel, shovel, shovel, snort, shovel, shovel, cough, shovel, shovel, shovel, “Hey, Baby, shake it don’t break it.”, shovel, shovel, shovel, FRAAAAAP, shovel, shovel, shovel.

“Well boyos that’s look like the last of it. Man I need a shower.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“We’re not miracle workers, Chucko. Leave it.” ***

...Manny ended up in a tight red dress. However, before they could move on to Nikkee’s turn, they were interrupted by the ring of a gong.

“Another visitor.”

“I wonder who it is?”

“Maybe a messenger saying they caught the male.”

“Umm...Nikkee?”

“Yeah, Nikkee?”

“Sorry. Maybe a messenger saying they caught the hunky, hunky male.”

“Well we better see who it is.”

“It might be important.”

“Poo, I hate going last.”

With this, the three flitted out of the room, causing Maude to look at Manny and ask, “Curious?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s follow.”

“Maude, I need to change.”

“There’s no time. Let’s go.”

Desperate not to be seen wearing this dress by anybody else, he searched for an excuse. “I doubt that Nicky would want anybody else to see her dress before she has a chance to wear it.”

“Good point. Hurry, let’s get you changed.”

In a flash she had Manny changed. Not into the more familiar, though still unnatural, form of Lirial’s, but into the slightly less sexy gossamer dress. Maude scurried after the triplets, Manny finding it requiring no thought to keep apace with her by flying. When they arrived at the opening, through which they had earlier arrived, they were surprised to see a hornet and the auroch engaged in a staring contest. Spotting their arrival, the hornet broke off the engagement and flew towards them, causing all five to recoil. Stopping at a distance closer than polite, beginning to buzz.

“I think it’s trying to tell us something.”

“I don’t speak hornet.”

“Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz”

“Nikkee, you don’t speak hornet either.”

“None of us do.”

“Buzz off. Get it? Heeheeheeheeheeheeee”

Maude interrupted and said, “Girls, if you don’t mind, I do speak hornet. I’ll interpret. It says it is a messenger from the Empress Fgdjdihsdkehkls, Ruler of Hive Kjfldjsjhdfkd and its surrounding territory. Territory in which your tree is found. The Empress calls you squatters and demands that you vacate the tree immediately.

“What?”

“It’s been in our family for centuries.”

“I’ll shove the tree up her ass if she wants it so bad.”

“Furthermore, the Empress says, that if you wish to dispute her claim, you will have your champion meet her champion on the morrow to settle the matter through right of combat.”

“What?”

“Right of combat?”

“We’re lovers, not fighters.”

“If you do not vacate or if you do not meet the Empress’ champion in single combat, the Great Fgdjdihsdkehkls will send her armies to evict you by force.”

With these final word the hornet turned and flew towards the exit hole.

“Hey wait.”

“We’re not finished here.”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Those dirty hornets.”

“I knew they were up to no good.”

“And while Mamma’s away too. Those nogoodnicks.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Hey, I’m the pretty one, you two are the brains.”

“Maude.”

“There’s Maude.”

“And then there’s Maude.”

“You have to help us Maude.”

“You’re compromisin’ and enterprising’.”

“Anything but tantalizing.”

“Right on Maude.”

“What should we do?”

“Help.”

“I don’t know girls, I too am a lover not a fighter.”

“Hey, didn’t you say Manny was your guard?”

“That’s like a fighter.”

“Oh, Manny!.”

Like an unstoppable avalanche the three tumbled towards him, wrapping him in hugs before he could dodge aside. Sniffling and groping, whispering terms of endearment, and offering hopeful kisses they begged for his help, to rescue them from the mean hornets.

Their entreaties stirred his noble spirit. Caused him to feel anger at their plight, outrage that such evil-doers still were allowed to exist in a world in which he still drew breath. He decided that he could not allow such injustice to go unpunished. In other words, the assault of blonde pixieness melted his brain and caused it to begin dripping down his inner thighs. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your champion.”

“Yay, Manny!”

“You’re the best, Manny!”

“We’ll make it worth your while, Manny. Grrrrrrr.”

Suddenly he felt his arm grabbed and heard Maude say, “Girls, I need to speak to my guard in private.”

Ignoring their protests she easily pulled him from their clutches, then with him floating behind she dragged him behind the wagon and hissed. “What do you think you are doing, Manny?”

“I’m helping out the pixies.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed. That’s what you’re doing.”

“Come on, Maude. It’s just a bug.”

“Manny, the messenger was just about a drone and it was nearly your size. Any champion the queen hornet breeds will be much larger.”

“Crap, but I still have to do it.”

“It’s not because of what Nikkee said, about making it worth your while, is it?”

“Nah, I know that means nothing, what with me being turned into a girl and all.”

“Manny, they are the equivalent of pixie teen-agers. They’ve been that way for decades, like many other pixie girls in this forest. They will stay that way until they capture a male attention and obtain the responsibility of their own family, at which point they will join the Duchess’ court. But until that time, and remember that their men are rarer than mandrake roots, they have to find other ways to satisfy their lusts. You can be assured Nikkee meant something.”

Watching as his eyes glazed over, Maude hastened to add. “Oh, forget I said that. Manny, Manny, you’re supposed to say, ‘Not Helping.’ Oh my, Maude, they may just be right, you really do talk too much. Manny, you really shouldn’t do this, it’s stupid.”

This penetrated his fantasies, causing him to sigh at such happy thoughts being dispelled. But he knew that Maude deserved an answer, so he offered one. “Look, Maude, of course it’s stupid. But remember, even though I look like one of them, I’m actually a big, dumb guy. And part of being a big, dumb guy is doing stupid things, heck we’re behind most of the stupid things that happen. But that doesn’t mean we’re all the same, some of are good and some of us are bad. I like to think I am in the first group, which means that I have to try and help those who are helpless, even if it means I get my ass kicked or my throat slit.”

Maude just looked at him, then offered her own sigh as acknowledgement. Pulling him back into the open, she looked at the nervous pixies, and said, “I guess it’s all set, Manny will be your champion.”

“Yay, Manny!”

“However, there’s a condition.”

“I don’t want you fighting looking like me.”

“Me neither.”

“Or me.”

“We don’t want people to think we’re fighters.”

“Cause then they will want us to fight them.”

“But we have a solution.”

“You can be Grandmamma.”

“She was a fighter.”

“An adventurer!”

“She has armour.”

“And weapons and things.”

“She’s really brave.”

“And tough.”

“I wanna be just like her if I grow up.”

“I thought your Grandmother was dead.” Maude said, not in her kindest tones.

“Oh, no she’s not dead.”

“Just indisposed.”

“But for this she would definitely help.”

“I don’t want to fight some champion hornet as a sick grandmother.”

“She’s not sick.”

“She’s just indisposed.”

“She’s in the deep sleep.”

Looking towards Maude, he saw her looking just as confused as he felt. Yet he liked the sound of armour and weapons, besides she may be a tough old battle-axe, unlike the triplets. “Okay, let’s go see your grandmother.”

“We need Maude’s mirror.”

“For it’s magic.”

“To turn you into Grandmamma.”

“Very well. Let’s go to the workshop first.”

Off they traipsed once more, first to the workshop, where Maude sent the chests tracking back to their spots in the wagon, then down into the depths of the tree. It took a long time before they found themselves at a door with brass fittings. Opening the door, Nikki gestured them in, where Maude and Manny found another room which had holes to the outside, to let them see, meaning their eyes were drawn to the wall. There they saw the cause of Grandmamma’s indisposition, for hanging on the wall was a huge glob of clear sap, in which they could clearly see a pixie. She could have been one of the girls, if any of the three had pink veined wings, though she wore a long dress of brown material, had her hair in a sensible braid, and seemed in the midst of swinging a pick-axe. The sight was both mesmerizing and horrifying.

“Grandmamma was out harvesting sap.”

“She tapped into a tree’s heart line.”

“And poof, she got covered in all the sap.”

“But she had time to put herself into the deep sleep.”

“Now we just need to get her out of the sap.”

“Then we can wake her up.”

Maude, who had been studying the sap coated figure, suddenly stated, as much as asked, “She’s alive.”

“That’s what we said.”

“It would be mean to hang her here if she was dead.”

“And we love Grandmamma.”

“Aye, I can sense her beating heart, though it’s really slow. If you wish, I will ask some friends if they have an idea how to get her out of the sap.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Super-duper wonderful.”

“Weeee, Grandmamma, she’s coming home.”

“Well now, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Besides we have other matters to deal with first. Let’s get the mirror set up and see if we can get a good image, happily the sap is clear so it should not cause a problem.”

It took a fair amount of fiddling, first getting the mirror to stand as high as it could on its legs, then having the three pixies lift their grandmother down from her hook, and hold her in front of the mirror, while ensuring only she and not them was not reflected in it. Only then did Maude nod in satisfaction and gesture for Manny to stand in front of the mirror. Nervously he did so.

He found it different this time, the mirror did not have the same allure it had held the other times he had stood in front of someone’s image. After a bit he guessed it was because of the eyes, it had been they, shining with life, which had drawn his attention and formed the link between his spirit and the form in the mirror. This time the eyes were closed, they held no ability to hypnotize. Yet he too could now sense life in the mirror’s reflection and so he became the pursuer, attempting to capture the elusive, physical essence of Grandmamma, while wondering if the effort was worthwhile, for she seemed little different than his current form. But just as he was about to back out, to find an excuse, he cornered the essence and pressed onwards. He was glad that he did, for the transition was not the instantaneous, superficial modification from Nikki to Nicky, instead it was almost as significant as going from Lirial to Nikki. Becoming Grandmamma felt like passing from adolescence into adulthood once more, strength and stability replacing weakness and fragility. Physically it was like comparing himself to when he had first left home and joined the Beige Baron’s regiment.

“Yes, yes this will definitely work better.”

“Manny?”

“The girls were right, their Grandmamma is a fighter.”

“Excellent.”

“Yay, us!”

“We were right?”

“Wow, that almost never happens.”

“You also mentioned armour and weapons, where can we find those. I should probably get in a bit of practice today as a pixie.”

“It’s in the next room.”

“Uhhh...I guess I have nothing to add.”

“Me neither.”

The next room proved to be Grandmamma’s workshop, full of many interesting things. Both Manny and Maude would have liked time to explore, but stayed focussed on important matters. The same could not be said for the pixies, as they darted about the room looking at favourite items until Maude brought their exploration to an end.

“Where’s the armour?”

“It’s in the cupboards.”

“We know all about it.”

“Grandmamma, always let us play with it.”

“Manny, you will have to remove your clothes.”

“In order to wear it.”

“We’ll get it for you.”

Glad that he would not be expected to fight in a dress Manny quickly got to work following this order. Naked, he tried to be a good boy and not stare at his figure, though he did ensure he got some looks and wished the mirror had followed them into the room. Meanwhile, Nikki brought Maude the first items for him to wear.

“Here are the underthings. They’re silk.”

Manny was impressed, he knew that anybody who could afford it wore silk underthings beneath their armour, since it left cleaner wounds. A lesson he had learned when a arrow, at skirmish during his third year, had bypassed his shield and his wound had become infected, which had left him in dreadful shape for over a month. Even after this, he had still not been able to afford it, though he had been more fortunate in the type of injuries he had experienced. He was looking forward to the luxury, but he was not prepared for the delicate little item she first handed him, a short skirt of pink silk with a white lace trim.

Seeing the look that appeared on his face, Maude tried to prevent an outburst. “You’re in for a real treat, Manny. These were made by a real master of the seamstrist school, in fact you could say the creator of the school, Moira Merster. See here’s her marking and just feel how soft this silk is, here put it on, you’ll just love it.”

Maude was right, he found the skirt was tremendously soft as he pulled it over his hips and tied it in place. But then he had never doubted that, he whispered his real problem to Maude. “Maude, it doesn’t even come within shouting distance of my knees.”

“Now, now, you’re exaggerating. It’s hardly shorter than the dresses that the girls wear and you were fine with wearing Nicky’s out to see the hornet messenger.”

“I wasn’t wearing it for fighting. And it is too shorter, a lot shorter.”

“Well lets not argue, besides it’s best if we don’t jump to conclusions about the final results.”

Watching the pixies removing more of the armour from cupboards and polishing it with cloths, Manny said, “Conclusions like how I’m going to end up looking like one of the top girls at the Leather and Lace Bordello in the Imperial City of Gogoheim?”

“Yes, conclusions exactly like that. Now put on the top, I know you’ll like it.”

With a look of distrust he took the offered garment, also of pink silk and white lace. Holding it up to see how to put it on, he offered her a frown, but he did not say anything. Instead he pulled it over his head, sticking arms through sleeveless holes, which left the bottom of the top hanging loosely until he buttoned it at his back, below his wings. Immediately upon doing this a smile crossed his face, he did not even care that a wide swath of his stomach was left bare between the waist of the skirt and the lace trim of the top.

Seeing the smile, Maude smugly said, “Like that, do you? I knew you would. Even those not as well endowed as you can appreciate a top that has a good spell of lift. Sadly, those Mistress Moira taught the spell to have been incredibly tight lipped about passing it on to anybody else. Maybe if I get a chance to study the top, I can work it out myself, which would definitely provide a boost to my business.”

Still pleased with his own boost he was receiving from the top, he hardly noticed the silken stockings that laced over his knees with a white ribbon. He then saw Nikki arrive with a pair of gaudy, pink leather, over-the-knee boots complete with heels as high and pointed as any he had worn that day, fashioned from pink-tinged sap. Deciding not to fight it, he sighed and reached out for one of the surprisingly upright boots. The reason for this became apparent as soon as he took it in and saw that sheets of sap had been molded and riveted to both the shin and the calf of the boot. Tapping his knuckles against the shingaurd, he asked, “What’s this for?”

“It’s armour, Silly.”

“Armour made out of sap?”

“Lady Melind’s family makes it, it’s really strong.”

Correctly interpreting his look as one of disbelief, Nicky growled, and moved to the table in the middle of the work room. Rummaging underneath it she found a mallet and wacked it down onto the boot, as hard as she could, shocking her sisters and Maude who had not been aware of the interplay between her and Manny. Although not totally convinced, he doubted Nicky was that strong, he decided that any added protection was worth the slight weight increase it caused.

“Okay, I believe you.”

This time his words did not phase Nicky. Instead a gleeful look had come into her eyes as she continued to pound on the boot, raising an even greater racket. Worse, her two sisters drifted towards her, the same look in their eyes. Maude, with the wisdom of parenthood, guessed what was about to happen and acted to nip it in the bud.

“Stop that infernal racket right now!”

“It wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Drum ditty drum ditty drum drum drum.”

“That’s better. Now, Manny, why don’t you put on your boots, instead of letting Nicky play the little drummer girl with them.”

Cowed, probably more so than the pixies, Manny did not even protest that they were not his boots. Instead he took the second boot from Nicky and moved to sit upon a nearby stool, his blurring wings automatically coming to a stop as he settled on the seat. Pulling each boot up, to just below the top of his stockings, he stood, willing his wings to stay motionless. Stamping his feet a couple times, to ensure his feet were properly in place, he found the boots to be quite comfortable, despite the plates and heels of sap, proving the skill of the craftsmanship and the natural grace of a pixie. Bending over, he looked to see if there were any markings from Nicky’s hammering. Finding none, he curiously rapped his knuckles on the shingaurd, though he stopped immediately at a warning cough from the witch.

Next, Nikkee brought him an armoured kilt, made of overlapping strips of pink leather, each with plate of sap riveted to it. Strapping it around his waist he felt it fall in a solid comfortable weight to the lace trim of his underskirt. It actually was not that different than those worn by the Imperial Guard, though theirs was made of polished iron and worn over trousers, instead of showing an expanse of creamy leg. Yet, now that he made the comparison, he realized his kilt was not proportionally much shorter than the Guard’s, likely because if it were any longer it would be more cumbersome.

Satisfied, in spite of its appearance, he looked to see Nikki with the cuirass and matching gorget, made from the same pink dyed leather and molded sap sheets as everything else. Strapping the gorget around his neck, he tried to figure out how to put on the cuirass. Seeing the similarities to the silk top, which left his wings free, he lifted it over his head, pulled out his braid, settled it upon his shoulders, used the straps under the arms to firm up the fit and wrapped the hinged back plate around his torso, locking it in place with a metal pin chained to the leather. He then strapped a pair of matching vambraces around his forearms and pulled on a pair of gloves, the back of the hand and fingers being armoured. Testing the fit, he swung his torso, raised and lowered his arms, and flapped his wings, and found everything to fit perfectly, except for the swath of skin left bare around his stomach and back.

“Umm...so why the gap between the cuirass and kilt.”

“Well Grandmamma’s proud of her tummy.”

“She likes to show it off.”

“And its sexy!”

“Armour isn’t supposed to be sexy, it’s supposed to be functional.”

“It’s mostly functional.”

“Just a bit sexy.”

“You look hot, really hot!”

“Shhh...Nikkee. We’re trying to convince her it’s functional.”

“And you’re not helping.”

“Okay, I won’t mention that it’s really sexy.”

“Good.”

“Manny, that’s some super-functional pink armour you’re wearing.”

“That’s better.”

“See, Manny, even Nikkee agree.”

“Yeah, and I’m an id...Hey!”

Deciding it was best to accept it as is, since it was still better than anything he had ever worn, in spite of how it may make him look. However, one part seemed to be missing. “Is there a helmet?”

“Of course there is, but...”

“Nikkee lost it.”

“It’s not lost. It knows exactly where it is.”

“Well that’s helpful, isn’t it?”

“Real helpful, Nikkee.”

“Thank you, I try.”

“Well, I guess I can do without a helmet, but if you could look for it, I would really appreciate it.”

“Okay, Manny, we’ll look.”

“But we can’t promise anything.”

“We should get the helmet to help, it’ll know where to look.”

“How about weapons?”

“Oh, those aren’t lost.”

“Unless Nikkee has been playing with them.”

“I resent the multiplication.”

“Could, I see them?”

“We’ll get them.”

“Quick as a gopher.”

“Gophers are furry, but don’t fly like bats.”

“Umm...those are bow and arrows.”

“Sure are.”

“Real gooder ones too.”

“Poing, poing, goes the bow and arrow.”

“You can’t use a bow and arrow during a trial by combat.”

“Why not?”

“That’s stupid.”

“What, you have to wack at each other like idiots?”

“Well not like idiots, but it has to be a melee fight, it’s the rules.”

“Well that’s stupid.”

“Yeah, where do they find people to do that.”

“They must be real dunderheads.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Sorry, Manny, Grandmamma doesn’t have any melee weapons.”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’s not a dunderhead.”

Unsure if they realized they were insulting him, the one who had agreed to be their champion, he decided to ignore the three. “Maude, do you have some weapons I could use?”

“Well there’s your short sword.”

“What? I thought that had gone missing when you couldn’t change me back into me.”

“You’re not you?”

“Who are you?”

“And what did you do with Manny?”

“Never mind, girls. No, Manny, the mirror’s change magic only works on people, everything else is transported to a trunk in my wagon. Your sword, that nice suit I made for you, and the dress you were wearing earlier today are all inside of it.”

“But, why am I clothed after the change. Where do those come from?”

“Well I could give you a long technical explanation or we could just settle with the good ole standby of, it’s magic.”

“Magic it is. Okay, let’s get the sword so I can practice a bit.”

Arriving back at the wagon, Maude climbed aboard and began looking for the right chest. Finding it, she opened it to find Manny’s stuff, pulling out the sword, miniaturized complete with its sheath and belt, and handed it to him. In turn he tried to strap it around his waist.

“It’s too big.”

“Well you now have that trim waist of which Grandmamma is so proud.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Manny, what am I?”

“You’re a seam...oh, I get it. You can fix it for me, but I didn’t know you worked with leather.”

“To become a master seamstrist, such as I, you have to be able to work in all materials. Of course I can work with leather.”

“Okay, that will work, I guess.”

“Now what’s the problem?”

“I don’t really like the short sword?”

“Pardon?”

“I much prefer a shield and spear. Gives additional protection and you can attack from further away.”

“Why, if you prefer a shield and spear, did you show up for hire with a short sword?”

“Lots of reasons. It’s an unwieldy combination, particularly in towns and such, easier just to have your sword in your belt and let it hang there. They also makes you look like a soldier and everybody thinks their officers, so I was always getting ordered about, even by the idiots. And the shining sun knows there’s enough of them about. Besides, I get more respect when I wear a sword.”

“What about for fighting? Do you know how to use a sword?”

“Sure thing, I can swing it like nobody’s business, not that I have ever had to use it. It’s actually quite rare to run into bandits.”

Staring at him in a somewhat appalled fashion, Maude asked, “Are you telling me that I hired a sword bearing guard who’s useless with a sword?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, I’ve practiced a bit. Besides, you said you hired me to have someone for talking and that we’re perfectly safe.”

“Well you’re not safe now, are you?”

“Crap!”

“But I might have a solution.”

“You’re going to conjure me a spear and a shield?”

“I was thinking you could use one of my needles for a spear. Of course, not like they are now, shrunken like everything else, but if I go back down to the ground, some may be the right size.”

“Hey, that just might work. Let’s go.”

“You can’t ride the wagon down with me, Manny, it’ll turn you big again. We want to find a spear for current sized you, not full sized you. You’ll have to fly down to me.”

“Eeek...fly?” Manny asked, suddenly remembering his fear of heights.

“Manny, not yet.”

“You can’t go yet.”

“Not if Maude is going to become a biggie.”

“Why not?”

“She won’t be able to hear you.”

“Biggies think we talk too quietly.”

“They talk too loud.”

“Really loud, it hurts the ears.”

“But we can fix it.”

“We have ways to make them talk, quietly.”

“And make them hear you.”

“It’s pixie magic.”

“To the bat cave!”

“No, Nikkee, not the bat cave.”

“Back to the workshop.”

“We never go to the bat cave.”

“Okay girls, that sounds like a plan. You set up Manny with whatever is need to do, then come meet me on the ground.”

“Very well, Maude.”

“You can count on us.”

“One two three...”

“Nikkee, quit counting on Nicky.”

“It’s just an expression, Nikkee.”

“Heeheeheeheeheeeee”

With this, the group split up. Maude and the auroch heading towards the ground and the four pixies back into the tree. This time, having an idea where they were headed, Manny was able to remind the girls to turn towards the workshop, instead of continuing to the bat cave. Arriving, Nikkee looked around in a panicked manner.

“Oh no!”

“What’s wrong, Nikkee?”

“Are you okay, Nikkee?”

“Someone stole my dress.”

“Well, I see my dress.”

“And I see mine.”

“But where’s mine?”

“I bet it was the hornets.”

“Nasty hornets.”

“But why? They won’t be pretty in my pretty dress.”

Deciding it was time to resolve the imaginary catastrophe, while also seeing a chance to escape anymore mannequin work, Manny said, “I was wearing it when the hornet came, then I used the mirror to change, so it must be in Maude’s chest.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“I was really worried for a moment.”

“You, what about me?”

“Okay, so now that we have solved that problem, how do we solve the communication issue.”

“The same way all problems should be solved.”

“With jewelry!”

“Me loves me some jewelry.”

“Jewelry? Really?”

“Of course.”

“Earrings to make it easier to hear.”

“And a tongue stud to make you louder.”

“What!”

“Can we pick them out for you.”

“We will pick out ones perfect for you.”

“And we have lots to choose from.”

“Umm...you know there’s this implication about tongue studs.”

“Yeah, Grandmamma told us all about it.”

“And we’d totally do it.”

“Big time, yeah.”

Once again feeling sadness at his own disappearance, he asked, “You would?”

“Totally, if I ever shouted a warcry.”

“I would want it to be really loud.”

“KiYiiYiiYiiiiiii!”

“Yeah...umm...I guess that makes sense.”

“Or did you mean about sucking a male’s thingee?”

“We’d totally do that too.”

“Except there’s none around.”

“Manny, are you okay?”

“Do you have a stomach ache.”

“Don’t throw up, ‘cause then I will too.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Yeah, go ahead and pick out something for me.”

Trying to get his breathing in order, he worked to quell the thoughts uppermost in his mind. Which, in turn, brought his fear of heights to the forefront, finally he drifted over to join the pixies who were looking in a jewelry chest. Immediately he spotted the set he least wanted to wear, a thought immediately followed by the realization that he would doubtless end up wearing them.

“The pink roses.”

“Oooh, definitely.”

“They’re pretty.”

Being proven clairvoyant did not make it easier to agree, yet he did so anyways. “Yeah, I guess. How do I put them on, won’t I need piercings?”

“We all have them.”

“We’ll help!”

“Unless you still want to throw up.”

“No, I’m not going to throw up. And, sure, I could use the help.”

Nikki was the first to prove that, like them, he did have the necessary piercings to accept the jewelry, when she screwed an earring to each ear. Then it was Nicky’s turn, for the slightly messier job of screwing in the tongue stud. This left Nikkee, standing with a eager look on her face, holding one last item.

“What’s that?”

“It’s for your belly button.”

“What’s it do?”

“Well, it’s pretty and it matches.”

“Then I don’t really need it?”

“Not really, but...poo, I hate going last.”

Sighing, for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Manny said, “Okay, okay, I’ll wear it.”

Soon a rose covered his unarmoured belly button, a pink stone sticking out of his tummy just above. It just kept getting worse, like he was caught in a current of girlyness that kept pulling him further and further away from shore. Each of the girls picked sets out for themselves and they flitted back to the entrance. Watching Nikki and Nicky leap out of the opening, Manny froze.

“What’s wrong, Manny?”

“Don’t you want to go see Maude?”

“Now are you going to throw up?”

“I might, see I’m afraid of heights.”

“But you’re a pixie.”

“We’re creatures of the sky.”

“Eeeewww, don’t throw up.”

“I’m not a pixie, I’m just pretending to be one.”

“You look like a pixie to me.”

“You’re pretty as a pixie.”

“You fly like a pixie.”

“Yeah, but the floor is right below our feet.”

“Just try it, Manny. You’ll see.”

“We’ll catch you if you fall.”

“Hey, over there, Maude’s back.”

Turning his head, he felt a push from behind, causing him to tumble out of the opening into space. Falling, he shouted. “Damnit! Nikkee you bi...hey, I’m flying. I’m really, really flying.”

“Of course you are.”

“You’re a pixie.”

“And so am I, not a bee.”

Of all that he had experienced, since arriving in the Land Beyond, flying was the most satisfying magical thing he had encountered. He absolutely loved it. And with Maude not having reach the bottom of the tree, he took the time to learn some tricks from the girls, chasing a butterfly with them, and flying to look in the hollow of the bat cave. While doing this he heard a shout from below, so leaving the other three, to continue their explorations, Manny zipped down to the wagon. There, hovering in front of Maude, he hesitated, feeling awed at how big she was.

That awe disappeared when Maude said, “Oooh, look at you, Manny. You’re just adorable.”

“See, I told you so, the Leather and Lace Bordello.”

“Oh no, Sweety, I’m thinking somewhere so exclusive you don’t even know the name of it. Barring that, maybe as some princess’ doll.”

“Very funny, but I’m here about some needles.”

“Very well. Let me get them out.”

She had a wide assortment, some still too small and others that were too large. In the end he found a leather stitching needled that was not quite as long as he was tall. It seemed a good weight and fit in his hand nicely. His only concern was with how slippery it seemed, which he mentioned to Maude. In answer to this, she took it from him and began tightly winding white thread around it to form a long, cord wrapped handle, before threading a length of silver thread through the bit of the hole left showing at the end and fashioning it into a lanyard with a sliding knot.

“Here try this. I’m thinking the lanyard will be handing since dropping it will be a bigger nuisance than normal.”

Tightening the lanyard around the wrist of his right glove, Manny tested out the improved version of his ‘spear’. He liked it, in fact he felt downright enthusiastic about it, asking, “How about a shield, do you have anything that would work as a shield?”

“How big does it need to be?”

“Well something that could cover me from my eyes to my knees would be idea, preferably rectangular, but I would settle for anything.”

“Let’s check out my button chest.”

The chest had hundreds of different buttons carved from bone, horn, and wood or shaped from metal and glass. Searching through its contents lead to many too bigs, too smalls, too rounds, too squares, too heavy, too flimsies, before they settled on one made of antler that was rectangular and slightly rounded, though shorter than he had hoped. Taking it from him, Maude went to work covering it with cloth and fashioning a loop and an handle to which he could hold on. Meanwhile Manny continued to rummage about in the chest, trying to find a better option.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Nikkee thinks you made her a dress just like her sisters. She thought it was stolen, so I told her that I was wearing it and when I changed it ended up in the chest where my sword was. Can you make her one?”

“Of course. They always get the exact same thing, just different colours.”

“That’s good. Hmm, what’s this for?”

Looking over at what he was holding, Maude said, “It’s a thimble.”

“I know it’s a thimble, my mom has one. But why do you, you don’t need one.”

“Oh, it was just a item I picked up along the way out of amusement. Why?”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“Well, I can’t promise, but I will try.”

“I was wondering if I could use it as a helmet? Maude, you said you wouldn’t laugh.”

“Sorry, Manny. And really, what is more appropriate for a seamstrist then to have a guard who uses a needle for a spear, a button for a shield, and a thimble for a helmet.”

“Yeah, it’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“Kind of, but that’s the Land Beyond for you. Try it on, see if it fits.”

Staring from her to the thimble in his hands, a sour expression on his face, he finally lifted it over his head and began lowering it, and lowering it, and lowering it, until it completely encased his head. “imm tm bmm.”

“I can’t understand you, Manny.”

Lifting the thimble off of his head, he said, “It’s too big.”

“I can see that, do you want me to see if I can make a liner of some sort, so that it will fit?”

“Please. It may be silly, but better that than a hornet sting through the forehead.”

“Very true, I’ll see what I can do. Here try this out.”

Taking the button shield from her he tried it on for size and fit. “Excellent, Maude. You truly are a master seamstrist. And apparently armourist and weaponsmist.”

“Why thank you, Manny. Now you go practice, while your armourist tries to do something with your helmet.”

“Thank you, Maude. And sorry about holding you up on your journeys. It’s just that I couldn’t, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s the right thing to do, to try and help the sweet, little idiots. Now, shoo fly.”

“I’m not a fly, I’m a pixie, heeheeheeheee.”

“Not you too.”

“Just getting in character. Okay, I’m off. Call me when you’re ready for a fitting.”

A couple hours later, Manny had learned that despite their fragile appearance, pixies were strong little devils. He barely felt the weight of his shield and spear, even after a couple hours of practice, something not the case while he was in the regiment. With practice he had grown as comfortable as could be in the air. Maude had even come through to fashion the thimble into a helmet, creating a leather cap onto which the thimble was buckled. Settling it onto his head, Manny had to smile, he liked it, it’s ludicrous appearance going a long way to offsetting the girlish perfection of the rest of his armour. He decided that he was ready as he could be for his fight with the hornet champion.

By this time the sun had started to sink to the ground. Maude, having packed all of her things away, said, “Well I guess I better set up my tent.”

“You can’t do that.”

“You’re our guest.”

“We prepared a guest room.”

“It’s the right thing to do, since you’re helping us.”

“That’s what Mamma would say, if she weren’t away.”

“And Grandmamma if she weren’t in sap.”

“We’ll make supper.”

“Yummy griddle cakes and maple syrup.”

“With honey mead.”

“And breakfast.”

“Yummy griddle cakes and maple syrup.”

“With honey mead.”

“Well, I suppose it would be nice to sleep on the ground. Specially for Manny, who needs a good sleep.”

“Manny can sleep with me.”

“No with me.”

“I think she likes me the best.”

“Eeeep!”

“That’s okay, girls, I think it best that Manny stays with me tonight.”

“But Manny’s our champion.”

“The stories say the damsels should reward the champions.”

“We’re the damsels, right?”

“Glurk!”

“You’re supposed to wait until you’re rescued before you all reward your champion.”

“Well actually in some parts of the world they reward their champions both before and after.” Manny thoughtfully added.

“Now, Manny, you’re just making it up. I think it is best to stay with the tried and true method.”

“But, but, okay. Let’s stick to the tried and true method despite at least half of the champions never live to get their reward.”

“I knew you would see it my way.”

“Yay! A party tomorrow night.”

“We can wear our new dresses.”

“You can maybe, but mine was stolen.”

“I’ll make you a new dress, Nikkee.”

“You will? You’re super nice for witch. Maude.”

“Can you make one for Manny too?”

“Guessing she’ll want it in pink, look at her.”

“It can be our surprise.”

Winking at Manny, Maude said, “Of course I will. She won’t expect a thing.”

“Uhh-sighhhh.”

With these plan’s in place, the girls flew off to make supper. Meanwhile, Maude and a grumpy auroch began one more trip up the tree, the seamstrist asking Manny to fly along and keep her company, though he suspected it was to keep him from being alone with the girls. They then ate the most delicious meal he had ever eaten, though Maude found it too sweet, before finding their room as darkness settled within the tree. There Manny found himself unready for sleep, his nerves of about the upcoming fight and his anticipation of the celebration, combined with the affects of the meal he had devoured, left him too excited. While he energetically flitted about the room, Maude watching half in worry and half in amusement, that there was a knock on the door.

Intercepting him, Maude said, “I’ll see who it is. Hello Nikki.”

“Umm, hello Maude, can I speak to Manny?”

“She’s trying to sleep, Nikki.”

“Ohh, well I brought her a night gown, for sleeping.”

“That’s nice of you, Nikki, is there anything else?”

“Umm, I guess not, good night.”

“Good night, Nikki, see you tomorrow.”

“What did Nikki want, Maude?”

“She brought you a nightgown.”

“Woah, it’s see through. She should wear it to the party tomorrow night, ‘cause I’m not wearing it.”

“Well you can’t wear your armour.”

“I was going to sleep in the underthings.”

“That doesn’t make sense, now when something else is available.”

“It does to, specially if the only thing available is that.”

“Really, Manny, are you going to make me twist your arm? Because I can if you want.”

“If it will make you happy.”

While pulling off his boots, there came another knock on the door. Again Maude reacted first. “Hello Nicky, I see you have a nightgown.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that Manny would need one.”

“That’s sweet, but Nikki already brought her one. Is there anything else?”

“Umm, I guess not, good night.”

“Good night, Nicky, see you tomorrow.”

Not long after, Manny still in the midst of removing his armour, there came a third knock. Rolling her eyes, Maude answered the door one more time. “No, Nikkee, Manny does not need a nightgown, he already has one.”

“Oh? That’s good, because I didn’t bring one.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to let make sure that Manny when we said sleep, we meant wink wink nudge nudge sleep.

“Manny understood that, Nikkee.”

“Okay, but if she changed her mind about the pre-reward wink wink nudge nudge sleep, I’m still available.”

“Eeep!”

“No she has not, Nikkee. Now good night.”

“Actually, I have changed my mind.”

“Was that Manny?”

“No it was not, now I really think it is time for everybody to get to sleep.”

Closing the door, she turned toward Manny, who stood wide-eyed with his fingers resting upon the buckle of his kilt. Favouring him with a frown, Maude asked, “Is there something you would like to say, Missy?”

Correctly interpreting the danger in Maude’s fed-up tone, Manny meekly shook his head, before finishing getting ready for bed. However, once in the barely visible nightgown, he dared to ask, “What about my wings?”

“What about them?”

“Won’t they bend or break?”

“Well if we are to guess, based upon the girl’s enthusiasm about getting you into their beds, I would say no.”

“Umm...okay.”

Pulling back the blankets, he climbed in, and gingerly lay upon his back. Finding his wings bending easily to accommodate his movement, he decided not to worry. Maude pulled the blankets over him and gently brushing his forehead, said, “Now you sleep. I am going to stand guard against those sex-starved idiots.”

Manny barely had time to wonder if she considered him a member of that club before the magic in her touch put him to sleep.

***

The spell was a potent one, throughout the night he barely moved, locked in the deepest of slumbers. Nor did he waken until the morning sun cast its rays, through a hole bored into the tree’s trunk, upon his face. Sitting, he stretched and found himself reminded of his situation.

“Ahh, crap.”

“Manny, I see you’re awake. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thanks to you.” Noticing that she sat on a chair, surrounded by a number of her chests, he asked, “How about you, did you sleep at all?”

“A few winks, but I was not feeling tired, so there was not much need. Besides sometimes I like the quiet of the night, so I summoned my chests and worked on some projects. For instance, I needed to put together Nikkee and your dresses for the party, now that you’re awake we can assure the fit for both of them.”

“Ahh...I doubt that is necessary, Maude. You’re too good to make a mistake.”

“Why thank you for that, Manny. But don’t you want to see how you look?”

“I can live with being surprised.”

Smiling at his lack of enthusiasm, Maude said, “I also did some finishing work on your helmet and shield. I also spent some time examining that silk top, I think I have an idea on how the spell of lift works, but will need to do some experimenting. Finally, I made you these.”

Looking in confusion at what she was holding, Manny finally asked, “What good are trousers without legs?”

“They’re not trousers, they’re short pants. Although everybody just shorten it to shants, after all when you’re wearing them, people shant be seeing your privates. And when you’re wearing a skirt as short as you will be, they’re necessary.”

“Oh!” Manny said, blushing as he remembered Nikkee flying above him to get shoes. “But why make them so frilly?”

“Well, it only makes sense to have them match the rest of the things you wear under your armour. Now, enough talk, it’s time for you to get out of bed and to start getting ready.”

“Yeah, I guess. Though I have half a mind to sneak out of here and ignore the entire thing.”

“But?”

“But then I would feel like a complete cad. I guess I’ll go through it after all.”

“Of course you will, otherwise you wouldn’t be you.”

“What, a fool?”

“No, just a nice guy who got in above his head and is trying to make the best of it.”

“Blame it on my parents, I wanted to become a black-hearted scoundrel, but they refused to pay the tuition to the scoundrel school. Oh well, I guess there’s no way but forward. Can you throw me the shants, please? I could do without the distraction of yesterday’s breeze.”

With Maude serving as his squire, Manny once more dressed in Grandmamma’s armour, though this time being more careful to ensure buckles were properly fashioned and that everything fit properly. It did, the only problems remained its revealing nature and its colour. Though when he thought about it, Manny realized it was not much worse than the robin’s egg blue worn by the troops of Jadlanth, who never seemed bothered by the snide comments and were absolutely terrifying in battle. Besides, he doubted that he would care how it looked during a fight if it lived up to the protection implied by Nicky’s drumming upon it with a hammer.

Having almost convinced himself that substance made up for the style, now was a perfect opportunity for Maude to say, “Too bad you’re fighting a bug, Manny. If it was a man, he’d take one look at you, then trip over his tongue. Which would allow you an opportunity to stab him with your needle while he thought about stabbing you with his.”

“Maude!”

“Well I did say it’s not the case and can tell you that it would be more enjoyable than being stabbed by a giant hornet’s needle.”

“I would prefer not to be stabbed by anybody’s needle, speaking of which, where’s my thimble?”

“You mean your helmet? Here it is, I fixed it up a bit, do you like it?”

He noticed a hopeful tone in her question and seeing what she had done to her helmet, he could guess why. His recent enthusiasm, since Grunhilda’s, having been nonexistent, Maude likely assumed he would be no happier about the white canvas helmet covering upon which she had created a crest, in needlework, of a pink rose with a green stem complete with thorns. However, he liked it, not only was it beautifully done, but his favourite contract had been while fighting for the Vicountess of Kinelle, who had insisted on a similar rose crest, though red in colour.

“It’s beautiful, Maude, though it may be a bit to delicate to stay that way in a fight.”

“Don’t worry about that, Manny, it kept me occupied. But I’m glad you like it, because I also did it to your shield.”

“Yeah, I like it. Have you seen Nikki, Nicky, and Nikkee?”

“They were by earlier, but I sent them on their way to let you finish sleeping. Though maybe I was a bit harsh with them, in making sure they truly understood your situation.”

“Oh.”

“But hopefully they will forget my tone, just like they forgot to try and find the helmet that goes with your armour.”

“That’s okay, I like this helmet. Though it’s kind of hot, so I don’t want to put it on until necessary. Could you carry it while I take the spear and shield?”

“Gladly, let’s go get breakfast. You’ll like it, more griddle-cakes and maple syrup.”

“Excellent, do you remember how to get to the kitchen?”

“Yes, follow me.”

“Manny!”

Before he had time to respond, he was once more engulfed in crying pixieness.

“Oh, Manny!”

“You’re so brave.”

“And strong.”

“And wonderful.”

“While we’re so selfish.”

“Caring only about ourselves.”

“Unaware of the plight of others.”

“Don’t go, we don’t need this tree.”

“We can find another, make it our new home.”

Looking over his shoulder at a somewhat embarrassed looking Maude, he realized that they had not forgotten her words and that it was up to him to paint the brave face on their picture. “Now, now, don’t be carrying on so. It’s not like I’m a beginner at this type of thing and with your Grandmamma’s excellent armour and Maude’s shield and spear, I’m as well prepared as any day in which I have fought. Now dry your eyes and let’s have breakfast. I was promised griddle-cakes and you know how much I like those.”

“Sniff, you ate a lot last night.”

“Sniff, we were surprised you could still fly.”

“Sniff, I was surprised you didn’t throw up.”

“Well I would really like some more, with syrup and honey mead.”

“I’ll get the cakes.”

“I’ll get the syrup.”

“I’ll get the honey mead.”

For the rest of the breakfast he was pampered and doted upon worse than during his last breakfast before he had first gone to war. Though in this case worse was much better, for as much as he loved his mother, maybe more than any other, she did not make his heart go pitter patter as it skipped out of the way of the lust bunnies hopping about in his chest, howling in a most unbunny-like fashion. Alas, it could not continue, for they ran out of maple syrup.

Finding the griddle-cakes lost much of their allure when not drenched in that sweet goodness, Manny decided he could delay no longer. “Well that was delicious, but I guess it’s time to go see if the hornet champion will show up.”

“Maybe it will be scared.”

“Or get lost.”

“Nah, it’ll show.”

Manny suspected Nikkee was right; however, when they arrived at the entrance there were no hornets in sight. Heartened for a moment, he then spotted something in the distance, pointed to it, and said, “Here it comes.”

“That’s not a hornet, that’s Delia.”

“She’s the Duchess’ right hand pixie.”

“Oh, I’m sure the Duchess uses more than her right hand.”

“The Duchess leaves her in charge.”

“When the Mammas go hunting.”

“Like her left hand and her lips and her teeth and her...”

“Hopefully she can bring an end to this nonsense.” Maude said, cutting of the glassy eyed pixie’s anatomical recital.

By this point Manny was able to gain a better appreciation for the approaching pixie, who was just as gorgeous as his companions. With black hair and accented wings to match, she wore a skintight dress of black and white vertical stripes, its skirt as short as his own. Once more he found himself considering that male pixies must be crazy.

Landing before them, Delia performed a delightful shimmy-wiggle while pulling at the bottom of her skirt and said, “Why didn’t you idiots send me a message about what is going on, instead of making me hear it from a passing robin? Oh good, you’ve gotten Tinka out of her sappen prison.”

“It’s not Grandmamma, Delia.”

“It’s Manny.”

“She’s our champion.”

“She’s just been magicked to look like Grandmamma.”

“By Maude’s magic mirror.”

“She’s actually a biggie.”

“Well if you were going to get a biggie to fight your battles, why did you shrink her? She would have found it much easier to swat the bug if she were full size.”

“What?” Manny and Maude asked, in a shout, at nearly the same instance.

“That’s allowed?”

“Wow, we didn’t know that.”

“We should have done that.”

“I don’t see why not? If the robin heard right, the hornet only specified that your champion would meet their champion, they didn’t specify who the champion had to be.”

“Maude, get your mirror, I’ll hook up the wagon.”

“Let’s hurry.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to take your excellent advice and squash the bug’s ass as a full sized human. How much time do you think we have?”

“About 2 minutes, for I see the hornets approaching now.”

“Crap!”

“Eeeek, look at the size of that thing.”

“It dwarfs the others.”

“It’s the size of a bat.”

Spotting what he guessed to be the champion hornet, one nearly twice his current size, Manny said, By the sins of my fathers, how am I going to kill that thing?”

“Don’t ask me, I always kill bugs with a book, a really thick book.” Maude said.

“We always use bows against hornets, though of course that is not allowed for this fight.”

“Stick it with spear.”

“Bash it with your shield.”

“Stomp it with your heels.”

“Umm...sure thing, I’ll get right on that. Uhh...well I guess it is time, wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Manny.”

“Good luck.”

“Kick it in the head, Manny.”

“Worry not, girls, the Duchess will not stand for these upstart hornets, I have sent notice for her to return. So even if your champion dies, and she surely will if I am any judge of the situation, you will not be out of your home long before our forces seek revenge.”

“Not helping!”

“Oh, sorry, I did not realize you were near enough to hear.”

“I hadn’t even moved.”

“So I now see, my apology. What are you doing?”

“I’m stretching. The Beige Baron always had us stretch before battle, though I was never this stretchy before.”

“Who? And why?”

“My former commander. He taught that stretching spreads a trooper’s warrior spirit, which resides in the heart, throughout the entire body.”

“That makes sense, so how much longer will it take? We really should be going.

“Are you coming along to offer me a stirring pep talk?”

“I’m acting as the pixie referee in this matter.”

“Let me get my helmet on first. Okay, I guess I’m ready.”

As the short skirted duo left the comfort of the tree, the giant hornet and a regular sized companion moved out in front of their pack. Staring in mounting horror at the monster he was about to face, Manny hopefully said, “It looks like it’s drooling, maybe it’s stupid.”

“Nay, I think what you are seeing are the leftovers from its last meal.”

“Would it hurt to be just a bit more positive?”

“I’ll try to come up with something positive. Let’s see, how about...no that’s not good...maybe...no not that either...oh, I know. That’s a nice thimble you’re wearing on your head.”

Fortunately they were almost even with the hornets, so he was spared answering the pessimistic sexpot, instead he asked, “Do you happen to speak hornet?”

“Of course I do, do you need me to translate?”

“Please.”

While the large hornet stared hungrily at the two of them, the smaller hornet, probably the same as the day before, had its speech translated by Delia. “The Empress Fgdjdihsdkehkls, Ruler of Hive Kjfldjsjhdfkd and its surrounding territory once more offers you clemency if you vacate her property.”

“Tell it no.”

“I do know what I am doing.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“The Duchess of Pretty Tree Forest disputes your mistress’ claim.”

“Pretty Tree Forest?”

“What, you expect us to call it The Forest of Perpetual Gloominess, like you biggies? That’s a stupid name.”

“Actually, now that you mention it, I do think I prefer fighting for Pretty Tree Forest. Ooops, the bug’s speaking again.”

“Then prepare to meet your doom, for Lord Cyrus, the Empress Fgdjdihsdkehkls consort, challenges your champion to prove who, by the ancient right of combat, is right in their claim.”

“So be it, Manny of the Pink Rose answers your challenge to the inhabitants of Tree Tinka and all of Pretty Tree Forest. Time to prepare for battle, Manny.”

Flitting backwards, Manny checked his helmet, brought his shield in front of his body, firmly grasped his spear, and nodded his head. Checking with the hornet judge, Celia said, “Remember, no attacking the wings. Ready? Ready?” Then clapping her hands together, she pointed to the space between the two combatants, and, in a surprisingly deep voice, shouted. “Get it on!”

The hornet was ready for the command, for hardly had the sound of Celia’s shout came to an end before it put down its head and charged like a bull. Manny did not even try to get his spear pointed at the onrushing monster, instead he made himself as small as possible behind his shield. It hit, dead in the centre of the shield, stopping it, but causing Manny to be flung, heals over head, backwards.

“Oooh, nice shants, Manny.”

“Very pretty.”

“I don’t like shants.”

“We know, Nikkee.”

“Everybody knows.”

“I like the breeze.”

Ignoring the babble behind him, Manny struggled to regain control, finally righting himself with blurring wings. This did not come a moment too soon, for the hornet, though initially stunned by the impact, was once again charging towards him. The result was the same. And again. And again. Fighting dizziness, Manny knew he needed to change things up, thus when the hornet next approached he swooped into a dive, out of its path. Repeating this maneuver, after the hornet had stopped and reversed its charge, he saw that the oversized beast did not appear as nimble as he, though on the third try he heard and felt its stinger clang off his helmet.

They had reached an impasse, after the initial phase had allowed them to feel each other out. With the hornet hovering in front of him, not attacking, Manny darted forward to spear it with his needle, but it reacted by swinging its abdomen at him, its stinger knocking aside his thrust.

“Yay, Manny. Float like butterfly.”

“Sting like a bee.”

“I heard that a single hornet can kill 40 bees per minute.”

“Ahh...sting like a hornet.”

“But don’t get stung by one.”

“Don’t pretend you’re a bee.”

He was finding it impossible to sting like anything, the hornet’s fencing ability with its stinger proving as good as his own shield defense. So for a time the clearing was filled with the sound of snicks, as the bug parried Manny’s attacks, and thunks as Manny blocked its attacks. After one such swipe of its stinger the hornet did not retreat, instead it pounced upon Manny’s shield, its front legs trying to pull it down and expose its prey.

Desperately Manny tried to hold the button shield in place, straining against the furious scrambling of legs, deafened by its hornetiacal rattling. Losing the battle of strength and, worried only about defense, he dropped his spear, to hang from its tether around his wrist, and grabbed the handle of his shield with his second hand. Yet even with this reinforcement his shield dropped lower, the hornet’s hideous visage beginning to peek above the rim of his shield. Then he saw the tip of its terrible mandible. Instinctively he lowered his head, just in time, as the beast thrust towards his own face, but only succeeded in mauling the canvas covering of the thimble.

Meanwhile the flexible creature was trying to bend its abdomen around the bottom of his shield, its stinger rattling against the armoured plates of sap, riveted to his boots. In turn he kicked back with panicked energy, until one of the kicks connected and he felt the heel of his boot sink into its side. Having drawn first ichor, he found a rhythm, drawing his legs up in protection until he felt it strike, then kicking out with both feet. As his attacks impacted again and again, it grew easier to defend the mauling attack against his shield and helmet.

Finally the hornet had enough, Manny felt the pressure let up even further, noticed the end of its stinger attacks, and felt the weight disappear from his shield. Yet before he could raise his lowered helmet, to spot how far it moved, he felt a sudden burst of pain as its abdomen whipped around the edge of his shield and grazed his upper arm, unprotected in the armour of an archer, who would find spaulders a nuisance.

Grateful that it had not hit square, as even the scratch made his arm begin to weaken, he struggled to raise his shield back into defensive position while working to get his hand wrapped once more around the threaded handle of his hanging spear. At the same time the hornet was shaking its abdomen, seeming to test that everything worked properly. Nor did either spring to attack after finalizing their checks, instead the two combatants wearily circled each other, each trying to regain his wind. However, the longer the wait, the heavier the shield became, Manny felt he needed to do something soon.

As ichor dripped from five stiletto shaped holes in its torso, the hornet again darted forward in a charge and again Manny swooped down out of its way. Turning about, it came onwards once more, though Manny noticed that this time it moved slower than before. Wondering if it was a trap or weakness, he decided on the former and so, instead of diving downwards, shot upwards as it approached.

A good thing he did, as the hornet’s speed allowed it to drop and swing its cruel stinger at the space where it expected Manny to be. Yet this attack left it motionless, hovering beneath Manny, who did not think before acting.

“KiYiiYiiYiiiiii!

Shouting the warcry of the pixies, he let the air out of his wings and dropped, spear and heel first onto the hornet’s abdomen. As one heel and the spear sunk into it body, he swung his other foot hard against the side, his heel acting almost as a stirrup as it stabbed into its side. Now it was the hornets turn to panic, causing it to dart about, up and down, around in a circle, bucking and bouncing, trying to remove the rider from its back. It would have been enough if Manny had not had wings of his own, allowing him to match the rhythm of his mount, maintaining his spot on the back of the beast. Growing more secure in his position, he dragged the heel of the first boot from the top of the hornet’s abdomen and pounded it into the opposite side from his other foot, almost locking him into place.

“KiYiiYiiYiiiiii!

Drawing power from the warcry, even as his left arm drooped, the shield hanging at his side, he yanked the spear out of the hornet.

“KiYiiYiiYiiiiii!

Using his full strength he slammed the spear down at the connection between the insect’s thorax and abdomen.

“KiYiiYiiYiiiiii!

Yank!

“KiYiiYiiYiiiiii!

Thrust!

Again and again, like a madman possessed he repeated this motion, trying to sever the connection, though missing as often as he hit, the hornet’s attempts to dislodge him growing more frantic. And then it happened, one thrust, following another found only air. The hornet’s thorax, separated from its tail end, tumbled end over end towards the ground, its furiously flapping wings only causing it to spin faster as it fell.

Watching his foe crash upon the ground, Manny waited for it to rise into the air, to challenge him once again. But it did not, righting itself and trying to fly, it could only lift itself a few finger widths before tumbling again to the ground.

“The winner, by technical knock out of the sky, is Manny the Piiiiiiiink Rose!”

Slowly spinning in place, he spotted Delia looking at the hornet spokesman and snarling. “What? You can’t try and dispute that your champion lost? Look at it, it can’t even fly anymore and we pixies don’t worry about things grubbing on the ground.”

The smaller hornet did not answer, instead it looked downwards at its lord, then turned and flew towards the other hornets. Reaching them it continued on its way, the rest following and ignoring their champion, who they had once served in any manner necessary.

“I won?”

“You won!”

“ummm...yeah, yay.”

“Manny!”

“Yay, Manny!”

“You won!.”

“You are so brave.”

“And wonderful.”

“We were scared.”

“But we had confidence in you.”

“Not me, but yay, Manny!”

Welcoming the swarm, which helped hold him in the air as he felt his warrior spirit draining away in hurt and tiredness. “Can you help me back to the tree?”

Still shouting cheers, hugging him, and kissing him in a celebratory fashion, the three hauled him to the tree, allowing him to settle in front of a worried looking Maude. Looking directly at her, he said, “I don’t feel good.”

He then passed out at her feet.

“Oh no, she was stung by the hornet.”

“That’s not good.”

“She’s going to die!”

“It’s just a hornet sting.”

“Sure, maybe to a biggie like you.”

“But Manny’s a pixie.”

“A hornet sting killed our Aunt Julia.”

“Oh no, this is really not good. We need to do something.”

“We could cover her in sap.”

“Then wait for hornet poison antidote to be discovered.”

“By our brilliant offspring.”

“Exactly!”

“That’s a brilliant idea, Nikki.”

“It really is, Nikki.”

“Well you know what Mamma always says.”

“Push, don’t pull the door open, Nicky.”

“How did you get your head stuck in the window, Nikkee?”

“No, neither of those.”

“No, you can’t use Grandmamma as a sled.”

“How did you get your head stuck in the drawer, Nikkee?”

“No, not those either.”

“What then?.”

“How did you get your head stuck in the mole hole, Nikkee?”

“If you only have one good idea a year, make it brilliant.”

“Oh, right. Mamma’s smart.”

“I’m saving all my good ideas for a super-brilliant one.”

“We’re not going to cover Manny in sap, but I do have an idea. Lay her comfortably in the back of the wagon.”

“You have a magic healing wagon?”

“That is, like, so amazing.”

“I once got my head stuck in the spokes of a wagon wheel.”

“Then stay away from the wheels when you carry Manny aboard. Meanwhile, I will hook up Andy to the wagon.”

“Who’s Andy?”

“Is it some magical healing wagoneer?”

“Is he hunky?”

“It’s the auroch.”

“Oh.”

“Ummm...that’s kind of disappointing.”

“Andy Auroch is not absolutely amazing apparently.”

“I’m going to turn Manny back into a biggie.”

“Ehhh? Well that might work.”

“I kind of prefer the sap treatment though.”

“Then we can take Manny sledding with us.”

Maude had quit listening to them, while she finished getting Andy hooked to her wagon. Climbing aboard the seat, she gathered the reins, and shouted. “Heeyawble!”

Like a hippo chariot at a hippodrome they were off, careening in a circle before diving over the edge of the opening, Andy’s feet and the wagon’s wheels firmly planted on the magical road. Watching it dash out of sight, the three pixies started to give chase, but were brought up short by a shout from Delia.

“Where do you think you are going?”

“With Manny.”

“And Maude.”

“Andy And. Heeheeheehee.”

“No you are not. You were about to go and get some clothes to take with you when you come back to the Duchess’ tree with me.”

“But?”

“Do you have a bat cave?”

“I don’t trust those hornets. I want you and all the other girls in the forest under my protection until your mammas get home.”

“We can have a party.”

“We can wear our new dresses.”

“Girls, Girls, Girls. Dancin’ down at Duchess Tree.”

“Well of course we’ll have a party.”

Already forgotten, more important pixie matters having come up, the heroes of the tale continued to thunder down the tree. Nothing like the sedate pace of the day before, causing Maude to bounce about and Andy to bellow his urgency. Swooping onto the root, the wagon wheel’s temporarily bouncing off the path, Andy raced to the end of the root. A heaving thudding sound of his hoofs signifying when they reached their destination.

Pulling the wagon to a stop, Maude scrambled into the back of the wagon, searching through chests. Finding ointments and a clean cloth, she kneeled beside the unconscious Manny, removed his shield - grown along with the spear and thimble just like everything else - and began cleaning his wound. Hearing him moan as she did so, she sighed in realization that they were in time. “Manny, Manny, wake up dear. Wake up.”

“Uhhhhhnn.”

“Manny, wake up, Manny.”

“Was happen’?”

“You passed out from a hornet sting.”

“Arm sore, weak.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Uhhhhnn, ummm, yeah I am! How’d do that?””

“I biggiefied you. Now can you sit up.”

“I think so. Hey, I’m still a pixie.”

“Well, I think more of a bigxie now.”

He did not laugh at her joke, instead he looked at the shield laying beside him and the tattered rose that remained. Distractedly removing the loop of the spear from his wrist, he dropped it beside the shield, then reached to remove the helmet, finding its covering in as bad of shape as the shield’s. Surprised with how good of job his make shift items had done, he thought about the ferocious enemy he had fought. Carefully, testing, he flapped his wings, feeling them quickly settle into the blur that lifted him to hover in the air, above the wagon. Looking about, that looking so different now that he been returned to normal size, his eyes settled upon something on the ground not too far away.

Flying in that direction, he looked down at all that remained of the once horrific Lord Cyrus. Still stubbornly alive the bug periodically rattled into action, somehow finding its way to its feet, trying to launch itself into the air, and failing. Settling upon his perfectly comfortable high-heeled feet, Manny took a couple of steps, settled a boot atop the hornet, and pressed.

Pop!

Wiping the bottom of his boot off on some grass, Manny said, “Well I guess that is the end of that. Shall we head back into the tree?”

“Oh, we can’t do that.”

“What?”

“Well if you shrink again, the hornet’s poison will kill you.”

“What? But...but...the party...my reward...the girls.”

“Well if you would rather go to a party or survive?”

“Ahh, crap.”

“But I think you should keep Grandmamma Tinka’s armour as a reward, since she doesn’t currently need it, whereas you can make good use of it.”

“You think I should stay in pixie form? I thought I would change back to looking like Lirial, unless we can head back to your cabin and change me back into me.”

“You know very well we can’t do that, not if we hope to stick to our schedule and our extended stay here already put that in jeopardy.”

“I guess it’s time to go back to being Lirial.”

“Well, Manny, you know I kind of find it awkward. The last time I saw Lirial was before she started into her evil witch phase and I really miss her. Seeing you, looking exactly like her, is a constant reminder of her absence. I thought I could handle it better than I have.”

“But look at me, Maude.”

“Why whatever is the matter with how you look? You’re look like some gorgeous Amazon.”

“But I don’t want to look like some gorgeous Amazon, I want to look normal.”

“I can understand that, Manny. But there is also a practical reason for you to stay this way, for having proven yourself once more as a fighter, you can return to doing the job for which I am paying you, being my guard.”

“I suppose so.”

“And you were raving last night about flying, which will allow you to scout ahead, particularly when you get tired of hearing me talk.”

Manny had to admit that there was much he liked about this body, specifically its athleticism and strength. In it he felt grown up, still hugely different than himself, but closer than he felt as Lirial. If only he was not so unique looking. “I don’t know, Maude. I look rather unusual.”

“Manny, we’re in the Land Beyond, it’s full of strange looking individuals.”

“It is?”

“Of course it is.”

“In that case I think I will try out this form for awhile, though I don’t promise to keep it.”

“Excellent. Do you want to scout ahead?”

“Actually I think I would prefer to ride for now, the fight took a lot out of me.”

“Then hop aboard and we will get on our way.”

Flying to the wagon seat, he flipped his armoured kilt out of the way, having found out the previous day how uncomfortable it made sitting, and settled on the seat, his underskirt and shants mostly protecting his thighs. Offering Maude a hand up, beside him, his wings almost seeming to hug her, they got under way. Neither of them spoke for awhile, Maude lost in her own thoughts and Manny drifting towards sleep.

“I’m really sorry that you were unable to get your reward from the pixies, I know how desperately you were looking forward to it.”

“Hmm? Oh, well I’m just not lucky enough to have actually had that happen. I should have known all along that some twist of fate would keep me out of their arms.”

“Still, I’m sure you are frustrated, so I thought when we reached Hillsvalley tonight, I would buy you a snake and get you your own room for the night.”

“A snake, what would I want a snake for?”

“Well not a real snake. I mean one of the ones that the Priestesses of Volupe carve from ivory, then sale throughout the Land Beyond. And you definitely want to get one made by them, since they imbue them with the spirit of a rattlesnake, so that it vibrates.”

“I still don’t understand why I would want a snake, fake or real.”

“Manny, I thought someone your age would know about the Snakes and Nests.”

“What?”

“Well it’s chapter #3 of the 27 Things You Must Know in Elmadine’s book. But since we have the rest of the day left for traveling, I may as well explain it to you. Of course snake and nests are just metaphorical with the snake being the man and...”

Suddenly Manny put two and two together and got ‘I can’t believe she’s talking about this.’ He would have launched himself into the air to escape, except for the post-battle exhaustion he felt. So reaching behind him, he picked up his thimble helmet and unbuckled the sweat soaked leather cap. Pulling it out and laying it upon a chest in the wagon bed, he then lifted the thimble before lowered it, completely covering his head.

“...while the nest is the woman. Now as you probably know, snakes are always trying to find warm places in which to nest, well a man is no different. However, instead of vegetation or holes dug in the ground, he mmmmmm mmmmmm mmm mmmmmmm mmm mmmmm.”

The End, for Now!

Manny and Maude - 3 - In this Land

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

Stuck

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Midway through his contract to guard Maude the Seamstrist, as she travels the Land Beyond creating beautiful clothes, Manny daily found himself wishing he had never crossed the bridge and accepted her offer. Admittedly, he had grown to like the talkative witch; however, strange things happened around her. Worse, those strange things seemed to happen too him. First trapping him in the body of Maude’s daughter, Lirial, then as a gorgeous, amazonian sized pixie. He could definitely use a quiet day off by himself. But will the most dastardly band of villains (on a skill testing exam, the only band of villains would also be acceptable) in the mountains have different ideas.

Dun-dun-dunnnn.

In this Land
by Arcie Emm

“Are you sure you don’t need you to come, Maude? It’s my job.”

“No, no, Manny, really I think it is better that I visit Baronette Asudem on my own. It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company, what with Andy being such a poor conversationalist, but a visit to the Baronette is often quite hard on her guests. Literally.”

“Huh?”

“Well, see, Baronette Asudem is a gorgon, looking at her turns a person into stone. Which is really too bad, she has a remarkable figure, admittedly not quite as remarkable as yours, but she still wears clothes magnificently. True, having snakes for hair is somewhat offputting, but that`s why I am able to sell her so many pretty hats.”

Having settled, over the last few weeks, upon the manly strategy of trying to ignore his transformation, hoping Maude was right in her belief she could turn him back into himself, Manny was more than able to ignore her casual mention of his appearance. Instead he asked, “If looking at her turns a person to stone, how do you do it?”

“Well I had some gorgles made up. Obscenely expensive, but when wearing them I have no fear of being turned into a statue and I have more than made back my investment.”

“Do you have a second pair?”

“Oh goodness me, no. The first pair left Lirial and I on a cabbage diet for an entire winter, and a harsh winter at that, one where we could hardly go out doors. The cabin did become horrificially unbearable at times, causing us to choose the freezing cold in an attempt to air the place out. I often wonder if it was that winter started Lirial on the path to evil witchdom, I know it almost did so for me.”

“It just seems like I am shirking my duties.”

“Manny, you haven’t had a day off since you started working for me. As your employers, I say you will not be shirking your duties.”

Riding along in a wagon, days on end, was far from the toughest work he had ever done. But, none-the-less he had no reason not to agree and said, “Very well.”

“Besides, the only danger within the Baronette’s domainis Asudem herself. And I would not bet on either of our chances, alone or together, against her.”

Proof of Maude’s words came as they rounded a bend in the road, wending its way through the Really Big Mountains range, and spotted a party of five adventurers near the entrance of a path splitting away on its own. If he were to make a guess, he would say it was a typical adventuring party with a warrior, priest, wizard, archer, and thief. The simplest solution to confirming this guess would have been to ask them; however, each was statuefied in what appeared to be a state of attack. Manny also learned that the Baronette had an interesting sense of humour, for on a boulder marking the path someone, presumably the gorgon herself, had painted a sign, Asudem’s House O’Lawn Ornaments.

Reaching the point of turn off, Maude brought her cart to a stop, so that Manny could hop out, a quick flick of his wings allowing him to settle upon the high heels of his armoured boots with barely a wobble. Taking his spear from its rest, he removed his shield and pack from behind the seat, allowing Maude to cluck at Andy and continue on her way. As the wagon curved out of sight, Manny found himself wondering how he would entertain himself for the rest of the day. It wasn’t like there was any civilization nearby, just rock and some evergreens valiantly trying to survive in whatever dirt they could find. In the end, he decided to find the camp, where Maude had told him they would meet. By then, maybe he would have a better idea of what he wanted to do.

***

Since being turned into a pixie (or a bigxie as Maude called him now that he was human sized) his wings had made some tasks more difficult, one such was shouldering into his backpack. Fortunately he worked for an excellent seamstrist, one who had modified his old pack to hang comfortably between his wings. However, this hindrance was more than offset by his ability to leap into the air and fly wherever he wished.

In this instance, his leap did not take him too high, because he found it more difficult to fly in the mountains. So barely higher than he now stood, even when perched upon his ridiculous heels, Manny flew along the road. Traveling much faster than the plodding auroch who pulled the wagon, it only took an hour before he spotted a flat spot and a recognizable cabin. Not that he had seen this particular one, but it was no different than numerous others they had passed during their journey.

Apparently the Land Beyond was rather underpopulated in comparison to the human lands he had visited. Communities were rare and inns between those communities were even rarer, since travelers themselves were uncommon. But serving a similar function were Wayfarer posts, established and maintained by a flock of rarely seen harpies. Instead, guests dropped their payment into a glowing sphere, which held it safely until the next caretaker passed. She had also warned that, though unwatched, the harpies knew what happened in their cabins and had the ability to bar access to undesirables.

Landing in front of the building, Manny cautiously approached the door. Despite Maude`s assurance, he could not quite believe that bandits wouldn`t find a post a perfect spot to waylay travelers. Once more she was proven correct, as entry found things quiet, nobody else inside.

Shrugging out of his pack he dug inside for a snack. That was the one problem with flying, it always left him famished. But where such a state used to have him looking for a piece of jerky, now he dug up a stick of hard candy, nearly the size of the hilt of his sword. To say the transformation had given him a sweet tooth was akin to saying a lion likes raw meat, for nothing satisfied quite like sugar and honey. Still it was not his entire diet, which is why he dug deeper in his pack to find a small bag containing his hooks and fishing twine. He had noticed a creek behind the cabin and planned to find a fishing pool.

Thus equipped, he stowed the pack in a chest at the end of a bed, slid his button shield underneath, and made for the door with his spear, fishing gear, and the treat. Outside, he found it warmer than before and considered leaving his overrobe behind. Even with slits above his knees in the front, back, and sides, he found it cumbersome when flying.

The robe was another of Maude’s creations. Arriving in the first village, after Pretty Tree Forrest, Manny had inspired quite the sensation. Unsurprising when he remembered his own first sighting of the pixies he mirrored, nor did his bordello inspired armour help. Extremely uncomfortable, it had been all the two could do to make it to their inn room. There Manny had begged Maude to craft him a robe to wear over his armour, one with a hood. Rather taken back by his reception, Maude had eagerly acceded.

Leaving the next morning, Manny found himself wishing that he had been more detailed in his pleas. He had visualized a robe like those worn by the Riders of Pruneland, which were dark grey, billowy things. Instead Maude, being Maude, made something to flatter his figure and match the rest of what he wore. Again proving her expertise at the tailoring craft, Manny knew he had no room for complaint. Thus he had found himself pulling on the shimmering white, woolen robe with cuffs, hem, slits, and hood trimmed in pink ribbon the colour of his armour. Maude had even embroidered small pink roses, to match those on his shield and hem, at the point of the four slits in the robe’s skirts.

The sensations Manny had caused since donning the robe were just as noticeable, but muted in comparison. After all, it still left his pink veined wings free to serve their purpose. And secondly, any breeze made the fine wool mold itself to his curves or expose a thigh-high, stilettoed boot. Yet with the hood pulled over his head, most people, in particular most men, did not stare at him with brainless lust. Now their stares engaged their minds, as they curiously wondering if what was hidden was true to what was hinted or if they would find something like a gorgon underneath.

On this day the robe was unneeded. So he reentered the cabin and stowed it with his backpack. Enjoying the freedom of wearing only his armour, Manny soon flew along the winding creek, looking for a fishing spot. He found a pool where it next met the road, a stone bridge having been built to cross it. Settling on a sunny ledge, off to the side, Manny sat with his feet dangling over the edge, his hook in the water attached to the twine knotted around his wrist, and sucked on the stick of candy.

The fishing proved poor, but relaxing as the sun beat down upon him and the stone ledge, basking him in its warmth. Drifting in and out of wakefulness, the natural balance of a pixie was the only thing that kept him from a cold bath.

It was in such a state that he dreamed a curious song.

Fee Fi, Fee Fo, No more work with the hoe!!
We won’t weed weed weed weed weed weed,
In the field the whole day through.
No weed weed weed weed weed weed
It’s what we hate to do.

“Hey, ho, laddios, will you lookie at that ledge. See the pretty butterfly?”

“Holy boingoes, check her out.”

Jerking awake, Manny spotted seven men gawking at him from the bridge. A second glance showed that not a one would be taller than his hips, yet by the beards on all but one he doubted them to be children. Suddenly, he guessed they were dwarfs. He was not impressed. Unlike the warriors of fable, these guys were pudgy little fellows who looked like the should be holding down benches at the local tavern.

“How goes the fishing, Missy?” Asked a grey bearded one, standing in the middle of the pack, whose voice identified him as the first speaker.

“Not so good. Not even a bite.”

“Never had any luck myself. Don’t think there are none fish in this here pond. So, Missy, what are doing out here all on your lonesome?”

Something in the dwarf’s manner placed Manny on guard, but he felt safe on his ledge, the pool serving as a moat. “I’m a wagon train guard, we’re camped at the Wayfarers post.”

“Are you now? Is it a big train?”

Instead of answering, Manny looked towards the most weasily looking member of the bunch who was grinning, pointing towards him, and whispering to another of the dwarfs, one who leaned against the railing as if it was the only thing holding him up. Suddenly realizing where the dwarf pointed, Manny pulled at his short kilt and brought his legs together to sit in a more lady like fashion. The accusatory look of hurt appearing upon the weasel’s face, proving the maneuver wise.

“Big enough.”

“Is that so?” Turning to look at the unbearded dwarf, one with the week chin and holding a hand to his chest, he asked, “Well is she, Boney?”

“How am I supposed to know, Bossy?”

“With your wonder schnoz. After all, it’s what told us she were out here.”

“It don’t tell me that, Bossy. Why don’t you just ask her?”

Growing nervous at their strange behavior, Manny retrieved his fishing line and stowed it away in its bag, before climbing to his feet. “Ask me what?”

Turning a rather nasty leer in the bigxie’s direction, Bossy asked, “So be you a virgin?”

“WHAT!”

“A virgin. You see, this cave we was hoping to use as our hidey hole is the home of some type of monster. So I were thinking that if we was to give it a virgin saccerfice it wouldn’t bother us.”

“Why...I...you...ah...du...wha...I’m not going to be your sacrifice, virgin or otherwise.”

Before the main dwarf could say anything, the weasel said, “Look at her. Bossy. All getted up sexy like. There’s no way she’s a virgin.”

“Shut up, Pervy. I’m talking to the saccerfice, not to you.”

“I’m not your sacrifice.” Manny said.

“There’s a monster in the cave?” The dwarf with the longest beard asked.”Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’m sceered of monsters.”

“That’s why we didn’t tell you, Dummy. Now you be quiet so that I can make the monster less sceery.”

“Okay, Bossy.”

“So, Missy, do we have a deal?”

“Of course we don’t have a deal.”

“Well, I was thinking, what with you dying of a fatal disease, you would want to work out a deal. Something like you help us out with our problem and we send five gold coins to your family.”

“Like I would trust you to send it...wait...I don’t have a fatal disease.”

“Sure you does, you came down with monster sacrifitist.”

This caused six of the dwarfs to break out in laughter, only the one who was afraid of monsters not joining in. Instead he said, “I don’t get it.”

Manny also did not see the humour in the situation, vehemently stating, “You are crazy and I am leaving!”

Breaking off his laughter, Bossy said, “You’re not going to make this easy, are you? Get her, Boys.”

This time it was Manny’s turn to laugh. “What are you gonna do, swim out here?”

“I was talking to them.”

Looking upwards, at where Bossy pointed, Manny saw three red bearded dwarfs, their eyes gleaming crazily, standing on a ledge above him. He only had time to say, “Ahh crap, not more triplets.”

Before the net hit him, its weighted edges pulling him down in a heap. Still he tried to fight when the three scaled down to join him, but that was short lived, for one bonked him on the head with a club.

***

Coming too was not a pleasant experience for Manny. The knock on the head made him want to throw up. But worse, he was cold, unable to see, and could not move.

As his senses began to return, he started solving these problems. First, he realized that the reason he could not move, was because someone had tied him, standing, to a stake. Second, he figured out that he could not see, because he was in a pitch black room. Third, he threw up, leaning his head as far out as possible, hoping to not splatter himself. With these issues dealt with, his mind uncomfortably focused upon his last problem, being cold. Temporarily he wished that he had not left his robe at the cabin, before guessing that it would have been removed, just like his armour. Hopefully not, but probably, by Pervy. Grimacing at the thought, his next shiver occurred for something other than the cold. At least he still wore his underthings. Though it seemed strange that they would leave him dressed, even this much.

Then he remembered, he was the virgin sacrifice. How better to be presented in the role than clad in silken underthings. All the stories said that was how it was to be done.

He was perfectly suited for the role of the gorgeous virgin, well at least in his current incarnation. As a male, despite limited success with women, he had benefited a time or two from being part of an army who was having a victory party after winning a war. Morals always seemed to slip in that situation and at least for a day or two, women would see him as the conquering hero, rather than a big galoot. Yet he wondered if he was actually a virgin in this form. Not that he had been with a man, the very thought made his queasy stomach more-so. But Maude had carried through with her threat, when leaving Tree Tinka, to purchase him a snake. She had then badgered him daily until he had reluctantly and nervously given in. After that night, the badgering was no longer needed, nor was the reluctance anything other than feigned, but it still made him nervous. It felt wrong, though a very good kind of wrong.

Tearing his mind away from this train of thoughts, he reminded himself he was not an appropriate sacrifice, of any sort. This led his mind to wonder what sort of monster was about to eat him, then to hoping there was no monster. The dwarfs hadn’t seemed particularly smart, maybe they were mistaken.

And if the dwarfs weren’t that smart, what did it make him? He spent some time cursing himself for a fool. Hard to forgive himself for being so confident before falling for such a simple trick. He should have flown away as soon as he realized something was wrong. Gods, how embarrassing it was to die as a oversized pixie, dressed like a courtesan, in some dark hole. He wondered if Maude would ever find out what happened. Though an unknown disappearance held some allure, though he did feel bad that his parents know where or why he disappeared.

For a time, he let his terror at his situation take over. He did not shout nor cry, but his shivering was caused by more than the cold and he did let a few whimpers escape. But even that was chased away by the cold, the dark, and the soreness in his shoulders, from having his arms tied behind the stake.

All that seemed left was to accept his fate. As he began to do so, his mind brushed aside fantasies of escape or rescue, wishing only that the monster would hurry up and arrive. He was tired of waiting.

Then he heard a sound. A faint sound, like the whispering of wind.

Again, silence returned. Stretching...

And then the sound again.

Psss-sss-psss-psss.

Almost it seemed he should understand what it was, but his mind could not penetrate the mystery.

Sssss-psss-ssss-tssss.

It became a niggly itch in his ears. One that he would not be able to reach, even if his hands were not tied. Finally he had enough and shouted, “Just get it over with!”

The shout had the opposite affect. Seemingly scaring away whatever approached, leaving him alone. Not an unusual thing with predators, but it would return and he would become its tasty treat with that return. This time the silence lasted even longer and his mind seemed to shut down, protecting him from his desperate thoughts. Almost he slept, though in the uncomfortable position it was never true sleep.

Until once more the sound penetrated his wall.

This time it seemed much closer. Frantically Manny looked around and spotted something, two faint glows that flickered and disappeared. His eyes on that spot, he noticed it again and again, counting more and more of the glows. Four, six, eight, ten of them.

Slowly they floated forward, growing brighter . Finally he saw they were eyes, big glowing eyes. Immediately his mind tried to recall what type of monster had multiple eyes and lived in caves.

A cyclops! No, no, they only had one eye, not many.

A beholder. That was it, but he knew little about them. He had no idea in what horrible way one would kill him.

He was blinded by a bolt of light. Only after blinking his eyes to clear away the sparkling before them did he see that the light came from a mining lantern, its door now opened. However, his focus was upon the monster who held the lantern. More specifically, the one monster holding it and the four others huddled beside it.

“Dwarfs? More dwarfs?”

“We’re not d’wharfs, we’re gnomes,” said the one holding the lantern.

“Gnomadic gnomes,” said a second.

“We’re not gnomadic gnomes anymore,” said a third, in disagreement.

“Not since we settled in these caves thirty years ago,” said a fourth.

“Yep, we’re back to being gnameless gnomes,” said the last.

“You’re the monster scaring the dwarfs?”

“Oh no,” the first said. “But we work for him and he asked us to bring you to him.”

“I’ll fight you every step of the way.”

“Don’t do that. Besides he’s gnice.”

“He is?”

“Very. He would have greeted you himself, but he’s busy, looking after his young’ins right now.”

Thinking that it would be good to be free of his bindings and that he could take the five meek gnomes if a chance arose, Manny said, “Very well then, I’d like to see your boss. But first you need to untie me.”

“Promise to not do anything gnasty?”

“I promise.”

The gnome stared at him for a few moments, trying to determine if he believed the captive. Finally he took a hesitant step forward, saying, “Okay, but remember only big, meanie-heads break their promise. And big meanie-heads are bad.”

“Agreed.”

With his promise, though given with crossed fingers, the gnomes moved forward en masse to work on the knots which tied him to the stake.

“Ewww, what did I just step in?”

***

The fire needed to be bigger, Manny thought as he sat hugging his knees to his chest, the silken toes of his hose barely far enough away to not catch fire. He had asked his hosts to make it larger, but they apparently felt one extra chunk of coal was good enough. Now they sat, huddled together on the other side of the fire, silently watching him with wide eyes. It was not the lustful stares to which he still had not grown used to, instead it was a fearful, nervous look. But just as uncomfortable, particularly every attempt to start a conversation ended with a simple response. Finally he decided to utilize something from the book Maude was forcing him to read, Elmadine Fergoro’s So You’ve Been Turned Into a Woman (27 Things You Must Know). That lesson being, ‘if he doesn’t seem interested, then get him to talk about himself’.

“Ummm...you said you’re nameless, why don’t you have names?”

The one who had carried the lantern, answered, “We’re not growed up, gnomes don’t take gnames until we’re growed.”

“You don’t? How do you talk to each other?”

“Why do you gneed gnames to talk to each other?”

“Well, I guess you don’t.”

“Course gnot, you just look at someone and they know you’re talking too them.”

“Ohh, I see. So if your not grown up, how have you been here for thirty years and why do you have beards?”

“There’s more to being growed up than looking growed up. There’s wisdom.”

“And knowledge about yourself,” said the one with the bald head.

“And knowledge about the world,” said the one with the yellow beard.

Sounding a like a learned mantra to Manny, he asked, “How do you go about gaining this wisdom and knowledge?”

Lantern Gnome answered, “Why you go gnomading, of course. Leave the Gnomeland and venture out to find your fortune and gname. However, we’re taking a break, since we got tired of walking.”

“And I had a really gnasty blister on my heal,” the largest said.

“We all told you gnot to wear wet socks. So here we were, resting, when who should appear but Mic.”

“Mic?”

“He’s the monster you were so worried about,” Bald Head said. “But he’s a lot gnicer than most gnon-monsters, lots gnicer than those gno-goodnick d’wharfs who wanted to turn you into a monster snack. He offered us work and we’ve been here ever since, though we’ve been talking about moving on.”

The last sounded like an unsuccessful attempt at self-convincing, but Manny politely let it pass. Instead he said, ”Speaking of those dwarfs, they look a lot like gnomes.”

Lantern Gnome answered, “Of course the do, silly, they’re growed up gnomes.”

“I thought you said weren’t dwarfs?”

“We’re gnot, you can’t become a d’wharf until you’re growed.”

“Huh?”

“Do you want me to explain?”

“Please.” Manny said, his confusion distracting him from his shaking.

“Sigh, very well. See we spend the first 200 or so years of our life in the Gnomeland, learning to mine and to craft and to farm and all types of other things. Round about then, the curiosity starts setting in, about the rest of the Land Beyond. Then a group of friends will decide it is time to head out gnomading, like we did. Gnow there isn’t an exact route to take, but since the Gnomeland is in the Eastern Mountains, you gnaturally head West. Along the way it’s gnot unusual to take breaks, like we’re doing, but sooner or later you find yourself back on the road to the West. But you can’t go on like that forever.”

“You can’t?”

“Course gnot. At some point you come to the Endless Sea. Your trip would be rather short if you kept going. It is at that point, that we are to reflect on our life, on what we want to be, and the uselessness of wandering aimlessly away from Gnomeland when we could be back home making little gnomes.”

“If you already know that, why don’t you turn around and go home now?”

“That’d be cheating. Everybody would know you weren’t ready to be growed up if you shirked your gnomish heritage. Better to follow through and become a gno-goodnick gang like the Monster Snack Servers, then to gnot go all the way to the Endless Sea.”

“Oh, sorry. So anyways, once you’ve reached the seas, you turn around and head home?”

“Gno, gno, you first reflect on your life and in so doing, you will give yourself a Gnom d’Wharf.”

“What?”

“Your gname. Gno longer are you a gnameless gnome gnor a gnomadic gnome, gnow you’re all growed up.”

Still not grasping the gnomish logic behind this seemingly meaningless endeavor, Manny said, “Why do you call it a Gnom d’Wharf? Do you reflect while standing out on a dock or something?”

Yellow Beard muttered, “Grrr, stinky elves.”

Lantern Gnome made a calming gesture to his fellow, before saying, “Gno, we just do it on the shore?”

“Shouldn’t it be Gnom d’Shore?”

“Well actually wharf means the shore of the sea.”

“I don’t think so, it’s a dock that extends out into the water that allows boats to be loaded and unloaded.”

This was too much for Yellow Beard, who burst out and said, “It does too mean shore, its just that those thieves, the elves, got the definition changed. They saw that we had our Western trek, decided it looked fun, and decided they wanted to do it too. Soon they were riding to the sea on their fancy horses, gnot learning anything from the journey, except that their crap don’t stink when they’re high above it. But was that good enough? Gneoooo, they had to one up us. They went and built a ship and all of them sail out to an island on the horizon, further West than we go. Course they had to build a dock for their ship and sure enough they called it a wharf. Gnow, because everybody thinks elves are so wonderful and that gnomes are gnothing, our definition has become obsolete.”

By this point of the rant, Yellow Beard had reached fine form, flailing his arms about and shouting. Gnow, sorry I mean, now, he stood up to prance about and flap his hands beside his head, as he said, in the smarmiest of voices, “Oooh, look at us, we’re the elves. Doesn’t everybody just love us? Why look at how respectful we are to the past, journeying West to pay homage to our ancestors. Oh, the gnomes do it too, poor things I think they just get lost and don’t realize they’re going the wrong way until they run into the sea. Oooh, it’s so great being an elf. Look at me, I’m so tall and pretty and look at my shiny long hair, doesn’t it just show off my pointed ears so perfectly.”

This last, had the smallest gnome pulling on Yellow Beard’s pant leg, finally causing that worthy to look down and snarl, “What?”

Casting a quick look at Manny, Small Gnome jumped to his feet to stand on his tip-toes and whisper, loud enough for Manny to hear, in his companion’s ear. “Look at her, she’s an elf.”

Instantly a sickly look appeared on Yellow Beard’s face. “Umm, at least that’s what I heard those gno-goodnick Monster Snack Servers say, Your Ladyelfship.”

“I’m not an elf.”

Manny’s statement was met by five looks of nervous disbelief. “Look, I have wings, elves don’t have wings, do they?”

The five looked questioningly amongst each other, before Lantern Gnome asked, rather than said, “Gnooo?”

“Of course they don’t.”

“What are you?”

“I guess you could say I’m a bigxie?”

“A what?”

“A big pixie.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“That’s fair, I didn’t know the difference between dwarfs and gnomes.”

They did not respond to this point, instead he saw them looking at something over his head. Spinning about, knowing their employer had arrived, his eyes grew almost as large as theirs at what he saw.

“Heya, Doll. I have to hand it to Bossy and his Idiot Posse, useless as they are at anything else, they sure know how to pick out an excellent sacrifice.”

***

It was Manny’s turn to stare. Never once, while tied to the stake in the dark cave, had his speculation led him to believe that the monster in the cave would be a man-sized walking and talking mushroom. Manny had since learned that Mic was a myconid and despite his initial words, seemed as nice as the gnomes had said. Having spoken, he noticed Manny`s shivering state, and had turned into the polite host. Soon his gnomish henchmen had the fire blazing, found a blanket (that Manny appreciated despite his belief it had not been washed since the gnomes left the Gnomeland), and seen that he was fed (admittedly the lichen was the blandest thing he had ever eaten and left him longing for a stick of candy).

Now the one time sacrifice felt more comfortable in his surroundings. So much so that he found himself babbling his life story, particularly his strange experiences since arriving in the Land Beyond.

Scratching his chin, that is if he had a chin, Mic said, “You’ve had an interesting time of it, haven’t you? I’m sure you will find it much more relaxing to settle down and become my consort.”

“What! No. I can’t be your consort!”

“But you were given to me, for what other purpose than to be my consort.”

“I don’t want to be your consort,” Manny said, even admitting to himself he sounded quite whiny. But he didn’t blame himself, it had been a rather trying day.

“Is it because I’m a spore, spore farmer, who can only offer lichen stew?”

“No, it’s you’re a myconid and I’m a bigxie. And I’m not really a bigxie either, I’m really a human. And male at that.”

“Come on, Doll, if you just give me a chance, you’ll find out that I’m really a fun guy.”

Manny just gawked, his jaw moving, but no sound issuing forth. Watching his guest, Mic finally broke out in laughter. “You should see your face, Doll. I’m really sorry, I know that was horrible, but its been rattling around in my head for years and this was my first chance to use it. Really I agree with you, gorgeous though you may be, I’m not really into the whole interspecies kink. Besides, no matter who you think you should be, you’re currently a creature of the woods. Living inside a mountain wouldn’t be good for you.”

Slumping in relief at these words, in a rather small voice, Manny asked, “So you’ll let me go?”

“I’m sure I’m going to come off as a cad for this, but...I’ll let you go under one condition.”

“What?” Manny asked, his nerves beginning to jitter once more.

“Rid my mountain of those dwarf squatters, Bossy and his gang. They’ve have been messing with the harmony in my caves and its been affecting my spores.

“What do you think, I’m going to do? There’s ten of them and only one of me.”

“You’re an adventurer, adventurers always find their way around such problems.”

“This isn’t some storybook. Besides, I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“Honestly, Doll, they’re pretty pathetic villains, the type who give incompetents a bad name.”

“If they’re so incompetent, Mic, why don’t you deal with them?”

“Now why didn’t I think of that? I don’t know, maybe because I’m a giant fricken mushroom? Could that be it?”

“There’s no need to get snippy.”

“Snippy? Why I’ll...ahh, you’re right, Doll, it’s not your fault. I’ve just been stressed recently, these dwarfs have gotten on my nerves and right before seeding too. Besides who am I kidding, I don’t have it in me to keep you here against your will.”

Manny instinctively began to flinch away from the most devastating of attacks.

“And I’m sure you have more important things to do, rather then help out some old, spore farmer.”

And there it was, a solid guilt trip right between the eyes. An attack from which he had little defense, particularly with his built in grudges against Bossy and the boys. No, that was not correct. Manny realized he had one defense mechanism left, he could hide behind someone else. Even better that someone else was not here to gainsay him.

“I’d like to help out, Mic. Really I would, but I’m not free to do whatever I want. See, I’m supposed to be meeting my employer, who happens to be a powerful witch, at the Wayfarers post. She is likely quite vexed at me for keeping her waiting.”

“She sounds quite fearsome, maybe she could help with my problem? What type of witch is she? A firecaster? A stormcaller? Maybe a cursemistress?”

This was why Manny no longer gambled, his bluffs were always called and once called, he always folded like a cheap camp stool. “Ummm...she’s a seamstrist.”

“A seamstrist?”

“A very good seamstrist,” Manny said in protest.

“Why how fortuitous,” Mic said. “Maybe she can help me with a problem I’ve had even longer than the dwarfs. I’ve been hoping to replace the rags my gnomes wear.”

“Don’t want gnew clothes.”

“I like my rags.”

“Now, now, Lads. You know very well that our contract states I am to feed, house, and garb you. I’m not going to tempt fate anymore by shirking that part of responsibilities when I have an opportunity to rectify the situation.”

“mumble-mumble-mumble.”

“That’s not very polite, is it? Now come along, you’re getting new duds whether you want them or not. Oh, you should come too, Doll. Unless you would prefer to find the way out of mountain on your own.”

Manny only screwed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them, it would find him waking up from a crazy dream at his parent’s home. Worse luck, opening hem showed a fading light as the myconid and his employees began to turn a corner. Throwing aside the blanket, he jumped up, and raced to join the troop. Fluttering along at the rear, he ignored the gnomish mumbles, being wrapped up in uttering a few of his own.

***

No way could Manny have been able find his way out of the mountain on his own, as Mic led them through a bewildering array of tunnels and caves that had him lost soon after the light of the fire disappeared. Fortunately one or another of the gnomes was constantly asking, “how much longer,” so he did not feel alone in being lost. Yet the myconid knew where he was going and after who knows how long, Manny saw the glow of sunlight coming from the direction in which they marched. Exiting the final cave, into the sunlight, it was all Manny could do to fight instincts he did not know he had and jump twirling into the air to perform a pixie dance of joy.

In the next moment, he noticed something strange, the sun was low in the Eastern sky. Which prompted him to ask, “How long was I inside?”

“Since yesterday afternoon,” Mic answered. “We spotted Bossy’s boys down in the caves around then, but didn’t have any idea why they were there until much later.”

“Oh no, I wonder if Maude went on without me?”

It did not take long before Manny began to feel guilty about his lack of faith in his employer, for as they climbed down a mountain goat path, he spotted the Wayfarers post in the distance. Specifically, he saw Maude’s wagon and Andy, who looked much smaller than his usual massive size. His guilt grew complete when their approach caused the auroch to bellow his greeting, in what Manny interpreted to be a happy tone, which brought the curious witch out of the cabin.

Immediately upon seeing him, a huge smile of relief and happiness appeared on Maude’s face. Not quite at a run, she trotted towards the newcomers, wrapped Manny in a quick hug, and asked, “Where have you been? I was worried sick. When I didn’t find you here, I tracked you to the pool by the bridge and found your spear, but not you. What happened?”

Deciding to ignore her ability to track him to the pool, when he had flown there, Manny answered, “Well I went to the pool, hoping to catch some fish for our supper. While there I was surprised by some dwarfs who captured me.”

“Dwarfs?” Maude asked, dangerously looking past Manny at his companions.

“We’re gnot d’wharfs,” one of the gnomes said in a squeaky voice.

“No, not the gnomes. I guess you could say they rescued me.”

“Gnomes, they look like dwarfs. What’s the difference?”

“Well...”

“Oh, never mind. That’s not important now. Why did dwarfs capture you and why is a myconid with you? Did he have something to do with it?”

“Who, Mic? No, no, see there are dwarfs squatting in Mic’s cave who think he’s a monster. Why do they think that Mic?”

“Well, when they’re sleeping I sneak up to their area and howl madly. I was hoping it would drive them away,” the myconid answered.

“Oh, that makes sense. So anyways, Maude, these dwarfs found me at the fishing hole where, because I was overconfident, thinking I could fly away at anytime, they captured me to use as a virgin sacrifice for the monster.”

Maude’s eyes opened wide at this, then the corners of her mouth began to curl upwards, causing Manny’s blush to grow more noticeable. “I take it that’s why you’re only wearing your underthings.”

Her guard nodded mutely. Smiling at this, Maude turned her attention to the myconid. “Did you not find Manny a worthwhile sacrifice, Sir Myconid?”

“Maude!”

“Oh yes, Madame Witch, she was most worthy. She even tried to convince me that she would be an excellent consort...”

“Mic!”

“...however, I told her that it would not work. What with her being a creature of the woods and me being a creature of the caves. Instead, I proposed that she help me by ridding me of those meddlesome dwarfs, but she said she needed to talk to her employer first.”

Swinging a frustrated look between the two jokesters, Manny shook his head in mock disgust, his knee length braid barely missing one of the gnomes. Then he flitted towards the cabin, harrumphing his opinion, and stating, “I need some candy.”

He was arm deep in his pack when everybody else traipsed into the cabin. “I know its kind of funny now, but it wasn’t funny while I was tied to the stake waiting for something horrible to happen. In fact, thinking about it makes me mad, really mad. They tried to take my life and they took my armour. Sure it makes me look like a play toy, but it’s mine and I want it back. I want to take those little buggers out.”

“Of course you do,” Maude said. “That’s perfectly reasonable. And I agree, they need to be taken out.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do. It’s obvious that they are hoping to set themselves up as bandits and prey upon people traveling along the road. The only question is whether or not we can handle them on our own.”

“Maybe. They did not strike me as fighters, but much will depend upon their lair. That’s why I was thinking, if you think it would be okay, that I could change into Tinka and go scouting.”

“You said you didn’t want to be changed again, at least not until we can change you back to your real self.”

“I know I said that, but...”

“It won’t work,” Mic said, interrupting Manny’s justification.

“It won’t?” Manny asked.

“You said that one of the gnomes smelled you earlier, wouldn’t he be able to do so again?”

“Well I’ll be smaller and I’ll take a bath.”

“That may work, but how are you going to see?”

“Crap, I can’t very well carry a torch while scouting can I?”

Mic said, “Not likely; however, you don’t need to scout Yeti Caves, since my gnomes have already done so themselves.”

“You have? Wait, there’s yeti in the cave, that will make it much more difficult.”

“Of course there are no yeti, everybody knows they’re imaginary. No I just call it that, because it would be a perfect set of caves for yeti if they did exist. It also works well for a bunch of dwarfs who don’t really like each, allowing them to spread out in different areas and only deal with each when Bossy calls them together. Tell her.”

This last order was directed at the gnomes. Surprisingly it was the smallest gnome who stepped forward and said, “Well, Your Bigxieship, Mic is right in that they don’t like each other and that’s why they’re spread out within Yeti Caves. On entry, the first one you’ll run into is the weasely one you were talking about, Pervy. Gnone of them like him, since he’s always telling the sickest stories and laughing at his own jokes, so Bossy made him the Gatekeeper and...”

***

Not being embarrassed at his morning’s appearance proved how much Manny had adapted to his life in the Land Beyond. Based upon the scouting report of Pervy, they learned he was nearly as paranoid as he was horny, which resulted in his having built a barricade at the entrance tunnel and manning it with the dwarfs’s lone crossbow. It had not taken a tactical genius to determine the wisdom of exploiting his horniness to overcome his paranoia. For that they needed bait. Even Manny had not expected that role to be played by anyone other than himself.

Of course, amongst Pervy’s many flaws, they did not think him to be a complete moron; therefore, Manny’s bigxie form would not work, since being a species of one made the coincidental possibility of a second bigxie showing up, rather improbable. However, that was not the only form available to him. With Maude’s magic mirror, he could quickly become The Grandwitch Grunhilda or the seamstrist’s daughter, Lirial, both beauties in their own right. In the end they had chosen Lirial. An unhappy choice for Maude, after all what mother wants to see her daughter as bait, even if it’s not her daughter. Yet this was outweighed by being scared spitless of the grandwitch, neither of them was any more likely to renege on their promise to the Grunhilda, not to assume her form, then wed a mammoth.

Still trying to convince herself of their choice, even as she fiddled with the braids in Manny’s straw coloured hair, shaped into a harvest queen’s crown, Maude said, “Really this is the right choice, as Grunhilda you would surely have intimidated the little fellow into hunkering down behind his barrier. Whereas, you would be able to tempt a dead priest, never mind an over horny and undersexed dwarf.”

Manny only sighed his agreement. What he now accepted as his normal form (for now) was all va-va-voom, while Lirial was the adorable innocent. Although that innocence was rather diminished by the pixieish day dress Maude had fashioned for him. True, the ivory silk was at least one order of opacity more than the material she used in their dresses, but it still left his body perfectly silhouetted by the rising sun. Truly he personified nice and naughty.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t hold out long against someone looking like this, nor would most fellows I know. Well, I better get started, the gnome said Pervy was the only early riser in the bunch, so hopefully I can deal with him, before he is reinforced.”

“Okay, I’ll wait here with the mirror and your weapons. We’ll be ready to change you to yourself once you’ve dealt with this one.”

“Very well,” Manny said and began walking towards the cave.

Crossing the bridge, where he had been captured two days earlier, he spotted his destination. As reported, a number of logs had been stacked before the cave entrance, more than enough to make him hesitant at rushing it, even with a shield. Instead he stopped just out of crossbow range, put on the alluring smile Maude had made him practice and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Finally he broke character to stoop down, pick up a rock, and heave it weakly towards the barrier. Falling well short, it still made a satisfying clatter as it bounced along the road.

“Wha...who...what was that? Who’s there.”

Hesitantly at first, a weasely face peeked over the logs, then in a burst Pervy was standing upright, his crossbow at his side, a leer on his face. “Holy cripes. Am I still dreaming?”

Manny did not answer, he just smiled, before turning to walk back towards the bridge, swaying in that way that came so naturally. After a few steps, he turned to look back at the dwarf, a questioning look (also well practiced) on his face and made a come hither gesture.

After this, he sped up, though not noticeably, listening to hear if he was followed. Seemingly even Pervy was not horny enough to be drawn out by such an obvious ruse, but then...

“Hey wait! Woah, woah, Gorgeous, don’t be leaving. Cripes, wait for me.”

Not turning, Manny was just about across the bridge when he heard the patter of running feet.

“Not that I don’t mind following, Honeycheeks, but where we heading?”

Pointing towards a large boulder, Manny hoped Maude was ready to help him waylay the dwarf. However, those plans were forgotten at the next words from his follower.

“So, Honeycheeks, you gonna need me to help you out of your dress? I’m real good at it, why just a couple days ago I helped this hot, blonde winged chick out of hers. But she was nothing com...”

Pervy did not get a chance to finish his sentence, for something inside Manny had snapped at this confirmation of his indignity. Balling his hand into a tiny fist, he spun on a heel, swung from his hip, and decked the dwarf right between the eyes. Now Lirial’s form did not have the brute strength of Manny’s natural body, nor the unnatural strength of a pixie, but Pervy was hardly bigger than a six year old, so he went flying, knocked out.

Manny did not see the result of his fistiwork. Instead he grabbed his hand with the other, clenched it to his chest, and started hopping around. “Ouch ouch ouch ouch ch ch.”

Rushing around from behind the boulder, Maude demanded, “What happened?”

“I think he broke my hand.”

“With his face? Here let me look at it. See if can open and close it a few time. Oh, its not too bad, go and dunk it in the creek for a few minutes while I tie Pervy up.”

By the time Maude finished securing the dwarf, Manny’s hand was wet and sore, but he didn’t think there was a problem that a bit of time wouldn't handle. Returning to Maude and their victim, he stooped to help carry him behind the boulder, when he stopped and stared.

“Umm, Maude, where did you get these restraints?”

Where Manny had expected rope, Pervy’s hands were actually cuffed together, behind his back, by studded black leather shackles. So were the dwarfs feet, the two sets of shackles joined together by a chain. Manny doubted their intended purpose was actually to hold prisoners.

“I make them. A number of my clients are always in search of such things, but find most to be very poor quality. Whereas, they know any that I make won’t be breaking at inopportune times.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say. Seamstrist client confidentiality is too sacred a trust. Now help me with the dwarf, we need to continue on with our plan.”

The still unconscious dwarf safely stowed, Manny found himself back in front of the mirror, being bigxiefied. It was mostly a relief, to return to form. Not only was the soreness in his hand gone, but he felt a vibrancy, a feeling of solidness and strength, almost like his true self, that was not there when he was in the fragile form of Lirial. There was only one problem, his clothes.

With the possibility of battle in his near future, he couldn`t stay in his underthings; therefore, Maude had made him new clothes. At Manny`s request, they matched the uniform that the seamstrist had dressed him in, their first day together, with trousers, tunic, and solid walking boots. Like everything the witch made, they were perfectly sized for her guard. Despite this, Manny thought they fit horribly. The clothes were hot and itchy and dull, while the boots made him fill short. He surprisingly missed Tinka`s gaudy armour and wanted it back.

However, he had no intention to say so to Maude. Not after all the times he had complained about that armour to her. He distracted himself by performing the Beige Baron’s recommended stretches, to spread his warrior spirit throughout his body. Manny placed his thimble helm upon his head, strapped his button shield to his left arm, and picked up his needle spear in his right arm.

“Let’s go.”

***

Believing their opportunity for surprise, would be small, the two cautiously entered the mouth of the cave. Manny leading with his shield held high, while Maude followed with a lit torch and a bag full of shackles.

Creeping forward, Manny quietly asked, “How far did the gnome say it was before we run into the next pair?”

Almost mimicking the gnomes voice, Maude repeated what he had said. “After Pervy, you will gnext, in about thirty kilometres, come to Drunky the Alchemist’s lab, where he is trying to turn potatoes into gold. There, you’ll also find his assistant, Lazy, who just sits around gnapping all day. I wanna be an assistant when I grow up.”

“Umm...Maude, what’s a kilometre?”

“A gnomish measurement for distance. I believe it how far a metrepede can travel in one thousand seconds.”

“How far is that?”

“Who knows, only a gnome would think to measure distance in such a way.”

They found a metrepede did not travel overly fast, for not too far into the cave they were almost blinded by a wall of alcoholic fumes. Drunky the Alchemist had been successful, not in creating gold, but in his actual goal. Further proof, 100% proof, came as they waded through the fumes and heard the dueling of inharmonious snoring. Looking at Maude, Manny sped up, flying through an opening off the main passage into a hollow. There he found a slapdash still and the dwarf who had used the bridge to hold him up and one other.

Neither was a threat, both either being asleep or passed out, but Manny wanted to keep it that way. So, with only a small twinge of consciousness, he rapped each upon the head, which put them in a deeper, snoreless sleep. Grimacing at the thwacks Manny had administered, Maude reached into her back and pulled out two more sets of shackles, which she handed one after another to her guard so that he could secure the prisoners.

Just as they were finishing, the two were surprised by a voice from the entrance. “Hey, you’re already here. Hiya, Virgin Saccerfice, who’s your friend?”

Manny just gaped at this interruption; however, Maude, being more fleet of mind, answered, “I’m Maude, who are you?”

“Hiya, Maude, I’m Dummy. Boney told Bossy that he smelled Virgin Saccerfice and Bossy told me to tell everybody to get ready to greet her. I already told Gougey, Pokey, and Choppy, then I came here to tell Drunky and Lazy, where are...oh there they are. Why are they tied up?”

“Well...”

“I bet it was Pervy, seems like his type of joke. He has cuffs like those that he’s always showing off. I didn’t know he had two sets, but I’m not surprised. Speaking of Pervy, did you tell him that you were here?”

Maude answered, “In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh, good, I don’t like talking to Pervy by myself, he makes fun of me. So since I don’t have to go talk to him, I can ask if you dealt with the monster, Virgin Saccerfice?”

“Umm...call me Manny”

“Okay, Manny, that’s a strange name. Why’d you call yourself that? You’re not a man, you’re a girl. Or do you want to be man? I could understand that.”

“It’s what my parent’s named me.”

“Other people name you? That’s weird. Though I guess others named me, people were always calling me Dummy and I had gotten used to it, so what’s a guy to do. It’s not like Boney, now there’s a funny story. See he planned to name himself Nosey, cause of how good he is at smelling. However, when he arrived at the wharf his piles were really acting up while he waited beside the water for Lou, that’s the Name Master, to arrive. When Lou did arrive, Boney hissed out Nosey through clenched teeth; however, Lou heard Boney. Before Boney realized the mistake, his name had been entered in the Book of Names and it was too late to change. But don’t tell him I told ya, its another sore subject with him. What were we talking about?”

“Umm...”

Again Maude was more helpful in her answer. “The monster.”

“Oh right, the monster. Did you deal with the monster, Manny? I’ve been so worried since Bossy told us about it, that I haven’t slept a wink.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, stab it with your spear?”

“How was I supposed to do that when I was tied up and I didn’t have me spear?”

“Well I was kind of wondering myself. But when you asked to be tied up, I knew that you were so confident about dealing with the monster that I needn’t worry. Sorry that I still did, I should have shared your confidence.”

“I didn’t ask to be tied up.”

“You didn’t?”

“No!”

“Then why did we tie you up?” Dummy asked, a look of confusion on his face.

“Because...”

Maude interjected, to say, “Let me handle this, Manny. So, Dummy, do you know what a virgin sacrifice is?”

“I thought it was Manny’s name.”

“No, a virgin sacrifice is usually a young lady who is given to a monster to be eaten, in the hopes that the monster will spare everybody else.”

“Really?” Dummy asked, his face showing his shock.”

“Really.”

“That’s horrible.” With these words the dwarf rushed towards Manny, wrapping his arm’s around the guard’s leg, staring up at him with sad eyes, said, “I’m so sorry, Manny. I didn’t know. I knew they were meanie-heads, but not that big of meanie-heads. I would have helped you if I had known. Course I would have failed, but I would of.”

Extremely uncomfortable with the dwarf clinging to his leg, Manny gave it a shake. Unsuccessful at freeing himself, Manny looked beseechingly at Maude. The witch took pity on him, moving over to peel the dwarf away and tell him. “We believe you, Dummy.”

“I wanna go home, back to the farm. I like weeding, I really do. Bossy said there would be cake if I followed him. There’s been no cake.”

“We’ll see that you get back to the farm. But first we have to deal with Bossy, will you wait here for us?”

Sniffling, Dummy said, “Okay. Hurry though, I don’t want the monster to get me.”

***

Leaving the contrite dwarf behind, Manny waited a few moments before asking, “Can we trust him?”

“I do. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess. He’s not the first sucker to get wrapped up with the wrong bunch. And this next batch are who they meant when they defined bad bunch.”

“Agreed. Anybody who would take the names Gougey, Pokey, and Choppy are probably not all that interested in making the world a better place. We better be careful.”

Floating along Manny made no sound. Nor did Maude make that much more. Therefore, they were able to hear the murmuring of voices ahead of them. Gesturing for his companion to wait, Manny drifted forward, until the light from her torch was just a pin prick. However, by this time he could see a larger flame in the distance. Continuing forwards, he saw it came from a roaring fire in a grotto, which also held the maniacal threesome who had netted him two days earlier.

Apparently they could also see him, for the one on the left held up a cleaver and said, “Stop right there or I’ll chop you.”

The one on the right held up a carving fork and said, “Come no closer or I’ll poke you.”

“Actually, come closer. I wanna gouge you.” The middle one said holding up his...

“What the heck is that thing?” Manny asked, pointing his spear at what the middle dwarf held.

“It’s a fooon.”

“A what?”

“A fooon. You know, part fork and part spoon.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to call it...”

“Don’t say it.” The fooon wielder shouted in interruption, spittle flying. “Mock not the deadliest weapon known, nor me, Gougey, the premier wielder of the fooon in the Land Beyond.”

“I always thought the deadliest weapon was a carving fork.”

“See I told ya.”

“Shut up, she’s mocking you. Mocking all of us, the Deadly Three.”

“She is, is she. I really wanna poke her, Gougey.”

“Yeah, let me get into chopping range, Gougey.”

“Shall we, brothers?”

At this question, the three each rushed forward, each shouting a war cry of either poke, chop, or gouge. Admittedly, rushing dwarfs are not the quickest of foot, Manny had ample time to lower his shield and intercept their attack.

Thunk!

Thwap!

Snick!

Not really wanting to kill the lunatics, Manny did not take any of the opportunities presented as the randomly hacked and gouged at his shield, used to protect his legs and midsection. However, they were energetic little buggers and Manny began to worry that they would break through his defense. This worry was immediately followed by recognizing that he no longer was a member of the Beige Baron’s shield wall, he had other options besides standing fast. Such as springing into the air, well above the heads of his enemies.

“No fair!”

“Cheater!”

“Oooooh, I really, really wanna gouge her.”

It was a stalemate. Manny felt he could end it at any time, energetic though they were, the dwarfs were unskilled fighters and bore some of the most useless weapons he had ever seen. The problem was, his spear was not much better for his intentions. He really needed a good club, if he wished to capture them alive.

At this point the three dwarfs had quit hopping into the air, swinging their weapons hopelessly at the bigxie above them. Bringing their heads together they tried to concoct a plan. This led to an argument between Gougey and Choppy.

“If you think it’s such a great idea, you or Pokey can do it.” Choppy said.

“Pokey can’t do it, his shoulder’s no good.”

“Pokey wasn’t the only option.”

Gougey glared at his brother, who just glared right back. Finally the first growled, “Very well. Well what are you waiting for? Chicken?”

At this taunt, Choppy hung his cleaver from his belt, before marching behind his brother. In turn, Gougey crouched down so that Choppy could climb onto his shoulders. They both turned their glares on the third brother, who sighed and moved to join them. With much grunting and cursing, they were able to Pokey on top of Choppy’s shoulders, at which point the fork wielder said, “I’m still not high enough.”

“Stand on my shoulders.”

“I don’t like heights.”

“And I don’t like carrying my two fat ass brothers on my shoulders, but you don’t hear me complaining. Do you?”

“This is stupid, but if you insist.”

It was, Manny admitted to himself, an impressive feat of strength by Gougey. However, it was a pretty pathetic implementation of the tumbler’s art. He knew it would take hours of practice for the three to find proper balance and for Pokey to not wobble precariously atop his perch. They presented a target Manny could not pass up, he darted forward.

Seeing this, Pokey stuck his arm out, pointed his carving knife at his onrushing foe and yelled, “Poooooooke!”

If he had kept his eyes open, he would have seen that Manny was not intending to joust with him. So Pokey completely missed seeing the bigxie sweep past, holding his spear out horizontally. Instead he only realized what was happening when he folded around the spear, as it slapped across the stomach and knocked him from his perch.

“Ooomph!”

Splat!

Scrambling off Gougey’s shoulders, Choppy hurried to his fallen brother’s side. In turn, Gougey shouted a number of dire threats at Manny, before turning to his brothers to ask, “How is he?”

“Well no thanks to your brilliant plan, but I thinks he’s just winded.”

“Why don’t you come up with something better?”

Their glares were back in full force, but then Choppy’s eyes lit up in inspiration and he said, “Rocks.”

No sooner did the word leave his mouth then he dashed towards a pile near the grotto’s wall. Manny knew the danger if the dwarfs started chucking rocks at him, particularly if the two spread out. So once more he darted forward, this time like a wasp attacking a pixie. Leading with a thrust of his shield, Manny crashed into the dwarf and despite appearances, he currently was far from being the fragile Lirial.

Choppy responded by saying, “eaooouugh” and collapsing to the ground.

There was no time to check the dwarf’s condition. Manny’s attack had exposed his back to his third opponent. So leaping into the air, he twirled to search for Gougey, raising his shield in hopes of deflecting any projection hurled in his direction.

There!

His eyes opening wide in shock, Manny saw that Gougey had interpreted rocks differently than his brother. Not for him were they to be used as missiles. Instead, Gougey had ran up a ramp, along a ledge, and projected himself into the air towards Manny.

“Gouououououge!”

About half way, the horrible truth penetrated the dwarf’s enraged mind.

“Ahhh, crap.”

Having heard the sound of fighting, Maude had hustled forward to help. She arrived just in time to see the gnomes noble leap of faith and the ignoble result. She spoke for both Manny and herself, when she said, “Goodness gracious, that looked like it hurt.”

***

Manny and Maude felt no twinges of conscience as they shackled the moaning threesome, though they had confirmed that none of dwarfs were seriously hurt. They took a moment for a drink and to go over the small gnome’s scouting report on the final batch of dwarfs, which consisted of Dummy (though he was now out of the picture), Boney, Bossy, and the ominously named, Alan. If the report was to be believed, Alan was the scariest of the bunch, even the triplets were afraid of him. However, the gnome had been unable to explain what made him so scary, having overheard the dwarfs calling him both a fighter and a magician.

Nervous about the ambiguous information, Manny once more asked, “Are you sure there isn’t anything you can do? Some offensive or defensive skills?”

“Sorry, Manny, they didn’t teach anything like that at Seamstrist school. Sure, the older students passed on the regular practical jokes, things like tying someone's boot laces together, choking them with their collar, and belt breaking to make people’s pants fall down. But those are not that serious of spells. Besides, if I knew anything more, why would I need a guard?”

“I guess there is nothing for it to blunder forward?”

“Some would say that is how I have lead my entire life,” Maude said, a wistful smile appearing on her face.

“Me too, I suppose. And I guess it has mostly worked, I’m still in one piece, a completely different piece, but one none-the-less. No reason to change now. So shall we blunder onwards?”

“After you.”

The next cavern, larger than the previous one, found their final opponents waiting. Bossy and Boney, Manny recognized immediately; however, his focus went to the third dwarf. Looking at him now, Manny wondered how he had not noticed him on the bridge, for Alan looked more the part of a villain than even the crazy red heads. Dressed all in black, Alan’s slicked back hair was the same colour, as was his beard, which had been trimmed, unlike the dwarfish norm, into a pointed goatee. However, it was the eyes, hooded beneath dark brows, that gave Manny pause. They looked so very cold, enough to make him shiver.

A shiver that did not escape Bossy. The bandit leader laughed and said, “Fool, why did you not escape when you had the chance. You may have evaded the monster, but you’ll learn we are much worse. Ain’t that right, Alan.”

This brought a sneer to the henchmen’s face, though Manny’s voice barely rose as he bravely said, “I’m not afraid, I kicked your red-headed goons’s asses and we’ll happily do the same to yours.”

“Get her Alan.”

At these words, Manny crouched down, behind his shield, thrusting his spear forward. But Alan was not an opponent like the rest he had faced in the Land Beyond. Not for him was the bull headed charge, instead his sneer changed into a smirk, as he took a pair of black leather gloves, folded into his black leather belt, and slowly put them on, pressing between each pair of fingers to ensure there were no wrinkles to the snug fit.

“So, Blondie, what is your choice. Would you have me into slice you into pieces or burn you in fire.”

Receiving no response to his taunt, Alan said, “Ahh, you wish me to choose, isn’t that nice of you?”

With these words, Alan walked towards a table and swept away the cloth that covered it. Neither Manny nor Maude could contain their gasp at the instruments of death displayed upon it; swords of multiple lengths and widths, maces, hammers, axes, dagger, wands, and staves. Many of these Alan gently caressed or fondled, turning questioning looks towards Manny and holding some up questioningly.

Finally Manny had enough of the act and said, “Just pick one. I’ll fight you with whatever.”

“Oh, so kind of you to leave the choice to. I choose...this...no no, maybe this...too messy...how about...yes perfect. I choose, to surrender.”

“What?” Manny asked, in shock.

“What!” Bossy shouted, in outrage.

“But, but, aren’t you the dangerous one?” Maude asked.

“Yeah.” Boney agreed.

“Well not really. See its how I look, everybody thinks I comb my hair and trim my beard way this way, but that’s just how it grows. And when they grew like this, everybody stopped picking on me. Gnomes started to respect me and I ate it up. You could say that while everybody else was cultivating squash, I was cultivating an air of sinister mystery.”

“You lied, you lying no-goodnick.”

“You got me there, Bossy. But really what did sinister mystery ever get me, except the company of dickheads like Gougey, Pervy, and yourself?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah right, I may not be much good, but I’ll still kick your fat ass.” While Bossy sputtered his outrage, Alan turned back to our intrepid duo and asked, “You know what I really want to do?”

Maude answered, “What would you like to do, Dearie?”

“Become an endive farmer. Not that I really know what an endive is, though I think its some leafy vegetable thing. But just say it with me, ennnn-diiive, isn’t that musical. Nothing like cabbage or carrot or turnip, they’re so pedestrian. But an endive, truly it is the vegetables of the minor deities who don’t get the manna that Gods eat. Though it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that Gods crumple manna up in a nice endive salad for an appetizer. Ennnnn-diiiive.”

“I’ll endive you right on the head, you endiving liar,” Bossy shouted, before he ran to Alan’s table, picked up a hammer, and began to chase his former henchman around the table.

After their fifth or sixth circuit, Manny had enough, and stepped forward to end it. However, Bossy spotted the move and scurried away. Stopping, he looked from Alan to Manny to Boney and asked, “Everybody going to Wing Chick tonight?”

“What?” Boney asked, confused by the question.

“You going to surrender also? Like a turtle?”

“I told you when you recruited me, Bossy. I’m a smeller, not a fighter.”

“Cowards, one and all. And when I offered you the world. But my will shall overcome all obstacles. My will and...get her, Boys!”

“Crap! Not again.” Manny shouted, as he turned around to ward off attack. But this time, nobody was there.

“Ha ha, fooled you again. Too bad your pixie brain were not enlarged with the rest of you.”

Turning back, Manny spotted the dwarfen leader running away. Curiously, he wondered to where. Then he spotted it, a small, dwarf-sized door frame in the rock wall. Not wanting to let the little bastard get away, Manny sprang forward in chase. But Bossy had too much of a head start, barely had Manny closed half the distance before his prey reached his destination.

Karunch!

Stopped as if had run into, well a rock wall, Bossy leaned against it for a moment. Turning, he gazed unblinkingly at Manny, smiled a silly smile, and keeled over.

“Wow, that must of hurt,” Boney said. “I really can’t understand why he still believed that you created a magical, escape tunnel.”

Alan shook his head and said, “Me neither”

***

The mop up turned out to be more work than the actual invasion. After finding Manny’s stolen armour, they drafted Alan, Boney, and Dummy to carry their shackled, former comrades out of Yeti Cave, Manny acting as guard, while Maude and her mirror returned to the Wayfarers post to get Andy and the wagon. When Maude returned, she found that their battered and bruised captives were all outside the cave, piled beside the first captive, Pervy.

Impressed with their quiet and meekness, she learned the reason for this when Pervy began to speak and Manny bonked him on the head with his spear. The dwarf scowled in the direction of his captor, but remained quiet.

Lifting the shackled seven into the wagon required Maude and Manny, the three surrenderers being too small. While doing so, Manny asked, “What are we going to do with them?”

“I guess will have to take them with us. At least until Hillfoot, the next town.”

“How far is that?”

“Three or four days.“

“This isn’t going to be fun.”

Just as they were about to climb up onto their seats, a large shadow flashed overhead. Manny did not squeak, that was one of the dwarfs in the back of the wagon. But he did blurt out, “What was that?”

Looking upwards, Maude said, “Oh dear, I had forgotten about that.”

“About what? What is it?”

“A dragon.”

“A dragon? Like a real fire breathing dragon?”

“I assume so, but don’t worry its not wild dragon. See when it appeared you had gone missing, I put in a distress call. I’m guessing this is a response to it. Probably I should have called it off, but in the excitement of your return I put it off. Then we got all wrapped up in planning this attack, then I had to deal with Mic’s request to outfit his gnomes and then convince him to buy that ermine trimmed cloak. Though really, I don’t think I had to do much convincing. Once I saw how good he looked in it, I knew he would take it. Nothing like nice clothes to make someone feel good about themselves.”

“The dragon, Maude. Is someone on it?”

“Probably a Paladin of the We’re Better Than You Order of St. Biff. They currently have the contract to provide security along the trade road.”

“Is that really their name?”

“Sure, St. Biff was their founder. Oh, or do you mean the whole, We’re Better than You thingee, well that’s true also. They have a big thing about honesty, though not so much of a big thing about arrogance. But it is fortunate that he showed up when he did, we can hand the dwarfs over to him.”

“Very fortunate. It’s almost like someone is making up our story as we go along.”

“Now, that’s just silly superstition, Manny.”

“I guess. After all, what type of mouth-breathing imbecile would dream up a story as stupid as this?”

“Too true. Too true. Now hop up, we really shouldn’t keep the paladin waiting.”

They didn’t, not for long. Still, when they reached the post, Sir Steve was not pleased, though his anger did not detract from his handsomeness. You know, the whole chiseled features, steely eyes, wide shoulders, minimum nose hair, and all that. However, he seemed to recognize Maude and was borderline respectful towards her, as she told him what had happened.

Ignored, Manny found himself staring at his armour. Finally deciding that it was not worth fighting the desire, he took it and his pack into the cabin and pixified his appearance. Ignoring his robe, he took a stick of candy, and exited the cabin.

No longer was he ignored. Sir Steve’s eyes bugged out at the bigxie’s modified appearance, then glazed over as he watched Manny suck on the candy. Gone was Sir Confident, as he stuttered responses to Maude, finally giving in to her demands that he take the dwarfs. Loading them into a cage on the back of his dragon, he soon was airborne.

Watching the dragon climb, Manny said, “A celibate order?”

“Yes.”

“Heheheheheh.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

Manny just grinned and shrugged, then he looked upwards again at a distant shout from Bossy. “I’ll get you, My Pretty. You, your witch, and your giant auroch too.”

Rolling his eyes, Manny asked, “So I never asked, how went your visit to Baronette Asudem?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked. Her snakes had just molted and their scales had this sparkling gold tint. It was almost a perfect match for that gold, silken bolt I showed you. I didn’t show you? Are you sure? Well I guess that isn’t important, just know that it was perfect. So I...”

The End (for now)

Manny and Maude - 4 - Who's the Fairest

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

With his journey more than half complete, Andy the Auroch sees a chance to rest his weary hoofs when his wagon reaches Everlong Faire. Their he hopes to renew his burgeoning relationship with with Angie the Auroch. However, since Angie has not yet arrived, which caused Andy to spend most of his time eating and sleeping, let us focus on the other members of our intrepid threesome, Manny and Maude. Particularly since a colleague from the past threatens to tear them team apart.

Who's the Fairest
by Arcie Emm

Prologue

The scene belonged in a fairy tale. A beautiful summer day, the sun shining upon a meadow in which wolf pups boisterously chased one another about, yipping their joy at the moment. For a time they owned the world to themselves, but then, from a thicket of trees, a jay’s flight distracted them.

Let us leave them to their play, instead we will approach that thicket. For why else would it exist, if not to be mysterious?

Ah-hah, it hides a small hill, with an opening that surely leads to the den from which those adorable cubs came. Shall we venture inside, making life difficult for the author whose laziness shouts for him to quit? Of course we shall.

Oh-ho, is that a fire I hear? Is that candle light I see? Not something expected inside a wolf’s den, but this is not a normal den. Instead it has walls paneled in lustrous walnut and chairs so soft, so inviting, covered in ox blood coloured leather. Yet our eyes are drawn to those sitting in the chairs, specifically their hair. Extravagant enough to make one wonder if they were the high priests of the Hair Cult for Men. Two of them, one older and one younger with frames of wiry strength shaved the sides of their heads, but allowed the rest to grow long, before twining it into long braids. Unlike the others, the third man, burly and grizzled, his leather vest hiding few of his scars from past battles, let his bronzed mane flow free.

He yelled, “Liz! Liz, where’s that information?”

“Quit shouting, Wayne!”

This answer preceded the arrival of a woman with hair of a winter tigress, that is if a winter tigress had hair instead of fur and if that fur flowed like a river in the midst of winter thaw. Yes, dear reader, I too am momentarily struck by awe at the sight of her. Awe that someone so majestically proportioned remained standing.

Taking the leather bag from her, the burly man asked, “Is there a scry of him?”

“Inside.”

With the rolled up parchment in hand, he tossed the bag to the older man and walked to the one uncovered wall, its stone recently cleaned. The parchment unrolled, he used pieces of sap to stick it on the wall. An image of a dark haired man, an evil sneer on his face, almost as if the scry existed with the sole intention to say, ‘this is a bad guy.'

“Okay, Tongueblood, tell me about him.” Wayne said, as he reached for a piece of chalk.

“Simon Unkler! Stands 2 Yardovian metres tall and weighs in at 16 stones.”

“Big son-of-a-mother. He’ll be dangerous, so everybody be extra careful. What’s the charge?”

“He skipped out on his upcoming wedding to Duchess Cindi in Angharee.”

“So add desperate to his faults. Fortunately, I just heard from a little bird that spotted him entering a beer tent at Everlong Faire over at Fairetown. We’ve been asked by Knobby Green to capture him and that’s what we’re going to do. So everybody gear up.”

While the woman checked her make-up and changed into higher heeled boots, the three men pulled on chain-mail tunics and chose a cudgel. Done, they gathered in a circle, held hands, and bowed their heads, while their leader said, “Aeola grant us your blessings as you look down upon us during this day and night. Okay, Let’s go.”

At these words, the three men blurred. In their place stood 3 massive, fur covered beasts, each with the head of a wolf, but standing upon two legs.

“Big alpha’s on the prowl.” Said the woman, just before she underwent her own transformation, turning into a smaller, all white version of the others.

In unison, they dropped to all fours. Not long afterwards the den stood empty.

In Fairetown, the four asked around for Simon, showing people their scry. Their questioning led them, late in the evening, to the second floor of the Dancing Turtle inn, where Wolf questioned an innkeeper thrilled to help Wolf the Bounty Picker Upper.

“You’re sure this is Simon’s room?” Wolf asked.

“He uses a different name, Mr. Wolf, but he sure do match the scry you showed me. He appeared a couple days ago and replaced a right pretty thing.”

“And he’s in there now?”

“Yeppers, saw him return with my own three eyes.”

“Very well, do you have a spare key?”

“Oh, we don’t use keys, Mr. Wolf.”

“Do you give me permission to enter the room?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Makes it legal for me to enter and look.”

“Wow, can I watch? I mean sure thing, Mr. Wolf Sir.”

“You can watch, but stand back and don’t get in the way. Ready, Treehand? Ready, Tongueblood?”

At their matched nods, he balled his hand into a fist and pounded on the door. “Simon Unkler, I know you’re in there.”

In answer, they heard a startled shout. “Whaa...”

All the cue Wolf needed, he said, “Get him.”

With this, the other two men burst through the door, cudgels in hand. There they found their target, groggily waking from a sleep, clad only in his drawers. Without hesitation, they yanked him off the bed, threw him to the ground, and kneeled above him with their weapons held threateningly over head.

This ended the man’s struggles, instead he yelled, “Don’t mace me! Don’t mace me!”

At this surrender, they each grabbed an arm and lifted him to his feet. While they tied his wrists together, Wolf said, “You didn’t think you could escape me, did you Simon?”

“Who are you? Wait, I’m not Simon. I’m...”

“You’re telling me this isn’t you, Motherpupper?” Wolf asked, the scry thrust in front of his prisoner.

“See it’s like this.”

He did not get any further before an older woman, dressed in a nightgown, entered the room and querulously asked, “What’s going on here?”

Liz moved towards her and said, “None of your business.”

“But he’s my employee.”

“Madam, you’re going to have to leave, you’re interfering with the sanctioned bond collection of Simon Unkler and I’m not going to let you take food away from my children.”

“Your children? What are you talking about?”

“Listen, bi...”

“No, you listen to me, that is not Simon Unkler. That is my bodyguard, Manny kin Nichino.”

Sergeant Unkler

Once again Manny found himself cast adrift by his employer. Andy’s reigns in hand, he walked away from the Sisterhood of Seamstrist’s tent within the Everlong Faire grounds, Maude’s locale for the next three weeks while its regular proprietress partook in the annual Extreme Cheese Wheel Rollathon from Madron to Lisbid. With everything unloaded, a task simplified by the witch’s walking trunks, he soon dispatched the wagon and auroch, the first to the guarded area at the Faire’s edge and the other into the hands of the Faire’s herdsmen.

Now, with his employer's gentle suggestion that he entertain himself in mind, Manny wandered the faire, seeing much of interest, but with a nearly empty purse he withstood temptation. Not that he planned to stop, for amongst the many strange sights and beings at the Faire, he stood out amongst the strangest. Even with his robe, he drew stares, be they surprise, lust, or envy. True, trapped as a bigxie for weeks, Manny found himself less bothered than in the past by the attention, but it still owned the power of frustration. He kept moving, ignoring both vendors who hawk their wares and side stepping those of the male species overly impressed with themselves.

Not long after avoiding an entire pack of such creatures, he noticed a cloaked man skulk into a tent. The way the man’s eyes darted about, lingering on nothing, even the bigxie in the street, initially drew Manny’s attention. But what held it were the familiar mannerisms. The way the man walked, even his shape. Manny felt sure he saw Sergeant Unkler, who once served as quartermaster in the Beige Baron’s regiment. And though never bosom companions, the man often chose Manny's squad to protect him during his ventures. Almost he turned into the drinking tent, but kept walking. Yet at the end the lane, he returned the way he came, peeking inside to see the sergeant by himself at the back. Manny continued onward, but the hint of the idea took hold and tossed aside potential embarrassments at the possibility to regain some normalcy in his life. Therefore, midway through his fourth trip along the lane, he entered the tent and approached the watching man. A smile came across the sergeant’s face, one Manny suspected explained the man's success with woman that the rest of the regiment envied.

“I’m was not planning on buying anything, but you may be able to change my mind, Gorgeous.”

“Sergeant Unkler, I’m Manny kin Nichino. From the regiment.”

For years, Sergeant Unkler kept the regiment well fed and equipped, because he did not easily surprise. This situation proved no different, he allowed an appreciative eye to run over Manny's form, barely hidden by the fitted robe, before he said, “I think I would have known if someone looking like you was in the regiment. However, Corporal Nichino was a rather large, foreboding fellow.”

Manny searched his mind for a memory to convince Unkler. “Honest, Sergeant, it’s me. Remember the campaign between the Counts of Dalodone and Tekmag. How when one of our patrol’s stumbled upon the Countess of Dalodone, the Baron ransomed her off without telling the Tekmageans. Well my squad guarded her tent the night before the hand over and I know you received a reward that didn’t fit within the regiment’s coffers.”

“Ahh, Nichino, I knew I could rely on your silence, you always were the solid sort. How in the name of all that is holy did you find yourself so...ummm...spectacular.”

Manny waved off an approaching barmaid and took a seat across from the man. In a soft voice, the former corporal explained his adventures in the Land Beyond. Finished, he waited for the other to express his disbelief.

“So, I’m guessing you’re hoping to borrow my image?”

“Well, I...”

“I don’t know, Corporal. How would it look if you got in trouble while looking like me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do anything like that, Sergeant.”

Unkler nodded his head. “No, you’re not the type.”

Locked into the main holding pen of Fairetown’s gaol, with the pick pockets, drunks, and rowdies common inside Everlong Faire, Manny alternated between glaring at the riff raff and cursing himself for an idiot. Why let Unkler disarm him with the comment about causing trouble? Everybody, including the two men, knew Manny may not be the type to do so, but the same could not be said for the sergeant. And why did no alarm trigger when the man met him at Maude’s tent without asking for anything in return?

The sergeant was an asshole. Everybody in the regiment knew that, but accepted it because he was their asshole. But the regiment no longer existed and Manny should have remembered the Baron controlled his problem children through the constant threat of Lieutenant Finkle, who relished an earned reputation as a vicious killer.

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” Manny said.

“Shut up, git.” The nearest man, a scrawny thief, snarled.

Despite being a softy, Manny knew you needed to be hard in hard places; therefore, he only stared, until the man looked away. For though Unkler could not cast as foreboding figure as Manny’s true form, he could cow most scrawny thieves.

What sucked the most, he last couple days were pure joy. Though grown used to life as a bigxie, as a female, even enjoyed it a time or two, it never felt right. Returned to malehood, he felt more himself, so much so that a smile never left his face, at least until the bounty hunters burst through his door. A smile he tried upon more than a few pretty maidens, while he tried to build enough confidence to see where their answering smiles may lead. Now he wouldn’t get the chance.

Once more Manny wondered about Sergeant Unkler’s crime. He guessed at a minor offense, otherwise they would not place him in the common cell. Besides he need not worry, surely he could convince the authorities they held the wrong man. Maude told him that everybody knew about shape changing in the Land Beyond.

Maude.

Her actions of the prior night, her ferociousness when confronting the pack of bounty hunters, made him smile. Only her presence stopped them from bundling him out of Fairetown before anybody knew. Instead she forced them to hand him over to the town’s authorities. Furthermore, she also convinced them to let him dress, which after spending time in the cold pen further increased his gratitude.

Gaolty?

While wondering if he would ever fall asleep, three gaol keepers appeared at the gate to the holding pen, where one shouted. “Simon Unkler! Simon Unkler to the gate.”

Looking out a barred window to see it still dark, he hoped their early arrival meant they planned to set him free. But that did not explain why they called him by the sergeant's name. Realizing an answer waited, he moved toward the gate. The gaol keeper in charge, a bald headed man larger than Manny’s true self, opened the door, while the second shackled Manny. The three then escorted him into a long hall, past numerous doors, until they came to a stop.

The bald gaol keeper said, “Inside.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Hesitantly, he stepped into the small room, where Maude waited. “Maude, you’re here!”

“Did you doubt me, Manny?” She asked.

For the first time since the ordeal had begun, Manny smiled. “Actually, I never did. Thank you.”

She offered a smile in return. “Of course. But we have little time for pleasantries, let me introduce you to your lawyer, Barrister Ashley Ashtonson.”

Manny only stared, not with the glower offered the thief in the pen, but with the wonder so often experienced since he crossed the Bridge of Happening. For there stood, on short, stumpy, root like legs, a man tree, with leaves for hair above a face etched into the trunk.

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The ent asked, his voice a deep, melodious timbre. “There is no reason an ashent cannot be a lawyer, justice doesn’t only matter to oakents.”

As his voice rose, Manny hurried to apologize. “No, no, I’m sorry. It isn’t because you’re an, ashent was it? I know nothing about, umm, ashents.”

“Ahh, forgive me. Aren’t I the one, jumping to conclusions. So you’re not like my family, believing nobody likes a wise ash?”

“What’s wrong with a wise ash?”

“Exactly. That’s what I asked my parents when they tried to void my scholarship to law school. They don’t understand I have a calling, instead they want me to leave my practise and join the family’s interpretive dance troupe.”

“Umm, well I’m happy to have your help. What type of pickle Sergeant Unkler has gotten me into?

“Yes, yes, let us focus upon the now. It, not the past, is what is important. Fortunately it is only a contract issue, instead of a crime. Unfortunately, the other party in the contract is quite powerful, the Duchess of Were.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

“No, Duchess of where?”

Before this could get out of hand, Maude interrupted and said, “Manny, not where, but were as in were-wolves, were-ponies, and such.”

“Ahh, weres are real? I guess this is the Land Beyond. So how did he rip her off?”

“Apparently your Sergeant Unkler was to marry the Duchess, but he disappeared before the wedding. Her people hope to have him, well now you, extradited back to Angharee, the Ducal Seat.”

Manny said, “That doesn’t sound right, the sergeant often spoke about finding some rich woman to look after him.”

“He probably learned the Duchess is a were-spider, like her mother. The Grove knows there are enough ghastly rumours about her father’s demise, nearly nine months before she was born.”

Manny’s eyes widened. “They’re going to make me marry a spider! Uh-buh-uh-whu...”

“Not if I can help it, I see no reason why we cannot prove you are yourself, not Simon Unkler. Though it would be best not to look like him.”

As eager as he turned into Unkler, Manny felt even more eager to rid himself of the man’s form. Therefore, he hurried to stand in front of the mirror. He said, “Maybe Liriel, Maude? She’s so innocent looking.”

“Not a good idea, Manny. It was in Fairetown she found out about her cheating boyfriend. Dealing with the fallout is what brought Ashley and myself together the first time.”

The ashent would have nodded his head at this, except for the whole no neck thing, instead he said, “I agree, Liriel is not a good choice. She left a rather black mark behind when she vanished from town. Maude mentioned you are usually what she called a bigxie, that is best.”

Flicking through the different images, Maude found the pink-armoured bigxie image. Almost normal now, the change came quickly, marked only by the clang of metal as the shackles slipped from suddenly thinner wrists and fell to the floor.

“Oh, we can’t have that. Don’t want to look like you are trying to escape.” At these words, Ashley gracefully moved to the door and opened it to the distrustful stare of the large gaol keeper and he asked. “Excuse me, your shackles fell off, can you come put them back on.”

Their rush inside, momentary bottle necked at the door, come to a sudden stop when the three men spotted the transformed prisoner. Gaping and drooling ensued before the leader’s wits returned. “Hey, what’s going on here? Where’s the prisoner? And who’s she?”

“They’re one and the same, officer. My client had been transformed and we felt it best to return her to her normal appearance before court.”

“Umm, but, umm, okay. Let’s see about those shackles.” The large gaol keeper said, as he knelt to pick them up, stopped for a moment to admire Manny from the new angle, he reluctantly rose to place the shackles around the prisoner’s outstretched arms.

CLANG!!

“Damnit, they don’t fit. We’ll need to get another pair.”

“I won’t try to escape.”

Now Manny’s voice held none of the vamp, which humbled Sir Steve, he just spoke in that sultry voice Maude gave him early in their journey. Yet the gaol keepers were not tempered in the same fire of righteousness as the paladin, which meant one swayed, another’s knees buckled, and the bald one gulped nervously.

“Uhmm, okay.”

Ashley saved them from further thought, when he said, “Maybe we should head to the courtroom, officers.”

“Alrighty then.”

“So early?” Manny asked, “It’s not yet morning.”

Ashley answered, “We, in Fairetown, pride ourselves on our justice system. All those arrested during the night have the right to see a judge before the morning damp is burned away.”

The seven of them - three guards, a seamstress, her mirror, the ashent lawyer, and the bigxie prisoner - left the room and walked down the hallway into a large waiting room, which held a number of guards and prisoners, all of whom became distracted by their admiration for the colour pink. While they waited, Ashley asked the gaol keeper. “Who’s sitting?”

“Judge Rock.”

Smiling at the news, Ashley led them to the side where they waited in silence. Finally the gaol keepers, at some unseen signal, led them into a small courtroom, similar to most of its kind, with two desks at the front. Behind the lower stood a plump, dark skinned man, while behind the higher and larger desk sat a tall, thin man, idly shuffling a deck of cards.

A merry twinkle in his eyes, the think man’s gaze as they darted from face to face. Stopping on Manny, he grinned mischievously and asked, “What do we have, Zac?”

The man at the lower desk read from a sheet of parchment. “It is a 223-B, Your Honour.”

“Flying while under the influence?”

“No, Your Honour, it is an extradition request from the Duchy of Were for one Simon Unkler.”

“For what dastardly deed is Simon Unkler wanted?”

“A breech of contract.”

“And where is he?” The judge asked.

“I would ask the same.”

Everybody turned to see an impeccably dressed middle-aged man, his salt and pepper hair coiffed to perfection, enter through the main door. Strolling forward, he said, “Your Honour, allow me to introduce myself. I am Phillip del Fia, Court Advocate to the Duchess of Were. When we learned her betrothed had been found, she dispatched me to see to his speedy return. However, I do not see him?”

Ashley said, “If I may, Your Honour?”

“Ahh, Barrister Ashtonson, can you clear up this mystery?”

“Yes, Your Honour. You see it is a matter of mistaken identity.” Ashley said. “My client, Manny kin Nichino, was transformed to appear as this Unkler. While transformed, the bounty picker upper Wolf took her into custody.”

del Fia said, “That seems rather convenient.”

Judge Stone agreed. “Yes it does, can you prove what you say?”

“We can, Your Honour. Seamstrist Maude Zbornak, who is my client’s employer, performed the transformation with her mirror, which registered all changes. The truth can be confirmed easily enough.”

“Zac?”

“On it, Your Honour.” The clerk said, rummaging around in his desk to find a large scroll wrapped mostly around the bottom of its two wooden rollers. Holding it before him, Zac chanted, “Manny, Manny, bo banny, Banana fana fo fanny, Fe fi mo anny, Manny!”

At these words the scroll, well, scrolled from the thick to thin roll, stopping when each neared the same thickness. Now scrolling it manually Zac began said, “Anderson ... Duckles ... Jornigen ... ahh, here it is, kin Nichino. Well there’s a recognizable name and that too. Your Honour, it is as Barrister Ashtonson said, Manny kin Nichino was transformed into Simon Unkler three afternoons ago.”

“Very well, I guess it’s case dis...”

The duchess’s advocate interrupted both the judge’s words and swinging gavel, to say, “Excuse me, Your Honour, I would bring to your attention the case of Ticolodin vs Principality of Desolence.”

“Eh?”

“In it, the Court of Desolense, determined in willingly taking upon the form of another, the transformed may also takes upon the debts of the form.”

“I see.”

“Your Honour, the Court of Desolense holds no jurisdiction within Fairetown.” Ashley stated, in protest.

“True, but it’s rulings are highly respected, it may be a good idea to bump it up to a higher court.”

“The courts of Angharee are at your disposal, Your Honour.” del Fia volunteered.

“And my client would get a fair trial from twelve Angharee men?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for your offer, Advocate del Fia, but Fairetown can manage on its own. What’s available, Zacadamian?”

“There’s an opening in five days, shall I book it?”

“Counselors?” Judge Stone questioned. Upon receiving two affirmatives, he asked, “Anything else?”

“I expect my client will be free until that time, Your Honour?”

“I would hope not, Your Honour. We know she is friends with a known runner. Plus she is obvious a flight risk.”

A boyish grin appeared on the judge’s face as he said, “I understand your concern, Advocate del Fia. However, Miss Nichino has currently done nothing for which I can detain her.”

“Your Honour...”

Ashley interrupted his opponent’s protests, to say, “Your Honour, my client will give her oath that she will not flee before her trail.”

Concerned less by the frequent uses of hers, shes, and misses than the possibility of returning to the gaol, Manny eagerly nodded agreement.

Distracted by the resulting bounce and sway of ... umm ... umm ... yeah, that’s it ... umm ... of long blond hair, Judge Rock took a moment to say, “That would work. Do you so swear, Miss Nichino?”

“I swear, Your Honour.”

Noticing the dazzled manner in which the judge gazed upon Manny, Phillip del Fia plotted the next move in his legal dance. Although nary a twirled mustache provided a hint to his thoughts.

Monitor

The outcome in Judge Rock’s courtroom raised some questions in Ashley's mind, which led the barrister to scurry further into the courts to research the trial del Fia raised as precedence. Meanwhile, Maude guided her guard back to their inn, leaving him with orders to get some sleep and to not leave his room. Rankled by the orders, he changed out of his armour into his nightgown, lay upon the bed, and thought about the trouble into which he continued to find himself. Fortunately skills developed as a soldier allowed him to bury his worries beneath slumber.

Slumber broken once more by the sound of a knock on the door. Shocked awake, Manny leapt into the air, his wings blurring to hold him aloft. This time the door did not burst open. Flitting to the door, he settled upon the floor, and asked, “Who is it?”

“Auxiliary Gaol Keeper Ruck Ankiel.”

“What do you want? I thought I was free to go?”

“I’m not here to arrest you, I’m your monitor.”

“What?”

“Your monitor. The court assigned me to watch over you.”

Lack of sleep, anger at Unkler’s schemes, annoyance with his entire girlification in the Land Beyond combined in a frustration that made Manny yank open the door and snarl, “I said I wouldn’t run.”

But he saw nobody.

“Down here, Toots.”

Few know of the Island of Tontimtona, in the Sea of Pokato, but those who do, know it has little to recommend it as a place for a ship to stop. Sure, it could serve as the setting for Paradise, but so could the hundreds of other islands that surrounded it. However, Tontimtona did have the Hole of Meleguhle, so named by the people of the island in honour of the great sea tortoises that swam out of the sea and marched there to die.

After many centuries, this left the hole filled with a rich dirt, flecked with broken-up tortoiseshell. Dirt the witch doctors of the island used for everything from poultices to the lustrous dyes that offered the one reason for traders to stop. Dyes produced by the most experienced witch doctors, requiring most of a life’s learning before one would even be allowed to harvest from the hole, never mind perform the secret ritual to create the dye. A ritual that brought together all skills learned after children proved their worth to walk the path of the witch doctor. Proof that required a child to pass the Test of the Wawkini, where they crafted the Wawkini paste used by the people’s warriors to cover themselves before night raids upon neighbouring islands. A paste they believed made them invisible to all but the Moon Goddess, Alice, and which mostly consisted of the droppings of seagulls.

Now if you’ve ever spent time in the study of seagull droppings, and really who hasn’t, you know that like snowflakes, no two are the same. Nor do two sets of droppings react consistently with the other ingredients in Wawkini paste; palm fronds, ground up barracuda, silt from the bottom of the sea, and saffron. Which explained why only those whose spirits were rich in chlorimidians (amazingly enough, usually children of witch doctor families) could pass the Test of the Wawkini and begin the long years of study to obtain their witch doctorate. Regardless of success or failure, the paste invariably ended up a putrid grey green colour.

Manny did not count amongst those who knew about the Island of Tontimtona, nor even the Sea of Pokato, so he knew nothing about Wawkini Paste. But if he did, he surely would think the rough hide of the giant lizard, which waited in the hallway, matched the colours of that paste. However, unaware of the comparison, he just thought the putrid grey green colour, marked with tens of scars, provided only one reasons to make the beast horrifying. For it stood, almost as high as his knees, on four viscously clawed feet, its tail, longer than its body, drooping through the railing of the upper floor, while hundreds, maybe thousands, of serrated teeth shared a mouth with blood tinged drool. Barely did Manny stop himself from shrieking and leaping into the air, the only thing that stopped him was curiosity about the an eye-patch the lizard wore over its right eye. For it showed the same patch found on the chests of the gaol keepers, a sad jester looking out through four bars.

Looking at Manny, the lizard scooched forward and rose upright upon its hind legs. Ignoring the resulting, unstoppable bigxie shriek and leap, Ruck’s dexterous claws worked the buckles of a pouch strapped to his torso and removed a piece of parchment. This he held towards Manny and said, “A note of explanation from your barrister.”

Nervously reaching out, fearing the loss of a hand, Manny took the offering, unfolding it to read:

Dear Manny,

After you left, del Fia arranged an appearance before Judge Wilco Wilcoxovich, with whom he went to law school. This resulted in an arrangement for you to be monitored. I have filed a protest, but for now you will need to accept Ankiel`s presence.

Sincerely,
Ashley Ashtonson, BL

“I’m not going anywhere, Maude told me to wait in my room.”

“That’s great, still I’m to stick to you like a worm to the ground. Well not figuratively, I’m not covered in the tasty slime that coats a worm.”

About then Manny realized he stood in the doorway wearing nothing more than his nightgown, the one gifted to him by Nikki, the one which Maude steadfastly refused to replace, a naughty smile appearing on her face whenever he asked. With his recent luck, he felt surprised that hall remained empty of everyone but Ruck; however, not wishing to further tempt fate, he said, “Umm...okay. I guess you may as well come in.”

Once Ruck entered, Manny closed the door. Hands upon hips, he looked down at the lizard, who in turn looked up at him, and asked, “So how does this work?”

Ruck answered, “Well you do whatever you usually do, while I watch to ensure what you usually do does not involve leaving Fairetown.”

“And if I do try to leave.”

“Well I run fast and have lots of teeth, you can find out what that means if you want. No skin off my snout.”

“I can fly.”

“So I see, which is why they picked me to be your monitor, see I’m a were-dragon.”

“A what?”

“Were-dragon.”

“But...”

“Why would I stay a lizard, if I could be a glorious dragon? You wouldn’t ask if you knew the size of my appetite when I’m in dragon form, couldn’t afford to keep myself fed on a civil servant’s wage without the backing of mommy or daddy’s hoard.”

“I was going to say, doesn’t there need to be a full moon for you to turn into a dragon.”

“With you there’ll always be a full moon overhead, true maybe hidden by a pink silken cloud, but its there none-the-less.”

It took a moment before Manny figured it out. When he did, he tried to pull the nearly transparent skirts of his nightgown lower, blushed a pink to match that silken cloud, and shouted. “Hey!”

“Don’t worry, Toots, you’re not my type. Though hearing the guys talk about you in the wardroom today, I may be alone in that.”

“My name’s Manny.”

“Sure thing, Toots.”

“Don’t call...ahh, never mind. So about the full moon.”

“During the day the moon looks forward to make sure she doesn’t run into a star while we chase her through the heavens. But she’s still there, we just can’t see her. Then during the night she looks back to ensure we still follow, offering a stare, a wink, or a glower. Regardless, the moon is always full, so I can go were whenever, if ever, you attempt to escape.”

“You’re going to be bored, I can’t leave the inn.”

”I’m a lizard, we live to be bored. Now if there’s no further questions, why don’t you get back to what you were doing, sleep apparently, and I will join you. Whoops, that didn’t come out quite right, you sleep on the bed, I’ll sleep in front of the door, since the window’s too small for you to squeeze through.”

Sleep did offer an escape from life’s insanity, so Manny climbed once more under his blanket, while Ruck put action to words and lay in front of the door. Both had nearly succumbed when another worry popped into Manny’s mind.

“Hey!”

“Now what?”

“If you’re a were, how do I know you’re not in cahoots with the Duchess of Were to kidnap me like that Wolf guy?”

“She’s only the duchess of weres there in Were, not weres here or not in Were. Besides the weres in Were don’t like beast-weres like me. They think they’re the true weres and their agents are always here and they’re trying to get weres not in Were in trouble with their neighbours. I don’t like Were weres.”

Hearing the conviction in Ruck’s words, Manny said, “That makes sense.”

Foci Group

Late afternoon found Manny awake, Ruck proving his contention the bigxie was not his type when he did little more than temporarily open his single eye while his charge changed into pink armour. However, once dressed Manny mentioned his hunger. Immediately Ruck awoke, willing to head down to the common area for a meal. They bonded while demanding the innkeeper, whom Manny had not forgiven for the bounty hunters raid, feed the lizard raw meet. The man’s sullen acceptance almost made up for watching Ruck eat.

Their meal finished, the two wondered what to do with themselves until a young scruffian entered the inn, ducked under the outstretched hands of the innkeeper, and dashed to their table, where he asked, “Are you Manny kin Nichino?”

“No, I’m Ruck Ankiel.”

“Not you, silly, the pretty lady with wings. Hey, you’re a talkin’ lizard.”

Knowing boys would find a talking lizard more interesting than a pretty lady with wings, Manny said, “I’m Manny, why are you looking for me?”

Not taking his eyes off Ruck, the boy said, “The witch sent me.”

“Maude?”

“I don’t know her name, but she’s the one in the Sisterhood’s tent. She said I was to get you to come visit and to bring her something to eat.”

“Now?”

The boy turned his gaze to Manny to answer, “Yep and she said you would give me a fairething when I delivered the message.”

“An entire fairething, that is generous of her. Maybe we should check with her first.”

“Did I say a fairething, I meant a quarter-fairething.”

Deeming that reasonable, Manny took a coin from his purse and tossed it to the boy. Who, in turn, looked back at Ruck, just in time to see the lizard’s tongue whip out to catch a fly. Wide-eyed the boy stared until Ruck winked at him, which caused the boy to laugh before he dashed out the same way in which he arrived.

Manny asked, “Can I go to Maude’s tent?”

“Yep, we can go anywhere within the boundaries of Fairetown.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

With Maude's lunch in hand, the two began the trek to the faire-grounds. And if a full sized pixie in a snow white robe did not already draw the eye, adding a giant lizard did nothing to minimize the stares. Not that Manny noticed, lost in his thoughts, nor did Ruck care. At the Sister of Seamstrist’s tent, they watched a bored Maude eat lunch while she bemoaned the lack of customers. While Manny commiserated with his employer, two ents entered the tent. Ashley carried a basket, while for some reason the other seemed female. Not because she wore a dress, both ents were as bare barked as the day they sprouted, but because of her long, lush, red foliage of maple leaves, pruned just so.

His guess proved correct with Ashley's introductions. “Maybelline this is our client Manny kin Nichino. Manny this is my particular friend, Maybelline L’Ouest, who I retain as image consultant for my clients.”

“Image consultant?” Manny asked.

“Exactly, while Ashley does a formidable job presenting the legalities of his clients’s cases, he needs my assistance to ensure they make a good first impression with the jury. For example, you need to portray the innocent, not the temptress.”

“I am innocent.” Manny said.

“Yes, that is all well and good, but your opinion hardly matters in a trial, does it? But first, let me speak to Maude for a moment.”

While the maplent and Seamstrist talked, Manny turned towards his barrister and again asked, “Image consultant?”

“She’s very good. She served as the head costumer of the Non-Royal Ballet Academy of Beechswutz and now freelances for the musical troupes and acting companies based in Fairetown. That’s when she not offering this special skill to the community’s defenders. Besides I like when she’s around.”

An owner of more than a few past infatuations, Manny said nothing, instead he watched as Maybelline removed small crystal pyramids from the basket. Seeing Maude’s excitement, Manny asked his barrister what they were doing.

“Maybelline captured the essence of many of Fairetown citizens into each crystal foci. When grouped together, she can divine how a defendant should present themselves to a jury of similar citizens.”

“So this foci group will make the jury realize I’m innocent?”

“Not quite, Manny, the courts do not tolerate such magic. Better to say it seeks to ensure no juror takes an immediate dislike towards you.”

As the two talked, the maplent placed the fist sized foci in a circle upon the tent’s floor. Then she took one last large, crystal pyramid from the basket and tossed it in the air. But it did not fall, instead it hovered, just below the tent’s peak, in the middle of the circle.

“Manny could you stand in the middle of the circle?” Maybelline asked.

With a smile of reassurance from Maude, Manny moved forward, his wings momentarily blurring as he hopped over the circle of pyramids. He watched as Maybelline stretched her limbs to the side and said, “Lights! Come on! Action!”

Manny found himself inside a strange rainbow. Each of the nearly thirty pyramids shot a beam of coloured light, upwards in a pyramid above his head. In their current incarnation a third of the beams showed red, a third blue, and a third green, which coalesced into a dark grey, almost black, shadow that grasped him in its embrace. From outside this veil came Ruck’s voice.

“That better not be a teleport device.”

“Eeek, a giant lizard!”

“Worry not, Maybelline.” Ashley said. “That’s Ruck Ankiel, he’s Manny’s court appointed monitor.”

“Once more, or this tent is going full dragon, is that a teleport device?”

“No, Lizter Ankiel, it’s an Attitudinal Divination Devise. And right now it has divined a third of the potential jurors, those who shine red, will look unkindly upon Miss kin Nichino. If possible we seek to turn the reds and blues to green, but at a minimum want all reds to turn blue.”

Maude said. “Like I mentioned earlier, I believe Manny could pull off sweet and adorable.”

Maybelline agreed. “Probably?”

“Definitely.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Shush, Manny, you always carp about new clothes.”

“I liked the suit you gave me at the cab...urk.”

Jerked into the air by Maude’s magic, she cut short his protest before. Then his armour disappeared into the holding chest, replaced with a blank like those worn when he modeled for the pixie’s dresses. With each of these changes, some of the beams of light would changed colour, bathing him in different shades. Yet this proved only the beginning. For when Maude made changes, quick as her thoughts or the image consultant’s word, kaleidoscopic world also changed. First, it distracted him from the ribbons and lace that soon adorned the dress. Then, it distracted him from reality, testing his innate bigxie sense of place, necessary for flying. And even that sense could not combat the spots that appeared in his vision, growing like bubbles in lava until they burst, new ones forming in their wake.

Lost in colours, it took a moment to realize he stood upon the ground. He asked, “What did you do to me?”

From his right, Maybelline answered, “Step through and see in the looking glass.”

“I can’t see.”

At this rather plaintive statement Manny felt Maude reach out to take his hand and guide him forward a number of steps. He stood, rubbing his eyes, creating more own bubbles, which burst into clarity.

Only his shoes, of pixie manufacture, stiletto heeled and covered in shiny black leather with a buckled strap across his foot, would not be worn by the young daughter of a wealthy family. But above those shoes, his white stockings rose above his knees to disappear beneath the lace trim of multiple underskirts. In turn, all but the trim of the underskirt was hidden beneath the two ruffles of his blue dress, lace and ribbon at the waist, neck and capped sleeves. Manny’s immersion in the ADD even left him with a blue ribbon tied in now wavy hair.

“I look like a little girl.”

“Now I’m no expert on human anatomy, since my school couldn’t afford cadavers for earth sciences. But I’m fairly sure little girls don’t have those big bumps.” Ruck said.

Jury Selection

“I wish I could fly.” Manny said, in an attempt to distract himself from fiddling with the rose trimmed hem of his white pinafore, which Maude added to keep his dress clean while she made him perform inventory on her bottomless button chest.

“If you buy me a cow, I’ll let you fly.”

“A cow, Ruck? Why”

“Simple. If you fly, I have to fly. If I have to fly, I need to become an extremely handsome dragon. If I become a dragon, I will become real hungry and need to eat a cow. And the authorities will only redeem my cow expenses if it results from my foiling an escape. So unless you’re going to attempt escape, you need to buy me a cow to eat before we go flying.”

“I’m not going to escape, specially now we’re at the court house.”

“That’s when many criminals decide the gig is up and make a desperate run for it.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

Manny’s protest held less than total conviction. For how could he be sure of anything while he looked like a goddess, dressed as grammy's special girl, and held a conversation with a giant lizard. Sometimes he expected to wake from a dream at his parents. Or, more likely, in the middle of the Beige Baron's camp, feverish because the cooks used the wrong mushrooms in the stew. However, he did not wake, instead the strangeness increased when he spotted Ashley, in a black robe and with a white wig atop his leaves.

Ruck said, “I’ll leave you with your barrister. Meanwhile, I’m off the wardroom, the guy’s will be so envious I got to see you naked.”

“Hey, I thought I wasn’t your type?”

“You’re not. But I know a couple of horndogs who'll buy me lunch based on what I saw. Good luck and see you later, Toots. Unless of course the judge sends the weres home or you to the Were home. In which case, glad to meet you.”

“Thanks, Ruck.”

Manny hurried towards the ent, who offered a confident smile and said, “Don’t look so worried, Manny. Advocate del Fia is the one with the tough job, not us.”

Heartened somewhat by those words, he still thought del Fia well equipped to handle tough jobs. Yet he did not put his fears into words, instead he put on a brave face as the two entered the courthouse. Following Ashley up a couple of flights of stairs, they walked through a crowd of misfits into the higher court where his case would be heard. Inside, they found a courtroom similar to Judge Rock’s, though the judge's desk seemed carved from stone and the room held seats for spectators, all of which sat empty. The administrating clerk, a viscous looking orc, pointed to the right table, closest to the jury box. They settled into place just as a silent del Fia arrived to sit at the other table.

With both parties arrived, the clerk knocked on a door at the front the room. Through it a second orc appeared, almost a twin of the first, though wearing a gaol-keeper’s uniform. While the clerk returned to the small desk, the bailiff marched between the two parties, towards the room's main entrance. Opening the door, he stuck his head out, and yelled, “Hey, you lot, come in and find a seat.”

While the bailiff returned to stand to the side of the judge's desk, Manny asked Ashley why there was an audience.

"Those aren't spectators, they’re the jury pool."

"Them?" Manny asked, more than a bit worried this group would choose his fate. "Do we need to have a jury?"

"It's okay, Manny, Maybelline's foci were based upon this group. After all, nobody else has time to serve on juries."

Once everyone found a seat, the orcs exchanged a look, the bailiff cleared his throat and said, “Everybody rise. Rise I say. Good. Raise your left hand and your right hand. Now bring them together to welcome the Bringer of Light, the Terror of the Dark, the One, the Only, Justice Bufort T. Bonecrusher.”

The potential jurors clapped, applause that turned feverish when an explosion of flame and smoke appeared at the door from which the bailiff entered. The door through which ducked a figure out of a nightmare. Massive and ugly, skin warted green, with fangs almost to his eyes and below his chin. Yet the ogre wore a robe and wig similar to both lawyers. Basking in the applause, he stared with baleful red eyes at both tables.

(Suddenly, the judge spins in place, coming to a stop with a finger pointed towards del Fia. He begins to sing in a soulful and powerful voice.)

JUSTICE
(Judge and Orcs)

Judge Bonecrusher	What you want, plaintiff, I got
	What's you need? You know I got it.
	All you're askin' is for a little justice in my courtroom.
	Hey plaintiff, in my courtfoom, plaintiff.
Clerk and Bailiff	(begin to sing background, jiving to the left with a clap, then to right.)
Audience	(claps along)
Judge Bonecrusher	J U S T I C E
	Find out what it means to me
	J U S T I C E
	And to all of thee

	(Spin and point toward Manny)
	I ain't gonna do you wrong, defendent
	I ain't gonna do you wrong because I don't wanna
	All you're askin' is for a little justice in my courtroom.
	Hey accused, in my courtfoom, listen.

	J U S T I C E
	Find out what it means to me
	J U S T I C E
	And to all of thee

	All you want, ooh yeah, is a little justice
	Yeah, plaintiff, a little justice
	Oh accused, just some justice
	(twirl once more then moonwalk towards desk)
	(face the appreciative jurors and stunned plaintiff and defendant)
Clerk and Bailiff	(while the judge moves to the desk, alternatively point at each table, first with the right arm and then the left)
	judgment for you
	judgment for you
	judgment for you
	judgment for you
	(drag out the final word, allowing the strength of their voices to drop)
	Ooooooo
Judge Bonecrusher	(sing the last line, raising his arms towards the sky)
	Oooh, you want a little justice.
	(hold the final note)
Audience	(clap louder)
Judge Bonecrusher	(drop arms dramatically and sit behind desk)

Judge Bonecrusher said, “Please be seated. The jury selection of the The Duchy of Were versus Manny kin Nichino will now begin.”

A smattering of applause, accompanied the shuffle of chairs as everybody took his seat. The judge looked at the clerk and pointed his ears towards the seats behind the tables. At this gesture, the orc moved amongst the crowd, handing out small shingles of wood, Justice Bonecrusher said, "I welcome the potential jurors to my court, sixty two citizens here to do Fairetown proud as you perform kind of a sacred duty. However, we understand lesser beings such as yourself are poor, which means you will receive three fairethings for this morning's choosing. If chosen as a juror, you will receive a further three fairethings per each additional session."

This statement set off a number of the potential jurors.

"Pick me!"

"No, pick me!"

"They're not going to kick Freddy-boy out of the pub tonight."

"Woah, man, I have fingers."

"I need money to feed my cats."

"Order! Order in the Court!" The judge roared, pulling a battlehammer from beneath his robe and waving it above his head, eyes turning a deeper red as he prepared for a rampage.

Into the silence engendered, the orc bailiff said, "I'll have a pastrami on rye, hold the pickle."

The judge burst into laughter, pounding his hammer onto his sturdy desk as he turned a darker green. Finally, he gained control of himself and said, "Brenden, you know that joke gets me every time. Now don't tell it again or I will place you in the Pit of Doom."

"Is that the pit with ice cream?"

"Yes it is. Maple pecan ice cream."

"But I'm allergic to pecans." Brenden said, his ruddy skin turning pale.

"Such is the horror of the Pit of Doom. But, anyhoo, back to the jury selection. If you look at the shingle handed to you by my lovely assistant, Jennifer, you will notice a number between one and ninety-seven. If the number matches the one on your shingle, you will come forward and I will ask you three questions. The lawyers for each party can then propose additional questions, in written format. If I agree the matter is relevant and can read the handwriting, I will ask that question. Note to the lawyers, based on what you heard you can issue sixteen challenges for the following reasons: bias, bat shit craziness, and there's just something about him. However, I will not accept a challenge based upon a person's teeth, smell, or mathematical skills. Everybody understand? Is that a nod or a head shake, Dulcet?"

"I have fingers." Said a wild haired man, holding up his hands.

"Yes you do and I'll take that as a nod. Okay let's get this show underway. Brenden and Jennifer, please start."

The former moved to the side of the room where he swept the covering from a set of kettle drums and picked up two mallets, meanwhile the clerk took a bucket from behind her desk. When the bailiff started a steady drum roll, the clerk reached into her bucket, pulled out a shingle, and said, "Number 38, who has number 38, anybody with number 38?"

When no one stood, the judge said, "Check you neighbours’s numbers. Okay, nobody has 38, try again, Jennifer."

"Number 73, who has number 73, anybody with number 73?"

When this call again resulted in silence, del Fia stood to ask, "Your Honour, would it not be better to use sixty two shingles, one for each potential juror?"

"Well, sure, if you're not interested in building tension."

"Ummm, tension."

"Yes tension. It is one of the twenty-two non-foundational pillars upon which I believe the modern court system should be based. Pull another number, Jennifer."

"Number 19, who has number 19, anybody with number 19."

"Me!" A wizened old fellow shouted, springing from his chair and dashing to the front of the room at the glacial pace allowed by a wonky leg and a cane. "I'm all ready for your questions, Your Honour."

"Excellent, what is your favourite colour?"

"Still mauve, Your Honour."

"Is that a new hairstyle, Lester?"

"It is, Your Honour. I were getting a little thin on top, so I thought to myself if I let one side grow long, I could comb it over to keep the sun off the old noggin. Thank you for noticing."

"It's quite handsome. Last, If your wagon left Fairetown at noon, traveling five donkey-miles per hour, how long will it take you to get to the Lumber Mill and return?"

"Can I stop and wet my whistle at Porky's?"

"Of course, both ways if you wish."

"Will Lulu be free, when I stop?"

"On the way out, but not on the way in."

"Eleven hours and forty eight minutes."

"Thank you, Lester. Does either attorney have additional questions they would like me to ask?"

Ashley said, "I'm good with Lester being a juror, Your Honour."

In turn, del Fia looked from the judge to the man. Holding a quill above an ink well, he paused and studied those behind him, he said, "I guess Lester is fine, Your Honour."

The two hours that followed often left Manny ready to bang his head on the table. However, del Fia, soon found his bearings and joined in the craziness with great verve. In fact, even after the jury choice and the judge ordered a recess until afternoon, an excited gleam remained in the advocate's eyes. A gleam accompanied by a large grin as he sauntered from the courtroom.

His eyes glued to the man's back, Manny said, "He's up to something."

Ashley said, "Well he didn't seem to be up to anything this morning. He allowed us to pick the jurors we wanted."

"But why would he allow that?" Manny asked.

The face of the ent proved expressive as he thought about his client's question, with hope in his voice Ashley said, "Maybe, he was thrown off by Judge Bonecrusher's methods. Or did not notice them gawking at you."

However, turning to watch the door close behind advocate, he said, "No, you're definitely right, he's up to something."

The Duchess

With the jurors chosen, the two found themselves at a booth downstairs, each driven to order a pastrami on rye, which they ate while they contemplated what the advocate from Were held up his sleeve. Those thoughts made them gloomy companions until Maude's boisterous arrival provided a welcome distraction. Soon Manny found himself telling her about the morning, now able to recognized the humour of the session.

"But the craziest part occurred when Jennifer, the orc clerk, called number 6. Well these two ladies rushed to the front, the one worried about her cats and a blonde wearing a yellow dress."

"June the Cleaver." Ashley said.

"What?"

"The blonde's name. Don't let her appearance fool you, she spends each winter on her trap-lines, hunting beavers."

"Well neither the cat lady nor this June would admit they held a 9 rather than a 6 and before you knew it they started to fight, yanking each other's hair, and carrying on right fierce. This continued until Brendan waded in and separated them, holding each by her collar. del Fia asked us if we wanted to declare both bat shit crazy? We agreed, nor was that the last time we used that challenge. For awhile, I worried there wouldn't be enough people."

Ashley said, "Fortunately, most of the Fairetown's Dockworker Brotherhood showed up today. It may seem crazy to have dock workers when there are no docks, when in actuality it is a cunning form of lazy."

"So the trials ready to start, this afternoon?" Maude asked. "What’s going to happen?"

"We'll start with opening statements. From there, well it's best not to guess, Justice Bonecrusher runs a rather unorthodox court."

"Any more musical numbers?"

"Not until tomorrow morning."

"I wish I had been there to see it."

Manny said, "Surprised the heck out of me."

"Surprise is another of the Judge's non-foundational concepts." Ashley said. "However, tardiness is not. We should return to the courtroom."

This time the Judge appeared with little fanfare, after the jury of eleven men and one woman took their seats. In fact, he barely seemed awake, obviously the result of a large lunch, some of which clung to his fangs. Pointing a finger towards del Fia, he said, "Let's hear your opening statements, Advocate del Fia."

Slowly the Were representative climbed to his feet and moved to stand before the judge. Offering that worthy a bow, he turned towards the jury, placed his right foot forward and raised his right hand in the classical orator's pose, then in a clear, powerful voice spoke.

"Lady and Gentlemen of the jury, let me ask you. What is a man? Is it the flesh, the bones, the blood that makes up his body? It cannot be, for I am sure you will agree with me that each of us is much more. We are defined by the relationships we form, the actions we take, and the agreements we make. The memory of these are permanent, surviving long after decay withers away all but our skeletal husk.

"Which is why I say, when my excellent colleague points out that his client is not Simon Unkler, your first thought should be that it does not matter. For while we accept that in body they are different people, we will prove that in all important matters they are one. We will show that Manny kin Nichino has a long relationship of working with Simon Unkler. Furthermore we will show that Manny kin Nichino sought out Simon Unkler. And then agreed to become Simon Unkler, while not requiring his friend to make a similar change.

"This agreement is what I ask you to hold close while you deliberate upon the matter before you. For just as our friends, our actions, and our words define us. So to do our responsibilities. We are our promises. But can those bind us if we live in a world where a person can change their self to someone else as easy as changing socks? Does this ability not provide the wrongdoer with a perfect escape? For would we not have captured Simon Unkler if Manny kin Nichino did not provide a decoy? Did Manny kin Nichino, in taking Simon's form, not allow the wrongdoer to escape from his responsibilities, from his promises? I say yes that he did. After all, do friends not try to help other?

"And if Manny kin Nichino's actions provided the perfect escape for Simon Unkler from his responsibilities, from his promises, why would friends of other wrongdoers not think they could get away with similar acts? Acts more desperate than the one we consider today. Murder or rape or kidnapping. Do you want people to provide a decoy and then say, but that really isn't me? Of course you do not.

"But that is what will happen if we allow Simon Unkler to escape with the help of Manny kin Nichino. People must realize that responsibilities owned and the promises made are part of assuming another's form.

"Lady and Gentlemen of the jury, Manny kin Nichino must be held accountable. I thank you."

For a moment he held his pose, making eye contact with each juror. Once more he offered a bow to the judge and then returned to his seat, not allowing a look of satisfaction to appear on his face or to spare a single glance for the defendant's table. If he did look, he would find Ashley as inscrutable as a tree and Manny terrified by the sense of the advocate's statement.

The smith's son, one-time soldier, current wagon guard and bigxie found himself thinking he should give up and take his medicine. For few would know the Sergeant's ability for wrongdoing better than he and yet his actions allowed the man to escape. Unfortunately, his memory then began a litany of poor decisions beyond taking the sergeant's form. He thought about his decision to cross the bridge into the Land Beyond. His decision to fight on behalf of the pixies. Or to underestimate the ingenuity of d'wharfs based on their appearance and his ability to fly. Combined together, he realized his decision making ability seemed on par with Good King Chuck of Sandlewood Bay, who cut down the nearby forest of sandlewood in order to cover the nearby bay and make the world's largest dance floor. Therefore, he stayed silent, hoping Ashley's statement would hold the same power as del Fia's.

Judge Bonecrusher, who perked up while he listened to the Duchess' advocate, now slumped back into his seat and said, "It'll be a hard act to follow, but it’s your turn Barrister Ashtonson."

Manny admitted the ashent possessed a surprising grace, which he showed in full as he moved to stand where del Fia previously stood. But unlike the Advocate from Were, Ashley did not possess the same strength and confidence in either his mannerisms or voice.

"Lady and Gentlemen of the jury, my colleague has raised an interesting question, what is a man? It is a question I have happily debated many a night over a mug of ale. However, my friends and I never found a satisfactory answer. It is too great a question for the matter before us. Instead we should leave it to philosophers. Today we need to focus on a simpler question. That being, why would you force Manny kin Nichino to live Simon Unkler's life?

"Why? Because, for a few days, my client used the man's form? There is no crime in that, as long as the transformation, the parties involved in the transformation, the time of the transformation, and the location of the transformation is registered. And it was, which seems a curious thing to do if the intent behind the change was to create a decoy. For such a registration is immediately available to the public. Here, in Were, in fact everywhere. Further, my client did not hide nor act furtively, my client never even used Unkler's name while in his form. Why? Because Manny kin Nichino never intended to serve as anybody's decoy. Now I admit Simon Unkler' probably intended to use my client as a decoy, but if anybody should be aware that the man is willing to abuse friendship, it should be those from the Duchy of Were.

"But the intent of one individual should never provide reason to punish another. Would we punish a landlord for a tenant's crime? Would you feel it fair to receive punishment for a friend's actions? Of course not. Then why would you hold Manny kin Nichino responsible for Simon Unkler's actions?

"Lady and Gentlemen of the jury, you should not."

It took all of Manny's control not to stand and clap. His doubts about his lawyer faded into the past. Triumphantly he looked towards del Fia, but the advocate did not look concerned. Instead he watched the jury, a smile on his face. This reminded Manny who opinion mattered in this issue and his gaze swung towards the twelve citizens of Fairetown, none of whose eyes watched the ashent, some with jaws seeking their chests.

Once more he followed someone else's, the entire jury's, stare.

And who Manny saw, just inside the courtroom, made him understood the dropping of jaws.

Beautiful! Gorgeous! Mesmerizing! Stunning! Captivating! So many adjectives, yet all diminished the truth. Despite his own recent past, Manny could not stop his eyes from their exploration. Maybe because she invited it, her pose almost demanded worship.

Where to start, if not her hair? Like the blackest night above mountains, it crowned her majesty. Long and lustrous, cascading in a wave down one side of her face and chest to play peek-a-boo with dark eyes that drew one into their depths and red lips that promised untold reward to those who accepted the invitation. It proved a difficult task, for Manny, to pull attention from the woman's perfect features, but the effort brought immediate reward. For it allowed him to focus on her body, like one seen only in dreams or in a mirror. A body not quite scandalously garbed in a red dress crafted by a Seamstrist of Maude's skill, for from graceful neck to red tipped fingers and toes not a wrinkle or seam distracted from the lush form covered by a silken caress.

He knew he should not gawk, too often the recipient of such worship. But something in the Lady in Red's pose, maybe the way she shone so bright, demanded his and everyone else's attention.

With all eyes upon her, the woman stood still a moment longer, smouldering and drawing breath from many in the room. Only then did she move towards the front of the courtroom. Flowing forward, red silk rippling to show the grace of the finest dancers. And though at the end of each step, her delicate sandals did little more than brush the wooden floor, Manny felt each deep in his heart.

Thump!

"Stop that, Brandon!"

The judge's command served as the antidote to the woman's spell. People saw the judge glare at a sheepish bailiff, who tried to halt one final stroke of his mallet upon his drum.

Thwup!

Most allowed themselves only a moment of distraction from the dark haired vision in their mix, but Manny fixated upon the court officers, even more horrible to his newly seared vision. Yet the difference acted as a balm and helped inure him to the new arrival when he again looked. Undaunted at the interrupted spell, confident in her ability to recast it whenever desired, she took two more steps and stopped at the railing to offer a sizzling smile for the jurors.

A smile almost matched by del Fia's own, as he stood. Offering her an extravagant bow, he said, "Your Honour, Lady and Gentlemen of the jury, may I please present my liege, Her Grace Cindi, Duchess of Were."

That Went Badly

As their party left the courthouse, Ruck kept a wary eye upon the bigxie, ready to spring into action at the first hint of flight. A wise precaution, for Manny quivered, in annoyance, as if just finished two sticks of candy. Yet the toes of his high-heeled shoes never quite left the ground, because escape would rid him of the needed audience upon whom he could vent his frustrations at the afternoon's events. At the Sisterhood's tent, he exploded.

"It's not fair," he said, echoing a complaint heard many times before and since. "Your opening statement was perfect, but do you think any of those idiots on the jury heard a word of it? Of course not. Not with the Duchess turning their brains into mush. And you got to know they planned for it to happen. Same with how every time you questioned a witness she turned up the heat and took control of their minds again. The judge shouldn't let her get away with that."

"But Manny, the judge performs song and dance numbers, you can't expect him to be bothered by showmanship. In fact, if I object, I know he will tell me it is one of his twenty-two non-foundational pillars of the modern trial system."

"But...but...it's not fair."

Maude said, "You'll just have to fight fire with fire."

"What? Oh no, that's not going to happen."

"You did it to Sir Steve?"

"He was some holy guy, which means he's always horny." Manny answered. "I didn't even have to try, just needed to put on my armour and show some skin. But that doesn't mean I can compete with the Duchess. She's gorgeous. A couple times her smile settled upon me and I barely stopped myself from telling the judge to let her have me."

Ashley said, "I think Maude is correct. Unfortunately our citizenry are not driven by logic. In fact we planned to appeal to their baser emotions, apparently so did they."

"And don't sell yourself short, Manny." Ruck said. "Amongst the guys who've seen both of you - and many popped into Judge Bonecrusher's courtroom this afternoon - there's a fairly equal divide between those who want the Duchess to take them home and do naughty things to them and those who want to take you home and do naughty things to you. Of course, most would be thrilled with either option."

His cheeks a colour to match the veins in his wings, Manny tried to speak, but nothing came to mind.

Ashley, who would nod agreement if he could, said, "It may be our best strategy to neutralize her impact. And if we want to win, we'll have to do something."

"It's harmless, Manny." Maude said. "And the only thing that needs ever come of it is your freedom."

"I'd feel dirty."

"One of them was cute."

Only one of the jurors fit that description, the lone woman. A waif with long, soft brunette hair and eyes of gigantic brown. Lovely in a different way than the Duchess, seemingly innocent, not conniving. "Maybe her, but why is she amongst the misfits?"

"Her name is Britney," Ruck said. "She's the High Priestess of Melvin, God of Bondage. Definitely in the camp of those who want to do naughty things to you. I tell you, curiosity about your kind once drew me to one of her services and I'll never look at you two-legged types in the same way. As for why she's amongst the misfits, where else would she find her clientele, I mean flock. Plus, they are not a big group, so she has lots of free time. And since the courts pay decent, she often serves as a juror."

No reason to feel surprise, strange now seemed the norm. Yet this bit of news brought the frustration, lurking beneath the thinnest veneer of civility, boiling to the top. "Of course she is, far be it for some woman to whom I am attracted should be normal. No, not in the Land Beyond. Not for goofy ole Manny. Honestly, it almost seems as if my life is the brunt of somebody's joke, some god, or more likely devil, who is amusing himself at my expense. Hey, I should have the world's most powerful sorceress flirt with Manny, maybe almost have her invite him into her bed, but before allowing that to happen, leave him stuck as a female. Oh look, let's have him meet three nymphomaniac pixies, make them as gorgeous as gorgeous can be and oh so ready to reward the heroic Manny when he rescues them from evil. Well that wouldn't be right, better to change him to be their mirror, poison him and require him to flee. A Duchess, wouldn't she be perfect? Wealth, beauty, power, willing to turn Manny into her boy toy, yet only until she devours him. Maybe he could be rescued by the sweet priestess, if only he were willing to let her tie him up in all types of kinky ways. At least I assume she wants to tie me up, Ruck? Of course, no answer is required, I can see it in your eye that she would be in charge. Ha ha ha, isn't that hilarious. Watch me make my manikin dance. Dance puppet, dance. Aren't I clever, aren't I amusing? Well let me just say, no you are not. You suck, whoever you are."

Ashent and lizard looked towards Maude as the rant drew to a close, they found her demeanor unfazed, as she asked, "How many nights since the snake visited, Manny?"

"Fortune above, Maude."

"Snake, what snake?" Ruck asked in alarm. "I hate those slimy, cold blooded bastards. The only good snake is one covered in a white sauce."

"Worry not, Constable Ankiel. It is not a true snake, only a devise Manny uses to relieve some stress. Would it be possible for you to spend tonight on the other side of the door?"

As two questioning glances turned towards him, Manny spent a moment hoping the earth would open and swallow him whole. When denied escape, he changed the conversation back to a more comfortable topic. He asked, "So this whole flirting thing, anybody able to offer me some advice on how to pull it off?"

"Well the dames love it when you fight over their mating rights. Course you can lose an eye that way, though in my case it was worth it. Candace, grrrrr."

"I doubt that is appropriate in this situation, Constable Ankiel. Nor, I suspect, is my own recommendation to perform the Dance of the Acorn. And since the only help I can offer is useless, let me take this opportunity to leave you all while I check in at my office. Rest well, tomorrow promises to be a long day."

Farewells exchanged, Manny said, "Maude, I need your help."

"You are an adult, I doubt I need to tell you how to flirt."

"If I knew how to flirt, I might have find a wife. And if I found a wife, I would be at home with her, instead of on this adventure with you."

"What about Sir Steve? You turned him into a puddle of pally goo. Or the big guard the other day?"

"As I said, blame that on how I look, not because I have any clue what to do. No way I can compete with the Duchess, who does."

"We just need to channel your inner pixie. Now come stand in front of the mirror. See the pretty girl? Try and flirt with her."

"That's me."

"I know it's you, but aren't you the one who is always saying she isn't you? So try it, be you and flirt with her. Go ahead, try it. Umm, do you need to go to the bathroom first?"

"No, why?"

"Well, the look on your face." Maude answered, pausing for a moment in surprise. "Was that your attempt at flirting? Oh dear, we have a lot of work to do. Try opening your eyes wider. No, not like you've just seen your great-grandmother return from the grave, more like pleased surprise to run into an old friend. Now, part your lips just a bit in a gentle smile."

"That will work on Britney." Ruck said. "It pouts, Oh poo, I'm lost. Can you take me home and look after me."

Trying to not move a single muscle, Manny said, "It makes my face hurt."

"Just relax, Manny." Maude said in a soothing voice.

"I keep thinking how stupid I feel making this face. So I am forcing myself to grin and wear it."

"Don't think."

"I should be a natural at that, but I can't stop. Do you have any magic that would help?"

"It is a risky thing to tamper with someone's mind. I dare not."

Ruck asked, "How about hypnotism?"

"Hypnotism," Maude said, her voice dripping with scorn.

"Just like all magic types, unwilling to consider anything outside of the realm of their expertise. I will have you know that I, Ruck the Super Duper, spent years on the road as a professional hypnotist. My people are great hypnotists."

"If you were so good at it, why are you an auxiliary gaol-keeper?"

"The travel, it got to me. And the prejudice. Few innkeepers are willing to hire a lizard hypnotist, many believe lizards eat what they hypnotize. Do I look like I could eat one of you two legged types."

Manny answered, "Maybe a small one."

"Maybe."

"And if you can eat a cow when you're in dragon form, a person shouldn't be much work."

"Damn, humble as I am, it's hard sometimes to deny how awesome I truly am."

"None of which explains what good it would do for me to cluck like a chicken."

"That is not the only suggestion hypnotists implant. In your case, I would overlay how you identify each juror, with a thought that makes you unconsciously smile. For example, I know Chuckster Freepen is on the jury, what is your immediate thought when you think of the old Chuckster?"

"Who?"

"He wears red pants and a lavender shirt."

"You mean, Unibrow!"

"Yep, that's our man, now think about puppies and kittens."

Maude said, "Hey, that's a nice smile, Manny. Use it. Oh, its gone."

"What if Manny's unconscious self equates unibrows with puppies and kittens? Or that brush over thing on Lester's head with arriving home after a long time away? Or other good things to the winners on the jury."

"That sound's dangerous. What about when I go back to being myself, will any suggestion you implant go away. Most of the guys I know could fit right in with the jury and I don't want to smile all lovey dovey at them."

"Maybe Ruck the Super Duper can tie them to your bigxie identity." Maude said, in challenge.

"Sure, I can do that."

"This another bad idea, isn't it?"

"Trust me, Manny. I'm a professional."

"Maude?"

"I'm sure you will enjoy the moments before finding out if the Duchess is truly a were-spider."

"Why me? Okay, how do we do this?"

Ruck twisted his neck back and forth, stretching in preparation. He stared direct at Manny and said, "Watch my tongue."

Hard not to watch the forked appendage, as it flicked in and out. And in a voice more sibilant than normal, Ruck chanted. "You are getting sleepy. You are getting sleepy. You are getting sleepy...."

Slowly the repulsion Manny felt disappeared. As his stomach settled, he felt a languor take over his body. For a startled moment he fought back against the chant. Almost ready to protest it would not work on him, he discovered he held a desire to believe. To find an easy answer, a trait of his that hindered as often as it helped. So his breath slowed and his eyes drooped, then closed.

Cluck like a Hot Chick

Only while in flight did Manny feel this glorious detachment from the earth; therefore, he must be flying. Fortune above, flying almost made it worth being a bigxie. The freedom offered, the wild abandon as he raced through the sky, all alone, the way the wind danced in his long hair.

But wait, he felt no breeze, something he felt even on the calmest day. And why did he sit, that not how you flew? Maybe because of the sounds. Not the shrieks of birds. Voices? Why did he hear voices? Who spoke? Definitely Maude, but she couldn't fly. And the other voice, yes, Ruck, the lizard from Fairetown. Ruck could fly. The gaol-keeper must have changed into his were form to take them for a ride. Manny wondered if the dragon was as magnificent as the lizard bragged. A thought chased aside by the question as to whether Maude enjoyed flying? He could ask, but their voices seemed so far away. He needed to concentrate.

"Don't worry, Manny should wake soon."

"Were you successful, Ruck?"

"Time will tell. But not before I starve to death, I need supper."

"We can all use a bite to eat. Why don't you go to the Finsters' tent and have them deliver, while I get everything ready for opening. Luckily Agnes often works mornings and nights, using the afternoon for training, so nobody should be surprised the tent was closed this afternoon."

"You'll have to go, I need to keep an eye on Manny."

With a chuckle, Maude said, "I can assure you Manny will not run away. In fact, we may never get him out of the tent."

So that's what a lizard's laugh sounded like. Kind of like Grandma Bobotte. But why were they laughing. And if they were still in the tent, why did he think he flew.

Hynotization!

Ahh, right. They planned to hypnotize him to flirt. Of course he had to leave the tent. Unless...

"Mahhh, wah di' ya dooo?"

"Well, I'll go get supper, while you deal with the sleeping beauty."

"Lucky me," Maude said. "Are you awake, Manny?"

"Why wone I wanna go ough?"

"I don't share Ruck's confidence in his hypnotism skills, so I decided to tweak things to help you grab the jury's attention, no matter how well you flirt."

"Don't unnerstand," Manny said, as his eyelids grew lighter.

"Remember your joke, from the first time you put on Grandmamma's armour?"

Manny's eye snapped open in horror. A brief look downwards had him fly out of his seat towards a mirror, hoping Maude hadn't...

"Well since you've already tried out the leather..."

Manny's jaw dropped, she had. Only one response seemed appropriate.

"Maaaauuuude."

A wistful smile came over the witch's face, as she said, "You sound just like my Liriel."

"When you tried to dress her like this?

"Probably when I would not let her to dress like that."

"See? It's indecent."

"Don't exaggerate, Manny. True it is attention grabbing; however, there are numerous differences between your and Liriel's situations. And before your challenge, I'll name those differences. You are an adult, while at the time she was not. But more important than age is maturity. I could not be sure, despite her protests, that she did not want to be caught. I know that is not the case for you."

"That's for sure."

"One final reason. Though Liriel is very pretty, she could not pull of that look. Manny, you are spectacular."

If only the vision in the mirror were someone else, willing to flirt with him. Because if, as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then Manny and Maude belonged to the same hive.

(somewhere in Arcie's head, a debate rages)

Internal Editor	Really. Really?
Arcie	I am the Vulcan of Wordplay, out of my way as I stoop upon my keyboard.
Internal Editor	It's spelt Falcon.
Arcie	Spock off, I need to tell everyone about Manny's sexy new look.
Internal Editor	Perv.
Arcie	Hey! You enjoyed the research as much as I did.
Internal Editor	3 Wishes + Rachel Bernstein = Research?
Arcie	You know it.

If open to ridicule, one could say his new outfit was similar to his last. Still blue, but now a cornflower blue to match his eyes, which could only be obtained through the rarest dyes. Perfect for the satin from which the dress now appeared made. A combination he assumed too expensive, with no paying customer, if not mitigated by the small amount of material required in the dress's construction. Skirts that once reached his knees, now reigned victorious over the kilt of his armour in a competition to show as much bigxie thigh as possible, right to his knees, below which his white stockings had shrunk, kept in place by a matching blue ribbon threaded through the welt and tied into a pretty bow at the back of each calf. Victory made more daring by the transformation of his underskirts into a frothy confection of lace, which forced his overskirts and the small white apron, flamboyantly tied at his waist and embroidered with a single pink rose, to angle outwards instead of draping the short distance they could.

Yet this hardly registered in his mind, as he stared at his top. Where once it buttoned to his neck, only a blue bowed, lace choker remained. Below which a great swath of cloth appeared ripped away from his bodice. Luckily, instead of some muscle bound stranger with wind-blown hair acting as the ripper, the material owed its removal to a highly skilled seamstrist. So everything needing coverage, remained covered. Unfortunately, the lace trimmed, square, low cut neckline, combined with boning added to the torso of the bodice, put in as little effort at protection as required. Even as someone intimately familiar with the partially hidden treasures, Manny found them distracting, more hypnotic than Ruck's tongue.

Truly terrifying.

"I can't go out looking like this. Nobody's big enough to carry the stick needed to beat them off."

"Judge Bonecrusher could wield a large stick and the justice system he represents wields a larger one."

"But I have to get to his courtroom first."

"Don't worry, I made you a cape."

"But don't you think it's too much?" Manny asked, waving the fingers of his left hand vaguely at the bottom of his skirts while frantically circling his right hand before his chest.

"Definitely. But that was my goal. And did I ever succeed."

"Maybe we should spread out the surprise. How about just the skirt tomorrow?"

"The skirt is cute."

"I don't know about cute. But I'm somewhat used to it, since the kilt of my armour is almost as bad. Though I worry my shants won't fulfill their promise to stay unseen when I sit."

"That worried me too. So I made them smaller."

"I noticed." Manny said in a prim voice, not mentioning their unwanted migration from when he flew out of the chair to the mirror.

"Though it wouldn't hurt for you to practice sitting like a young lady instead of a drunken soldier. Here, sit again and I'll show you what to do. Yes, yes, I realize the seat is cold, but on a positive note you won't wrinkle your underskirts if you're not sitting on them. Why yes, people always mention my great sense of humour. Now cross your legs. Not at your knees, silly. Or do you want for the jurors to look, the jurors to chant, let's all look at Manny's undershants? Umm, with those heels you'll need angle your legs, otherwise your skirts will poof up. Yes. Just like that. And, tomorrow, if you angle them towards the jury it will appear quite flirtatious."

"Hey!"

"What's the matter, I thought you agreed to flirt."

"I did, I will. But we were talking about toning down my outfit."

"Well you were, I think it is perfect. Think of it like preparing for battle. If your regiment planned a secret strategy that could turn the tide of battle in your favour, would they hold back?"

Foreseeing another lost argument, Manny's answer held a hint of sullenness. "Who knows what stupid things officers will do."

"Well we have a chance to steal a march on the duchess. But you can guarantee she will respond in kind the day after tomorrow."

Unable to deny the, well not exactly, wisdom of her proposal, Manny rallied in another direction. "At a minimum, we should check with Maybelline. Maybe this outfit will turn off the jury."

"Manny, Manny, Manny. You can't honestly tell me that sexy will bother the jury? And after serving as personal seamstrist to Tinka's family longer than you’ve been alive, I don't need some foci to tell me how to dress you sexily."

"I guess."

"But you did give me an idea. You never had a chance to wear the party dress I made for you at the triplets request. Maybe that would work better for tomorrow?"

"You know, the longer I wear this one, the more I like it."

"I suspected that might be the case."

"All Knowing Googly Moogly, is this your angel I see before me, come to draw me to your breast?"

Spinning in his chair, Manny saw Ruck beside a familiar looking fellow holding a basket. Mouth gaping, after his exclamation, his dumb stuck silence allowed Ruck to say, "I decided against Finsters, when I saw Finster the Younger manning their tent today. Instead I decided upon Skichukovs. They have these amazing cheese and potato perogies you need to taste to believe. Also I knew they deliver. Speaking of which, this is Ivan. You may think you recognize him, but you're thinking about his younger brother, Dougie, whose on the jury."

As the large nosed, curly haired, swarthy resemblance to the third juror from the left in the back row clicked home, another thought quickly replaced it. Hearkening back to a day before the village chose him to join the Count of Burgshirevale’s levy, when he still expected to follow his father into blacksmithing. A lovely summer day when a father released his distracted son from the smithy, giving him the afternoon to stay a boy instead of preparing to become a man. Yet an afternoon that left Manny feeling older, in a good way, than ever before. And though in time he learned Sally Cooper spent the afternoon with him with the intention of making Ellis the Mayor's Son jealous, a successful ploy that led to multiple bumps and bruises when Ellis and friends jumped the blacksmith's son, he would always look back on the day with fondness. He remembered the softness of her hand as he held it, the wonder of first kisses, and the power in his fists which both fortunately and unfortunately taught the girls not to use him in such a role.

This memory brought a smile to his face. Full of whimsy and fond remembrances, yet altogether adorable, the warmth of the bigxie smile induced a thaw in Ivan's mind. The soreness of his back and feet, from working in front of a burning fire all day, the bitterness that the court summoned Dougie instead of him for possible jury duty, and the frustration at making a delivery for a stinking lizard all washed away. In it's place blossomed a grin at least as sincere if maybe somewhat more lecherous and less attractive.

"Well I'll be snackered," Maude said in a murmur. "The lizard did it."

Two Choices

"Today will be a good day!"

On their own volition, those words sprang from Manny's mouth upon waking the next morning. Surprised by his own positivity, he attempted to puzzle out what brought it about. Maybe, with this the second day of an expected three day trial, he doubted today could end worse than yesterday. Also he could not deny the value of a good night's sleep, achieved once he decided to follow Maude's recommendation to relieve his stress in order to stop thinking about Maude's recommendation on how to relieve his stress. And if the relief involved visualization of the Duchess Cindi and High Priestess Britney having their way with a blonde pixie, tangled in a web, while wearing a blue dress with a poofy skirt and a cleavage enhancing bodice, well nobody needed to know.

However, the main reason for his almost enthusiasm resulted from being given a role to play. Admittedly, a role neither he nor anybody he knew from the land beyond The Land Beyond would ever expect. But with the help of whatever hypnotism Ruck performed, he thought he could pull it off. After all he did so last night, even while gibbering with panic inside his head.

Ivan proved only the first of the prior night's conquests. For before he left, Maude told him about that all men's wear was on sale, and asking if he could spread the word for here her assistant, Manny. A title at which our bigxie hero balked, even when the seamstrist first fed him some line about flirtation practice. When that failed, Maude guilted him into agreement, complaining that she did not like to work nights, but needed to do after the afternoon at the courthouse.

Begrudgingly, Manny gave in. And soon he had no time to think about anything other than dressing Ivan's large circle of acquaintances, while Maude used her speak-in-his-mind trick to inform him which shirt or pants would be best for each client. Run off his feet, he flew about the tent, diving into different chests to find Maude's choice and delivered it mostly with a smile, brought on by sundry memories, some he did not know existed. By the end of the night, Maude could not contain her glee at the number of sales and Manny found himself too tired to care where a customer's eyes lingered. In ways, he found it similar to how the Baron made them weight their spears and shields for practice.

Even the walk to the courthouse occurred at a good time of day for Manny’s confidence. Well after the prior night’s carousers staggered into their bedrolls and soon after those who worked began their day, leaving few people on the street. He hardly needed the promised cape, which cleverly gave his wings freedom while hiding all but his knee high stockings and shoes. If only Maude would let him temporarily ignore what the cape hid.

"For maximum impact, you should hold off removing your cape as long as possible."

"What? You mean, like make a show of it?"

"Exactly, that's perfect."

"Maude, the judge would never allow it."

"The same judge who let the Duchess slink into the courtroom yesterday?"

"Well..."

"Not much bothers ole Bonecrusher." Ruck said.

Maude said, "Manny, I'll nudge you when I think the time is right. You stand, remove your cape, spring our surprise, and sit in that sexy manner we practiced last night. And don't worry about getting too warm, I used a light linen for you cape."

"I can assure you, I wasn't worried about that."

"Excellent, then we have a plan."

Deciding not to fight, Manny said, "Although, it won't be much of a surprise. Quite a few people saw me last night."

"And not one of them left without a purchase. Once Agnes finds out, she'll try to steal you away to work as her shop girl."

"She would have to convince me first. And that's not happening." Manny said, conviction in his voice.

"You really should consider it. You're a natural."

"I'm not a natural, it's because of this surprise outfit. Which probably isn't a surprise anymore, since they likely babbled about it to everyone."

"Luckily they did, which kept us in a steady stream of customers. But I doubt any share the same circles as the Duchess."

"How about her henchmen?"

"Henchweres," Ruck said, a sibilant snarl in his voice. "I doubt not they would be in the dives and dens your customers retreated to after their shopping. But they would be there to spread their cursed lies about beastweres, not to listen to the ramblings of humans, whom they respect only slightly more."

Maude shrugged and said, "No use worrying about it now? We will just have to hope for the best."

Taking silence for consent, the witch continued to the courthouse. Almost there, she asked, "What is that shouting?"

"Sounds like someone's yelling to shop at the faire," Ruck answered.

"Who would hire a barker for something so obvious?"

In the square in front of the courthouse they found the answer. In shock, Manny muttered his favourite exclamation, "Fortune above."

There in the middle of the square, resplendent, or at least presentable, in their new clothes stood a number of customers from the previous night. Some of whom thrust signs into the air above their heads, but all of whom chanted, "Free the Shop Fairy! Free the Shop Fairy! Free the Shop Fairy! Free the Shop Fairy!"

Maude said, "I think they're shouting about you."

If Ruck could snort, he would. Instead he said, "Of course they’re shouting about Manny."

"I'm not a fairy!"

"None of those idiots are considered amongst the town's experts in fae."

Maude said, "Someone's a grumpy lizard this morning."

"Sorry, I just didn't sleep so good last night. The floor isn't as comfortable in the hall and bigxie stress relief is rather loud."

Manny ignored the comment, one that would normally turn his face red, watching the mob stampeded towards the object of their infatuation, him. Offered a chance to dispel his morning truculence, Ruck scurried in front of seamstrist and shop bigxie. There he rose upon his hind legs and hissed at the arrivals who skidded to a stop, those in the back plowing into those in front.

"If you know what's good for ya, don't be thinking about taking my prisoner."

Ivan Skichukov found himself nominated spokesman, through the simple act of failing to hold his place when those behind him gave a shove. He said, "We's weren't gonna steal her, Ruck. We's here to offer support. You know against the turraranicle weres from the Duchy of Were that you talk about."

"And while wearing your new clothes. Don't they look handsome, Manny?"

Caught in that place where only politeness is allowed, Manny said, "They do."

"I bet you're the envy of your friends? Happily for them the Shop Fairy and my sale continues tonight. That is, if we don't lose the trial today."

"We'll never let them take her." The crowd roared.

"You are a brave bunch, but we promised to follow the judgment of the court. A court which we must hasten towards."

Resuming their journey, now trailed by the sign waving group, Manny whispered, "Why encourage them, Maude?"

"The instructors at Seamstrist School always stressed the importance of marketing. I can't help myself."

"I know."

"It's part of my charm."

Unlike the previous day, they found the Duchess and her party already there. A group grown well beyond Duchess and advocate, which now included clerks, guards, maids, nobles, and various functionaries from the Duchy of Were, each member's worthiness measured by how close they sat behind the Duchess. In comparison, Manny's supporters were a ragtag bunch, but ones he now happily accepted. Though that happiness could be a result of what the Duchess wore. A midnight blue dress, in which she appeared gorgeous and sexy, but varied little from the red number of the day before. Maude's surprise remained in play.

Ignoring those at the other table, who in turn ignored them, they sat. Ashley in the leftmost seat, Maude in the middle, and Manny on the right, closest to the jury who soon appeared, herded to their seats by Brenden the Orc Bailiff. Who joined his sister, Jennifer, on either side of the judge's door, where they glowered at anyone who dared to murmur a word. This continued until some signal caused him to clear his throat and say, “Everybody rise and welcome the Sultan of Swinghome, the Monster in the Closet, the Putter of the Sham in the Shama Lama Ding Dong, the nine hundredth and thirty eighth most eligible bachelor in the Land Beyond, Justice Bufort T. Bonecrusher.”

No explosion of smoke welcomed the judge this time.

(The door opens and judge steps calmly through, hands in the sleeves of his robe, and walks to stand in front of the desk. Orcs follow him, to stand to either side and just a bit behind him.

Two Choices
(Judge and Orcs)

Bailiff and Clerk	(begin to hum, swaying back and forth, hands facing the audience)
Judge Bonecrusher	(swaying along with the orcs)
	Well, You've got two choices,
	'fore all fairethings are claimed.
	Two choices, justice sees them the same.
	Let me tell you 'bout, your first lady.

	Well, she's sweet and kind.
	Hints at good like a lady should.
	And makes you want to.
	You really want to, you want to let her go.

	Ho-ho-ho (orcs repeat - ho-ho-ho) you want her so (orcs repeat - want her so)
	And we'll hear everything we can
	To let her go.

	Well, You've got two choices,
	'fore all fairethinga are claimed.
	Two choices, justice sees them the same.
	Let me tell you 'bout, your second lady.

	Ya know she promises bad.
	Makes you glad. makes you cry,
	But still you can't deny that you want her
	You really, really want to, give him to her.
	Ho-ho-ho (orcs repeat - ho-ho-ho) you want her so (orcs repeat - want her so)
	And we'll hear everything we can
	To make it so.

	Well, You've got two choices,
	'fore all fairethinga are claimed.
	Two choices, justice sees them the same.

	Two choices 'fore all fairethinga are claimed...

(The judge then walks to his desk to sit, while the orcs resume their positions.)

The sober tone of the song did not invite any audience participation. Even when the song came to an end it drew no applause, barely any visible response. However, behind the defendant's table, Maude nudged Manny's in the side. Receiving no response, her target distractedly smiling at a flustered juror who brought to mind his mother's delicious spiced bread, the witch elbowed him.

Jarred from him reverie, Manny realized the reason for the ache in his side. Almost he balked, but he remembered his commitment to the plan and steeled his nerves. Internally chanting, 'don't think, don't think', a mantra that served him well during many a battle, he reached to his neck to undo the buttons that held the cape closed. With the second one following the first, he flowed out of his chair as he undid the last in a manner only possible for someone as comfortable in the air as on the ground. Then in a swoosh he removed the cape off and draped it over this seat, which required a tiny bend at his waist and ensured each jurors noticed his ruffled white underskirts.

"Take it off, Shop Fairy! Take it all off!"

"Fergus, what have I told you about shouting in my court?" Judge Bonecrusher said, glaring over the top of Manny's head.

"Don't do it." A voice meeker than it's previous shout said.

"Correct! Or Jennifer won't let you take her to the next dance. And you, young lady, do you have a problem?"

Not quite wilting back into his seat in response to the judge's question, not wanting to expose his shants, Manny asked as much as said, "I was warm?"

"Hopefully you do not get cold in your lovely new dress. Isn't the defendant's dress pretty, Advocate del Fia?"

"It is, Your Honour," del Fia answered, a hint of a smile on his face at the defense's actions.

"Definitely a pair of beauties we have before us. Though I do hope they will let the jury pay some attention to the witness box." Bonecrusher said, not quite censuring the two sides.

As for the jury, they decided with nobody in the witness box they could ignore it. Instead some looked towards the Duchess to see her eyes gleam competitively with seductive entreaty. While others attempted to conjure a breeze to blow away the clouds of bigxie underskirts.

Trial by ( )

"If everybody is now comfortable? Good. Let us start with the morning session. Advocate, please call your next witness."

Before del Fia could speak, another voice rang out from the audience. "Your Honour, before the esteemed counsel from Were does that, I need to bring a matter of precedence before the court."

These words announced the arrival of a tall woman, who confidently strode between the opponents' tables to stand before the judge, trailed by a harried youth. The judge, based upon the grin of appreciation upon his face, felt less surprise at the interruption than anyone else.

"Solicitor Yzerbelle, to what do we owe your presence?"

"Judge Bonecrusher, so good to see you again," the solicitor said.

In that moment, a matter of confusion became clear in Manny's mind. That matter of who had interrupted? Far from a baritone, but definitely a man's voice. Though not the youth's voice, he did not portray the boldness necessary to interrupt. But when the solicitor answered, the same confident voice rang out. And when the solicitor turned, Manny now believed he saw a man.

However, appearance made it far from a sure thing. Solicitor Yzerbelle's face showed a fine bone structure, with red lips, bright green eyes, and a nose bordering on delicate. Pretty, rather than handsome, made more so by a gleam of confidence. Though not arrogance, instead it stemmed from someone who just liked himself. Manny also now recognized Yzerbelle wore a stylized version of uniform worn by the judge and the other lawyers, but seeming to pay homage to both he and the duchess. For the solicitor's robe mimicked the duchess' dress, though in his case it draped to display a form as slender as a willent. And for a wig, little did it differ from what Manny displayed when he undid his hair from his normal ponytail.

"Messer Yzerbelle is one of my best customers," Maude whispered to Manny. "We'll be stopping at his manor after we leave Fairetown."

Overhearing this, the solicitor smiled and said, "I wait in anticipation, since I so look forward to your visits, Seamstrist Zbornak. But at the moment I cannot allow myself to be distracted by such pleasant thoughts. Not while I act on behalf of the family in this important matter."

"Yes, please tell us why you interrupt this court of law," Advocate del Fia said, belligerence at the interruption in the tone of his voice. Belligerence not felt by his client, who, distracted from playing with the jury, stared raptly at the new arrival.

"I am here on behalf of the Vineyards of Xavier Yzerbelle."

"We are familiar with the name, in fact they supply of the Duchess's favourite wines. Though I am confused as to what role they could play in the matter before the court today?"

"If you will allow me, Advocate del Fia, I will provide an answer." Receiving a nod, Solicitor Yzerbelle continued. "Though not figuratively, I am brought to you by four wagons, more specifically the contents of those wagons and the man who led that wagon train. For each wagon held four casks of Yzerbelle's finest, Chateau de Belle. Wagon's destined for the Ducal Palace in Angharee, under the command of one Simon Unkler."

Stirred somewhat from her distraction, Duchess Cindi asked, "Do you mean the ones Simon gifted to me when he proposed?"

"The same, your Gracefulness. And while such a gift barely begins to offer you proper homage, those casks were not Unkler's to give away. He did not own them, instead he worked for Vineyards and was to sell them for the best price possible."

Neither flirtation nor distraction showed in the duchess's eyes as she asked, "He worked for Yzerbelle's? He introduced himself as Simon Unkler, Duke Plicity, a nobleman from the other side of the Bridge."

The fear that an angry duchess may go were, more than the sanctity of the court, stopped Manny from bursting out in laughter. Since seeing her the day before, he wondered how the former quartermaster became her betrothed. To learn that Unkler did it using a persona created, amongst great laughter, around the campfires of the regiment caused him to feel an admiration that warred with his anger. It also caused him to scribble a note to Ashley, proposing a question for another witness, on del Fia's submitted list, whom he no longer dreaded quite as much.

Unaware of the thoughts inside the defendant's head, Yzerbelle answered the duchess. "Great is the man's ability to lie. Lies which made each of us his victim. Either as employer, friend, or lover. Although whether that is a matter for the courts, I am not sure."

"Which makes it even more difficult to understand your matter of precedence, Solicitor Yzerbelle." Advocate del Fia said, placing a calming hand upon his client's forearm.

"For a matter which does belong before the courts, the theft of sixteen casks of wine. Though worry not, we place no blame upon the Duchy of Were. No, Simon Unkler bears all responsibility for this crime. And now it appears a Simon Unkler may become available for punishment, depending upon what this court decides."

A new worry blossomed in Manny's mind. He nervously look towards Ashley, but before the ashent could rise in protest, an unexpected party did so, though not for them.

del Fia said, "Your Honour, if I understand Solicitor Yzerbelle's premise correctly, it will force me into an untenable position. If I prosecute my case to the full extent of my ability, my assured victory will be useless. For when I prove Manny kin Nichino should inherit the responsibilities of Simon Unkler, it will transform him into a defendant at a trial of theft, rather than the luckiest man in the Land Beyond."

The judge asked, "If we are to believe your own premise, Advocate. Would not this alleged theft be one such responsibility to inherit?"

"If the jury is required to judge based on the entirety of Unkler's life, I suppose that would be true, Your Honour. However, that is beyond the scope which we seek to prove. Instead, we contend that the defendant should only assume those responsibilities his actions allowed Unkler to dodge. I am not aware that the Vineyards of Xavier Yzerbelle lodged any complaint or sought the capture of Unkler before the actions of Duchess of Were resulted in this trial. And since Unkler faced no such threat from the Yzerbelles before he made his escaped, it is not an responsibility Manny kin Nichino helped him dodge."

Yzerbelle said, "We only learned of the theft two days ago, when our wagon teams returned from Angharee."

"Which further proves my point."

"This is all rather tenuous and frivolous, borderline preposterous, Advocate del Fia." Judge Bonecrusher said. "It is as if you wish to have your suckling piglet and eat it too."

"Some may say that, Your Honour. But on one hand I argue for a result that most men would consider a blessing, while on the other I argue for its loss." del Fia said.

"Nay, though my father might consider that punishment if we captured the real Simon Unkler; however, we only seek compensation, probably in the form of work, from this pretend Simon Unkler you seek to create."

The duchess leaned over to whisper in her attorney's ear, who said, "We could offer you that compensation, Solicitor Yzerbelle."

"If only it were that simple, Advocate del Fia. But would that deter future thieves?"

"Then I am left with my conundrum."

"Your Honour, my worthy colleague raises a valid point." Yzerbelle said. "A point I expected someone of his competency to identify. It is why I would like to prove offer an alternative solution."

"We are listening."

"Yes, we are listening too." Ashley said, worrying the antagonism between the others may disappear and lead to a partnership.

"If you’ve listened to the Faire's crier, you will know the Everlong Summer Wine Jamboree begins in four days. As is tradition, our vineyard will sponsor the opening night. And while an amazing night of entertainment is already planned, there is no reason we cannot make it better. Therefore, I propose that instead of continuing the trial in this court, we move it to that night? There, if the Duchy of Were wins, the most beautiful duchess will have her husband. Otherwise the defendant is set free. How will we will determine the victor, by putting the matter before a jury pool to include all, be they from here, Were, or anywhere. On that night, we will conduct a Trial by Water."

"That's barbaric." Ashley said in protest.

del Fia agreed, saying, "Your Honour, I think enough of our time has been wasted by this matter."

"Now counselors, don't be hasty. Let us hear the solicitor out." The judge said.

"Thank you, Your Honour. If you would, Gaston? Hold it up, boy, it won't bite."

This last he directed at the youth, who reached into the pouch he carried and pulled forth a bundle of white cloth. Eyes wide with embarrassment, Gaston dropped the pouch to the floor, then with both hands held the item to hang before him. That item, a thin, cotton shift upon which someone had embroidered those letters that symbolize the Vineyards of Xavier Yzerbelle.

"My pardon for the shoddy work. When necessary, I am sure that Seamstrist Zbornak will prepare better ones for the trial. A trial performed at the stroke of midnight, when the plaintiff and defendant, both dressed in their special shifts, will appear before the jury of the masses. At that point we will drench each in water and judge who is most worthy, as indicated by the level of applause when I hold my hand above each head."

Ever since Maude's wardrobe modifications, a specific part of Manny's current anatomy occupied the forefront of his mind and edge of his vision. This combined with a memory of how a rainstorm caused a drastic change in the drape of his white robe. Involuntarily he looked first downwards and then across at the duchess, whose face showed confusion, while he performed a mental comparison. Embarrassing if caught, but another made the same connection as he and caused a distraction

"Woohoo, a trial by water. Water! Water! Water! Ack!"

This last, along with the sound of a falling chair resulted from the bailiff, his mallets in hand, rushing towards the two tables.

"The judge warned you, Fergus." Brendan said in a growl.

"I forgot, Brenden. Honest."

Protest ineffective, Fergus ran from the courtroom, the bailiff close on his heels. At which moment, the duchess fully understood what the solicitor proposed, her eyes following a mirrored path to Manny's a moment before.

"I won't do it."

"Of course you won't, Milady. Solicitor Yzerbelle, how could you propose something so beneath the Duchess's dignity?"

"We would allow a champion in your place, Duchess. Though your ability to find one worthier than yourself for this trial, truly boggles my mind."

With the duchess caught between outrage and appreciation of the flattery, Manny said, "I won't do it either."

"I told you neither would agree to your idea, Solicitor Yzerbelle. So present mine."

"You are astute as ever, Judge Bonecrusher. But I doubt they will agree to a Trial by Combat."

"Which involves?" del Fia asked, dreading the answer.

The judge excitedly answered, "I was thinking that the Yzerbelle's could provide one of the tubs in which they crush their grapes. Fill it with said grapes, inside of which the plaintiff and defendant can fight, with the first to pin her competitor twice winning."

Seeing the looks directed at him from both tables, he said, "You're going to make me sit through the rest of the trial, aren't you? How about a Trial by Fire, we can see who can dance around a bonfire the longest? No? Damn it, I wanted to go fishing this afternoon."

Yzerbelle said "It looks like we may need to discuss your previous offer, Duchess. May we get together at lunch to negotiate a price?"

Instead of answering the question, she asked, "Do you always dress is such attractive fashion, Solicitor Yzerbelle?"

"Alas, no. Only for the most important matters. When I am before the courts, when I serve as patron of the arts, and during seduction."

Returning his look with one as smoky as his own, she said, "I very much look forward to lunch."

Offering an extravagant bow in her direction, Yzerbelle gestured for Gaston to precede him and sauntered from the room. An extra something in his walk, in case the eyes of his lunch date followed.

They did.

A Quack and a Knob

Standing to call his next witness, del Fia's cocked his head in the direction of an open window. Hearing a faint cry of, 'stop chasing me,' he asked, "Do we need to wait for the return of your bailiff before we continue?"

A red eyed glare drifted from face to face, as the judge said, "Only if any people are worried that I cannot handle any problems? Anybody? No? Please carry on, Advocate."

"Your Honour, I call Doctor Arnow Horschach to the stand."

Amongst all the individuals Manny met, since his arrival in the Land Beyond, he could not say the Doctor ranked as the strangest. Though when he met with the man, arranged three afternoons earlier by the plaintiff, he did so confused as to why and left more so. A meeting where the doctor asked him all manner of random questions, few of which seemed linked to the others.

This was the fellow, scrawny and with a shock of curly hair, who took the stand and swore his oath to tell the truth.

"Doctor Horschach, is here to offer us his learned opinion on the defendant's true desires in this matter. Please, Doctor, could you explain your qualifications that allow you to perform this evaluation?"

"Of course, Advocate del Fia. I apprenticed and studied beneath the great Doctor Anatidae Cawtar at the Steerford University, where I obtained my Doctorate in Skulldiggery."

"I went to Steerford as well."

"Of that, I am more than aware, Your Honour. I was there when you led our boys to three straight championships over the University of Grantabridge in the yearly hide and seek contest."

"Those were the days."

"They were, Your Honour. After graduation, I taught for a number of years at the school, while developing the Horschach test."

"The what test, Doctor?" Judge Bonecrusher asked.

"It is a test that allows a skilled practitioner to evaluate a subject and determine how his mind works. It is performed by presenting the subject with a number of specific images and interpreting his or her response, not only the words said, but the time it takes to come up with those words, and many other factors.

Thinking of the test, Manny remembered it as more confusing than the questions. Each time the Doctor presented an image, always a shadow puppet upon the wall, he stated the animal's name. However, that did not stop the doctor from mumbling things, such as; how interesting, that’s a surprise, and so forth, almost as if he learned the answers to life's mysteries. It took all of Manny’s restraint not to strangle the man before the meeting ended.

"So with this test, you can determine whether a person is crazy?"

"Please, Your Honour, we in the profession prefer the term barmy. Still that is not the goal of my test, which seeks to understand how a person perceives reality and how they think."

Unable to hide disbelief, Judge Bonecrusher asked, "Really?"

"Many studies have proven it so, Your Honour. There are many who seek out my skills. Chief among those is King Lawrence of the Sea of Enn Enn, who often asks me to evaluate those who come to him with their problems."

"King Lawrence?" The judge asked, more than a bit of awe in his voice. "They say he has his finger on the pulse of the world."

"I do not doubt it, Your Honour."

"Well if you're good enough for King Lawrence, your good enough for us. Ask your questions, Advocate."

The next two hours of questions from Advocate del Fia and long winded responses from the Doctor Horschach proved more mind numbing than an attempt to count one's eyelashes without a mirror. The judge spent much of the time polishing his warhammer. The Duchess who remained distracted from Solicitor Yzerbelle's visit, did not resume her prior day's flirtations. And without this competition, Manny saw no need to engage in any counter-flirtation. Instead he tried to ignore the jurors, who spent an inordinate amount of time studying the cut of his bodice. Throughout, most of the questions, the only distraction occurred when a triumphant and sad Brendan returned to the court, the reason for these mixed emotions apparent in the pieces of broken mallet he held in each hand. Finally del Fia asked a question that returned everyone’s attention to the stand.

"Doctor, between the form which the defendant currently inhabits and that of Simon Unkler's, which would be his preference?"

"Despite appearance, the defendant has the spirit and inclinations of a male. With constant diligence he may continue to cope as he is now, but he would be happier as Simon Unkler."

"And what would be the defendants thoughts about marrying the Duchess."

"He would worry that he is not good enough for her, though it would be a fantasy come true."

"So it would be a good thing for the defendant?"

"That is my clinically determined opinion."

"Thank you, Doctor Horschach. Your Honour, no further questions."

"Barrister Ashtonson, your witness." Judge Bonecrusher said.

Ashley said, "Thank you, Your Honour. Doctor Horschach, you say my client can cope as he is. How long will he be able to do so before going barmy?"

"I am unwilling to unequivocally state your client will go barmy, if he stays as is. The defendant is a steadfast sort, almost plodding by nature, which will act as a counter. However, if he stays in this form, I expect mental cracks to form."

"How long before these cracks occur."

Horschach, almost primly, said, "I cannot say with any certainty."

"Within two weeks?"

"No, not that fast."

"Four weeks?"

"Still unlikely."

"Well my client will be returned to his natural form within four weeks." Ashley said. "Between Simon Unkler's form and his own, which would be his preference?"

Doctor Horschach paused, but said, "His own."

"Thank you, Doctor Horschach. Your Honour, I too have no further questions."

del Fia said, "Your Honour, I have additional questions."

"Will they be less boring than before?"

"I believe so, Your Honour."

Shaking his head, the judge said, "Wrong answer, Advocate. If you said, 'No, Your Honour,' I would have allowed them. Since you didn’t, Doctor Horschach, you may leave the stand. And, Advocate, you may call your next witness."

"Your Honour, I call Sued Bway to the stand."

When Ashley showed Manny a list of the plaintiff’s potential jurors, this name jumped out, because it belonged to someone he knew. Had known since they were both boys in Ganfree. Though never not as friends.

Truth told, Bway did not make any friends. This despite many advantages over Manny. Wealthy by Ganfree standards, his parents owned a number of bakeries throughout the County of Burgshirevale that sold everybody's favourite long bun and toppings, so he never worked and could spend his days in play. Furthermore, along with his older sister and brother, he inherited their parents dark good looks. However, unlike those siblings he never learned their common sense or humility. Arrogant, whiny, annoying, conniving, deceitful and paranoid. Sued could serve as the High Aputzle to the God of Knobs.

The truest statement of Bway's worth came when the village picked the disposable twenty for their levy, in which he was numbered. This despite his parent’s ability to stop his inclusion. The result, bitterness added to Sued's litany of charms.

Yet he too found a place, though not on the shield wall. On the shield wall you needed to trust the guys beside you to hold his position and nobody trusted Sued to hold his place in the latrine line. However, despite rarely sullying his hands with flour in one of the family's shops, he proved a natural baker and the baker's hours minimized his contact with others. Like Manny, he received an offer from the Beige Baron after the Battle of Muddy Creek, where Bway came under the command of one Sergeant Simon Unkler, who manipulated him with the greatest of ease.

Under Unkler, Sued achieved his greatest success. During a campaign in Brevia, a large enemy army cut the regiment off from their allies. Knowing they would be forced into battle the next day, most settled down for their final night sleep; however, Bway snuck into the enemy's camp and mixed a concoction of his own making into their barrels of flour. Not a poison to kill, the Baron would not countenance that even to save what he held most dear, but it did give most of the enemy soldiers, who ate biscuits for breakfast, the trots. Thus debilitated, they could not stop a break out by the Baron's professionals, nor maintain the blistering pace of the regiment's march. So for a time, he was the regiment's hero, the Biscuit Artist, not the baker called Sue.

It did not last.

Then some men in the regiment showed symptoms of deshal usage. The Baron put Lieutenant Finkle on the job. Many figured the hunt would lead to Sergeant Unkler, but when Finkle raided the back room of a nearby inn they found only an open window. Manny, because of his size, accompanied the Lieutenant on the raid; therefore, he reached the window first and saw a group of men running away, one who looked like Bway. But in the night, he could not swear to that fact. Nor did the Baron ask him to do so, satisfied the raid seemed to scare the drug ring out of business.

Bway, once he heard of Manny's accusation, did not forget. The slight disdain he always felt towards his fellow Ganfree outcast gave way to unbridled hate. Little wonder he sought to play a role in Manny's downfall.

The time since the regiment ended appeared to have agreed with Bway. Taking the stand he appeared a prosperous merchant, but the look on his face defined Sued Bway perfectly. A combination of a sneer and leer as he stared at his feminized foe. Manny, in turn, did not wilt nor blush beneath this sleer. He did stop himself from thrusting his chest out, realizing, just in time, how much less pugnacious this would appear than in the past. Rather he stared back, his face unconsciously adopting the expression of contempt achievable only by pretty girls.

del Fia said, "Your Honour, Master Bway is the Court Apothecary in Angharee; however, he knew both Manny kin Nichino and Simon Unkler outside the Land Beyond. Can you tell us where you met both, Master Bway?"

(somewhere inside Arcie's head, a recommendation is made)

Internal Editor	Skip the first part of Bway's questioning.
Arcie	You think?
Internal Editor	You'll just be repeating stuff from the narrative that everybody knows.
Arcie	Woohoo, I'm excellent at not writing stuff.
Internal Editor	Everybody knows that as well.

"Master Bway, were Manny kin Nichino and Simon Unkler close?" Advocate del Fia asked.

"Not friend close, no. Sergeant Unkler kept everyone at a distance, but he liked trustworthy followers. He include Nichino in this group."

"How so?"

"Whenever the Sergeant went off on a mission he always took along Nichino's squad for protection. Nobody knew more about Unkler's secrets, and he had lots, than that squad, but none ever said anything or responded to the rumours. They were scared of Nichino."

"What rumours?"

"More than I can remember. One about a Countess and another time when the regiment had a deshal problem. Most fingered Unkler as the ring leader, but when they tried to catch them, he got away. People whispered that Nichino warned him about the raid, which is why he probably tried to pin the blame on me. To disguise his own membership within the ring."

"Your Honour, that is heresy." Ashley said.

"Agreed, Barrister. Jury, pretend you can forget the witness’s statement."

"One more question, Master Bway." del Fia said. "Would Manny kin Nichino place himself in harms way for Simon Unkler?"

"Nichino took an arrow for Unkler during the Pecyl Campaign."

Remembering the incident differently, Manny watched as Ashley stood to take del Fia’s place.

Ashley asked, "Master Bway, did you not serve under the command of the quartermaster, Sergeant Unkler."

"I did, but as a baker my hours were earlier than Sergeant Unkler kept. Besides he dealt with us through the corporals, like Nichino."

"Was my client within the quartermaster's command?"

"No, not most of the time."

"When last did you see Simon Unkler?"

"I guess when the regiment disbanded."

"You did not see him during his stay in Angharee?"

"No, during mandrake harvest I keep late nights."

"Didn't you want to see an old companion?"

"I didn't know he was in town."

"You didn't know he courted the Duchess? Do you not live at the palace?" Ashley asked, disbelief in his voice.

"I do. And I heard about the courtship, but I never heard his name, only about some Lord."

"Duke Plicity?"

A surly look appeared on Sued's face as he answered, "I didn't hear."

"I find that hard to believe, did you live a hermit’s life and talk to nobody? Surely the courtship was a common topic of conversation."

"Your Honour, Barrister Ashtonson is badgering the witness." del Fia said in protest.

Thinking for a moment Judge Bonecrusher said, "I have a pet badger whose sad we can't go fishing this afternoon. Move onto another question, Barrister Ashtonson."

"Yes, Your Honour." Ashley said. "Master Bway, when was the first time you heard of the Duke Plicity?"

"You're right, probably at the palace." Sued answered, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

"You don't remember Sergeant Unkler using that name around the campfire?"

"No."

"Do you remember Marquis D'Cept-Ion?"

"No."

"Then my client is wrong to state that Unkler and yourself created the characters, Duke Plicity and Marquis D'Cept-Ion, to amuse your comrades?

Nervously glancing from the plaintiff’s table to the judge's warhammer, upon which he pledged to tell the truth, Bway said, "Nichino is wrong."

"Do you not think an honourable employee would inform his employee when he knew she was being duped?"

"Your Honour, leading and speculative." del Fia said.

"I retract my last question, Your Honour. No further questions."

Judge Bonecrusher asked, "Any further questions, Advocate?"

Glaring at Bway, he said, "No, Your Honour."

"Any more witnesses?"

"No, Your Honour. The plaintiff rests."

"Excellent, then I'm off for lunch. You all do whatever you want, as long as your back at two bells."

Grand Finale

After the judge left the courtroom, Brenden ushered the jury out by behind him, while Manny’s admirers, now bored even more witless, fled. However, none of the Were contingent moved. Instead they watched their duchess and her advocate talk quietly with the other. Finally the two stood, directed angry glances at Bway, who stayed on the stand, almost as if he hoped it offered protection. It did not, when the duchess moved to leave, the advocate directed an imperious come hither gesture towards the apothecary before he followed his liege. Their side of the room emptying after them.

“Am I imagining things or was Bway a terrible witness?” Manny asked.

“Preposterously bad,” Ashley agreed. “The only way he could be worse is if he tattooed liar on his forehead. I can’t believe del Fia did not prepare him better.”

“Bway has this irrational confidence. He is able to convince himself that only he knows what is going on. He forgets that others can interfere with his plans, it isn’t in his nature to think you would catch him out on anything. So if del Fia didn’t that about him, I can understand how he thought Sued would be a good witness. Nor is he the first to learn the problem with putting any trust in him.”

“Well I tell you, the only person who liked Bway’s testimony more than us, was Doctor Horschach. His own testimony was lukewarm, at best, for either side, but in comparison it was exactly what del Fia wanted to hear.”

Manny asked, “It was a good morning, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Maude said, “The duchess’s interest also seemed to wane. Perfectly understandable, now that she knows Unkler is a con man. How will you precede with your defense, Ashley?”

“I intend to call you first, Maude. I would like to show that Manny and Unkler ran into each other by accident, which we should be able to do when you outline your travels.”

“Will you want to question me?” Manny asked.

“I am of two minds on that. Before this morning, I would have said yes. In a he said she said situation, only your voice is available, not Unkler’s. That is a strength to utilize. But now I wonder if there is a need, we may be better off with little defense, which will keep Bway’s performance fresh in the jury’s mind when they begin to deliberate. Let us adjourn for lunch and I will think on the matter. Any preference?”

“You know, I could go for some maple pecan ice cream.”

“I know just the place.”

“Just let me put on my cape.”

Feeling his normal sugar high after eating sweets, Manny paced around the courtroom, empty except for Maude and Ashley. Next to arrive, surprisingly, were a smaller group of his admirers, and before he knew it, his extra energy made him gush his thanks. Luckily the two orcs appeared before he embarrassed himself too much. However, even when they heard the ring of the second bell, at which time the jury took their seats, neither the duchess nor her advocate, not even a single one of her supporters, appeared.

Moving to the window, Brendan looked out, quietly spoke to Jennifer, and knocked on the door to the judge’s chamber. Through it, a scowling ogre appeared to take his seat, his red eyed glare upon the main door. Nobody said a word, worried they may ignite the judge’s simmering anger. Better to leave that to the man who finally entered, Advocate del Fia.”

“You are late, Advocate.”

“My apologies, Your Honour.”

“Will your client be joining us?”

“No, Your Honour, she is still at lunch with Solicitor Yzerbelle.”

“You are lucky, Advocate. I nearly ruled in favour of the defendant in your absence.”

“We would not have protested if you did, Your Honour.”

“What?”

“Her Grace, Duchess Cindi of Were has asked me to tell you that we no longer seek the extradition of Manny kin Nichino.”

“I’m going fishing!” Judge Bonecrusher said, pumping his fist in the air.

(Turn to look at the audience, where in response, Manny's admirers break into song)

The Shop Fairy’s Free
(entire courtroom)

Manny's supporters	(hugging and high fiving each other in celebration)
	Ding Dong! The Fairy's free. Which Fairy? The Shop Fairy!
	Ding Dong! The Shop Fairy is free.
	Shout it - loud and clear, plug your ears, get out of here.
	Shout it, the Shop Fairy is free. She's gone where the seamstrists go,
	Hello - hello - hello. Yo-ho, let's open shop and sell all the clothing out.
	Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.
	Let them know
	The Shop Fairy is Free!
Judge Bonecrusher	(rapping his battlehammer on his desk)
	As Justice of the Fairetown Court,
	In this County in the Land Beyond,
	I set her free most regally.
Barrister Ashley	(standing up)
	But we've got to verify it legally, to see
Judge Bonecrusher	To see?
Barrister Ashley	If she
Judge Bonecrusher	If she?
Barrister Ashley	Is morally, ethic'lly
Brendan the Bailiff	(marching forward to stand in front of the judge’s desk)
	Spiritually, physically
Jennifer the Clerk	(joining her brother)
	Positively, absolutely
Supporters and Jury	(hanging on each other like only happens in musicals)
	Undeniably and reliably free
Advocate del Fia	(rising from his seat)
	As Were Counsel I will aver, I thoroughly exonerated her.
	And she's not only merely free, she's really most sincerely free.
Judge Bonecrusher	Then this is a day of Independence For the Shop Fairy and her descendants
Barrister Ashley	If any.
Judge Bonecrusher	Yes, let the joyous news be spread the super hot Shop Fairy is free!
All but	(dance out of the courtroom, repeating)
Manny/Maude/del Fia	Ding Dong! The Fairy's free. Which Fairy? The Shop Fairy!

Mouth ajar, Manny asked, “What just happened.”

“Seamstrist Zbornak, Solicitor Yzerbelle told me to prepare you to work on two wedding dresses when you visit.” del Fia said.

It took a moment, but Manny puzzled out what that meant, he asked, “What about her were-spiderness?”

“Ahh, I wondered why you fought what seemed so tempting. Doubtlessly you heard rumours about the Duchess’s parents. Let me just say, Yzerbelle has nothing to fear, his family is too powerful to anger.”

“What about me, would I have had anything to fear.”

del Fia did not answer, he only smiled, as he left the room.

“I think I made a huge mistake, Maude.”

“Nonsense, Manny. I can’t see you as some rich woman’s kept man.”

“I can. I’ve seen many times in my dreams.”

“Besides you wouldn’t want to leave me, before our journey is complete, would you?”

“Uuuuuh, I guess.”

“I knew it.” Maude said, grabbing one of his arms in a hug. “Now let’s head to the Seamstrist tent, we have a sale to run.”

“I think I’ll head back to my room, instead.”

“That won’t pay for Ashley’s services.”

“What?”

“You can’t expect him to work for free. However, you made a decent amount of commission last night, which will make a dent in his fees.”

“Can I change back into the outfit I wore yesterday?”

“If you think you can sell as much as you did last night? We only have three days left here and Ashley didn’t come cheap.”

“Crap. Okay let’s go.”

“That’s the spirit, my pretty Shop Fairy.”

“Maaaauuuude.”

Manny and Maude

Author:

Arcie Emm

Organizational:

Title Page

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Taxonomy upgrade extras:

Manny and Maude

by Arcie Emm

A humourous (I think) romp in the Land Beyond.

Mirror Mirror

On The Wall

Little ditty about Manny and Maude, seamstrist and guard travellin’ the Land Beyond.
Maudie's sellin’ sartorial splendor, Manny debutante of Maudie’s mirror.

Oh yeah life goes on...

Warning: Please brush your teeth after consuming this story, for it may cause cavities.
Warning 2: Contains some funky formatting, which I blame upon my imaginary friend, Imaginary Fred.

In This Land

Dun-dun-dunnnn.

Who's the Fairest

Still To Come

Of Them All

Nature or Nurture

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Like all inhabitants in the Land of Dalembrine, the Maker created Foulkes to serve a single purpose, to play his role in bringing harmony for all. But in crafting Foulkes, the Maker proved to own a sense of humour. How could a discordant note fit into the symphony of life?

A twist upon a familiar nursery rhyme.

Nature or Nurture

by Arcie Emm

Heads up, I don't really recommend reading this story, as it doesn't really work. There is too much of the workings of the world that existed in my head, which I thought would be easy to figure out. Probably should remove it, but I posted and will keep it as a reminder.

A person's nature mattered.

So the Maker decreed.

Thus the Maker's first children, the Fairies, ensured. For into their hands, the Maker entrusted newborns, allowing them to divine a child's nature. Knowledge they used to raise and educate, before freeing each into the world. Even then, the Fairies continued to watch over their charges, ready to provide guidance towards any who mistakenly strayed, ready to punish those who did so intentionally.

Only in a warren did the Fairies allow people to pretend they could be something different. Found only in cities, a warren provided all forms of entertainment, chance, and fantasy. There the shape of one's ears did not matter.

Until pretend stretched too far.

One such unfortunate victim of pretend was Dorsey McNut. A mouse of a man, his skills in the field made him one of the worlds pre-eminent farmers and brought him to the capital of Galdone for the yearly crop congress. While there, he could not help but visit the city's warren where he first became enraptured by its lovely bunnies, then captured by the tables of chance. Unfortunately, he won. Gambling fever pulled him back each night. And when his funds increased, Dorsey found his way into the Dancing Dice, the most expensive den in the warren.

Her laugh drew his eyes to the second floor. She stood amongst her sisters, exceptional within a sea of perfection, but only for a moment before she glided out of sight. Dumbfounded, he turned towards the dealer. Before Dorsey could question, the man spoke. "Don't even think about it."

"But..."

"You barely have enough for a stake at the Dancing Dice, little alone access to the second floor."

"How much?"

At the question, the dealer's wolfish ears lowered as he laughed out an answer. "You'll need five or six times the chips you're showing to get upstairs. But even if you make it, that bunny will never be yours."

The Dorsey McNut who arrived in Galdone would have taken the advice; however, that Dorsey McNut had never been a winner. Temptation now seemed tinged with possibility and each time he returned to the den he hoped to catch another glimpse of the crimson haired bunny. Dared to dream of more than sight. A dream that consumed all waking hours, distracting him even while at the congress. This lack of focus brought him to the Fairies' attention. Once they discovered the cause, they saw to it that his luck at the tables diminished. And after each loss the laughter on the second floor grew more distant.

With temptation dampened, focus appeared restored. But on the last night of the congress, Dorsey once more found himself at the Dancing Dice, attempting to build a stake worthy of the second floor. Soon he discovered luck completely gone.

Overwhelmed by despair, he mumbled the need for a break and stumbled from the building into the fresh air. Outside, he reminded himself that he was a farmer, a mouse. He told himself to leave the city, to go back to his fields. So he fled, ignoring his few remaining chips stacked on the table inside. Almost he escaped, but just as he neared the edge of the warren, Dorsey spotted the Spinning Chip. There Dorsey first tasted victory.

Unthinking footsteps veered from flight and led him inside to the cashier's cage, where he reached into his purse. Yet the only thing he found was the elaborate gold and red card from the Dancing Dice.

"Do you wish to open an account, Sir?" The cashier asked.

"Umm...I don't have any coin with me."

"If you pass me your card from the Dancing Dice, Sir, that will serve."

Mouse suddenly became cunning fox. Could he get away with it? Could he chance it? Would they truly not know that the card was now worth nothing? Tempting fate, Dorsey handed over his card and soon sat at a table, placing bets.

Birthright mattered, he was not a fox. His luck was needed in the fields, not at the tables. The Fairies decided to end the matter and whisked him away, returning him to his farm on Tunker Plains.

But not before he doubled his night's losses.

~o~O~o~

The knock on his bedroom door brought Foulkes awake; however, despite the door banging immediately open, he did not open his eyes to see who appeared. Only one person had the courtesy to knock but not the patience to wait for an answer.

"What do you want, Leon?"

"Fenris wants to see us."

"What about?"

"Wake up, Fou Fou. What's everybody been talking about all week? The mouse."

"Did they find him?"

"That's my guess."

"I need to get dressed."

"No hurry, you should have time to get ready. Oh and hey Sharla, Gus is looking for you too."

"Morning, Leon. And what does he want?" The blonde beside Foulkes asked.

"Some mucky-mucks are coming in and want you to deal."

"Tell Gus I'll be down in a bit."

"Need help getting ready, Sharla?"

"Go away, Leon."

"How about letting me watch?"

Foulkes answered for both. "Go away, Leon."

As the door swung shut behind their large friend, Sharla tossed aside the covers and jumped out of bed to find her robe. Even after she slipped into its silky embrace, Foulkes understood his partner's desire to watch. From her pink painted toes to the tips of her long, perky ears Sharla personified everything that made a bunny desirable.

Kneeling on the bed, she bent over to rub noses with Foulkes and said, "Thanks, Sweetie, but I'm guessing no repeat tonight. If mucky-mucks are who I suspect, I'll probably also be the winner's prize."

Even if the bunny kiss had not turned him into a mass of quivering goo unable to pay attention to her words, Foulkes would have felt no surprise at her statement. Nor anger at the pride and enthusiasm with which Sharla had spoken. He understood her nature, he knew the training undergone and the dreams dreamt by a her growing up in the Fortress of the Maker. After all, his ears were shaped the same as hers, he had sat in the same classes, and had dreamed the same dreams. True, his pretty masculinity made him somewhat rare amongst his sisters, but he understood that bunnies offered pleasure.

And when he ventured into the world, Foulkes felt the same excitement heard in Sharla's voice. Excitement that persisted as he climbed the stairs of a small inn, holding the hand of his first companion. A meek field mouse with exotic tastes lurking within his humble exterior.

Inside Foulkes' room, passion progressed in the delicious manner each desired until things went wrong. Suddenly the mouse lay unconscious on the floor, Foulkes' knuckles felt bruised, and a Fairy had appeared. After scolding him for punching the mouse in the head, she teleported him back to the Fortress and attempted to determine what went wrong. After learning his violent reaction surprised him as much as them, they further questioned, finding a period of doubt in his past.

It started after he and his age mates left their childhood nursery for the halls in which they would learn their life's work. For bunnies such as Foulkes, this meant the West Wing of the Halls of Pleasure, where his long ears sprouted. Covered in soft, red fur, they proved wonderfully sensitive whenever caressed, a pastime in which all willingly partook. However, nothing else sprouted, particularly not the curves that filled his sister's dresses. Initially, he only felt envy, but then he wondered if he truly could be a bunny, would he be better off as an otter, their seldom seen male dominated counterparts in the East Wing?

In time, both envy and doubt passed, neither able to compete with the unwavering belief of his sisters that he belonged with them. Yet this period offered the only hint as to what went wrong and the Fairies needed a solution. Fortunately they assigned no guilt to Foulkes' actions. Instead they seemed more interested in proving the Maker's, and by extension their own, infallibility.

Rolling out of bed Foulkes saw their solution in his mirror on the wall. All the curves he once missed were now abundantly on display. Ignoring his red hair and what made him rare, he could almost serve as Sharla's mirror.

Hard to doubt his nature now.

~o~O~o~

Rarely did the world fail to amuse Leon. For that reason, rather than accepted doctrine, he appreciated the Maker, who played the most excellent jokes upon his people. Like the one told over the last few days. Who would imagine a mouse having the temerity to steal from the pack who ran the capital's warren. Based on what he heard through the door Fenris' office, not the pack. Yet their surprise did not stop their leader from pinning pointed ears to their heads

Almost enough to make a cat laugh. He would too, if they were not friends. Better to hold laughter until it could be shared without burning so hot. Besides laughing might draw Fenris' attention. A prospect that did not frighten Leon, who enjoyed bumping heads with the boss, but would upset his partner.

His partner?

Definitely the Maker's best joke, even if he bore the brunt of it himself. How the heck did he end up with a friggen bunny as a partner? Almost impossible to act the tough guy with her at his side. And despite protests, Leon saw his partner as a her, which explained why the loner accepted her presence. Worse companions existed than a gorgeous redhead, who smelled good, and laughed at his jokes. If only he wasn't always waiting for her to get dressed.

The click of approaching heels signaled the end of his current wait. Leaning against the wall, Leon shook his head when she came into view. He asked, "Really, Fou Fou? Really?"

"Don't you like?"

"I love. But Fenris is in a sour mood?"

"Since he's acting all big and bad, I decided to just show him my throat."

Leon grinned, partially in response to the impish smile, but mostly in appreciation. Wearing a strapless, knee-length corset dress of emerald leather, Foulkes showed a lot more than his throat.

"Well, pull up a spot on the wall, Fou Fou. We'll find out if you chose right after Fenris finishes yelling at his boys."

In the tight dress, he could not emulate Leon's casual lean, so Foulkes satisfied himself with standing beside the big cat. With no conversation between the two, he could hear Fenris' constant growl. Unlike his partner, he did not react with amusement. His long ears drooped, framing a face where normally smiling lips turned into a sad pout. Slowly he edged closer to the big man, unconsciously seeking protection. By the time Tony, Fenris' right hand, escorted three chastened wolves from the office, barely a whisker separated the partners.

"The boss wants to speak to you two now."

Much of the anger in Fenris' eyes seeped away as his gaze roamed over Foulkes form, then as it settled somewhere around the offered throat, he said, "If you can, take a seat, Fou Fou."

"How about me?"

"You can stand, Leon." Fenris said, not looking away as the bunny tentatively sunk into a sitting position at the edge of the chair on the other side of his desk. Offering a silent clap in congratulations, he said, "Don't get too comfortable, the two of you will be visiting someone for me."

Leon asked, "The mouse who ripped us off?"

"Dorsey McNut," Tony said, interrupting before the comment set Fenris off again. "He took us for five big ones. We want to get it back."

"Where do we find him?"

"He farms on the Tunker Plains, near the city of Lestor."

"That's days away. Why can't it be someone else?" Foulkes asked.

Fenris answered, "Well it's your fault, Fou Fou."

"Me? What did I do?"

"Skeeter said that every time the mouse came in, he asked about you."

"That's not my fault."

Leon laughed and said, "But I bet it warms your heart."

His partner understood too many of his secrets. Not that Foulkes disguised that he liked men to look. But maybe he shouldn't have told Leon that during his second attempt at duty proved no more successful than the first. Nor should he have explained what happened after he lost it and bopped the mouse on the head. Confused, but sure they knew best for Foulkes, the Fairies ensured he savoured the attention paid to him by men. They probably went too far. The pleasure he now received from stares like Fenris' felt almost physical, creating an addiction he constantly sought to satisfy.

Yet he couldn't admit that Leon was right.

"If you were a good partner, you would help me stand. Then I could get ready for our trip."

~o~O~o~

When the long trip to Lestor finally came to an end, Foulkes struggled to contain his glee. Eight days on the road, much of it inside the stale and dusty interiors of public coaches as they made their way South, left him feeling grimy and unattractive despite the attention paid to him by a myriad of fellow passengers. Passengers that rarely included Leon. The cat preferred to sit with the driver, appearing only when the coach stopped to rescue his partner from the amorous hopes of the other travelers.

With the most recent of those chased away, the two turned towards a waiting group of wolves, whose leader said, "I'm Lobo. If you're the Beauty and the Beast, I`m here to help."

Leon answered, "We are, but Fou Fou doesn't like people to call her the Beast."

"Him." Foulkes corrected. "And the only help I want is directions to a bath."

Lobo proved good to his word, escorting the pair to his large den. Foregoing food, Foulkes wallowed in a bathtub before turning his attention to any imperfection, real or imagined. Only when satisfied with his appearance did he wonder about Leon. Deciding to find him, he wrapped himself in a short robe and headed for their room.

However, before reaching the room he ran into another reminder of why he hated to travel away from Galdone. From the direction in which he traveled came a blond bunny, with more than a passing resemblance to Sharla, wearing a robe similar to his, a satisfied flush, and the scent of love making. So unfair that his 'disguise' precluded his own dalliance, but she and others would question why a bunny would seek another's embrace while traveling with Leon.

If only Leon was as circumspect. Entering their room, Foulkes saw the big cat lying in bed, muscular chest uncovered, hands behind his head, and a smile on his face. The reason for smile seemed obvious, for the scent from the blond bunny proved stronger here. A protest sprung to his lips. "Leoooon."

"It's been days, Fou Fou. All that time with your flirty self."

"I wasn't flirting."

"Fou Fou, you can't help it. I'd say I'm sorry, but Glinda was amazing."

This highlighted the problem with having a cat for a partner. No matter how handsome, masculine smelling, and funny, cats liked to amuse themselves. And this cat often did so at his partner's expense. So when his small growl did nothing to quell Leon's smirk, Foulkes took some nightwear from a chest and ducked behind a privacy screen.

Laughing, because Foulkes never used any other screen during their trip, Leon asked, "Want to hear what Lobo said?"

"Sure."

"Fenris' informants are right, it appears this Dorsey lives in a farming commune just outside of town. Better yet, instead of being just one of the hands, he actually runs it."

"Then he may have the means to actually pay us back?"

"Yep. Nor does he seem to suspect anything. Lobo discovered he's a creature of routines, none of which has changed since his return."

"People always think they only have to worry about the Fairies."

"Stupid, isn't it? Why would the Maker create predators not true to their nature?"

"But it's good, that way they don't run. I bet it's hard to chase someone down while wearing skirts."

"The bait shouldn't have to run." Leon said, just before Foulkes stepped from behind the screen. "Specially the tastiest cheese I know."

"Get on your side of the bed."

"Why, we'll just end up snuggled together at some point."

Unable to dispute this, Foulkes climbed into bed, staying as far from the cat as possible while not falling out. But even this distance did little to quell the torture of Leon's scent or warmth. He wanted Leon, would have wanted him even before his third failed encounter with a mouse, and before the Fairies got their hands on him one more time. Now, with their magnification of his desires, Foulkes could not hold back a whimper of frustration

Hearing this, Leon reached out to pull the bunny into an embrace. Placing a kiss on the top of Foulkes' head, right between two drooping ears, he said, "I'm sorry, Fou Fou."

The apology did not satisfy Foulkes' urges, but it did suffuse his body with happiness.

~o~O~o~

It takes careful planning for coincidence to appear natural; therefore, not until two afternoon later did Foulkes find himself walking along a road towards Lestor. All alone, except for the fine boned mare whose reins he held, he hoped to run into Dorsey who, at this time of day, normally traveled between two fields in which his fellows laboured. The conspirators hoped the mouse's attraction to pretty redheads would apply to one in distress and that he would not recognize Foulkes as his bunny on the second floor.

In this they relied on Foulkes' skills at managing his appearance. He realized that if the man saw him on the second floor, he would have seen him at his glammed up best. Thus he appeared the fresh faced cutie in the dark brown riding habit, ears perkily sticking through a wide brimmed hat and twin, beribboned braids hanging below.

Spotting an approaching figure, one he recognized as their mark, Foulkes put his skills to the test. Waving his free arm to grab attention that needed no grabbing, he shouted, "Hello. Please, can you help me?"

Wide eyed, in admiration not recognition, the walker hurried forward and asked, "What's the problem, Miss?"

"I'm on my way to Lestor, but my horse lost a shoe. Is there blacksmith near?"

"Umm...we have one in our commune, he can help."

"Are you sure?"

"Well I run the commune, just tell him Dorsey told him to do it."

"Oooh, I didn't know you were so important, sorry for interrupting you."

"No, don't worry, it's okay. I'm happy to help. Here I'll give you directions."

As he did, Foulkes stared at him with uncomprehending concentration, before repeating a mangled version of the directions back to the man. After two more failed attempts and the summoning of tears in his eyes, he said, "I'm so sorry, I'm just horrid with directions. I had a guide, but he got sick last night. Before I left, this morning, he said that following this road would lead me to Galdone. Don't worry, I'll be okay...but...but...I'm sorry."

As duty fought a losing battle, Dorsey said, "Maybe it's best if I guide you?"

"You will? Oh thank you, thank you, thank you." Foulkes shouted, dropping the reins and throwing himself at the man. With arms wrapped around Dorsey, Foulkes looked upwards, peaking out from beneath the brim of his hat, and said, "I didn't expect such a powerful man to be so kind. But I'm sure you're busy, maybe I can find the way on my own?"

The battle had never been in doubt, but now with even duty chanting 'take her', Dorsey assured he could spare the time. Soon he held the reins of the mare in one hand, with the bunny holding the other. So distracted, neither looked behind to see the horseman who followed.

Reaching the commune, Dorsey showed off his power by commanding the ox of a blacksmith to look after the horse. Finished, he invited Sharla, the first alias to come to Foulkes' mind in case Skeeter had told the mouse his real name, back to his home for tea. An offer eagerly accepted.

As the cabin door closed behind them, Dorsey showed that not all the bravado that imbued his spirit on the last night in Galdone had abandoned him. With a strength, which would surprise many who did not know mice, he grabbed hold of Foulkes' tiny waist and kissed the bunny. Momentary surprise turned into reciprocation, as Foulkes wrapped his arms around the man's neck and swirled his own tongue around the one offered.

Horny and curious about how far they could get, Foulkes unhooked the buttons of his coat, shrugged out of it, and allowed Dorsey's nimble fingers to attack the numerous buttons down the back of his blouse. Wiggling out of his skirt, he almost strangled Dorsey in his eagerness to remove the other's shirt. Suddenly the man took things too far, burying his face in the tempting valley offered by Foulkes' corset.

No Fairy came this time. None had appeared since the fourth time he beat up a mouse, and then only to tell him they no longer saw him as a bunny. They now realized that the Maker made Foulkes a goon.

Still he did not remain alone, instead Foulkes opened the door and let Leon enter. The cat whistled at his partner, fetchingly attired in boots, lingerie, and his girlie hat. He lifted Dorsey onto one of the chairs at the table before gagging him and tying him in place.

~o~O~o~

Dorsey proved slow to come to his senses. As he did, the first thing to come to his attention was a pounding headache. The second was a weight on his lap. Opening his eyes he saw the temptress who led him to this misfortune and now he realized, his misfortune in Galdone. About to angrily react, he realized he was bound and gagged. Then he noticed the large man.

As the fear appeared in the mouse's eyes, Foulkes reached out a finger to caress the unbruised cheek. "I'm sorry, Dorsey. As much as I wish that the two of us could have spent the rest of the day doing naughty things to each other, and I really really do wish that, it's not in my nature. For some reason the Maker made me a wolf in bunny's clothing."

With apology offered, Foulkes wiggled his bottom in recognition of Dorsey's confused response to this information, then rose to once again dress in his riding habit. The show over, he said, "Now I'll see if your blacksmith is finished. In the meantime, my friend Leon wishes to speak to you about something bad you did in Galdone."

A half glass later, with newly shod horse in tow, Foulkes returned to the cabin. There he saw Leon placing his recently used bindings into a saddlebag. He asked, "You didn't need to hurt him, did you?"

"Naw, you restored his natural timidness."

Happy to hear that, for despite his nature he did not like people to be hurt, Foulkes found his eyes fixed upon the saddlebag. Only when he felt Leon's hands take hold of his waist, in order to lift him onto the mare, did he speak. "Maybe if you tied me up?"

The cat did not answer, but he did hold his partner at eye height before him. Feeling Leon's questioning gaze, Foulkes leaned forward to rub his button nose against the man's larger one. This caused a smile to spread over both of their faces and Leon to sit his luscious bunny upon her saddle.

Waiting until she hooked a skirted leg safely in place, he sauntered towards his own horse. Mounted and whistling a happy tune he galloped out of the commune, an eager Foulkes at his side.

After all, how a person is nurtured also matters.

Purple Pimp or Kneel

Author:

Arcie Emm

Caution:

Audience Rating:

Restricted Audience (r)

Contests:

Darkkitten Entertainment Retro-Game Contest 2014

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

Autobiographical

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

The Third Street Saints have been in numerous turf wars over the year against other gangs, the authorities, and even an alien empire. Maybe Father Time should have thought twice before he messed with their rackets.

The Purple Pimp or Kneel

Note: I have played the last two Saints Row games and found them to be insane, vulgar, irreverent, gloriously stupid, violent, non-sensical, impartially istic, loaded with swear words and way more fun than should be allowed while maintaining grown up values. I hope some of that comes through in this fan fiction.

Warning: There is a lot of swearing in this story.
Warning: I have not edited this story. It needs it, but wanted to get it posted today for the contest. Sorry.

~o~O~o~

“Birk's right - we traded our dicks in for pussies. Seriously... Movie deals? Commercials? The Saints name used to mean more than body spray and some ass-tasting energy drink."

Johnny Gat, Saint’s Row: The Third

~o~O~o~

So I’m in the plane doing my thing. You know beating the shit out of a pack Morningstar goons. They just kept charging at me, like they didn’t know who I was. Almost enough to make me feel sorry for them.

But since they just tried to rob us, corpse one tried to shoot me, and their boss stabbed me, it did not seem the right moment for my stunted sympathy gene to burst forth and turn me into a new man. Instead I grabbed the next contestant on everybody’s favourite game show, Who Wants to Meet Johnny Gat’s Fist, gave him a good shot to the gut, followed up with a couple jabs, a nice right hook, and then the grand prize, a sneaker to the balls before tossing him to the floor like a bag of garbage.

Just in time to grab the next bozo and toss him into a third guy. The third guy, in pink sunglasses, flopped like a soccer player, but bozo appeared made of sterner stuff and stayed upright. Well, at least he did until I slammed him to the ground and stomped his head a couple times.

That finished bozo, but gave pink sunglasses time to charge, banging me into the wall. Now that I did not appreciate. I gave him an elbow and a five knuckle sandwich, but, all soccered out, he tried to wrestle.

“Johnny we’re about to jump!” Shaundi said, her voice coming through the intercom.

If you know me, then you know technology is not my strong suit. I knew I should push a button to respond, but maybe I shouldn't have elbowed and spun pink sunglasses around to slam him head first into the intercom. Still, I tried to answer.

“Right on, I’ll see you in Stilwa-.”

Don’t say I'm not willing to thank those who help me. And in that moment, two of the Morningstars worked together to save my life. First was that French, I mean Belgian bastard, Phillipe Loren, who couldn't aim a TEK Z-10 SMG worth shit and so missed me with his first few shots. Of course, it probably did not help his aim to have his left eye buggered up from when I slammed his face through the window, at the beginning of the fight, decompressing the plane. But since I’m in a generous mood, let’s thank him anyway for missing. Though not as much as pink sunglasses, who worked as a wonderful meat shield when Phillipe dialled in his aim.

Even better, pink sunglasses, when I threw him forward, waffled that Belgian right onto the ground. Opening him up for ground and pound time. Ground and pound, baby.

One! Two! Three! Four! Five!

Then I found my concentration broken by someone clapping, despite my not being in an actual octagon. Looking around I saw him. A giant mutant alien, hulking over top of us. Zinyak, fucking emperor and warlord of the Zin empire, dressed like he planned a night out of BDSM.

“It would seem your reputation doesn't do you justice.” Zinyak said. “You truly are the Earth’s most puissant warrior.”

You can guess how kindly I took to being called a piss ant. Plus I somehow knew the nightmare he intended for me, so I launched myself into a Superman punch meant to put his head on backward and...

Fuuuck!

I remembered this moment, lived it uncounted times before. The syndicate plane and the fight aboard it belonged in the past and my punch never connected. At least not with its intended target, Zinyak’s face. Instead, it connected with the front of my cylinder prison, which shattered the glass and caused me to spill forth in a wave of the pink goop that seconds before held me in suspended animation.

How come, of the dozens of cells into which the authorities place me, did I find the most high tech the easiest to escape? I never even needed to try, just reach this moment in my memories and bang I sprawled, naked as a jaybird, upon the floor of the central cell block in the middle of Zinyak’s ship.

So easy, I felt sure he kept letting me escape so that I would get rid of his most incompetent followers. A theory that gained weight with the knife Loren used to stab me always waiting on a ledge right next to where I sat. Nor did any alarm sound, which meant no Zin rushed in during the few moments it always took me to sync mind to body, stand and pick up the knife.

Also time to pump myself up with a simple truth. I am Johnny Gat, they aren't. Sucked for the Zin waiting for me to pounce upon them like a starving, though still immensely powerful and magnificent tiger. Just like it sucked for them that Zinyak seemed more interested in keeping me alive than them.

The first step of my potential escape waited on the other side of either hatch into the cell block. Since I went left the last time and did not want to become too predictable, I once more walked to the left, mostly able to ignore my reflection in the glass of all the empty cylinders. Seemed Zinyak did not trust me around other prisoners. Definitely not the first warden to feel that way, but no time to think about that. Another step and the door would spring open. The question, would a guard wait within easy reach?

One way to find out.

I took the step.

How could soldiers react so slowly? They all stood or sat away from easy reach, but none turned their focus away from the big screen, which showed some Zin sport that seemed like a cross between roller derby and jai alai. Amazing how often I found them watching that game.

It left me with the question of how best to introduce myself. My favourite is to go all Nicholson and yell out, “Here’s Johnny!” But they always siphon off some of the fun by not getting the reference.

Maybe better just to barge into the room and start shining them one at a time. An approach that always proved enjoyable. Or try to sneak through the room without them seeing me, but if that worked I only hurt myself by not being able to hurt them. That’s no good, so I whistled.

Twenty Zin freaks turned as one and stared. The smart ones quaked with fear, others started to inch forward. Both those groups I ignored, because there would always be an idiot or two or three who charged towards me like they thought I was the ice cream man. This time I only needed to count to one before I creamsicled the snot out of my first guard of the day. As I let him fall to the floor, using his body to ensure the sliding door could not be locked shut, I found myself transported to my happy place.

Hard not to break into song.

It's the hard-knock life for us! As I smash your face, no fuss.

It's the hard-knock life for us! Excuse me while punch you in the nuts.

‘Steada treated, You’re defeated.

You get tricked! Then kicked.

'Steada kisses, your fist it misses.

You get kicked! Again, you get tricked.

It's the hard-knock life! Let me stab you with my knife.

What? You expected something different? I’ll tell you, I was down with Annie long before Jay Z made it cool. Her and her little orphan homies would totally belong to the Saints if they lived in one of our hoods.

Forget that for now, let's return to Dancing with the Zins. At this point I found myself surrounded by a nice little pile of Zin, though I admit they helped me in its construction. These assholes made the cops of Steelport look like they all belonged on the sniper team. Probably the reason Zinyak armed them with some piece of shit phaser that only stunned, didn't kill. But like fucking Star Trek, they were meat and should have been dressed in a red uniform.

They tried to shoot when an open shot appeared, but I knew that. In a fight I know everything that is going on. It’s one of my gifts, along with looks, personality, and being a spectacular lover. Because of the first of these skills, I pretty much knew when the next numb-nuts would shoot, which allowed me to dodge behind another numb-nut before that shot happened.

Hilarious every time. The way the target crumbled to the ground, how the shooter always shouted in dismay, and the crackling sound when I stepped on the befuddleds neck so he would never get up.

Though none of them ever laughed with me. I guess some Zin, just like some people, don’t have a sense of humour. But why did the sourpusses always want to hang around me. In particular, the one guy standing behind the rest, the one I really wanted to meet, seemed more angry than amused. He shouted for his buddies to quit shooting.

“Good choice, bub,” I said. “That’s totally going to inconvenience me.”

Despite zinese not being included in the numerous languages I spoke, I totally knew his response consisted mostly of swear words. That did not help him move into my good books.

Back to him in a moment. For now, let me just paint the scene for you at that moment.

So twelve corpses lay or twitched upon the ground, while I found myself with seven more between me and potty mouth. Not unusual, but usually I could hear reinforcements coming by now. Even they seemed to expect it, as they continued to look nervously past me at the door opening and closing on their dumbest dead buddy. I thought I could hear action in the distance, but, if so, it felt like someone else's story. While mine remained here.

How should we do this? Should we go through every punch, stab, leg sweep, suplex, elbow, head butt, curb stomp, noogie and wet willy? I know, how about I let you imagine most of the fight, using the moves I just mentioned, meanwhile I will describe my favourite encounter? Good?

First off, let me apologize for the advertising, I hate that shit. But Pierce is all about capitalizing on the brand and sold a sponsorship deal before final editing, lucky I got to put this blurb in at all. Which probably makes you wonder why I didn't stop it. See, Pierce took Professor Genki's money before I found out and Professor Genki is fucking nuts. If it was me or the boss, I would take his money, not live up to our part of the deal, and tell him to shove that pink, furry cat head he wears so far up his ass it would be looking out his own eyes. Unfortunately he made the deal with Pierce, would hold a grudge against Pierce, and would likely light Pierce up with a rocket launcher if he is not baby sat by the boss or me. Since neither of us want to be babysitters...

Professor Genki's Kill of the Fight came with only me, potty mouth and three of the soldiers remaining the fight. The three who remained were the smartest of the bunch, making sure to stay as far away from me as possible while pretending they participated. Now they knew that would no longer work and started chattering away in zinese. They followed this by raising their phasers and shooting.

Smart idea, poor execution. Instead of aiming where I stood, they should have shot where I wasn't. Maybe one had a horseshoe buried up you know where and would have caught me as I dived out of the way. Course they didn't and I ended up running around the room, phaser bolts flashing past behind me.

Like some idiot Western bad guys, the fuckers stood together and started to laugh. Maybe not as smart as I thought, what made them think they had me before they had me.

I didn't run for my life, but instead to build up momentum and give them time to group closer together. When that moment came, I did not hesitate, running towards and up the wall, using that energy to fling myself right towards them with a body block. Which taught them not to watch jai alai roller derby instead of the greatest form of entertainment not involving stripper poles, the WWF. And fuck the world wildlife pussies, those initials will always stand for the the World Wrestling Federation.

You should a seen the looks of awe on their faces as I flew towards them. Awe that turned to horror just before I slammed into them, knocking them all to the ground with their rib cages shattering like they were a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Thunk, thunk, thunk went my knife, leaving me alone with potty mouth. Though I need to give him two thumbs up for not pissing himself.

Some of you might think my next actions unfair, but you need to remember I don’t give two fucks about fair or unfair. Thus. I took the phaser from one of the rib crunched three and shot the lone survivor in the leg, causing him to flop forward like Chevy Chase impersonating Gerald Ford. And if you think that simile is too old for me, just remember, I'm all cultured and shit.

Well there I stood, potty mouth inching along the ground, escaping to nowhere, when the door opened fully to let someone else in. I might have let a fleeting smile cross my face, as I stepped forward and slammed my knife in the back of potty mouth’s skull and took my sunglasses off his face.

Standing there, placing the sunglasses in place, I watched the pink haired, barbie doll of mayhem come towards me.

“Fuck. Yes,” The Boss said, gripping my hand to pull me into a quick hug. “Johnny... what the hell happened?”

“So I'm in the plane doing my thing...”

“No, when did you get turned into a chick? I wouldn't have recognized you if it weren't for all the corpses.”

“Oh, that,” I said. “Think it happened after my fifth escape from the tank, before they came up with the current security mechanisms.”

“They were almost enough to take me out, in fact I ruined my nail polish. See.”

“Bastards,” I said, in commiseration. “Well I almost made it to Zinyak’s throne room, scared him so much that he X’d out my Y chromosome. He thought it would make me less dangerous.”

Frowning, the Boss said, “That’s stupid as fuck, look at me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Chauvinistic prick, we should kill him.”

"Definitely. By the way. Nice gams, Gat."

“Nice gams, butt, breasts, hair, face, I even have cute feet. I'm a babe. Not that I would have expected anything else. Could use some clothes.”

“Mine should fit.”

“Thanks, Boss. You have always been a snappy dresser.”

“Ummm...you know...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you got that whole cute sexy thing going with what you wear. Tight, short, high heels, what have you, accessorized with the biggest weapon you can find. But you look good and I’m going to look good. Besides I've always wanted to try a spinning back kick with heels, it impresses the shit out of me when you do it.”

The Boss said, “Only do it when wearing boots, you need the support. And make sure not to buy from a shitty shoe store, you want them well made.”

“I was thinking, I could connect a blade between the heel and the sole, you know like with those shoes you wear around a pool.”

“Wedges?”

“Yeah, wedges. Look at me learning all about being a girl. Well a knife blade pair of wedges would be kick ass.”

“Totally,” the Boss said, staring off into her happy space, probably imagining wearing such wedges.

“But don’t worry about your clothes being too much for me. Think about it, how many women and men wanted to be with or be me in the past? I'm guessing about forty eight percent. But now looking like this, all those who missed out before will get the same opportunity. You could say my change is for the good of humanity..”

“About that, Johnny. Zinyak blew up Earth.”

“That fuck, what the hell did I miss.”

“Well we took over Stillwater, then I stopped a terrorist attack on Washington involving a nuclear bomb and used the acclaim garnered over that incident to become the President of the United States. During that time, Zinyak attacked, kidnapped a bunch of us and blew up Earth.”

“We should kill that fucker.”

“That’s the plan,” the Boss said, pausing as if waiting for a question. “Aren't you going to ask what that involves.”

“I got it, Boss. We kill Zinyak, what more do I need to know.”

“I missed you, Johnny. Now let’s get the fuck out of here, my closet had has a tube dress and a pair of Loubotin's that you could totally rock. I will be so pissed if you wear a different size of shoe. That would be like the worst tragedy ever.”

~o~O~o~

With my release and the rescue of the other Saints members, we went on the attack, blowing up a bunch of shit inside Simulation 31, inconveniencing or killing Zins by the thousands. And whenever we finished a mission, it was back to the ship for some rest, food, and to wait until Kinzie or Matt chose the next target for someone to attack. Someone usually being the Boss or me.

After one such mission, while we hung out in the ship's lounge, I realized something. “Hey, when are one of you fuckers going to help me take my girl bits for a ride?”

“Even though you scare me, Johnny, I volunteer,” CID said.

“You’re a floating metal ball.”

“Don’t worry, I am fully equipped to pleasure you.”

“Someone else?” I asked.

“Ok, let’s go.”

Yep, my girl bits worked just as excellently as my boy bits used to work. Not that it surprised me, but definitely good to get the proof in the flesh.

A fun interlude, before returning back to the war.

Yada, yada, yada, we continued to blow up shit, slowly taking over control of the simulation. You could tell that Zinyak felt nervous when he made the deal with Keith David, but we survived that and everything else thrown at us. Then Kinzie, who I have a thing for, if only I could get her in a schoolgirl costume, me too of course, and then we would...hey, where was I? See Kinzie came up with a plan involving a whole bunch of technical shit. I would explain it, but if the technical shit doesn't blow other shit up, it bores me.

First off, the Boss went out with Shaundi and Pierce to destabilize the program, then with Ben and I to bring it down. The third prong again involved the Boss, Asha and Matt who headed for Zinyak's ship. I wanted to be with them, but the Zin were constantly attacking and she wanted one of our two best fighters defending. Sucked I guess, but if I don't want to be the boss, and I don't, then sometimes I have to follow the fucking orders as she so eloquently explained.

We fire-balled everything that came close, as we head for Zinyak's command ship. Picked up Matt and Asha when we arrived and then followed in the Boss's wake of destruction, hurrying to catch up since she already found herself in a fight with the Emperor of Dicks.

Shit, I can't believe I missed most of that fight. Sure we got updates from the Boss, when she could, and we watched the replay later, but it really seemed like one of those you needed to be there fights that everyone talks about forever. We did arrive just in time for the grand finale, would have been so pissed if we missed it, when the Boss blasted Zinyak out of his mech suit, suplexed him, stomped on his head four times, and then ripped his head, spine and all, off. Fucking epic!

Then how badass did it look when she ascended to sit on the throne, the screens all around the theatre showing Zins across the universe kneeling before their new empress? Super badass!

“So do I get a manservant or what?” the Boss asked.

From around behind the throne came a Zin, dressed different than the regular soldiers slash corpse-wanna-bes, who knelt and said, “Excellency, I’m Zinjai, your personal steward.”

“Alright ZJ, I need you to level with me. How technologically advanced are the Zin?”

“In our experience we are the most advanced culture in the known universe.”

“Zinyak told a friend of mine that he could restore Earth, was he lying?””

“A half truth, your Excellency. Earth has been atomized, there is no undoing that. However, time travel would allow you to see Earth again before it’s destruction.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa... Time travel?” the Boss asked, stopping himself from sitting on the throne.

“Zinyak was fascinated with Earth culture, he made it a point to go back and build a menagerie of his favourite humans.”

No way the Boss could trust that suck-up, nor believe the Zin empire gave in so fast. We all knew a thing or two about turf wars. Taking out their boss is always a great start, but you know he will always have henchmen who think they can take his role or break free from the control he held. Then there are all those paying protection who think they no longer need to pay.

Dealing with that shit can take longer than winning a war. So we spent the next few years solidifying the situation, helped mightily by the Zin army being sick of wearing nothing more than bandoliers and black underoos. They totally bought in to the whole saints’ purple and styling apparel.

And somewhere along the way I accepted everyone calling my Jonny Gams. Seemed appropriate, what with my legs being spectacular and how I made sure to put them on display. Mary Hart would just die, if she were alive.

Finally we could look out over the more appropriately named Saints Empire and say, with more than bravado, that we own this shit. Not that I am saying there is anything wrong with bravado, I love me some bravado. And I’m not the first, the dude who wrote the Art of War, included a passage that said, When you look over some shit and want said shit, then you should proclaim you own that shit, and bravado will take you eighty two percent of the way to owning all the shit you want.

What? You think I should know his name? Dude, that’s racist, just because I am of Asian doesn’t mean I know every other Asian. Particularly some knob who writes books for middle management types who want to become executives. Ask Pierce if you want to know, he’s the one who gave me the quote.

Victory achieved, we held the best party the universe ever saw.

Holy shit were the Zin and their subject races ever in need of a party. Those fuckers let it all lose. We learned that Zin chicks can defy gravity when working a pole and that nobody is more likely to say ‘hold my beer and watch this’ than Zin dicks.

Maybe I am getting old, but at a certain point I found myself partied out. A few shuttle and a courier ship rides later, sleeping the entire time, found me back to the Saint Mother Ship. There I learned Asha, Shaundi and Ben were off doing Empire business, Pierce was working on some universal marketing deal, the Boss still partied, and Keith David was running the show. He liked to be in charge, so he worked out a deal with the Boss to do all the work, while knowing what would happen if he tried to screw us over. Everyone was happy, particularly the Boss who liked being both the power behind and the lazy-assed sitter upon the throne.

That meant only Kinzie and Matt were available to greet me. If you call being immersed in their computer shit available?

Which I did, so I headed for Kenzie's cabin, flopped down upon her couch, and waited for her to talk to me. She would try and ignore me, like always, but all I needed to do was stare. For some reason, that always makes people nervous. Even friends. After a bit she started to fidget, in that cute uncomfortable manner of hers. At that point I had her.

"What?" She asked, not attempting to hide her exasperation.

"You're the only one around to tell me what's been happening."

"You can read the reports, Jonny."

"Sure I can," I said. "But I'm still hungover from three months of partying. I would prefer to lay here and get caught up, while listening to your dulcet tones."

"Seven months."

"What?"

"You have been partying for seven months," Kenzie said, awed outrage in her voice.

"I guess I really needed to let loose. Barely remember any of it."

"Not even your tumultuous affair with the Prefector and Prefectoress of Dauphin Eight? It was all over the tabloids."

"Of course I remember that. Dauphins are one of the few non-ugly alien species and the two of them were at the top of their species, gene wise that is. Too bad they got all selfish, both wanting me for him or herself, and had that duel that resulted in their mutual deaths. Why could they never understand that I am too much for only one of them? Well it's done, no use worrying about spilt blood. How about you, did you go all Captain Kirk with any hot aliens?"

"Not answering."

"Your cute blush tells me all I need to know. Tell me about the hot alien or give me an update. Your choice."

"Well we are dealing with drought on Demix and Srlkijfd."

"Boring! What else you got, Kinzie?" I asked, catching the pillow she through at me and stuffing it behind my head.

"Is there something that you are particularly interested in?"

"Any rebellion in need of quenching? Planet not paying their tribute? You know, anywhere that needs my set of skills?"

"Nope."

"Fuck, I'm not meant for peace. How about that whole time travel shit, did you find anything about it?"

"Of course I did and of course nobody believes me. Just like nobody believed me about the Zin coming to earth. Everybody thinks I'm such a conspiracy nut, but I am always, well mostly, okay sometimes proven right. Like how, once we got into the White House I finally could show how right I was about the JFK's assassination. But once again, everybody is all Kinzie's crazy, Kinzie is exaggerating."

"Well are you?"

That stopped her rant. Instead Kinzie got up, hustled over to me, sat crss legged on the floor, arms wrapped around a pillow not thrown at me and said, "I don't think Zinyak told Zinjai everything."

"Zinyak probably didn't tell himself everything. As far as Zinjai, how would he hear anything with nose buried so far up..."

"Are you going to let me tell you this or not?"

"Sure, go ahead?"

"And are you staring at my breasts?"

"I'm trying to, but it's hard when you are wearing a hoodie. See how much easier it is to look at mine?" I asked, thrusting them upwards. "But don't worry about it, besides staring at your breasts will help me understand what you found out about Zinyak's time travel."

"How? Oh, never mind! Well he did go back in time and kidnap a bunch of Earth's historical figures, but if he just took them they would never leave their mark it would change time, no one would remember them, and his menagerie would plummet in value. He needed replicants, who would live the lives of those he took. That is easier considered than done and explains why he did not trumpet his success."

"He fucked up?"

"Not completely. It mostly worked, but even a divergence of point eight percent could make big changes. First amongst these, there always were anomalies in the replicants' behaviours. Jonny, history is not as we know it. But worse, the material he used for these replicants broke down faster than real flesh. The people he replaced died faster than they should and the fumes they gave off totally destroyed the b-ozone layer that surrounded the earth. The layer that would have diffused the laser he used to destroy Earth. What do you think?"

"Instead of a hoodie, what's wrong with t-shirt? It doesn't even need to be particularly tight."

"I am wearing a t-shirt, but I get cold easily. But focus, Jonny, do you have any questions about what I just said?"

"Nope."

"Really?" Kinzie asked, eyes widening in surprise.

"Sure. How do we fix it?"

"We need to replace the replicants with the real people in Zinyak's menagerie. Which requires someone to take them back in time."

"Fuck, yes. Count me in. Let’s get started."

Nervous for the first time, Kinzie asked, “Shouldn’t we wait for the Boss?”

“Nah, she likes us to solve problems on our own, how do we start?”

“It’s on your head. First we have to unthaw a member of the menagerie, then use that person and their memories to establish a vector into the past to which we can create a wormhole through the 4th dimension.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Really?”

“Of course not, I haven't understand half the shit you said, since I showed up. But I’m bored and want to do something new and interesting. So lets go manage the menagerie. Like how I phrased that?”

The eye roll, I expected, but not the cavernous hold that Kinzie led me to, which contained a huge number of prison capsules like the ones that never held me. Hard to choose where to start, there were so many hot naked chicks I wanted to meet. Finally I settled on a brunette, one of the few whose name I recognized. Probably because I prefer to make history, rather than read it.

“Her.” I said, walking over to a capsule and knocking on the glass.

“Why her, do you know who she is?”

“Of course, she was in a movie with Gwyneth Paltrow. Though don’t ask me which one, because I only saw her in Ironman.”

Another eye roll. Guess I didn't recognize her as much as I thought. Fortunately Kinzie grew tired of correcting me a while back, instead she moved towards a console and started typing.

The pink goo, inside the tank, disappearing down a drain, the prisoner’s eyes bursting wide open in shock, anger and embarrassment as the doors slid open. The embarrassment diminished, somewhat, when she saw Kinzie and I, no swinging dick between us, but the shock and anger remained.

Jane Austen said, “You’re not that beastly, Mr. Zinyak. Who are you?”

“No, we killed that prick,” I answered. “But we still need you to help save the world from him.”

Note to self, maybe let anybody else - except the Boss or Kinzie - explain what’s going on to the next twinkie we unthaw. It took a few days, finally we brought in Matt to help her understand, after which she quickly agreed. Fucking English, sticking together.

~o~O~o~

Heads up, this section is boring as fuck, because it mostly involved Kinzie and Matt doing science shit. And though everybody says that I should interweave the exposition, had to look that word up, into the story, it's not really part of my story. Besides, why, if they have met me, and all of them have, do they think I would give a fuck about writing rules. I'm gangster as shit.

Feeling all petty and wanting to spite them, I just about used bullet points instead of paragraphs. But then decided if I used paragraphs you can pretend it's crawling text like at the start of a Star Wars movie.

Kinzie and Matt hacked dead dicked Zinyak's computers, and learned that before he started fucking around with our timeline, Jane lived until 1817. However, in our world her stuff got published after she died in 1806, rumours how range from sudden illness to an opium addiction to a dual.

So we needed to go back before then, but after her last memories, which involved moving to Bath in December of 1800. Jane wanted go soon after that time, not wanting Zinyak's Jane to fuck up her future life anymore than necessary. But we couldn't chance switching the real one out. Which of course raised the question about Zinyak making another switch. That thought made Kinzie curl up in a little ball and twitch for a couple of days, but we decided to chance it.

Knowing how much Zinyak's prison tubes can fuck with a person's memories, Matt rigged up some pigeon drones to send back to a different week, from that point forward, to look for an anomaly. In the second week of June 1802 we found it. Jane disappeared from her home in Bath. We had our go date, the week before.

So loaded with costumes and more counterfeit guineas than a pig could carry, Jane and I popped back in time and puked our guts out. Holy shit, but does time travel ever fuck with your system. It would have been okay, but we found out she had actually been missing for a few weeks.

We could have jumped forward than back, but the whole gut puking prompted us to go a sleuthing. Communicating with Kinzie in the future via Matt's flying rat drones.

~o~O~o~

"Jesus fuck, Jane, could you hit any more potholes? Lucky I'm holding on or I would have flown the fuck off this wagon and split my skull. What a way to go, survive gunshots, stab wounds, lasers, and uncounted other shit and then die on a horsie ride."

"I have never driven a curricle before, only a phaeton, so it is faster than I am used to, but quite exhilarating. That is due to everyone considering a phaeton more appropriate for a lady. It is kind of interesting, almost fun, to find myself dressed as the dapper young gentleman instead, though I would prefer a pretty dress like you. And that dress designates you as a young lady, none of whom curse like a ruffian."

"Don't swear. Don't show the girls during the day, but at night it's okay. Always wear something on your head. Parasols aren't supposed to have swords built in, that's for canes. No Jonny, you can't take a flame-thrower with you into the past, never-mind a parasol with a flame-thrower built into it. How can you stand it, Jane?"

"Oh, there are ever so many delightful pass times. You can spend time with your family. Or read, playing the fortepiano, sewing maybe a garden or dance party, go for a carriage ride, read, or, when I am lucky, write. What's wrong, why are staring at me like I have grown an extra head?"

"Reading? Sewing? Writing? Fuck, I can't believe...right, I got it, I'm not supposed to say fuck. How about shit? No. Poo?"

"Drat," Jane offered.

"Really, Jane?" I asked. "Okay, drat it is. Drat, I can't believe writing would stop me from going dratting crazy. You'll never dratting catch me doing that drat."

Okay, I guess that deserves a me or capa. You're probably saying to yourself, 'but Jonny I am reading this biography of yours, for which I paid $24.99, that states on the cover that you wrote it''. Well Sherlock, I just talk, meanwhile my assistants, Ken and Barbie, and yes they more than live up to their names, though my dolls come complete with the bonus of functioning parts, record what I say and feed my wisdom into a computer.

"Maybe don't talk."

"Wasn't that the entire reason behind our disguises? Because these chauvinistic pricks... That okay? No. Because these chauvinistic drats look down on women. And because we needed your local knowledge since these racist drats look down on Asians."

"And because people know me, so I need a disguise. Plus, we couldn't make you look like a man."

"You should have seen the old me, Jane. I would have turned your bloomers...drat it don't look at me like that. I would have made you swoon, is that better?"

"Yes. But you are supposed to call me Mr. Darcy."

Got to admit it. Annoy me though they used to, Kinzie taught me eye rolls have their use and this seemed a perfect time to use one from the stock I acquired upon joining the hotter sex. Maybe it even caused Jane to drive more carefully or the road improved, because we didn't hit any more ruts. Not that I let go of the death clench, encased in a delicate lace glove, on the seat's railing. My other hand held a parasol that, with enough whining, came equipped with a built in rapier.

Pretty, but functional, just like me. It also left me feeling less naked. Without it I only came equipped with a spring loaded punching dagger strapped to each arm under my flowy, attached sleeves. While a pepperbox revolver, modern day manufacture, sat in each holster wrapped around my thighs. Better than nothing, but not enough for maximum chaos. Hopefully enough, supposedly we were visiting a friend.

"So who is this Hastings fellow and why didn't we just go find you with your family?" I asked.

"Matt explained all of that before we came back. Did you not listen?"

"His voice is so whiny, I need to filter out most of what he says or I find myself caught up in fantasies of punching him in the face. Instead I got Kinzie to fill me in on the most gossipy details. Like how he was a a drug runner, corrupt politician type and was your aunt's sugar daddy, while she was his baby mama. Oh, what am I thinking, of course a guy like that will have all types of information."

"Governor-General Hastings is a gentleman of the highest order who has always been extremely kind to myself and my family. Please do not besmirch his and my aunt's name in such a fashion."

"Why, Mr. Darcy, I only spoke in admiration. He seems like my kind of guy. And, a bit of advice about manners. Don't purse up your lips so prim and proper when someone makes you angry, glare. Or punch them, but not me, cause I'm a girl, a delicate flower if you will."

After regaining her calm, Jane said, "The Governor-General and I regularly corresponded. Based on Mr. Miller's surveillance, it appears my double continued this tradition."

"So you're thinking the new you replaced your Aunt under his covers? Maybe he has a thing for Austen women. Hey, that's better, that's a great glare."

"I do not believe he would so take advantage of me, but he may know what did happen."

"Will he see us?"

"We received an invite from him, after I sent him the introductory letter stating Mr. Darcy is a friend who is much travelled, that is where you as a companion provide further corroboration, who will soon be venturing to India and is interested in gaining s interested in writing about Governor-General Hastings’ time in India."
After this, we mutually decided to enjoy the ride in silence. When the sun grew warm I opened my parasol a sunshade, spinning it over my right shoulder. Ladying that shit like a mofo, until we pulled up to Hastings' estate in Gloucestershire, Daylesford House.

Sugar Daddy had some money.

It doesn't shame me to say I felt a stab of jealousy when Jane jumped down from the wagon seat, something that I could not do in my dress. Which probably makes you wonder how I could fight if needed? Well, have you ever seen a stripper, I sure the hell have and they aren't hampered by anything they wear. All it requires are some snaps, Velcro and a quick yank and you're good to go. Furthermore, I looked precious as fuck. A real Zhang Ziyi in a regency style, afternoon dress, white with a pattern of Saint's fleur-de-lis, and my hair looking fetching in a chignon with a flower wreath ornament. If I needed help down, well sometimes it's worth whatever it takes to look so good.

Parasol a twirl over my shoulder and left hand up Jane's arm, we approached the house introduced ourselves to the butler who answered and were then led to the gardens where waited Hastings. And with him sat another guest, a fat, sweaty mess going by the name Mr. Dudley Crokinole.

After the men (including Jane) all exchanged their names, she said, " And may I introduce my travelling companion, Miss Gam Jin-ae."

Don't ask me what that name means, Kinzie came up with it, but Jane meant me when she used it. More important than the name, when she introduced me as her travelling companion, she may as well have said bed buddy. Something that provided both men the out they needed to look on with great interest as I curtseyed my greeting. Doing so, I noticed how it placed me at a perfect height to deliver a nut shot. I didn't but had to fight my natural inclination when acknowledging Crokinole. He had the look of a bruno, the type who would do more than look.

Remember how Jane advised me not to talk? Well the conversation made that easy, fucking mind numbing. And I am too nice a person to inflict it upon you. Even Crokinole's eyes glazed over, leading to him taking his leave not long after we arrived.

But people saying nothing can still tell you lots. Reading this nothing is important in my line of work, you wouldn't believe how many upstanding citizens try to lie to you when you're collecting protection from them. Babble though he did about the inconsequential, he did steer away from certain topics. Midway through a discussion about the mutiny on the Bounty and the Black Hole of Nantucket into which all the officers were thrown, I reached my breaking point.

"So how much do you owe him and what's the vig?" I asked.

They both stared at me, Jane gesturing for my quiet, while Hastings asked, "Excuse me?"

"That thug Crokinole, he was as out of place here as a dancing walrus. The question, why was her here?"

"He is just a friend and..."

"Bull drat, Mr. Hastings, you surely have better taste in friends than him. You might deal with his type, but not invite him for tea. Shh, shh, let me make three guesses and you can say whether I am right or not. My first two involve Jane Austen, l of whom you steer the conversation away from, whenever Mr. Darcy mentions her name. My first guess, you paid Crokinole to kidnap Jane for you and he is asking for more before he delivers."

"Why I never..."

"But I don't believe that, if I did I would be more persuasive," I said, springing the right knife from under my sleeve into my hand. "It is more likely that he kidnapped her and expects you to pay the ransom. That's my second guess, but if true he is one of the dumbest criminals I've ever met and I've met a lot. Which leads to my third guess, the one I believe the one closest to the truth. It all goes back to your trial, it must have cost a dratload to finance, it must have put a dent in your lifestyle. A good time to for someone on the shady side of the tracks to make a deal with you. Probably you were confident it would all work out, but it never does for the guy in your shoes. I just can't figure out what it has to do with Jane."

Jane just held her head in her hands, but the GovGen turned as white as a ghost, before he asked, "Who are you?"

"Gam Jin-ae, warrior princess of the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon clan.” I said, feeling momentary of guilt for not being able to use the Saint’s name, but this seemed more appropriate. “We're here to help. Mostly ourselves, but if you are willing to help us, we might help you."

"I believe you should leave."

The left knife sprung out, his eyes grew big, and I said, "I really don't want to get my pretty dress dirty."

Maybe a bit heavy handed, ok a lot, but he struck me as a man wanting to get a load off his chest. He just needed a push start. And though I looked like I should be in the driver's seat, forgetting to take my foot off the break while my boyfriend tried to push us out of the puddle in which he got us stuck, I'm a good pusher. A few more shoves, ones I don't want to describe - I might need to use them on you one day - and he caved. I knew he would. It’s a lot different being tough as a member of the British East India company than alone.

"It began about three months ago, when Miss Austen sent me a letter describing the dire financial straights her family had fallen into, how she had a plan to extract them from that situation, and asked if I could help her. The best I could do was try to talk her out of her out of her plan, but Miss Austen has recently changed. She has grown more impetuous, I feared she would proceed with or without my help.”

Jane asked, “What was her plan?”

“She knew some people who wanted to open a salon, in Bath, where the gentry could smoke opium, so they did not have to use some rat sty of an opium den. I wish we only traded it to foreigners, but there are those without my morals who bring it to England and many are now prey to its demons. Miss Austen’s friends thought they could make it safer for those of good breeding, who are caught, and in turn I felt my participation could keep her safe. Using my contacts within the company, she and I acted as an intermediary between the supplier and those who own the salon.”

This fell right in my wheelhouse, I said, “Let me guess. Crokinole fronted that supplier, the shipment went missing, and Crokinole is now wanting his money.”

“Yes,” Hastings said, admitting defeat

“You know it’s likely him that stole it?”

“Yes.”

“So where has Jane gone?”

“Your second guess is also correct, they have taken Miss Austen as further insurance against my paying, plus for a ransom. But I do not have the money and they expect it within two weeks.”

“Ok, here is what we are going to do.”

~o~O~o~

“You know, Jane, you really didn't need to come with me. In fact it probably would have been better if you had not come."

"I cannot allow you to travel alone. It would not be proper."

"Maybe not for a young lady, but I'm now a warrior princess," I said. Honestly, that brag really grabbed a hold of my being, in the two days since our meeting with Hastings I could not get past the feeling how I was a modern day Xena. Modern day, back in time sorta whatever. So I dressed the part, no longer Miss Regency 1802, I now wore a full length, bell sleeved cheongsam, in Saints' purple embroidered with a golden dragon. Hair cup on held in place by two sticks capped with tiger heads. That was the princess part, the warrior aspect came from the high slits on the side, which allowed me to move quickly and displayed the lighter purple silk pants that would protect my modesty in a fight.

"Even warrior princesses should be accompanied by a chaperone."

"What about Syeed Amir Ali."

Jane hesitated, before she said, "He is a servant, besides he is, I am not sure how to say it."

"A viscous looking little drat?"

"Yes, though Governor-General Hastings swears by his loyalty."

"And it is a more comfortable ride with him controlling the horsies, rather than you."

At that moment, late in the afternoon, the two of us road in an ugly yellow wagon, Jane insisted on calling a post chaise along one of the shitty roads between London and Bath, the aforementioned Syeed riding one of the horses and controlling our progress. All part of my master plan. Around about here is where Hastings' first shipment of opium went missing. So around is where I expected the second shipment to go missing. The one we supposedly carried.

Supposedly, because even with our counterfeit riches, we didn't have time to obtain a chest full of opium in such a short time. Just needed to hope Crokinole didn't know that. We also needed him to have heard the rumour about how Hastings hoped to raise some cash with another shipment. And that he lived up to my reading that he was the type unable to stop digging his claws ever deeper into his victims.

Easier if we knew where the sleazeball hung his hat. But without that knowledge, we needed him to come to us. Hence the shipment decoy. And I am the trap.

Warrior Princess!!!!!!

"We'll remember, if the drat hit the fan. Stay out of the way and try to stay hidden. Make the ground your lover if you need too."

She nodded, a bit of fear in her eyes, but Jane is a good homie and I knew I could trust her. But as we jostled along the shitty road, I found myself worrying I could not trust Crokinole.

"Halt! Stand and deliver."

What magic words those were, they left my stomach all a twitter with excitement. Particularly since the bellow sounded like it came from that fat fuck Crokinole.

They knew their shit, I will give them that. Good terrain, trees on both side stopping us from being able to turn around. Aggressive, but but not out of control. Fast, but not in a rush. Our wagon came to a halt as one of the highwaymen grabbed the bridles of the horses to keep them still, while the others surrounded us. One of whom looked into the carriage and saw us.

"Boss, passengers," he yelled, not looking away from us. Pointing the big ugly bore of a blunderbuss at us, he said, "You two, out!"

In the ranks of where to start a fight, a box ranks near the bottom. So I happily obliged the walking dead man, dismounting from the post chaise with my arms raised. Not stretched way over my head like the class nerd demanding the teacher pick him to answer every question, but just in an L shape with my hands on level with the bun on top of my head. <<<< Foreshadowing alert.

"Why if it isn't Mr. Darcy and the lovely Miss Gam Jin-ae. I had wondered where Hastings acquired the money for another shipment. How unfortunate for you to get Mr. Darcy, but what an unexpected bonus your companion will prove."

"Boss, the chest is empty," one of the henchmen shouted.

Good, I won't take that away from them, but the best expect the unexpected. These lugs didn't. The surprise of caused the four of them to glance towards their shouting buddy. More than enough time for me to yank one of the tiger headed hair sticks from my bun and plunge it twice into the neck of the blunderbuss wonder.

Pushing Jane down so she collapsed to the ground, I dove in a shoulder roll. My long hair flowing loose as I pulled the second stick as I rose to my feet in front of my next target. Bam, now you see me, now you have a stick plunging eye-ways into your brain.

Just something about a fight that slows the world down for me. With the momentum built up from my roll, I spun stick eye around as Crokinole fired his pistol at me.

One thing you need to know about weapons of that time, they sucked donkey balls. His shot killed a chunk of bark on some tree, but it didn't come anywhere close to me or my meat shield. It did, however, bring about Professor Genki's Kill of the Fight. And it didn't belong to me.

Now I don't know much about horses, in fact my only experience before going back was when I once knocked a cop off his horse during a riot. But I did know how easily they could be spooked, because I watched of Westerns. And spooked they were by the sound of that gunshot. The two pulling our wagon raised up on their back legs, pulling the bridle holder off balance, just before those legs crashed back to the ground and they took off at a run. Unfortunately for bridle holder he took a hoof to the noggin, knocking him down. Luckily they didn't step on him, but the wagon was not as particular where it put its wheels.

Necks aren't supposed to bend that way.

No time think about it, what with Crokinole charging towards me. However, I had something up my sleeve for him. Not the knifes I showed to Hastings, instead a gift from the Boss. Given to me soon after we reunited, when she said, “Here, you’ll need these, since you lost the old ones.”

Much better than throwing a knife, never my best skill, and light years better than a throwing star. A brass ball, one inch in diameter, dropped into each hand and like a side arm pitcher, I let him have them.

One left. But when I looked in that direction, I saw Syeed standing behind him, a look of rapture on his face as he tightened the beige, or was it yellow, cloth around the man’s neck. Never a pleasant thing to watch a man get strangled to death, so I walked over to help Jane off the ground.

“Don’t look. Drat!”

“What’s wrong, Jonny?” Jane asked, her voice and body trembling.

“I dratted up. Just wanted to hurt Crokinole, but my aim was off. Maybe subconscious, always hated rapists, but I got him in the throat, he’s not saying anything before he dies.”

Syeed came up to me, a look of worship on his face, and asked, “What should we do with them, Mistress?”

“What do you recommend?”

"Search them for valuables and hide their bodies in the woods. I am good at hiding bodies."

Note to self, don't let Syeed stand behind me. But he didn't scare me, I just said, "Good idea, start with the henchmen and feel free to keep anything you find that doesn't tell us about their allies. Meanwhile, I will check the fat one."

"Thank you, Mistress."

Nothing for it, but to search the fat fuck, unpleasant though it might be. A few coins, a mickey, but the piece de resistance was a folded piece of parchment. A red wax seal, in the shape of a flower, once held the contents private, but Crokinole must have opened it. I read the note aloud.

Bring Hastings’ goods to the manor.

“That’s my writing,” Jane exclaimed, when I passed the paper to her.

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. But I know someone who might.”

~o~O~o~

I guess it's because I'm such a doll, but chicks always want to play dress up games with me. Not that it bothers me, unless they have bad taste, since it boosts the chance of undress up games later on. And though this Eliza must have been close to forty, she had this whole MILF thing going on that made me quite willing to play.

She also, in her pixie like frame, encompassed all the hypocrisy hidden behind all the pride and prejudice felt by the gentry I encountered. Eliza de Feuillide, the daughter of Philadelphia Austen and Tysoe Hancock, but maybe Warren Hastings, her godfather. Widow of self styled French count, who died on the guillotine. Cousin to Jane, yet married to Jane’s brother. A survivor who thrived on looks and knowledge, intelligence and relationships. We used one of those, her close relationship with Hastings to gain an audience and had him broach the topic, though Jane and her had always been close.

Eliza took one look at the letter, in particular the seal, and said, “The Pimpernel Society.”

“What’s that?” Hastings asked.

“It formed after the French Revolution, in honour of the Scarlet Pimpernel and his band. Everyone wanted to attach themselves to their glory, pretending they were members. For the first number of years, the society remained quite exclusive, but new things constantly replace the old. It is still exclusive, but much less fashionable. The meet at a place called Black Knee Manor, where rumours speak of gambling and other even less savoury practices.”

“We need to get inside,” I said.

That task we left up to Hastings and Eliza to arrange. Something requiring some of our counterfeit coins, which we used to pay off the debts of a member of the club, pathetic and desperate, he provided an invite.

However, it required another look. Neither my warrior princess or precious as fuck look would work, the club operated under dress regulations that mimicked what the French nobility wore before they all grew a head shorter. That meant a corset and holy shit do they suck, plus cleavage from here to almost there. At least they didn't expect me to powder my hair, just get it looking all bejewelled and spectacular.

Eliza, with the help of a maid, worked all day to get me decked out in what I thought of as my hey, Monsieur Noble-Dude, need a hot mistress look. Jane got off a lot easier, though the way she wore those white stockings, below her short pants, made it even harder to pull off the mister thing. In fact, I think Eliza figured out who Jane actually was, but she seemed the sort who would be good at holding secrets so I said nothing.

We started to wonder if our host would screw us over, when he showed up in a carriage well after dark. Apparently the society existed during the time of day while easiest to hide debauchery and when the cracks in the wallpaper of Black Knee Manor did not show. If not for my dress, I would feel totally comfortable there.

Our host ditched us almost immediately, heading for the opium room - I wonder if they currently smoked Hastings’ wares. That left us to wander. Lots of drinking, definitely gambling, and a wide variety of ladies. Like me, a number came accompanied. But the number of waitresses and working girls definitely outnumbered the wives and girlfriends.

“Hey, Jane, I think I'm going to talk to the smoke show?”

“Pardon me?”

“The blondie over by the harpsichord. With the two puppies barking so loudly to be let out.”

“How did you know it was a harpsichord?” Jane asked.

“Well it’s definitely not a spinet. Focus, Jane, we’re not here to discuss the ancestors of the modern piano, we’re here to find evil you. If we need to slap around some pimps to do it, I’m game. But knowing how violence is not your thing, I guess that leaves seduction to get me into the back rooms. And blondie is at the top of my current seduction list."

“But you are female.”

“Yep, so? Just means we need to figure out who is at the driver’s end of the strap on. I'm good either way.”

“I cannot believe you can be so crude.”

“What about you, will you be ok if I leave you alone. Maybe you better come along. You might not know this, but guys always want to watch their girlfriend get it on with another chick.”

Likely pushed it just a bit too far there, Jane turned red and pranced off. Not in manly fashion at all and it definitely caught the eye of one or two older gentlemen. Their predatory looks made me a bit nervous, so before I went to talk to blondie, I talked to a waitress and bought the two of them another drink. They didn't need to know I put some knock-out powder in their glasses. Always good to have some knock-out powder.

Let’s be honest, when seduction comes down to payment, it’s not the most difficult thing in the world to accomplish. Sharing the same bits could cause problem, but I’d seen couples and a single woman walk through the back door while we explored the public area. And blondie had check me out when I arrived.

Hard enough for me to fighting, one of my two great skills, but at least it is mostly about the external and big movements. Sex, my second great skill, is harder to describe. It’s internal and smaller, perfect movements.

But we did get it on and, as expected, fucking amazing. Form your own pictures.

Lasted longer than I planned, too. Before I left Suzanne’s room she helped me get dressed, but returned to bed instead of going out for another customer. I felt a few nervous moments trying to find Jane, but finally found her playing cards in a small room.

Finishing a hand, she came and asked, “What did you learn?”

“Well I definitely prefer flesh first, then rubber, but I can’t complain about how Suzanne worked her ivory wand. Oh, you meant about the manor. Well there are a number of guards in back area. I got to the second floor, but the third is blocked by a gate.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“I suspect the third floor holds the answers, everybody wants to know what is there. There are so many rumours.”

“So, should we go find out what’s there?” I asked. “Most of the guests are gone. The thugs are likely sleepy and I'm floating on an after sex high.”

“I don’t know. It seems dangerous and you aren't dressed for it.”

“Warrior princesses are dresses for it no matter what, besides Suzanne could not tighten my corset as much as Eliza's maid, so I am good to go. Or, are you nervous about meeting the other you?”

That caused her eyes to harden, though I had not meant it as a challenge. Only in concern for my friend.

“No, let us do it. My parents must be worried sick.”

“Do you have my weapons? Give me the brass knuckles first.”

Not brass, actually of a material discovered on another planet, they folded nicely within her tight pockets, but would more than do the job when I wrapped them around the fingers of my right hand. Hiding that hand in my skirts, left hand on Jane’s arm we walked to the door, behind which the working girls plied their trade. At that door a goon stopped us.

“You can’t go back there.”

“Suzanne is waiting for me again, this time my beau would like to watch.”

Brunos like the guard have a particular thought process. First off, he would spend a bit of time thinking about Suzanne and I getting it on, which brought a lustful smirk to his face. Secondly, he would remember that he was not supposed to let a client through the door when not accompanied by an employee, which brought a frown to his face. But only for a moment, when the smirk came back. He liked the idea of the two of us together. Then he would look at Jane, see her as a pathetic guy and realize he could handle her with a hand tied behind his back. The sneer that came at this realization of superiority was followed by him opening the door and waving us through.

Quiet back here. Though we did hear some action going on behind a door or two. Upstairs I guided Jane to Suzanne’s room, opened the door and wrapped up under a blanket asleep, no doubt feeling the affects of the knock-out powder I dropped in her water jug before I left.

“Here, Jane, help me out of this dress.”

“What will you wear?”

“I’m going to go like this,” I said, sighing my relief when the corset came off.

“But you are only wearing a shift.”

“Distracting?”

Jane said, “Scandalously so.”

“Perfect. Hand me one of my pepperpots and let’s go.”

Bad timing, we walked out just as a patrol walked by. Bad timing for him that is. While he gaped, I threw a superman punch right into his temple. The knuckle dusters worked. We pulled the unconscious thug into Suzanne’s room, but it sped everything up. He would be missed, but maybe and yes he did have a key.

Praying it was to the gate at the stairs, we hurried in that direction. I never figured out lock picking, if the key didn’t work, it would require a bang and all the goons would come a running.

Our luck held, the key worked and we stole our way to the top floor. Sneaking along, we listened at every door, but only one showed any light under the door. Stopping in front of that door, I whispered, “Me first.”

Professor Genki's Kill of the Fight came immediately after we burst into the room. Barely did I have time to figure out who sat where before I raised my pepperpot and fired. My fucking instinct was perfect one more time. None of the guys visible was the number one concern, but the guy on the other side of the door at the end of the room, who aimed his seven barrel volley gun through his door at us, met his maker before he could pull the trigger..

My sex high was further boosted by the kill. Do you how hard it is to make a door shot like that? Fucking near impossible, but as the thug crashed through the door, his gun falling to the ground, it proved itself not impossible for Jonny Gams.

Yeah me!

The other three goons in the room with the boss were simple. Bang, bang, bang. Down they went.

Of course that was followed by shouts and the sounds of people running up the stairs. A moment like this is when you need the biggest gun possible. Running on instinct, I scooped up the volley gun and stepped back into the hallway, just as the bruno, who let us through the door downstairs, and a buddy appeared at the top of the stairs. Kabloom. Fuck me, that gun had a kick like an elephant, slamming me back against the wall, down onto my butt. But at least I could get back up, not so the two carcasses.

I listened, but couldn't hear any more running towards the action. Just screams as people ran in the other direction. Not unusual, it doesn't take a lot of muscle to look after a place like this. And most of the rest of the employees’ pay checks didn't give them reason to show any interest in gun shots.

Sneaking to and down the the stairs, listening and watching as I did, until I reached the landing and the gate. At which point I locked the gate again and placed a number of vases in front as a warning system.

Then I returned to the room where Jane and the boss glared at each. The same glare, because we finally found Zinyak’s Jane Austen. But so much more fragile, skin yellowish and hate flowing from her eyes. Makes sense the creation of a megalomaniac would be so broken

“Wait outside, Jane.”

Looking down, I felt a tinge of sadness. She looked so much like our Jane, that I couldn't help but feel the loss that lurked moments away. I walked out into the hallway where she waited. I could tell that she knew what that final shot meant.

“Are you sure about this, Jane?”

“It’s my place, Jonny. It is wear I feel comfortable and I miss my family ever so much. Just as I am sure they miss me.”

“But...”

“No, your world is for you, mine is for me.”

“Will you be able to make it back to Eliza’s on your own?”

“Yes, I don’t think many things will stop me any more.”

“I will miss you,” I said, giving her a hug and a kiss. “Use the guineas wisely.”

~o~O~o~

Over my time travel sickness, I caught the pillow thrown at me when I walked into the inner sanctum without permission, plopped down on Kinzie's couch and said, "Your choice."

"What?"

"You pick the next Twinkie to unthaw."

"Me? Really? Ok, but, Jonny, don't you ever worry about the time continuum?"

"No. We're still here after putting Jane back in her place, besides it always works out in the movies."

"But this is real, Jonny, not a movie. Maybe we won't even be here in the new world we create."

"Do you think gravity will be here?"

"Of course, but...Wait! Are you comparing us to a natural phenomenon?"

"No, Kinzie, I'm comparing a natural phenomenon to us. Now pick somebody. Or the two of us can dress up as naughty school girls and have a pillow fight. I'm down to see where either option will lead."

“Don’t you want to learn about what happened to Jane first?”

“Bet she was even better than before,” I said, full of confidence.

“I can hardly believe it.”

The End!

~o~O~o~

* These characters, world and games are trademarked and copyrighted by Deep Silver Volition - http://www.dsvolition.com/
* The first section is based on and uses dialog from the following video taken from Saints Row 4 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmrgpSM567o. The beefy guy with the ponytail is the boss (i.e. the protagonist), which is the character you play. The version of the boss that I play is on the right. Hence, the pink haired, barbie doll of mayhem description used in the story.
* The second section is based on and uses dialog from the following video taken from Saints Row 4 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bib9iUX5uj8
* Homie - Jane Austen picture is based on the Homie - Asha Odekar picture - http://saintsrow.wikia.com/wiki/File:The_Case_of_Mr_x_reward...
* Super Homie - Jonny Gams is based on the Super Homie - Kinzie picture - http://saintsrow.wikia.com/wiki/File:Kinzies_adventures_rewa...
* Pride and Prejudice is based on the Anime Pack picture - http://saintsrow.wikia.com/wiki/File:Kinzies_adventures_rewa...
* Pimp or Kneel Complete is based on the Kinzie’s Adventures Complete picture - http://saintsrow.wikia.com/wiki/File:Kinzies_adventures_comp...
* The Professor Genki Kill of the Fight advertisement comes from - http://saintsrow.wikia.com/wiki/File:1024x768_GenkiSuit.jpg
* Everything else is inspired by the irreverence and insanity of Saints Row 3 and 4

Seeking Escape

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

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TG Elements:

Fancy Dress / Prom / Evening Gown

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Posted by author(s)

Home from work, he hopes to indulge in his hobby; however, outside forces make it not as easy as he may wish.

Seeking Escape
by Arcie Emm

“I hate my job!”

Of course nobody heard him, he would never make that statement in the presence of others. But here in his private sanctuary, sealed away from the outside world, he held no fear of being overheard. Here he could think his own thoughts, speak them aloud, and truly be himself. The him who liked pretty things, instead of the him that held such a bleak job. It was always a relief to get home and escape from reality.

Well almost always. Today he was unable to fully immerse himself in his fantasies, his job would not let him. He could gaze fondly at the pretty things in his closet, smile at their brightness, and feel the softness. But he was unable to fully indulge, for he was on call and unsure that he would have enough time to make it worthwhile.

He could gamble, delving fully into the closet and the matching accessories, that there would no need to drop whatever he was doing at a moment’s notice. However, he knew it to be a bad gamble, for there was a host of problems waiting to flare up at the slightest spark, all of which would require his team to make an appearance. The heads up he had received, before heading home, had not been one of his boss’s, the original asshole, nasty pranks.

Not that he was affected by those pranks anymore. He had stopped being the man’s victim years ago, though the period after his boss learned of his hobby had been rather hellish. It was not that his boss found it disgusting, after all they saw worse in their job, instead it was a tool to hold over his employee’s head.

That had only stopped when he began to understand his boss’s mischief, deciding that, just as he loved his pretty clothes, his boss enjoyed making people miserable. SIin order to combat being made the victim, he had developed a second hobby, gathering his own information about the problems that simmered. Over time he had become quite good at predicting the likelihood of a spark, which had allowed him to know when he could ignore his boss’s on-call assignment and properly enjoy the bounty in his closet .

This was not one of those times.

So removing his uniform, he settled for a simple, blue, house dress, ignoring the gorgeous confections in his closet. Then avoiding the mirror, as he did whenever dressed without the benefit of time consuming make-up, he removed himself from the temptations in his bedroom, seeking escape in a book.

Escape that remained elusive. Regularly his eyes were drawn to the door behind which enjoyment lingered. Constant were the questions, wondering if he had misread things, maybe the problems were not as bad as he thought.

The reasons behind his decision stretched thinner as excuses about why he should give in moved to the forefront of his mind. Soon, despite what it would mean to others, he began to hope for a summons, anything to serve as an escape from his escape. Not rational, but neither was it as ridiculous as it seemed. Therefore, he felt relief when a thundering voice broke the seal of silence.

“Come!”

Returning to his bedroom, he changed from his blue dress into the dark uniform that identified him as a member of his team. And though disappointed that he had not been able to achieve the pleasure he had sought, he recognized that, at least for him, pleasure denied was always preferable to pleasure interrupted.

“Come!”

Hearing the second summons, he began to hurry. Quickly finishing his change, he scooped up a pair of scales and rushed outside to scramble aboard the saddled, black horse waiting for him.

“Come!”

With the third summons he felt his insides twist before he arrived somewhere and saw that, once again, his two colleagues already waited, one aboard a white horse and the other a chestnut. They, unlike him, loved their jobs and so it was never surprising to find them waiting.

“Come!”

And there was his boss, riding a pale horse and wearing an expression that showed this was no drill. Instead it was a look of greed, harbingering the scope of fire that was soon to blaze. Terrible for those caught in it.

On the other hand, wherever the four rode there were soon items without owner. Maybe if he was lucky, he could find a pretty, new outfit for his closet.

The Late Hermit Lord of Validurm

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

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TG Themes:

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With his nation caught before the rapacious empire of Goscaire, Anders Welsodon, the Hermit Lord of Validurm, is forced to decide if he can commit the ultimate sacrifice to spare his people from the worst of conquest.

The Late Hermit Lord of Validurm
by Arcie Emm

Seeing him trudge home along the barely existent path, his tattered, brown robe trailing in the dust, it would be easy to assume that he had failed in his declared mission. That assumption was correct, Learic, the second son of Emperor Burthin had been no more willing to listen to his entreaties of peace than he had been willing to listen to those of Madorn, or neighboring Samendolia, whose territory had shrunk significantly after the arrival of the invaders. Nor had he expected the prince too, why would Learic listen to the voice of a tired old man, when he had ignored the ambassadors of countries so much greater than his own. After all, when the now tired old man had been younger, he would not have listened, had not listened.

So impossible peace had never been his true mission, but now he feared that in that too he would he fail. He worried that the imbecile, sitting on his fancy throne, would be too dense to see beyond his last words. Learic probably only heard the threat in which they were couched, something entirely possible, for the old man worried he had probably gone overboard in his final speech. Still, even now, as he remembered it, he found himself smiling.

“Hear me Learic, Accursed Son of the Emperor Burthin, Despoiler of Fair Madorn and invader of Peaceful Samendolia. Fear me Learic, ill-begotten spawn of the Empress of Goscaire’s accursed womb. Hear me. Fear me. Know that I, Anders Welsodon, the Hermit Lord of Validurm, am your bane. Know that I swear by all that is good and right to end your evil, returning you to the deepest hells from which you sprung. Know that I will lead my people against you, that they shall never bow their knee while I yet draw breath into my body. Hear me Learic. Fear me Learic. Know me for your doom.”

Yes, it had definitely been too much, but then he had always had a weakness for the dramatic, the theatrical. Thus he had lifted his speech, almost word for word, from a play that he had loved as a youth, one long since forgotten by all but himself. It had not been a good choice, he had seen how tempted the prince had been to call for his death. Fortunately he was not sunk so deeply into folly as to willfully kill an ambassador, no matter how seriously that ambassador pressed his luck.

Now he wondered if the prince, or any of his counselors saw the out he offered? Or had he walked these long leagues to no avail?

Feeling the slight tremor from the ground upon which he walked, he received his desired answer. Yet the only victory in that knowledge was to provide a reason to stop walking, to give into the tired old man he appeared to be. Turning in the direction, from which he had come, he watched their approach, satisfied that rather than some motley squad of regulars, his death was to be delivered by a company of elite bodyguards. Mounted upon matching chestnuts, they were not as exotically dressed as some he had seen in the enemy camp. No helms shaped like the heads of animals nor did they carry weapons that only the largest of men could wield, instead they wore plain helms, plumed to matched the surcoats and cloaks of green, upon which danced a symbol of red flame, over their fine, steel chain mail. They exuded a professional competence that he admired, leading him to wonder to which of Learic’s captains they belonged.

As they thundered to a stop before him, he saw they had no need to look outlandish, leaving it to their leader, the Sorceress Feraleen of Goscaire, who was the most exotic of all of Learic’s captains. Though at this moment, sitting side-saddle in her green, velvet riding habit, a ribbon of like material fastening long, red hair into a ponytail beneath a jaunty, feathered cap, she seemed to be a normal, well-bred lady out for a ride. He saw nothing of the vixen who had worn no more than a filigreed, gold bandeau and matching belt-like skirt as she had lazed on cushions at the feet of the prince, watching him with fiery green eyes.

Her own captain, leaping from his horse, scurried over to lift her down from her mount. Yet he did not move to follow her as she approached the brown clad figure, her swaying saunter and saucy manner in which she removed her gloves giving lie to the demure nature of her dress.

“Do you know how close the folly of your final speech came to bringing ruination upon your plan, Hermit Lord?”

“Aye, Lady Feraleen, I do.”

“I believe you. For one who would take the entire enmity, of my lord, upon his own head, willing to sacrifice himself, thus providing his people the option of honourable surrender, without him to lead them, would know how useless such a sacrifice would be if it came under a flag of truce.”

Nodding his head in agreement, he said, “Well reasoned.”

In answer, she offered a smile and a mocking curtsey.

That smile undid him. Not that he broke down in tears, crying mercy, and falling to his knees. Instead it burned away the constraints in which he had chained himself, through decades of solitude and meditation. His true self unbound, he realized that it was not in his nature to willingly sacrifice himself for anybody’s betterment. Life was precious to him, at least his own. Not that, now that he thought about, the existence he had been living was a worthy to be called life for one such as he. Instead of attempting to play shrinking violet before that idiotic pup on his throne, he should have sent him to bed in a cold grave and taken this bewitching temptress as his own. Now it was too late. Rather than warm his bed, she was here to kill him and that he could no longer allow.

Somehow she noticed the change in his demeanor, maybe saw it in the eyes, which rarely could hide the truth from those practiced in the deception of magic. Frowning she asked, “How do you wish your sacrifice to proceed, Hermit Lord?”

“Actually, Lady Feraleen, I think I have changed my mind.”

“What is this, Hermit Lord? Do your knees now grow weak at what you have set in motion? Do you forsake your noble goal to save your people? Were your brave taunts of my lord, only those of a coward protected by the rules of diplomacy?”

“Aye, all of which you accuse holds some of the truth, but not all of it. You ignore all that I have to lose; to never feel the warmth of the sun on my face, to never be again bedazzled by a beautiful woman’s smile, to never again play the games we humans play. This and more I would lose, if I followed through with my mad plan. I can deny myself no longer.”

“We both know it is too late to return the wine into the bottle from which it was poured. Again I offer you choice. Shall my men fill you with arrows? Or will you bow your head to my Captain’s blade?”

“Ah, if you only knew the trouble I have found myself in, always being unwilling to bow my neck to anyone.”

“Arrows it is.” She answered, pitching her voice louder.

Her men reacted instantly to the words. Bows, which were already stringed, soon had arrows knocked, then in a seemingly orchestrated motion they aimed and loosed those arrows. However, before they could rain down in his death, the Hermit Lord made a gesture and murmured a word, causing Feraleen to flinch aside as she felt a rush of great power, like a desert wind passing her by. Startled, she saw a crystal dome form over the two of them, shielding him from the arrows and her from her bodyguard, who leapt forward in worry, though neither they nor their shouts reached her.

“I thought it would be best if we did not muck up your fine fellows while we settle this matter. Don’t you agree?”

Spinning back to the brown-robed figure, she worked to bring surprise in check, before saying, “So the rumours are true, you’re a magician.”

“I have dabbled.”

“What is your school?”

“School? Oh no, I never confined myself to one area of study.”

Instantly her arrogance returned. Wariness replaced by the contempt of a specialist when encountering a generalist, the disdain of an aggressor that he had reacted defensively, even with the advantage of surprise on his side. “Well I practice demonology.”

“Of course you do.”

Her eyes blazing at the implied mockery, she began an incantation. Resulting in a burst of lava, from which arose a monstrous figure, looking like some ancient stone statue of a knight, its horned helm scraped the roof of the dome, which had expanded to accept its new inhabitant. The beast looked questioningly at her, baleful eyes glowing through slits in its helm.

Pointing to her opponent, she said, “Slay me this vermin.”

From scabbard or hook it took a great weapon into each hand; a sword, a lochabar axe, a barbed whip, and a spiked morning star. Turning to its prey, it lumbered forward a step, but then it stopped as if startled, crashing suddenly to its knees and face, to grovel on the ground.

Stunned, she shrieked, “What are you doing you lummox? Get up and do my will.”

“What do you think your erentian sees, to make it act so?” Her opponent lazily asked.

Ignoring him, she stepped for to kick the monster, hardly feeling the stubbed toe as she exhorted it to do her bidding.

“The poor thing seems out of its wits with fear, maybe if you speak to it in its own language it would be more likely to respond. For I heard they don`t properly understand ours, only responding to gestures that mesh with its desires to kill.”

Almost snarling, her rage robbing some of her beauty, she responded with a hiss. “I do not speak its language, you doddering old fool.”

“You don’t? My how delinquent of your instructors. Well I guess it is up to me. Ochk il baur velnic Baurdinan?”

Not looking up, the monster rumbled its response. “Desamnble Fralen Meurtin, ba kodf syr pled hi gos baur. Fasa, il syr hellin bau.”

“Allow me to translate, it said ‘Great Lord Meurtin, I did not know it was you. Please, do not destroy me.’ How curious, what do you think it means?”

Feraleen’s face grew even paler than normal at these words. It was almost in a whisper that she said, “Great Lord Meurtin? It was Master Meurtin who founded our school, but he has been dead for centuries. Why...”

Her voicing trailing off, he finished her question for her, “Why does your erentian think I am the dead founder of the Academy of Demonology in Goscaire?”

Fearfully she asked, “Yes?”

His face lost its grand-fatherly smile, replaced instead by one of ancient wickedness, as he continued to toy with her. “Maybe the creature is mad? Why else would it accuse me, Anders Welsodon, Hermit Lord of Validurm, of being Siglindel Meurtin, son of Issingle and Manfuerd Meurtin. Next thing you know it will be calling me Ashide the Necromancer, Dinal of Falinquin, or maybe even Fruderick Vontonel of lost Dissidel.”

No longer did Feraleen of Goscaire look at him with saucy superiority. Instead that had disappeared behind the fear that grew greater with every terrible name he conjured from the past.

“Maybe it will even accuse me of being Feraleen of Goscaire?”

It took her a moment to realize that this time she did not hear his words, instead they reverberated in her mind. She screamed.

They always screamed at this point, thought the last Mind Master of Dissidel. Even the late Hermit Lord of Validurm had screamed, and Anders Welsodon had been more at peace with himself, readier for death than any of his prior victims. Which was why Fruderick Vontonel had chosen him, hoping to quench his own fires in the man’s purity.

He spared a thought as to how close he had come to intentionally losing himself. But only a single thought. Distractions and memories of his own past were hindrances as he rummage through the memories of Feraleen’s past. He needed to work quickly to understand her essence, her past. Nor did he have time to feel pity for the abuses that had led her into his clutches, not that pity was ever an emotion he nourished. He ferreted out her secrets, her fears, her dreams, her very being. And when he had taken all that she had to give, he raced to her centre, where a green flame anxiously flickered. Then, as casually as a child tasked with putting away the supper tables candles, he snuffed out the flame.

Feraleen of Goscaire was dead.

Instantaneously, in place of the green flame, a white one flared. Brighter, stronger, it denoted new ownership. Once more, a Feraleen of Goscaire was alive and she had duties to perform before she could collapse into needed slumber.

Speaking, in the language of demons, she said, “Get up Soldier and slay the Hermit Lord for me.”

From its belly, it rose to its knees, looking from the brown robed man to the green dressed woman, finally it settled its gaze upon the woman and in confusion asked, “Master?”

“Mistress now, apparently. Do my will Soldier, slay that useless carcass, so that its death can bring success to my earlier plan. Then I can search for a new goal.”

Growling agreement, it clambered to its feet. Taking two long strides it swung its sword and brought an end to the body, which now lacked the awareness to know it was finished. Crumpling to the ground, its death caused both the demon and the crystal dome to disappear, allowing the cheering men of Feraleen’s guard to rush towards their mistress as she smiled, apparently in victory. They had no way of knowing that her amusement sprung from the knowledge that being who she had become, so very different than anybody she had ever been before, it would be perfectly acceptable to dramatically feint, falling into the arms of her onrushing captain.

So she did.

***

Angry shouts brought Feraleen awake, finding herself to be gently rocking in a make-shift litter of green cloaks, strung between two horses. Shouts that exasperated the throbbing in her head, which always followed the possession of a new host, as centuries of memories, experiences, and knowledge flowed into unused portions of the new brain, finding residence wherever each may. And just like exercising muscles never used, the result caused pain that could only be combated by time. But first she needed to find the cause of and end the shouting. Tentatively, finding it difficult to find purchase in her hammock like bed, she tried to sit up. Frustrated in that effort she began to listen the ruckus.

It seemed to be an argument between voices which were familiar, but that she could not yet recognize. It was always thus, every mind processed information differently, requiring her to find her way along its pathways and slowing her reaction to those who she should know. Fortunately it was something that could be explained away by the exhaustion and headache, during which she familiarized herself with a new shell.

“Thrice cursed fool, what madness possessed you to allow her to leave the camp?”

Loud and angry, cultured and cruel, even fearful to a degree, she took in all these clues from the man’s question and found him within her new memories, sure that the hazy figure in her mind would become real as soon as she set eyes upon him. Duke Blaise Tormaer, who wore of many hats. Some were official, such as; Duke of Solden Valley, Son of Arch-Duke Dorthon, Nephew of Emperor Burthin, Cousin to Learic, and Commander of the two regiments of the Imperial Guard accompanying the army. But it was the unofficial roles, implied or whispered behind closed doors that made him such an intriguing and feared personage; maybe an explorer, adventurer, spy, adulterer, murderer, but definitely the throne’s chief problem solver.

“Forgive me, My Lord, but I do not command milady’s steps. I follow in hers.”

This voice she found even easier, having fallen into his arms moments after rebirth. Captain Abnar Deloiut had been gifted to her, along with his company, by Learic after she had become his concubine. Loyal, competent, professional, and more than a bit in love with her, worthy of her trust. But she also knew how ill-suited he was to match wits with the duke.

“So you merrily follow her into enemy territory to confront a powerful wizard on his own grounds.”

“A wizard she easily defeated. You should have seen her, Duke Tormaer, commanding her mighty demon to tear him apart.”

“Spare me your misbegotten pride, you imbecile. Think what would have happened to you if that had not been the case? My cousin would have had your skin flayed from your bones and used for a drumhead.”

“Nothing would have happened to Lady Feraleen while my men and I drew breath.”

In response, she heard a hissing sound, a snap, and a man’s shout. Realizing her captain had just felt the sting of Duke Tormaer’s scourge, she decided it was time to make her presence known. In a querulous tone, she asked, “What’s going on?”

Two faces appeared above her, the bearded one bearing three cuts across his face and clean shaven, handsome man. It was he that spoke. “Lady Feraleen, how good of you rejoin us. Your Captain Deloiut was just telling me how you single-handedly defeated the Hermit Lord of Validurm. Brava, Lady, brava.”

“Duke Tormaer?”

“Yes it is I. Apparently slower of wit than Your Loveliness. For by the time I discerned the true offer behind King Welsodon’s words, you and yours had already left. But now that I learn that he was a magician, I see how fortunate I was that my cousin had no need of your special services and that my tardiness allowed you to corral the man before me and mine stumbled upon him. I really cannot wait to hear more of your adventures, but it may be best to wait until we arrive back at camp so you can relay it to all, particularly Proctor Veldorme.”

The name seemed familiar. A moments thought found him in a cesspool of memories from her days as a student at the Academy of Demonology. The man held pride of place in the horrors of those times and, despite her recent detachment from past hurts, she instinctively reacted as if he was her hobgoblin, rather than the prior occupant’s, she squeaked, “Proctor Veldorme?”

“Aye, he and his coterie arrived just after you left. I am sure that he, if my cousin can spare you further, will be interest to hear how you defeated the Hermit Lord.”

Suddenly she realized that she was in no better shape to match wits with this urbane lord than was her captain. She did not understand enough to know why he would have conjured this spectre of her past. Furthermore, trying to navigate memories of the murky political world in which she found herself, caused her head to throb more deeply, bringing a hiss of pain to her lips.

Hearing this, the duke, falsely solicitous, said, “Lady Feraleen, your captain did not tell me you were hurt.”

“Not hurt, Duke Tormaer. Only exhausted from my battle, which has left me with a head in which our army’s smiths seem to have taken up residence.”

“And here am I engaging you in mindless banter. For shame. Harlan, where is Harlan, to me man, the Lady Feraleen is ill and has need of your services. Fear not Lady, we will soon have you in greater comfort than this humble litter can offer.”

True to his promise, the Duke’s personal doctor soon took her in hand. Feeding her a drink, with a bitter taste she recognized as the extract from the root of the doa plant, he then had her carried from her litter to a sumptuous cart. Pulled by four horses, its accompanying the duke showed that his tardiness could in part be explained away by better preparation than Feraleen’s. Inside, alone with the rather small Harlan, she began to relax as his fingers pressed to her face and skull, relieving even more pressure. Wishing the man had been available for her prior rebirths, she found herself able to evaluate her situation.

She did not like what she found.

Through the years she had discovered that though each possession was different, there were similarities. In particular, she had always been male and, more often than not, one with power. Now she was female, stereotypically female, and owned less power than she had assumed, little more than the horses the prince also rode. Never had she been anybody like Feraleen of Goscaire.

Now with time to explore, she delved deeper into what she had brushed against in her rush to possess. She relived the moment of pride when, as a teen-ager, she had been granted entry into the Academy. How that pride was crushed when a schoolmate’s necklace was found, somehow planted deep within her personal chest. The deal that followed, private dishonour in place of public ruination, as she offered her nubile body to Proctor Veldorme in return for making the accusations of theft disappear. The years as his apprentice, study often interrupted to satisfy whatever perversions the man dreamed up. In the end she had been so ready to be free of him that she had willingly accepted the gifting that had placed her between Learic’s sheets, uncaring what favours the man bought with her body or that her ordeal had resulted in the public humiliation she had once sought to deny. Eagerly did she accept the title Whore of Goscaire, if it meant no longer being Veldorme’s toy.

Further soul searching led to understanding that her pursuit of the Hermit Lord had been an act of rebellion. An attempt to prove that she could do more than slake the deep thirsts of Learic. Now having accomplished that goal, she worried what would be the result. For a moment she thought it may have been better to have been caught by Duke Blaise, but then realized the duke may not have triggered her desire to continue with life. And was it not better to be alive in chains than free in death?

She hoped the answer would continue to be yes.

***

By the time they reached the army`s camp, early the next morning, her headache was gone and she had fully became Feraleen of Goscaire. Completely entwined were their destinies. At least they would be, once she determined what those were to be. Much would depend on the reactions to her return.

Inside her sumptuous tent she met the first judge. Aliena Koehl, Feraleen’s supposed maid-servant, in actuality the proctor’s warden, ever since Feraleen had come under the man’s sway. During that time the woman had been the mistress of the petty indignities of Feraleen’s life, while Veldorme contented himself as the master of the gross. Judgment came quickly as the maid met Feraleen with a slap to the face, calculated perfectly not to mark, and said, “Stupid girl. What possessed you to run off, forsaking your duty, to play the heroine? Surely Prince Learic was filled with rage at your abandonment, you will be fortunate not to end up back in the Master’s household.”

Guessing that it was not the old maid she needed to please, Feraleen saved her energy, accepting the admonishment with bowed head and meekness. Watching her, to see if she would need to quash protest, Aliena finally nodded in satisfaction and clapped her hands, summoning her assistants, Dinine and Solange.

“Hurry girls, we must prepare Lady Feraleen for this afternoon’s council session.”

What followed was a whirlwind in which Feraleen served little purpose other than to be the focal point of their activity. Stripping her of the riding habit, she was helped into a steaming bath, which had been waiting her arrival. After the removal of the road grime, she laid upon a table to receive a massage with aromatic oils, leaving her skin glistening with health. Something that would be apparent to all, after she was dressed in three golden, silk scarfs, barely wider than her hand. Two attached to a silken rope, tied around her waist to form the most inadequate of skirts. The third looped around he neck and crossed her torso, straining over breasts, nipples puckering the thin material, before being knotted at her back.

The simplicity of her garments were offset by the decorations that followed. Toes, fingers, and lips painted red to match her fiery mane, gathered into a long, thick tail, held in check by seven golden rings, through which a man’s fist could pass, and matching those that hung from each ear. Her eyes, darkened with kohl, shone forth like the emeralds at her forehead, dangling from the ring in her navel, and glistening at the end of the stud through her tongue. Looking at herself in a sheet of polished brass, Feraleen could only stare. How different she appeared than only the day before. Then she had sought to make herself a sacrifice, now she appeared as one. And once again, she would be forced enter the command tent as a bare-footed supplicant.

Stepping forth from her tent, Feraleen was reminded of an old adage, imparted by one of her first instructors in Dissidel, ‘Knowing something, believing in something, does not make it real. Living it does.’ The lesson had been meant to temper a young man’s belief that reading something meant he understood; however, she had found its truth many times, a person’s memories meant little until she lived them. For example, despite knowing she was female, dramatically so, she did not begin to understand what that meant until she left the safety of her tent.

Like a pack of wolves, spotting a wounded deer, each man’s heads swiveled in her direction. Goose bumps forming beneath the weight of their combined leers, she quickened her pace, scurrying along the street towards the central square and the command tent. Those stares offered further proof, not that anymore was needed, of her status. Such gawking would never be allowed if she was seen as anything other than a repository for their general’s lust.

Arriving, Feraleen was greeted by Learic’s smug major domo who asked her to bide until the prince could see her. There, under the appreciative watch of the tent’s guardsmen, it finally dawned upon her as to what she was meant to do the tent. She was to give herself to Learic, to do with as he may, and if he did not have the imagination of the proctor, memories warned great enthusiasm, which she had often matched her with own. Recognizing this, a battle exploded in her mind, as parts, holding memories of identities who had taken the most pride in their masculinity, triggered disgust at the idea. In turn, those that had belonged to the prior Feraleen, tried to deny the feelings of shame from this self-judgment, protesting why she found Learic desirable.

For the Feraleen, who had once been Fruderick Vontonel, the argument was little more than background noise. With most new lives, she had often experienced act that seemed unnatural to her composite beliefs. Some had been benign, such as the fasting required as the Hermit Lord, while others had been horrible enough to start wars and dwarfed, in darkness, the idea of opening her legs or lips for a man. Each time Feraleen had accepted it, just as she would not accept it this time, while hoping that remembered pleasures would continue.

However, during that afternoon she was not given a chance to find out, for she was never called into the tent, though any men, officers or messengers, entered or exited during the time she stood on display. And while each took notice of her, their expressions running from lust to disdain, the smirking major domo never again looked her way. Not even when the meeting broke up did she see Learic, his own quarters being joined to the back.

Back at the tent, Aliena Koehl took great delight in hearing what had happened, casting dire prediction upon dire prediction about what it meant for Feraleen. Working herself into a cackling frenzy, worthy of the mad Oracles of Costagar, it did not take long before she had her supposed mistress living as a disease plagued whore, on the streets of the capital. But Aliena could have saved her breath, little of her ravings penetrated the mind of her target, who instead focussed upon the immediate affect of the afternoon’s punishment, the agony of sunburn.

Lovely as her fair skin had appeared, glistening in bold display, Feraleen’s lengthy stay under the sun’s brightness had left her skin competing with the redness of her hair. Every time she brushed anything, even the silken and satin pillows that filled her tent, it brought a hiss of pain to her lips. She could not sit or lay down, yet the result of standing the entire afternoon, posed as was expected of her, left legs begging for relief. Still continuing to stand was preferable, given that her sweat, natural in the warm, stuffiness of the tent, seemed to bead in the inside of her elbows, between toes, at the back of her knees, and in the creases of her neck causing every movement to feel like sand rubbing against her sensitive skin. And despite owning knowledge and skills that had caused the world to shake, she knew nothing to help her now, having never studied the arts of healing or becoming one who had. She was helpless before this simple foe. She needed help.

So interrupting her very own Priestess of Doom, she asked, “Aliena, could you send for a healer? This sunburn is unbearable.”

“Send for a healer? Don’t be ridiculous girl, you will never learn your lesson if you so easily discard the punishment.”

“Do it.”

Feraleen’s command, through gritted teeth, caused Aliena’s head to snap around in surprise. Eyes blazing, she moved toward her charge, and with a familiar slap, she said, “What was that, you slut? Do you think to give me commands? You don’t give me commands, you follow mine.”

Such an attack would have, had in fact, cowed the Feraleen of the past. But she was no longer the same person and she had decided she had enough. So her slap was not calculated to only sting, instead it slashed against her tormentor’s face with full power, causing the older woman to crash down to the ground, a bruise already growing on her cheek.

In shock, her hand reaching up to touch her cheek, Aliena looked up at her attacker. Pain, dampening anger, she said, “Whore, you forget yourself. Master Veldorme will hear of this and you will wish that...what are you doing?”

Feraleen did not answer, knowing the woman would not like anything she had to say. Besides, she did not think it necessary to say how she was tired of being afraid or that, though she did not have the power to change her situation with many people, she did have it over the maid. Nor did she feel it important to ease the woman’s fears. No, it would be better to just to act, so with the power Feraleen had always owned, but with knowledge newly added, she cast her spell.

This situation did not call for an erentian, so rather than lava, the carpets buckled up, the sod beneath flowing overtop to disgorge a manlike figure, a wine cup in hand. Black bearded, horns sticking through its hair, legs of a goat, and with a tuffed tail, it wore no clothes. Something that became obvious when it spotted Feraleen, attired in nothing more than her reddened skin. Immediately its look of confusion was replaced by a nasty leer and its, or better to say his, manhood engorged to obscenely jut forth, drawing both women’s eyes. Aliena gasped with horror, but Feraleen only smiled. The satyr exceeded her expectations, the fact that he would be clever enough to understand human speech, unlike the erentian killing machines, made it even better. After all, if Aliena could not understand what was spoken, how would she understand the threat Feraleen planned to make?

“What is your name, Satyr.”

“What does Pretty want of Egilo?”

However, clever they may be, satyrs were far from smart. Ruled by their vices, they readily believed lies offered to them. “Greetings, Egilo, I called you here for my maid. She was just bemoaning the fact that she had never been had by one of your kind.”

“What?” Shrieked Aliena, all her normal calm shattered.

Egilo, in turn, looked between the maid on the ground and Feraleen, before answering. “Egilo don’t want old one, want Pretty, with skin like succubus.”

Feraleen smacked his reaching hand away, pointed at Aliena, who had begun crawling to the door. “Stay there, you old prune, or you will regret it.” Again looking towards the satyr, she said, “I am too much for you to handle, Egilo. If I were to take you, the pleasure would be so great that your pride would wilt and fall off.”

Nervously looking down at his now, slightly drooping member, he puffed up his chest, and stated, “Egilo can handle you.”

“But that is not why you were summoned, so if Egilo is not interested in my offer, then beg...”

“Wait, wait, Pretty. Egilo want old one.”

“Feraleen! No!”

“So old one, you no longer want Egilo?”

“Feraleen, please no. I will do anything?”

“Would you get a healer?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Please, Feraleen, please?”

“Egilo not understand. Can he take old one now?”

“It is too late Egilo. The old one was insulted that you did not want her first and so no longer wants you.”

“Me not hear her say that.”

“Of course not, she spoke in the language of woman. You could only hear it if you were to become one of us, is that what you wish?”

“No, no, no. But I see you only joke, like Egilo joked that he did not want the beautiful maid. Of course he wants her more than red skinned woman. No, no, no. Who could look upon her and not want her? Just look at how her grey hair dankly flows down past wrinkled neck almost reaching proudly drooping breasts. I must have her.”

“A noble apology Egilo. Still Aliena is not yet ready to forgive, but do not give up hope, she may still change her mind. In fact if she ever mentions meeting you to anybody else, that will be a sign that she has fully forgiven you. If I were you, I would watch for such an occasion and take her immediately before she changes her mind again.”

“Egilo can do that. But not now?”

“No not now, but wait. I see you carry a mug, is it full?”

Surprised by this question, the satyr looked into the mug. Frowning at what he saw, he tipped it over, and sadly shook his head. Snapping her fingers, in response to this, she said, “Aliena, some wine for your guest. Now please.”

Nervously, face flickering from face to groin, Aliena approached the grinning satyr, bearing a skin of wine, which Feraleen’s distraction had kept her from drinking. Filling the mug, she stood, watching in disgust as it was greedily emptied, wine running into beard, before it was thrust forward again. Again she filled it and again Egilo drank it dry. But the third time, Feraleen stopped him before he could drink.

“Remember what I told you Egilo, now begone.”

Disappearing faster than he had arrived, caused Aliena to slump. Turning accusatory eyes to Feraleen, she asked, “He won’t really be watching, will he?”

Feraleen just smiled and said, “Hurry along now, Aliena, and get me a healer. Although a word to the wise, I would not scurry off to tell tales to Proctor Veldorme if I were you.”

With one last, fearful gaze the maid scurried from the tent. Whether it was to get a healer or seek vengeance, Feraleen did not know. Though for both their sakes, she hoped it was the former. For with the fury, she felt during both the encounter with Aliena and Egilo, gone, she now felt the pain of her burn more deeply. Though that pain was nothing to what her former tormentor would feel if she spoke of what had just happened, for Egilo would be watching, he would watch until the old maid took her final breath. And if given the chance, he would eagerly take what he considered his.

As the wait grew longer, she began to think Aliena had tempted fate after all. And so began wondering what it would mean for her and feeling frustrated that since she had been approached by the previous incarnation of Feraleen she had been reacting blindly to everything around her. It was an unwise approach, so unlike her usual methodic approach, which required her to learn as much as possible about a person, before taking over their life. So easy, now, to misstep when all she had to work with were her instincts, but on this, her second eve, they served her well. For when the tent flaps opened next, it was to allow entry of a apologetic Aliena, who explained away her delay and introduced the Brother of Leyrl who accompanied her.

Like his brothers and sisters, he would be a wandering monk dedicated to the worship of the Goddess Leyrl. Normally he would find himself moving between small villages and farms, offering his Goddess’ healing to those who had nobody else. But his kind also seemed drawn to war, and Feraleen knew his skills would probably serve her better than one of the great sorcerer mages.

Apparently he had been briefed by Aliena, as he hardly looked at Feraleen before spilling out ten flat, white rocks from his pouch and ordering the maid to fetch him a pail of water. Having his patient turn her back to him, he took a stone in each hand, knelt down, pressing the rock to the back of each of her knees and began to sing a song, seemingly without lyrics. Together, the stones and music, worked to draw the heat from her skin, before dropping the two stones into the pail in a burst of steam. Taking another two rocks, he repeated his actions on her ankles, then the crease between her buttocks and thighs, and so on until he had drawn the heat from her back side. Finally able to get off her feet, she followed his command to lay upon her back so he could work on her front. Nor was she disturbed by how intimate were his touches, for his actions brought more relief than the most caring of lovers. And when he eased sore legs, with a wonderful massage, she doubted a single one of her voices would complain if she took the Brother as such.

But that was not possible for either of them. Instead Feraleen paid him with a meal and a bolt of white cotton, which would serve him and his fellows well the next time the army found itself in battle. Delighting in the freedom from pain, she ensured Aliena kept the man’s plate and cups full as he attempted to defeat a seemingly bottomless hunger. Only when his pace slowed, did she ask, “Excuse me, Learned Sir, is there a way to prevent sunburn?”

Not looking up from his plate, he said, “Stay out of the sun or wear more clothes.”

Losing many of her positive feelings towards the man, at this obvious piece of advice, she held her temper and said, “Sometimes that is not possible.”

“Oh right, like this afternoon.”

With those words, Feraleen knew how quickly her humiliation had spread, despite futile hopes it would not be worthwhile gossip. “Yes like this afternoon. Tomorrow may prove no different.”

“I suppose coating yourself in mud is not an option?”

“Of course not!”

“Umm, I smelt lavender oil, if you wear that, you could crush some dolantine berries in it, that would be good. That is if dolantine berries were readily available in these climates. Therefore, I would recommend fox aloe, crush a handful of leaves and add the resulting paste to the oil. That may work, if not I will stop by tomorrow night to see if you need my assistance again. Now I must be off to see who else needs my assistance before I seek my bed.”

“Thank you, Learned Sir. Be well.”

***

As she expected, Feraleen was given a chance to learn that the fox aloe did indeed help, requiring only short work by Brother Brien, during his nightly visits, to have her skin back to its creamy norm. The next day to go forth again, barely dressed, coated in oil, and bade to wait on Learic’s pleasure. And each day, the summons did not came.

By the end of the third afternoon, her fear of what may come had begun to dwindle. She found it difficult to fear someone, rich in power, who would devise such a feeble punishment. Nervousness, gave way to curiosity about the prince. with he massive army, did not move to finish his foe.

Interest perked, Feraleen began seeking knowledge about those who surrounded her. One source was the discussions amongst the officers who, like her, often waited to enter the command meetings, particularly as they grew used to her presence and became less careful with what they said. Their information was supplemented by the gossip of her maids and Brother Brien, during his nightly visits. She learned enough to give her an outline of the situation.

However, she needed to find the details herself. This she accomplished via the use of tjeets, summoned in the night while she was alone. Tiny demons, no bigger than her longest finger, they needed to be smarter than their larger brethren in order to survive. This intelligence, along with their ability to hide, made them the perfect spies. Not only to listen to conversations thought private, but even to read letters and missives, allowing them to weasel out most information she sought.

What Feraleen discovered led her to realized the army existed for no other reason than to gather the Empire’s troublemakers and potential troublemakers into an easily controlled group, while also expanding the borders. Worse, the entire army understood this, including their supposed leader, Learic, the empire’s top potential troublemaker. Thus they did not make for an idea invasion force, instead they moved only when the pillaging needed for their massive camp drained the surrounding countryside of all resources. And because of their size they always won; however, it was never with elegance, instead brute and bloody force brought victory. Often their casualties were as bad as their enemy, requiring the Empire to find more problem children to replace any losses. Morale was always low, leaving the army being better described as a mob. The Hermit Lord had made a terrible mistake to give in without fighting, it would have been interesting trying to stamp out this scourge of locusts.

It was hard to believe that this band of buffoons controlled her fate, but she could not easily take someone else’s place. During, or even after, her current punishment, it would be impossible to arrange a private meeting with anybody other than the prince. Even if she could, her resultant death would make for an uncomfortable reception for her new self. Besides she did not see a worthy candidate, even Learic held less power than everyone pretended.

So for the moment she accepted the context of her situation. Trapped in her silken prison, she fought boredom by participating in the creation of the silly outfits she wore. Her unique past, as the recipient of the pleasures provided by those like she had become, offering a different viewpoint.

Nearly two weeks after becoming Feraleen, while wearing one of her own designs, a barbarian slave girl look consisting of three triangles of rabbit fur and leather thongs, something finally happened. Again she found herself waiting upon Learic’s pleasure, trying to ignore the invasive nature of her costume’s bottom, when she saw a company of Imperial Guard approaching with their commander, Blaise Tormaer. Having learned, through her tjeets, that the duke was the true commander of the army, granting Learic only figure-head status, she found it strange for the council to be meeting without his presence. Spotting a familiar face, from her Hermit Lord past, riding beside the emperor’s man, she guessed why he was only now arriving.

Pilar Graneet was the perfect choice to represent Validurm, now that her old self was dead. Having used his wealth to buy into old nobility, Pilar had disagreed vehemently with fighting the empire’s forces, unsurprising since his businesses were based upon exports to Goscaire. He probably had been clamouring even louder for surrender after their lord’s death, in fact she was surprised it had taken this long for him to get his way.

However, before guiding the man the final steps to his glorious surrender, Duke Tormaer steered him towards Feraleen. “Sir Graneet, allow me to introduce you to Lady Feraleen, the Prince’s companion. It was she who defeated your Hermit Lord in sorcerous combat.”

Taken aback by her brazen appearance, he momentarily was tongue-tied by the lust of a man married to a homely wife who he feared. And Graneet lived under no illusions that if he were to stray, his would divorce him immediately and rob him of the title and status for which he had paid so much. Yet he quickly regained his aplomb, his riches having come from the dexterity of his temporarily tied tongue. Offering her a short bow, he said, “Lady, what a great gift you have given the people of Validurm by ridding us of that senile old fool. He would have led us all to our doom.”

The very sound of his voice, little alone what he said, reminded her why she had always despised Pilar. Yet it was now too late, and too early, to do anything about it, instead she only offered the man a full, court curtsey, rather mocking in her state of undress, and said, “Sir Graneet, it pleases me to know that you and your people also benefit from the gift I sought to offer His Highness, the Prince Learic.”

Foolish, but not a fool, he caught something in her tone and looked questioningly at Duke Tormaer, watching with a smile on his lips and a frown in his eyes. Decided not to rise to her bait, he said, “It was a gift for all, Lady Feraleen. But please excuse us for the moment, as Sir Graneet is about to finalize the delivery of your gift. I am sure someone will let you know how His Highness receives it.”

Even with the reminder of her status, Feraleen smiled at being allowed a subtle strike. It made her wish for more, so while the surrender occurred inside the tent, she found herself plotting revenge upon Pilar, considering seducing him and letting his harpy wife deal with the man. But it was only fantasy, she could not stand the idea of his touching her. Not because he was a man, that hurdle grew lower every day with disgust being replaced by curiosity and a competitive urge to prove to Learic what he was missing. No she would not let Pilar touch her, because he was a hideous slug.

The two men were not in the tent long enough, particularly to surrender a nation, before exiting. This time ignoring her, they mounted their waiting horses and returned in the direction from which they had come. Watching them leave, she did not sense the approach of another man, his satin smooth voice surprising her.

“I thought I would save your tjeets the work and let you know that Duke Tormaer has been made Governor of Validurm, at least until the Emperor finds a suitable replacement for the prize you dropped in his lap.”

Spinning, she saw Proctor Veldorme. Younger and better looking than the bogeyman of the same name, who resided in her head, Feraleen hid her surprise at his knowledge and silent approach with a quick dip, holding none of the mockery in the one she had offered Pilar Graneet. “Proctor Veldorme, I do not know what you mean by sheets.”

“Tjeets my pupil. Tiny demons, wonderful at sneaking about and gathering information. I spotted one a couple days ago and set about discovering who was its master. Imagine my surprise when I learned it was yours.”

“But Proctor, that is not possible, you never taught me about these tjeet things. How could it be mine?”

“Such were my thought as well, my lovely Feraleen. Yet everything I learned pointed in your direction and makes me ask what truly happened between yourself and the Hermit Lord?

“We battled, he defending and I attacking. Honestly, I was lucky to win, for the Hermit Lord had my erentian under his control, I think to prove he was stronger. Proctor, he let me win, he decided to sacrifice himself for his people.”

“Yet you now have the ability to call upon tjeets, something that not a single member of my coterie, all of who received instruction you were denied, can do. You walk with confidence, even in garb you abhor and while under threat of punishment greater than being put on display. You do not shrink away from me, and when was the last time I could approach you without your knowing, your lovely skin goose bumping by my very nearness. What did you encounter that day, which changed you so?”

She was unsurprised that he saw a difference, it was always most difficult to fool those who were closest to those she became. The questions always were, how much did they see? How perceptive were they? Doubtless the devious proctor was amongst the toughest audiences to which she would ever play, in many ways being Feraleen’s creator. Yet he should never guess what had happened, because her truth would be something he would not consider possible. Still he could make life difficult, so she needed to plan how best to deal with him. Two options came to mind, either confrontation, which would allow her to shed her feeble shell for one more powerful, or she could give in, at least for now, to her current situation. Recognizing that it was base emotions which clamoured for the first approach, she chose the second.

Bowing her head, before his gaze, Feraleen said, “Forgive me Master Veldorme, I have forgotten my place.”

Staring hard at her, he finally nodded. “Very well, let us pretend that is the truth, at least for now. Though I warn you, that when I return, I shall delve deeper.”

“Do you go with Duke Tormaer, Proctor Veldorme?”

“No, to Goscaire. Until the Duke returns from Validurm, there will be no progress in Samendolia. I will return when he does.”

“May you have a good journey.”

“Why thank you for such pleasantries, my dear Feraleen. With such care for my well-being, maybe it is time for me to quit sharing you with the whelp. Think on that whilst I am away.”

Gladly she let him have the last word, no matter what it may portend for her. Instead she savoured the possibilities that existed with the two men she feared the most gone from the camp, the two who she knew had encouraged Learic to keep her at arms length. Just as she knew that the prince had not found another to drive her scent away from his furs, she guessed that it would not be long before her banishment came to an end.

“Lady Feraleen, the Prince will see you now.”

Learic was even more eager than expected, hardly gone were his watchers and he already giving in to his desires. Ignoring the return of respect, in the major domo’s face, she conjured up memories of the woman on whom she had based her costume. Feraleen could only hope that she could wield as much influence over Learic, as had the sensuous Ilsi wielded over Chieftan Bron, her own self at the time. With the long dead temptress as a role model, she strutted into the tent and prostrated herself before the prince, though not the full genuflection offered to the Emperor. Rather than being flat on her stomach, she had curled forward up her knees, forehead touch the ground and offering the officers behind her a view that would enliven any war council. She held that position, waiting for her target to react.

“Leave us. The council is finished for today.”

During the shuffling noise of the tent emptying, Feraleen remained in her position. Nor did she move when the only sound was that of breathing, deeper than normal from in front of her. Beginning to stiffen, she decided to break the almost silence. “Milord, may I approach?”

A moment’s hesitation caused her worry, but then she heard a sigh and he said, “Of course.”

Only with these words did she raise her head and look at him. Scarcely older than her body, neither having reached their twentieth birthday, he was almost pretty, though his warrior’s build mitigated the possibility that anybody would tell him so. Not shrinking from her gaze, he responded with a look that combined a mixture of confusion, hurt, and lust. Though as she moved forward, still on hands and knees, stalking rather than subservient, the lust ascended over its fellows.

Approaching him, she saw proof of his desires rising within white, cotton trousers. Discarding who she may have once been, accepting the now, she reached out to caress, first just feeling the heat, then what caused it. As it twitched upward to meet her palm, she guessed how hard abstinence had been for him, having never lacked feminine company from the moment he had first desired it. Sensing Learic`s eagerness, she allowed her second hand to slide under the hem of his tunic, to find and loosen the cord at his waist. Understanding her goal, he added his assistance, and between them they soon had his trousers down to his ankles, which he then kicked away. Unhesitating she brushed back his tunic and leaned forward, her pierced tongue running along his length, chasing it, when it jerked away despite the pleasure, to take the head into her mouth. Already she could tell he was ready and knowing that sometimes it was best to release the pressure, she bobbed downwards, pushing him over the ledge. Swallowing she did not let go, instead she readied him for something better for both of them. It did not take long.

Pulling out, he reached down and scooped her up, hurrying towards his quarters, goaded on by her moaned encouragements. Kneeling on pillows and furs, Learic dropped her to sprawl before him, arms and legs open in surrender. Like the finest of swordsmen, he moved quickly to exploit the opportunity offered, her costume offering no protection. He took what she offered and offered what she took.

Mutually satisfied, he finally collapsed, one of Feraleen’s legs still wrapped around him, the other, hooked over his shoulder, trapped along with the rest of her between her lover and the pillows. Momentarily they lay together, panting from the exertion mirrored in their sweat slicked bodies, trying to regain self, to become two instead of one. Her grip relaxed, he gathered a modicum of energy to roll onto his side, propped upon an elbow looking down at her with a tumultuous mix of emotions. Satisfaction and lust definitely, even a tinge of love, but there was also anger, bitterness, frustration, nervousness, and hurt. Once, then twice he began to speak, but stopped himself, regathering his thoughts. Settling upon the simple truth, he said, “You should not have been punished.”

The blunt statement surprised her. “Why was I?”

“Because I am not strong enough to deny Blaise and because he sees initiative as a bad thing amongst those of us banished to this army.”

In the warm glow of what they had just experienced together, Feraleen found herself pleased to find that Learic held no delusions about his own situation. “It that why he off to Validurm, himself? To deny us our victory?”

“Your victory. But yes, you read the situation right. Neither Blaise, nor, for that matter, my father, would like us to acquire a taste for easy victory.”

“Is that why they handicapped you with such poor troops?”

“Ehh? No actually they aren’t too bad, no different than what we have been facing. Some in fact are quite a bit better. The problem is with how poorly Blaise, and I guess myself, have led them. Attacking fortified positions, letting enemy forces link together, never utilizing our numerical superiority with any wisdom.”

“But why?” Feraleen asked. Knowing the answer, but curious to see if he did as well.

“To prove me incompetent. To make it so nobody would flock to my banner if I raised it in rebellion against father or Danaric, once he becomes Emperor.”

“Because even this is less costly than civil war.”

“Yes. Plus, no matter how incompetently, we are expanding the Empire’s borders. They cannot help but win.”

For a moment the two lay in thought. Learic, thinking of what he had finally admitted aloud, distractedly playing the ring in his pillow mate’s navel. While Feraleen, unconcerned by the possessiveness of his touch, found herself re-evaluating the prince, wondering if he was worthy of being her ally and, if so, for what purpose would their alliance exist. She felt it was worth exploring.

“What can be done so that you too, in fact all of us, can share in their victories?”

Snorting a bitter laugh, he said, “I supposed we could prove we are not incompetent.”

“With Duke Tormaer away, wouldn’t now be a good time to do so?”

“Sure, though that would place us even deeper under watch by my father and his real army. Still, it would almost be worth it, better to be punished than be remembered as the idiot prince. But will anyone follow me?”

Steadily Feraleen grew more convinced that Learic would serve her better as a stalking horse than as a host. As her current self, to which she had become adjusted, she would have almost as much to gain from his success as he would have. More importantly, punishment for her, if they failed, would probably not be as harsh. So she nudged him in her desired direction. “I will, Your Highness.”

That he did not break out in laughter or even a smile, raised him even higher in her opinion, as did his cautious response. “It is easy to forget that you were a student of Proctor Veldorme. Harder now after you cornered the Hermit Lord. But I must ask, what more assistance can you provide me?”

His wise question deserved the truth and she almost gave it to him. “I can offer you this, a willing bedmate and ear. Morseo, I can offer you information.”

“What do you mean? What do you know?”

“No, Your Highness, the question is what can I learn.” Seeing his confusion, she said, “To understand what I am about to say, you must first understand that I did not defeat the Hermit Lord, he let me win. Yet before he bared his throat, he first opened his mind to me. His knowledge was overwhelming, much I do not even begin to remember, but some of it made sense and while I was banished from your side, I began to explore that which did. Of particular use is having tiny demons, called tjeets, spy for me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“And what did you learn of the Samendolians that I can use?”

“Umm, I did not think to check on those enemies.”

“Oh?” Then realizing which enemies she meant, he said, “Oh! How very interesting.”

“Aye, Milord. The tales I have to tell. Are you curious?”

“Most definitely, but that can wait.”

“Milord?”

“I think I am ready for more of what you first offered.”

Quickly understanding what he meant, she was surprise how ready she was as well, the chaste and pure life of the hermit had not been for her. Smiling, Feraleen rolled over onto her stomach, wiggled her delightful rump, saying. “Your barbarian slave girl is ready when you are, Milord.”

In the tradition of the best of authors, Learic showed her when, rather than telling her.

***

During the next couple of days, the two spent much of their time in Learic’s tent, seen only by their servants. And though most admired his stamina, it did little to change their opinions of the prince’s ability to command the army. However, what he and Feraleen learned over that period, while they waited for Duke Tormaer and Proctor Veldorme to get well on their ways, changed his opinions on many of them. He discovered who pretended to be his friends and those who could care less about who led them, just as long as they were led somewhere. Furthermore, they surmised who was competent or useless, loyal or disloyal, brave or cowardly, and many other secrets that could be used in their favour.

And not just amongst their own army. Though it proved impossible to slip her little friends into the tents of Semendolian’s commanders, whose own magic users saw them well protected, there are many ways to discover intelligence about an opponent’s army; overhearing conversations, counting numbers of troops, collecting information on supplies, and reading missives being delivered by messengers. It was enough to give a competent planner all he needed. The prince, despite his other faults, had paid enough attention to his tutors to be this.

Not that they were entirely devoted to their scheming, the rumours that were circulating held some truth. For conspiracy is a glee inducing activity, much more so when at the slightest inclination you can pounce upon your fellow conspirator and have your way with her or him.

On the fourth night they were ready to put their plan in motion. The initial step being to invite five of the army’s commanders, those who chafed the most under the current inactivity and yet were not complete idiots, to a supper hosted by Prince Learic. The first to arrive was Senior Colonel Grannar Vorqsin, commander of the 4th Pikes Division, whose lowly birth had caught up to his competence, earning he and his men banishment to this army. He had the most to gain and the least to lose in attaching himself to Learic. Not the case for the next arrival, whose family’s wealth allowed Viscount Kelix Fenslowe too bring a full regiment of household troops. Still, despite being unable to learn which embarrassment to his family had brought him to their midst, they figured he would happily seek a success, allowing him to return to the family embrace. The third invitee was one of the few women of power in the army, an actual volunteer, Druidess Menalle Ginfalclin was the mistress of a new school of nature and illusion magic and hoped her exploits would bring it acclaim, sponsorship, and wealthy students. Then there was old Baron Nilcos Wenron, unwilling to listen to the subtle hints to retire from his post as the Empire’s siege-master, shunted aside to Learic’s army. Finally General Anton Jiacyl arrived, once the Warden of the Empire’s Eastern Armies, he had since run afoul of Arch-Duke Dorthon. Currently the Commander of Horse in Learic’s army and the most respected voice in of the daily council. Any success they were to achieve would depend heavily upon his buy in.

Feraleen, acting as Learic’s hostess, greeted each of them while wearing a pale blue, silk halter and a matching skirt, fastened at her left hip, by a blue enamel pin and left most of her leg bare. Titian hair piled high atop her head and her slender neck bearing a wide, pale blue, satin choker, decorated in chains of aquamarine beads, she guided each to a cushion around a low table, saw that they all had drinks. Then folding down into a kneel, at the head of the table beside Learic, she clapped her hands to summon the servers.

The conversation during the meal was low key, none being close friends and all being unsure as to the reasons for their invite. The talk was of the meal, the weather, gossip from Goscaire, but nothing of their purpose in Samendolia. By the time they finished their final course, a pastry of nuts and honey, conversation had almost stopped.

Taking a sip of his wine, Learic looked from guest to guest, before standing and saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please follow me.”

Sharing questioning glances, each rose to his or her feet, Baron Wenron receiving a hand from Vorqsin to his right. They followed him into the chamber where they met for meaningless sessions each afternoon, where Feraleen guided each to a spot circling a cow’s hide, staked to the ground, upon which a map of Samendolia was painted. Everyone in place, Learic said, “You are probably wondering why I invited you to supper tonight. It is to apprise each of you as to what I see as your roles in finishing our conquest of Samendolia.”

Each looked at him in surprise, Viscount Fenslowe blurting out. “But, Your Highness, Duke Tormaer told us to wait until his return before acting.”

“I am aware of that, Viscount, we are all aware of that. No doubt even the Samendolians are aware of it, given how porous our camp is.”

“Which makes it a perfect time to act. Is that your thinking, Your Highness?” General Jiacyl asked.

“Yes General, that is my intention. Now you will all agree that we have the forces to crush them if we but try?”

General Jiacyl answered, “Their camp is well dug in, but we have the numbers to break it. Though it would hurt.”

“Which is why I would like to get some of them out of that camp. So I propose that Baron Wenron march his siege train for King Guronde’s capital at Clatand, under the protection of a force commanded the Viscount.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying we should be doing all along.”

Ignoring the siege-master’s interruption, he continued. “However, the real goal of this force will be to draw troops from their camp, after what they will hopefully see it as a target. Particularly since the Viscount’s protective force will be woefully inadequate.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness, General Kilsnaft will know its a trap, he’s no fool.”

“But I am, General?”

“Your Highness, in no way did I mean to imply that.” General Jiacyl protested.

“Worry not, General, in this I am quite happy to be seen as a fool. After all, who but a fool would also send his most able commander, along with the majority of his cavalry, to raid Indigelle while he has an undermanned siege train on the move?”

“They’ll see that ruse?”

“But it will not be a ruse. I quite hope you will be able burn a number of towns and guard posts before returning to rescue the Viscount and Baron.”

Again it was the Viscount who protested. “What! We’re not at war with Indigelle, you can’t do that. What will your father say?”

“Oh I am sure he will, when Indigelle’s Ambassador presents him with a petition, spend the greater part of the afternoon mildly upset. But really, everybody knows Indigelle is our next destination, since there is no need to go to Validurm and because father is not ready to have us return to Goscaire. We may as well take this opportunity to surprise them and damage them before they are in place to defend against our future attack. In fact, General, please feel free to leave a regiment, commanded by one of your abler men, to harry the countryside when you return.”

“If you wish, Your Highness. However, I believe this plan is fraught with danger, all depends upon our timing being exactly right.”

“It is a gamble, I will admit. But to mitigate that risk, we will lean heavily upon Colonel Vorqsin, the 4th Pikes, and some guesswork. The guesswork is based upon the route that the siege train will take, crossing the Thrake at Wyland Ford, then heading Southeast, which means that, if the Samendolians wait until they are sure General Jiacyl is truly out of the country, the quickest route to catch the siege train will require them to head for...”

With his questioning pause, the men turned their gazes towards the map, trying to envision the future movements of the troops. Mathematically inclined, Baron Wenron saw it first. “They will head for either Brown Cow Crossing or the Yellow Bridge, probably the first since the bridge will add more than a day to their march.”

“That is my hope, thus we will have Colonel Vorqsin and his men will be there waiting for them. How long could you hold Brown Cow Crossing?”

“What is it, about one hundred and fifty yards? Honestly, my 1st and 2nd regiments would be stacked nearly seven men deep, leaving the halberdiers of 3rd regiment to move about to deal with any cavalry that gets across. And if we have any time to dig in, then we can make a real nuisance of ourselves. My questions are, how wide is the crossing and how likely are they to have archers or slingers?”

General Jiacyl broke in when it appeared the prince did not have an answer. “About eighty yards at the narrowest point. In range for either archers or slinger, but I do not think you need to worry about their threat. One weakness of the Samendolians is how few they have in their army, most will be kept back to protect the main camp. And any they include, if they are being used to from across the river, would funnel their attackers into a narrower attack. In fact, you should hope they are stupid enough to try it. Still, it would be a good idea for you to have some range attack of your own, causing havoc as the enemy cross. Do you agree, Your Highness?”

“Yes, I see the wisdom in that. However, I am not very familiar with those units, do you have a recommendation?”

“I’m thinking the Agimar Sling Company, but would like to check their preparedness before giving a final recommendation.”

“Very well, have your recommendation to me tomorrow. Now as I said, I hope for them to use the crossing, but if their scouts see the colonel’s troops then any pursuit would head for the bridge or return to their camp. This is where Madame Ginfalclin come in. Excuse me, Druidess, may I have your attention?”

The statuesque brunette had barely looked at the map. Instead, as during the meal, her attention was upon the prince’s companion, flailing Feraleen with a look she associated with men. But at Learic’s words, Ginfalclin turned to him and said, “Of course Your Highness, you have my undivided attention.”

“I was wondering if, with your magic, you could hide Colonel Vorqsin and his men from natural sight?”

“Hmm, how many men would that be?”

Senior Colonel Vorqsin answered, “Each of my three regiments have between 700 and 750 men, then you need to add in about 150 slingers.”

“It is doable; however, my disciples and I would not be able to hold the illusion for days on end.”

Outside of pleasantries, Feraleen spoke for the first time, since the arrival of the guests. “Druidess, I will inform you of the approach of any enemy, be they scouts or the entire force.”

Once more the stare turned towards her, causing an involuntary blush that made the Druidess smile. “How lovely.”

Ignoring the blatant flirtation with his concubine, the prince presented his final thoughts. “That is my plan, I know it is complicated, but that is why I have chosen to use the best units in the army, instead of the whole unwieldy lot of us. So I would like you all to take the rest of the night to think about what I have told you and whether you wish to participate? If you do, please evaluate the plan and bring forward with any improvements? I expect your decisions tomorrow morning.”

“I’m in, Your Highness.”

“Thank you for your support, Colonel Vorqsin. I admit that I hope to hear those sentiments four more times.”

“Can I speak of it to my adjutant? I trust him completely and he often sees what I do not.”

“Yes, General. All of you may speak to your closest companions, those you trust. However, other than them, let us keep this quiet. In particular, I do not want word to leave the camp, which would make me very upset. Thank you for your time and please be ready with your answer after we all break fast.”

With the dismissal, the guests filed from the tent, each quiet in his own thoughts or her fantasies. Left alone, Learic asked, “So? How do you think it went?”

Moving into his arms, Feraleen said, “As well as could be expected Milord. They were all interested, but it is too early to say which way they will leap, outside of the Colonel, who we never doubted.”

“I wonder if they will heed my warning?”

“We are prepared if they do not.”

“Uh-hmm.”

For a time neither spoke, each thinking about what they had initiated that evening. However, neither age nor inclinations allowed Learic to stay introspective for long, particularly with a beautiful woman in his arms. Soon his hands began to roam, one dipping downwards past smooth thigh and skirt edge, while the other slid upwards, under a silken halter. Familiarity allowed him to quickly coax forth a moan, even before he began to nibble at an ear, whispering into it. “Did you want Druidess Ginfalclin as much she wanted you?”

“Oh, no. You’re more than enough for me.”

Having felt her twitch at the mention of the name he was not fooled. “And it was the cold in the tent, not her stares that caused such a noticeable change in your appearance.”

“Hm-hmm, very chilly. We needed a fire.”

“I will mention it to my servants, just because it is the middle of summer, does not mean they can shirk their duties.”

“Exactly. But enough of them, let us return our thoughts to the lovely druidess. Although I would never entertain such thoughts myself, if Milord wishes to offer me to his ally, maybe to watch as she satisfies her unnatural lusts, I could do naught but obey.”

“How noble of you.”

“I but seek to serve you Milord.”

“Have a care what type of waters you enter while helping me, Lovely Feraleen. For if the rumours are to be believed, the druidess’ passions are akin to a river’s rapids.”

“Surely if I am in danger, my watching prince would dive in to save me? Maybe he would take this opportunity to show me how he would defeat her passions if she looked to swallow me whole.”

The unfastening of a pin and the feel of silk cascading down her legs, to pool on the ground, was just the start of his answer.

***

As Feraleen and Learic played games that only affected the two of them, their supper guests were caught up in their games that affected all. All found themselves weighing the potential rewards versus the possible punishments, were they to follow the prince. A few confided in trusted companions, while others decided on their own. Some were able to sleep soundly, while some found themselves restless in their furs.

Yet even the most restless earned more sleep than Calbin Denores. He had been the active messenger, before receiving a missive and setting out, with three horses, for Validurm. Having diligently ensured he was rested, in case he needed to ride, he still found himself getting tired just over an hour into a ride. Always the case, the night gloom made it worse. Fighting the brush of the warm air that dried his eyes, he reached into a saddlebag, searching for the small clay jar containing jala leaves. Chewing the leaves was a trick he had learned early in his career, their juices always seeming to perk him up.

Taking a pinch, he returned the jar to the bag and spared a thankful thought that his entire route was controlled by the army. Bad enough to be tired when on horseback, even worse to be tired on horseback and traveling through enemy territory. Particularly on an unfamiliar route, which was still case for anyone traveling between the camp and Validurm, even when guided by the first maps prepared by the army’s cartographers.

Later, as messengers road path, the map would be filled in. For example, a mark would be made designating the statue on the side of the road, just ahead. Maybe on his return he could stop and see if there was a plaque, but in the dark he only saw its shadow. Seemingly some stone knight.

Calbin’s senses were not sharp enough to notice anything strange about the figure, but that was not the case for his horses. Approaching the shadowy figure they suddenly became aware of the danger and crashed to a halt. Calbin instinctively yanked his feet from stirrups, let lose a barrage of curses, and tried to control his launch over his mount’s head, bracing for the ground and immediately tucking into a roll.

His cursing unabated he came to a stop. Trying to figure out what had spooked his horses, he heard a thunk, not unlike the headsman’s axe in Goscaire. And as he turned, he saw was horse’s head bouncing towards him, followed by a gush of blood, the horse’s body balancing upright for a moment. Shocked, he noticed the statue, even though his mind told him it was impossible, swinging a large mace down upon the second horse’s skull, causing it to crash down upon its knees. Disbelieving what he saw, he pushed himself to his feet, ignored the aches and bruises of his fall, and began to run away from the horrific attack on his horses.

He did not get far.

A cord snaked around his waist, bringing him to a halt. The snapping sound following the first touch allowing some unafraid portion of his mind to recognize the sound of a whip. Steadily it pulled him backwards, towards the unbloodied sword. Calbin could do nothing except close his eyes and wish he was asleep in the arms of his wife.

***

After years of denial, Feraleen was again enjoying life’s pleasures, once more appreciating pampering. The joy of a steaming, fragrant bath, the caress of clothing that did not scratch, the flavours of spice, the succulence of meat, the lingering affect of wine upon the tongue, the sensuality of a massage, the luxury of sleeping late, the ecstasy of flesh, it was all so very good. Easily could she get caught in the hedonism, the allure of sloth. Thus, she never allowed herself to forget that such a state held its own dangers.

That thought played a significant role in drawing her from Learic’s furs, before dawn had broken. Knowing it was necessary, before the morning meeting, to discover what was in the pouch of the messenger, who she knew had misfortunately run into her erentian. And though it may be more believable for the messenger to discovered by some random patrol, they needed to know if there had been an attempted betrayal. Besides, death by erentian would be messy, impossible to believe as accidental. Better for her to make the discovery, while out on a morning ride, and control the lies, even if it brought suspicion upon her.

Thus she found herself, dressed in the same green, riding habit into which she had been born, again accompanied by her Captain Deloiut and twenty of his company, riding along the path the messenger corps had determined as the quickest route to Validurm. It was one of these men, despite her being the only one to know the true purpose of the ride, who first noticed something.

“Captain, look!”

Staring in the direction the man pointed, they all saw numerous crows flying in the air further along the direction they were heading. Deloiut immediately brought the troop to a halt and sent a man forward to scout. That ashen faced scout quickly returned.

“Captain, its a messenger, his horses and him have been killed.”

Before the Captain replied, Feraleen said, “I think we better investigate.”

“It’s horrible, Milady. I don’t think you want to see it.”

“Thank you, trooper, but I will try to manage. Captain shall we?”

That worthy frowned, trying to come up with a reason to deny her request. Unsuccessful, he nodded his head and edging ahead of her, road forward. Definitely the sight which greeted them could not be described as an accident, but Feraleen attempted to do so anyway.

“Poor man, he must have set upon by a mountain lion.”

Eyes swiveled to her, none of them, all familiar with violent death, specifically the Hermit Lord’s, believing an animal had any part in what had happened to the messenger. They turned to their captain, to see what he had to say. Quiet for a moment, as many things fell into place, he weighed principles against advancement, and said, “I don’t know, Milady, more likely a pack of wolves.”

“Yes, Captain Deloiut, you’re undoubtedly right. Has anybody seen his pouch? Hopefully our enemy did not happen upon it and learned our secrets it contains.”

“Fenster, look for it.”

The same man, who had scouted earlier, jumped down from his horse and jogged towards the carnage. Strapped to the headless horse he found the blood soaked pouch and brought it to his captain. Deloiut, fully accepting his role as conspirator, opened the pouch,removed a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Feraleen, without looking at what it said. Reading it could have brought a smile to her face, if a smile were not so inappropriate for this place. Instead she settled for the warmth of satisfaction felt when one was right.

“Captain, this missive holds information, about treason, which we must immediately get to His Highness, Prince Learic. Leave some men to bury our brave messenger, and I think his valiant beasts. The rest of us must hasten to camp.”

As early as she had been in the saddle, Feraleen was back in camp well before the morning meeting was to occur. Giving her ample time to report to Learic, before heading for her tent to bathe and change. Made somewhat nostalgic by the morning’s dress, she returned to the prince’s tent wearing the bandeau and skirt that Feraleen, the who she was to become, had been wearing when the Hermit Lord, who she had been, had first seen and admired her.

This morning the five arrived together, rather than straggling in one at a time, each greeting the prince and pledging their support. Accepting the offers, Learic gestured for them to take their previous spots around the map and said, “Before we begin reviewing the plan, there is one matter we must discuss. As the Lady Feraleen discovered it, I think it best if she were to explain.”

Curtseying to the prince, Feraleen said, “Your Highness, my Lords, and my Lady. My excitement about the plan, upon which you are about to embark, made it difficult to sleep last night. Finally, just before dawn, I decided to get up and go for a ride, hoping that such exercise would calm me. If only I had been so fortunate, instead we happened upon a sight that will scar my dreams for many nights. One of the army’s messengers, along with his mounts, had been attacked and killed, by wolves my Captain thinks. From this horrid scene we were able to extract the messenger’s pouch. You can only imagine my further shock when I discovered that inside was a letter documenting all that had been discussed last night. Remembering His Highness’ admonishment that nothing was to leave the camp, I hurriedly returned to get the information in his hands.”

As she spoke, Prince Learic had moved to a table, returning with the bloodied pouch that none had noticed laying there. Opening it, he took the message and handed it to General Jiacyl, who in turn passed it Baron Wenron, and so on until it had returned back to Learic.

“I cannot say how much like a dagger to the heart is this betrayal. However, if whoever is behind it would like to speak, I would be willing to listen to their reason. No one? Let me say, it is no use hiding, I know who is behind it, as the Captain of Messengers knows whose man delivered it, while the Master’s of Scribes recognizes the hand. Well?”

“It wasn’t betrayal, Your Highness.”

“No, Viscount Fenslowe? What pray tell, was it?”

“It was a message to Duke Tormaer. Before he left for Validurm, he requested that I send him updates on any happenings in the camp. Surely there is no harm in keeping the Duke up to date?”

“And what would have happened if an enemy scout had happened upon our unfortunate messenger?”

“Fortunately that did not...”

“Disaster, that is what would happen you fool.”

“Your Highness.” Fenslowe said, in protest.

“Leave me Viscount, while my anger is still in check.”

“But Your Highness.” Seeing the darkening visage, the man stopped, offered a short bow, and said, “Very well Your Highness, I will leave. But please do not see my actions as betrayal.”

Sparing not a glance for the departing noble, Learic said, “General Jiacyl, now that you have had a night to think on my plan, please tell me all the ways to improve it.”

Before the general could speak, they all heard shouts, the loudest recognizable as Viscount Kelix Fenslowe. “What! Unhand me you thug. What are you doing, don’t you know who I am?”

“Ignore the racket General, sounds like some high spirits. Please continue.”

“Yes Your Highness. Despite its complexity, the plan is sound. The most important thing will be communication and picking cavalry units fit enough and competent enough to serve their part.”

Thunk!

General Jiacyl’s grew wide at the sound from outside of the tent, but the prince, unfazed, only said, “A good point, General. We will also need to find a replacement for Viscount Fenslowe as leader of the siege train’s escort.”

***

Eight afternoons later, the Commander of Scouts, surprised to have come under the command of the prince’s concubine, then intrigued by the knowledge she offered, was giving an update about the movements of the two detached units. The remaining members of the army’s commanders, grown wary of the prince after what had happened to Viscount Fenslowe, offered their full attention. “General Jiacyl’s raid continues to benefit from the Indigelian’s surprise and lack of preparation. In the last days, he has ransacked their military quarters in the city of Acdole. While other detached units, have continued to take and burn smaller posts and villages. Nor is there sign that Indigelle is any closer to reacting. Meanwhile the siege-train is progressing at a steady pace. Currently they have only encountered limited resistance, all of which Colonel Ramdster brushed aside. They should make arrive at Clatand within two weeks.”

“Not if the relief force that left the Samendolian's camp, two days ago, has any say in the matter.” Duke Tormaer said, striding into the tent as if an actor reacting to his cue.

“Why, Cousin, what a surprise to see you. What brings you back from Validurm?

“Never mind that, what are you doing, Learic?”

“I am leading the army to victory. Something that never seemed to interest you.”

“You’re leading them defeat, you fool. Don’t you see how ripe the siege train is for picking? Who is going to stop that from happening? General Jiacyl? He’s too busy with your idiocy in Indigelle. You? You’re too busy swiving your whore.”

“Blaise, Blaise, Blaise, you have been away from the capital too long if that is the best you can do for an insult. But, pathetic as it was, it was an insult. And I tire of your insults, I demand satisfaction.”

“What?”

“Go and get into your armour, while I get into mine. Let us meet in the circle and end all insults between the two of us.”

“Surely you will give me time to rest.”

“Spare me. I know you crept into camp last night, just as if you were sneaking into the bed of one of your friends’ wives. Nay, forgive me, I said no more insults and I meant it. Lets just get this over with, one way or the other.”

Staring hard at the prince, Duke Tormaer considered his options. Struck by the inevitability of Learic’s proposal, nodded his head, whirled, and left the tent.

Less than an hour later, Feraleen stood watching from the edge of the combat circle, located at the centre of the camp. This time, not being the spectacle, a job to be filled by the prince and the duke, she wore a simple silk wrap, knotted over one shoulder and draping, all around her, to the ground. Quietly she stood, hating what was about to happen, silently cursing her loss of control over the situation, and her potential loss of the prince. He was proving so useful an ally, a puppet. No, not a puppet, Learic had skills and strengths she had always lacked, ones that had held her back in the past. Together they were better than either alone.

Which made it so insane that all of their planning could become undone by an unlucky toss of the dice. For despite Learic’s protest to the contrary, his victory was not a guarantee, she had seen too many young men learn their immortality to be false. But there was nothing she could do. No tricks of magic, that would lead to tainted victory, serving them no better that the prince’s death.

And of course it had to happen just as their plans began to came to fruition. Things were going well, few knew how well, not even the Commander of Scouts, who monotone reports bored everyone to sleep. as she did not tell him all her tjeets told her. For example, he did not know that General Jiacyl, and all but four of his squadrons of horse, had already crossed back into Samendolia, flush with supplies and remounts acquired during their raid. Nor was he aware that the 4th Pikes, the Agimar Sling Company, and the Druidess Ginfalclin, along with her disciples, were hidden in a wooded bend, near Brown Cow Crossing, awaiting the enemy.

Yet, Learic had always told her that it would be necessary to deal with Duke Tormaer. Thus his plan, their hope, kept even from their fellow conspirators, called for the prince to slay the duke in a duel. An even smaller group, consisting only of her, had decided as a contingency if Tormaer won, to become the Duke. It would not make her happy, she liked Feraleen, but the prince’s death would strip her of all power. The switch would be necessary.

Watching the two men facing each other, she was struck by their similarities, not surprising with fathers as brothers and mothers who were distant cousins. They also wore matching armour, probably from the same smith, used similar weapons, and, when the fight started, fought in the same style. And from what she could see, likely due to their status, their tutors had been readier with praise than instruction. A battle of champions it was not, each flailing away with wild swings, easily blocked by shield or armour. They seemed more in danger from the heat of the afternoon in their heavy gear, than from each other. Yet it was not the heat that brought victory, though it was something just as mundane. A lose strap, on one of Tormaer’s greaves, dangling down to be stepped on, causing him to stagger, throwing his sword arm up, leaving a unarmoured armpit open for a thrust that even Learic could manage.

Surprised silence greeted this, both from the participants and the watchers, everyone shocked that it had truly ended in this fashion, instead of cooler head prevailing. The quicker witted soon began to calculate what it meant, but not Learic, his eyes locked upon his cousin’s, as they dimmed.

Feraleen could not allow him to show weakness, second thoughts at his own actions. She could not let him mourn his cousin or the loss of innocence, that came at slaying a man with his own hand. She needed him confident, natural in victory. It was time for her to be the actress, to stroke his ego, to get him to play his part alongside of hers. So shrieking, a happy shriek, she ran forward shouting. “You did it. You did it. Oh, Milord, you were magnificent.”

Caring not for those who may think her actions were unseemly, she saw the prince’s head turn, his vacant eyes focusing on her approach, a smile breaking upon his face, and Feraleen knew the success of her action. Happy she would not need to knock sense into him by flinging herself into his arms, what with him garbed in armour, she slowed to wrapped her arms around his waist, staring up at him in adoration. His grin growing larger, he held his bloodied sword in the air, drawing first scattered cheers, then more as expedience overtook the dismay felt by the supporters of Duke Tormaer. Basking for a time in the addictive results of victory, Learic’s smile took on a mischievous tilt, as he scooped Feraleen over a shoulder, drawing forth another shriek, and began walking towards his tent.

Thinking that this was not part of her script, Feraleen kicked her legs and banged upon the back plate of his cuirass, shouting. “Oooh, let me down.”

But she was not the only one who knew how to play to play to a crowd. A gauntletted hand, reached upwards to smack down upon her readily accessible bottom and growling, Learic said, “Quiet wench.”

Hearing the laughter, a sound even more positive than their cheers, from the spectators, Feraleen knew that his act was perfect, drawing eyes to them, the winners, away from the body of the loser. So she subsided. Happily would she sacrifice the small remainder of her dignity, in order to push her Learic high enough so he would one day make her his Empress.

Then nobody would laugh.

Epilogue:

The gate guards, in boredom, watched the constant flow of traffic into and out of the Jeweled City of Goscaire. Farmers with grains and vegetables, herders with beasts, traders with goods, soldiers and mercenaries, messengers, citizens, and those who visited out of curiosity. They did not even pay attention to the man, his shirtless torso showing muscles that would hardly be strained by the bastard sword hanging from his horse, when he had entered the prior day. In Goscaire, not even barbarians from the far North were a rarity.

Nor, on the new day, did he garner attention as he wandered the wide, cobbled streets, between buildings of grey and red stone, stopping to study every marble statue he passed. Actually not all, just the female ones, each showing a magnificently proportioned, long haired beauty in all manners of undress. Each carved to represent the same women, the Empress Feraleen the Undying, ruler of the Goscairian Empire for over three hundred years.

It was she, well actually her Takers, who acted upon her will, who had drawn the barbarian to Goscaire. For like them he was a thief, though unlike them he was also a mercenary, a combination that brought him into the hire of Count Evold Danner of the Kingdom of Entona. Employed to recover the most precious of Danner’s possession, his daughter, kidnapped by those Takers. A wise hire, though wiser still if the count had not waited until the Takers were back within their own borders before doing so. Thus the barbarian would have to retrieve her from centre of the Witch’s own power, but he was confident in his abilities.

In fact he had already discovered the location where the Count’s daughter would be found, in the Royal Palace, on the hill in the centre of the city, with the other Handmaidens’ of Feraleen. An order of beautiful women, each with long, flaming, red hair, similar to Anstace Danner’s, who served as the Empress’ deputies and voice throughout the empire. It was a position of prestige, which earned their families freedom for life from taxes. Few protested, even with dark rumours of dead handmaidens and how the Empress Feraleen bathed in their blood to stay young. Rumours the throne had tried to dispel, even going so far as to show some of the corpses, each of whom was whole, no cuts existing to have drained their blood. Yet people still questioned, even as far away as the Kingdom of Entona, leaving the count sure that his daughter was meant to be a victim.

A fortunate thing for the barbarian, Count Danner had paid good gold for an attempted rescue. And offered a king`s ransom for a successful one.

So he gathered information and tried to formulate a plan. By early afternoon he had completely circled the palace, seeking yet finding no obvious weakness to exploit. Finding the high walls surrounding it to be pierced by only four gates, each at a compass point and manned by a sizeable contingent of guards. Satisfied that he would need to seek the less obvious weaknesses, the thief decided to return at night, to look with different eyes. However, before he could turn away, his attention was drawn to a palanquin being carried down the hill, from the palace, towards the gate nearest which he stood. In particular his attention was drawn to the four men upon whose shoulders it rested, heavily muscled, dressed in nothing more than fur boots and fur loincloth, they were as alike enough as to be his own cousins.

The sight of those from his homeland, none wearing the collar of as slave, acting in such a subservient role, left him staring dumbfounded. Something that must have drawn the attention of the palanquin’s passenger, for leaving the gate, it moved towards the fountain, water shooting from the jug carried by the stone statue of the empress, beside which he stood.

Cursing his stupidity, he hoped that the bearers would continue past, ignoring him. He they came to a stop and lowered their burden to the ground. Too late to flee, he decided to play the awestruck barb and gawked at the group. He did not have to fake that look for long, as golden slippers, attached to long, perfectly shaped legs, split the curtain of the litter, followed by magnificent redhead, dressed in small swaths of gold trimmed, green velvet. Involuntarily his head swung from her to the statue in the fountain, drawing forth a full, luscious laugh from the woman.

“Nay I am not Her Magnificence, just one of her humble handmaidens, Inaneura. And who might you be?”

Trying to regain his wits, he answered, “Amra.”

“What brings you to our fair city, Amra?”

Despite the count’s desire, he had not gone rushing off, straight to Goscaire when hired; therefore he could answer honestly. “I served as a guard with a trader who stopped in Jotlin. However, when he returned back the way from which we came, I decided to come on to see Goscaire, never having been before.”

“How do you find it?”

“As everybody had described it, but more. I wish I could stay longer.”

“Why cannot you, Amra?”

“Too expensive, Your Ladyship.”

“Really? You know the palace can always use someone of your skills.”

At this, she slowly cast her gaze up and down his form, her eyes brazenly lingering upon his tight, leather trousers, before looking him in the eyes with an expression that would have been called a leer if she were a man. It allowed Amra to realize what had trapped his fellows. But he knew he was of sterner stuff, so since her offer gave him a chance to go where he needed to go, he unhesitating placed a foot in the noose, springing it.

“Do you really think so, Your Ladyship?”

“Oh yes, Amra. Most definitely. Here, take this and return to the palace this evening, show the bracelet and you will be brought to me. Who knows, you may even draw Her Magnificence's attention.”

Taking the bejeweled, gold bracelet she handed him, he nodded his head in agreement. She only smiled, before turning away, returning to her palanquin, further baiting the trap with how she moved. Offering him his chance to stare.

The End

Afterward:

This story was inspired by the covers of so many books, from authors Kirke (Raven), Rivkin (Silverglass), Cooke (The Lady or Garrett’s Babes), and so many other fantasy paperbacks. Many of which have some gorgeous woman on the cover, wearing the most ridiculous of outfits. In particular, Conan (Amra is another of his names) was my driver for this story, as for some reason I often visualize him with some luscious beauty, in the background, wearing diaphanous garb and lounging on pillows. Though not always the damsel in distress, sometimes they proved his enemy. Such is Feraleen, and I like to pretend that the epilogue to her story could be the prologue for one of Conan’s adventures.

Arcie

The Shootist

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Contests:

Stardust Anniversary Science Fiction Story Contest

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Military-lite

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Lieutenant Ivar Bandle daily regretted the contract that lured Dawson's Bunch to the planet of Darson. Now his platoon finally had a mission to be something other than a glorified security guards. However, all is not as it seems and soon he, his men and a sylph named Sascha are on the run. All that is left for them is to march or die.

Note: Story has not changed since it was posted during the Stardust Anniversary Science Fiction Contest.

The Shootist
by Arcie Emm

Ivar Bandle shared one thought with the men amongst whom he walked, that being a mutual distrust bordering upon outright hate. They saw him as an outsider here to destroy their way of life, while he saw their way of life as something worth destroying. It made his patrol rife with danger, for he knew they were a pack of macho shit heads. You never knew when one of them was going to try and prove the size of his stones.

It may not happen this patrol or the next, but it would happen. And when it did Lieutenant Ivar Bandle and his platoon would once more prove, that they too were macho shit heads and that their stones were bigger than any puke who wanted a compare. After all the mercenary’s superior fire power would do the measuring. But today bloodshed seemed unlikely. The men out and about today were older, past the uncontrolled fire of youth. And they looked prosperous, at least what passed for prosperous in the capital, Taling. These were not hard eyed rustics from rural Darson, no they were locals who may hate, but who would still tolerate.

His assumption proved correct and the platoon safely returned to Camp Royal, so named by King Nicholai after it had been established by the first holders of the security contract held by Ivar’s company. After three months Ivar could see why the contract officers could negotiate such a premium deal for Dawson’s Bunch and why none of the previous companies had rebid. Darson was a pit, sadly one that had to be experienced to be understood, so the credits had resulted in a majority ‘yes’ vote, though now none of the mercenaries would admit to having so voted.

The next morning found Ivar in the company office working on paperwork when a clerk informed him that Colonel Dawson wished to see him. Soonest and in formals. During the quick dash to his quarters and then towards the regiment’s headquarters he wondered what task the colonel would have for him and his platoon. Hopefully it would be one that would diminish the general malaise upon them.

Ivar stopped outside for a few moments to regain his breath. During that short pause he noticed, in front of the HQ, one of the large, armoured, tracked cars used by members of the royal family to stop assassination attempts by their beloved subjects. His excitement about the task diminished when he guessed that the royals were involved, a slimy batch who held onto power through treachery. It made him sick that the Bunch were in their pay, but as a professional soldier it came with the job. Therefore, before he entered the building, Ivar schooled his face to hide his thoughts about his employers.

A wise move; there were four large men waiting in the lobby, watching over all who entered. They would be of the Gamdi clan, headed by King Nicholai. And if these four men fit the mold of the other Gamdi whom Ivar had met they would be quick to anger, almost seeking to be insulted. They stared hard at him, but he kept his face impassive, letting them see nothing as he approached the desk to inform the colonel’s clerk of his arrival.

At the clerk’s direction he took a seat and forced himself not to fidget under the beady gazes of the Gamdi. Following orders, secretly published by the psych officer, Ivar did not look any of them in the eye. The psych team’s report had compared these body guards to dogs, saying they would be less likely to attack if one did not look them in the eyes.

Soon after his arrival, the clerk let him know he could enter, upon which he found a full room, leaving himself, the regimental sergeant major, the executive officer, and his own captain standing. Only the colonel and two recognizable figures from Darson were seated. The first, Minister Tor Aldieno, a cousin to the King, served as the main liaison with the Bunch. Beside him sat a younger, though not young, man whom Ivar had never met but whom he knew much about, the psych report had contained an entire chapter on the third son of the king who often acted as the family enforcer. The report had raised serious questions about Prince Fallan’s sanity, believing him to be at a minimum a delusional paranoid sadist. The two were accompanied by four more of the uglies, each looking ready to chew furniture.

After the colonel’s welcome, Ivar surmised one of the reasons behind their anger. Colonel Dawson was fully in charge of the meeting and they would feel this did not show proper deference. But Ivar guessed the very fact that the meeting was taking place here, rather than in one of the palaces, was a sign that they were in trouble and needed quiet help. Thus Bandle was prepared for something big to be going on, but the colonel’s next words still shocked him.

“Lieutenant, last night in Bitrel Province the village of Denj was raided by a large contingent of rebel troops. They killed a number of men; furthermore, they breached the Denj enclave and took all of its tenants hostage.”

’Oh my,’ thought Ivar. Further reasoning behind the goons’ anger zoomed into focus. Bitrel Province was one claimed by the Gamdi clan and though he had never heard of Denj, it must be important if it held an enclave.

The Darsonian enclave resulted from one of the largest, cultural, planetary idiocies that the lieutenant had ever observed. Darson held a populace patriarchal in the extreme, a society where sons meant everything and daughters were a burden. This combined with gene splicing had led to multiple generations where boys significantly outnumbered girls. It came to a head about eighty years before Dawson’s Bunch arrived, when a rare period of peace allowed the realization that there just were not enough women to go around.

Instead of leading to a cultural change, a much more logical approach, the thoughts and prejudices were reinforced. Women did become more precious, but as a commodity not as individuals. They were rounded up by their clans and locked away in enclaves. There they birthed heirs to wealthy families and daughters to follow in their footsteps. Only men considered lucky or privileged visited enclaves, most had to settle for an incubator generated son, using eggs purchased off planet.

Some men, with a broader world view, saw this as a good approach to increase the female population. However, the powerful who had already created enclaves proved unwilling to lose control over the women. Their harsh reprisals birthed the first rebels, at least the most current incarnation of rebels on this planet of idiots.

Having an enclave successfully breached would be interpreted as a major sign of weakness. The Gamdi needed to act fast to re-gather their women, but more importantly they had to capture the rebels and deal with them. Otherwise they may be toppled from the pinnacle. Even allied clans, those helping to keep them at the top of the food chain, would consider switching sides, or chasing the throne for themselves.

“Currently the news of the attack has been kept quiet, contained within the Gamdi who are currently equipping a force to give chase to punish the rebels. However, they have asked for some assistance and that is where you and your men come in.”

Three hours later, Ivar waited impatiently at the shuttle port for the arrival of Prince Fallan, who would escort his platoon and a squad from the heavy weapons company to Denj. After meeting the man he felt little surprise at the wait, the prince had seemed to go out of his way to be unpleasant. He had swung back and forth between bitching about the rebels to vehement and graphic descriptions of what he would do once they were caught. No, Ivar did not look forward to this mission, nor did his mood improve when he saw that the prince was accompanied by the nymph-like figure of his pleasure slave .

Ivar knew the prince would put on a show of great outrage to hear the word slave, he would say Darson did not condone slavery and that his sylph acted as a valued and cherished member of his household. Not that Lieutenant Ivar Bandle would use the term in the presence of his employer, despite his disgust at the practice. Nor was he alone in this belief, the League of Planetary Systems had judged the Darsonians guilty of slavery when denying their membership.

Yet it wasn’t only the subjugation that bothered Ivar. No, the very presence of the pleasure slaves made Ivar uncomfortable. He found it disturbing to see men serve other men as women, even when that service was forced.

For not only in the fathering of heirs did the idiotic Darsonian policy towards women cause problems. A more simplistic issue existed in the unavailability of women to meet man’s basic pleasures. On a planet brimming with men it resulted in a population hornier than a herd of bulls, making it hardly surprising that they spent so much time trying to kill each other. Yet man is, if nothing else, adaptable and thus there were those such as the prince’s companion, those who were called, often mockingly, sylphs.

Still everyone, even the mockers, made use of the sylphs, creating a thriving industry in the procurement and development of boys and young men to fulfill the role. The trade skirted, often drifting across, the borders of legality. Many stories of kidnapping existed and fathers went to extremes to protect their sons. At a minimum, son’s were taught to display no signs of femininity, such that only the most masculine of hobbies were known. Nearly as common was body shaping, rarely did one see a slender male. Instead, everyone tended to be either muscle-bound or overweight. And amongst the poor, facial scarification became common.

Even with these protective measures, thousands of boys went missing every year. Rarely did a conviction occur, and more rarely still did a father accept the return of a son so taken. Not that Prince’s sylph would have been some kidnap victim, no, he would be a completely different type of victim. The wealthiest did not wait to find a sylph who met their fancy, instead they would have one made. From gene splicing to physical development and growth, nothing would be left to chance in the fulfillment of the client’s vision, no matter how exotic.

Before Ivar could judge this sylph’s level of exoticism, Prince Fallan marched in front of him, closer than needed, asking, “Lieutenant Bandle, are your men ready to head to Denj?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Ivar replied, ignoring the hour-long wait for this rude man standing in his space.

“That is good. We are in a hurry; therefore, you will ride with me so that we can confirm your role in this operation.”

Ivar would have preferred to travel with his men while holding the conversation over comlink, but he could not find a polite way to refuse and soon found himself trailing the prince and followers onto the royal launch sitting beside the larger and blockier shuttles favoured by the mercenaries. Once aboard he found the inside richly appointed, throne-room-like in appearance, with the prince sitting at the front centre beside a low, cushioned bench where the sylph arranged himself. In turn, Prince Fallan’s men sat in rows of seats facing him, though they left the seat directly across from the prince for Bandle.

Once in his seat, they left Ivar alone during take-off, time he used to inform his second, First Sergeant Alphonse Dasi, of the change in travel plans. During his quiet conversation, Prince Fallan watched him with a lizard’s gaze while absentmindedly stroking the hair on the bowed head of of his companion. Once Ivar finished, the prince asked, “Is everything okay, Lieutenant?”

Somehow the man turned this casual question into an insult, one impossible to meet in kind. Instead, Ivar took sanctuary in the mannerisms of all underlings dealing with asshole superiors, he said as little as possible. “Yes, your Highness, my second has everything under control.”

“Ahh, that is good, Lieutenant.” Once more the prince lapsed into a lengthy silence, later broken by another question. “I suppose that Colonel Dawson informed you of your role in this action?”

“Yes, your Highness. Once you determine the direction in which the rebels are running we are to use our sleds to get in front of them and act as a blocking force.”

“Exactly, it is good to see that we are on the same page,” Prince Fallan murmured before resuming his silence.

The entire encounter put Ivar on edge. He had left camp with cautions from Captain Dagnyer the C-2 that there were irregularities in the Denj story, now he had to endure this simple, apparently meaningless interview. He felt caught in something beyond his pay grade. Therefore, he mentally hunkered down, preparing to deal with anything thrown his way while wishing that the prince had not separated him from his men.

Trying not to fidget under the stare of the prince, Ivar settled back into his seat and closed his eyes, pretending to go to sleep. The appearance had almost become reality when he heard the prince order, “Sascha, why don’t you get everybody a beverage and a snack.”

Opening his eyes to see the prince’s companion rise from his bench, Ivar obtained his first good look, though quick so as not to insult his touchy hosts, at Sascha. Ivar could not believe the boy’s tiny size, easily three decimetres shorter than the average female on Ivar’s home planet of Unity. Nor would he think the boy weighed much more than the kit carried by a trooper in Dawson’s company. Yet despite this, the tight silk of the dress displayed ample curves. Hips and backside likely appeared larger because of a minuscule waist, but no such illusionary affect was required for breasts larger than symmetry allowed.

Ivar’s surmise, based upon brief glimpses, was that Sascha’s face was as beautiful as the body that it topped. But he could not get a good look with it mostly obscured by an amazingly thick fall of obsidian-black hair hanging almost to his knees.

Yet, despite looking so much like a woman, Ivar doubted the presented picture, it felt artificial. The boy’s movements and gestures were elegant in a exaggerated and tutored manner, lacking the natural grace possessed by the women he mimicked. This was not surprising, for Ivar guessed that Sascha had never met a real woman and the images and methods used for training would have misled him. No, it was unfair to expect more and yet it added to the unfavourable judgment Ivar had originally formed, one he recognized as irrational and unfair.

The initial crack in his judgment came when he realized that they too had judged him, as shown by his being served last. Then when Sascha did approach and he finally saw the boy’s face what he saw made him almost completely cast it aside.

Not because the face was lovely, with a petite nose over luscious lips bracketed by high cheeks and perfect chin all covered in a creamy skin. He had expected nothing less; this launch, the guards, and even their clothing showed that the prince expected the very best. But Ivar had not expected Sascha’s eyes, not because of any emotion they displayed, just the eyes themselves. The lashes matched Sascha’s hair being thick and long, but the eyes were enormous, impossibly large is such a small face and so deeply coloured. Crystal emerald green irises twice the size of normal and almost obscuring the white glistened at him. So very unnatural, yet the eyes enhanced the face making it both beautiful and haunted. So great an impact did the eyes possess that Ivar could not stop a gasp of surprise.

Hearing this, Prince Fallan chuckled and asked, “Isn’t my Sascha amazing?”

Put on the spot, Ivar’s mind scrambled trying to decide how to answer, in the end he settled on truth, “She is very beautiful, your Highness.”

The chuckle turned to a full laugh before the prince questioningly stated, “She? No lieutenant, despite all appearances, Sascha is definitely a he. Otherwise he would be locked away in a enclave and I would be denied the pleasure of his company, which would make me sad. No, when my enemies forced me to take Sascha before the Board of Judgment they found that he was born male, just as you and I. Which bothers you, does it not?”

It did, but Ivar would never make that admission to this man toying with him as a cat with a mouse; therefore, with total conviction he told a bald faced lie. “No, your Highness, not at all.”

“No? Many off-worlders are disturbed by our sylphs,” Prince Fallan stated while continuing to study Ivar. Seeing nothing on the lieutenant’s face, he chased down another path, “Though you are correct that he is very beautiful, which is only fair based upon how much his shapers charged me. Yet his appearance was my idea, my vision. Do you know upon what that vision is based, Lieutenant?”

Quickly glancing at his fellow mouse Ivar saw that Sascha stood straight no longer with head downcast, despite being treated as a possession. Unbowed he stared back at Ivar almost demanding that the lieutenant not look away and Ivar did not, instead he studied the young man trying to answer the prince’s warped question. Sascha’s appearance made the boy one of the most feminine looking sylphs he had seen. In fact, few women he had met were physically as attractive. Features, skin tone and hair all pointed towards an Asiatic influence, which may explain the size for Ivar had heard that Asian women were at one time small. Yet that did not explain the eyes. With much less confidence than he had managed for his prior lie, Ivar asked, “A doll, your Highness?”

“A good guess, Lieutenant, but not quite. No, my vision for him came to me soon after I reached manhood, while searching my uncle Ander’s home for treasonous information. Imagine my surprise that his secret room actually contained the largest collection of historical pornography from Earth that you have ever seen. Poor Uncle Ander, his secrecy over such a silly hobby ended up being the death of him.

“Amongst those works were a number of the most curious picture books. Each of those books had a heroine fighting against all sorts of villains and monsters, except when those same villains and monsters were having their way with her. But at the end she would always win as a result of her extraordinary powers or skills at fighting. A different power or skill for each heroine, yet each of them had a consistent look. Always tiny, yet curvaceous, dressed in the smallest costumes and invariably having long hair in a rainbow of colours. They also had the biggest and brightest eyes you could imagine. Actually you don’t need to imagine, you just need to look at my Sascha.

“I devoured those picture books and by day’s break I knew what I wanted my sylph to look like. It took years, during which time I had to settle for second or third best, but the results were worth it. I monopolized a coterie of splicers until they fully understood what I wanted. The eyes worried us the most; therefore, we were not surprised that only four of ten babies from the incubator successfully took the mutation without ending up blind. Those four grew up under constant training and competition, in most things they equaled each other, but in one area Sascha stood out.

“I wanted my little boys to be fighters like those little girls in the picture book. Of course mystical powers were not an option, nor sadly were the martial arts due to their inability to develop any strength while keeping my desired bodyshape. Therefore, we taught them the use of hand guns and where Sascha thrived in the simulators while other three shrunk away. So despite my wishes for blue eyes, my adventurous little Sascha became my choice to undergo the last sculpting and training. During that time we ran into a problem with his hair. The length came naturally, but I wanted all the colours from those books and hair dyes were just not acceptable. But we found an answer.”

Temporarily turning from Ivar the prince spoke to his companion, “I think a dark indigo, Sascha.”

Ivar’s gaze in turn went to Sascha to see him reach into the bag he had carried aboard to remove a metallic comb. After a moment of fiddling, the young man began to comb his long hair and everywhere he brushed, the hair changed from its lustrous black to a deep, dark, purplish blue. Strangely fascinated by the sight, Ivar did not immediately turn back to the prince as the latter continued his speech.

“My shapers found a chromaticist by the name of Dr. Werner Eveline. He works with micro-organisms that change colour when agitated by energy waves. The doctor appreciated my funding and modified his research to solve my problem. First he had to stop them from being such carnivorous little devils; therefore, he made human flesh poisonous to them while nourishing them upon the natural chemicals found in the oils in human hair. Once that issue was solved he had to find a way to bind them to hair. Luckily, Sascha’s brothers were able to help in the experimentation so that Dr. Eveline could perfect his methods without damaging my prize. He also found a way to use the organisms upon nails. Show him, Sascha.”

Though his hair still shone mostly black Sascha held up a hand, so that the long sleeve fell down to show a narrow hand with long, clear nails. Then touching the end of comb to each nail they changed to a pale purple. Switching hands, he quickly finished the rest of his fingers, then with an embarrassed face, wiggled his fingers at Ivar before returning to his hair.

Though the whole performance seemed rather mortifying, Ivar decided to once more speak, to play the active audience. “Very impressive, your Highness, I would think you would find quite a market for such an invention.”

“Oh, most definitely, Lieutenant. I have opened a number of franchises both on Darson and off planet; however, it is not perfect. Only small variations of colour are possible, nor can you immediately make another change. You must rest the hair between each treatment or the organisms will die, so it takes a number of days to make drastic changes, such as; black to a pink. But why explain when you can see the full transformation, for I plan to leave my Sascha with you while I am out in the field, as the locals I will be travelling with look down upon sylphs like him.”

“Your Highness!” Ivar exclaimed, finally shocked out his shell.

“Yes, it is lucky that you don’t have such a problem.”

Two mornings later, a grumpy Ivar Bandle pretended to work in his Denj inn room, where he had banished himself so his mood did not affect the men. He felt nervous, an emotion constantly growing with the lack of information from both the prince and headquarters. And because of the kid, his, or maybe her --- it was getting harder to differentiate --- presence seemed dangerous, like a trap waiting to be sprung.

The kid, following Fallan’s orders, would soon arrive for his regular visit to show Ivar the next stage in the hair colour transformation. Awkward visits, but Sascha understood the only way out of his room involved visits to the lieutenant and since the kid was bored spitless he continued to come to Ivar’s room. But Sascha needed someone other than Ivar to play nursemaid, for the lieutenant had the empathy of a stone. Ivar knew he could not be the person to help the emotionally scarred teenager.

Noticing the time, he felt no surprise to hear from outside his door the first sergeant complementing Sascha on his appearance. Dasi and most of his troops did not have Ivar’s difficulty with Sascha, they just seemed happy to finally have some top-notch eye-candy around.

He tried to delay the meeting for a few more minutes, but a spate of giggles, combined with remembered tales of Dasi’s furloughs, made him rethink that wisdom. “Dasi, please send in Sascha.”

The sight of Sascha made him roll his eyes. No longer did candy provide the right description, the boy had become a confectionery treat from a fetishist’s bakery. Hair that on the last visit was a light purple now was a pale pink, matching the colour of the clothing the kid now wore. From hair ribbons to shoes and with lacy, short dress in between, Sascha personified pink fluff.

Despite appearances and unlike Ivar, Sascha was full of empathy. A mechanism surely developed to survive being owned by a homicidal maniac. So he guessed Ivar’s opinion, resulting in a pink pout and a high-pitched question, “Lieutenant Bandle, what did I do wrong?”

Cursing to himself, Ivar tried to dismiss the question, “Nothing is wrong, Sascha, you look...ummm...nice.”

“You think I look silly.”

“No, not at all, I just didn’t expect you to be all in pink.”

“You don’t need to lie, I know how I look, like a little boy. I wish you hadn’t wanted my hair to turn pink, I much prefer it black when I don’t have to wear these silly dresses,” Sascha accused.

“I didn’t want to see it,” Ivar retorted.

“Why didn’t you stop me? You could’ve.”

Ivar actually felt pleased to hear fierceness where he expected a whine, yet he would not take any blame, “How was I to know? Besides you appeared to be enjoying it.”

“Well, it did give me something to do,” Sascha admitted. “After all I don’t have my books or entertainments.”

“Then you should have packed something other than clothes,” Ivar bluntly replied.

“But I didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?”

“I didn’t pack anything, someone else did. It surprised me to see the shuttle carried so many of my things when we arrived.”

“So you usually travel with less?” Ivar asked, almost feeling comfortable with Sascha who apparently had a back bone.

“I don’t know, this is the first time that Prince Fallan has ever taken me out of the palace.”

The statement slammed into Ivar, making his fears rise up like bile. That sense of wrongness, lurking since the outset of the mission, could no longer be denied and in a quiet voice he asked, “Sascha, don’t you find that strange?”

“No, why wouldn’t I have my clothes? I never know what Prince Fallan wants me to wear; therefore, I need everything in order to be able to please him.”

“Not just the clothes, Sascha, that he took you out of the palace, that he left you here with us?”

“It’s an adventure. I always wanted to go on one, like in my books, but it’s turned out more boring than I expected. Is something the matter, Lieutenant Bandle?”

“I think so, Sascha, but I don’t know what.”

“Oh,” Sascha replied before joining his thoughtful silence. Then innocently stated, “Maybe something I overheard between the village elders and Prince Fallan may help. They mentioned that no evidence would be found at the enclave or of the attackers around town. Maybe you can find something they missed.”

Mentally Ivar kicked himself for not having checked already. From moment one, he had distrusted the prince, yet had still taken him at face value. How much had the prince played him for a fool? Rising to his feet, he almost reached the door before remembering his guest, turning to the figure in pink he said, “Sascha, stay here please, I may have some more questions.”

“Ok, Lieutenant Bandle, and can you think of a new hair colour for me? Not black though, Prince Fallan will expect something different.”

“Ok, Sascha, if I get the time.”

He did not get the time, instead Ivar spent the next hour dispatching men around the village and on the horn with Captain Dagnyer back in Taling. His men’s reports solidified his hunch, as he learned the only recent tracks led away from the village and that the enclave damage resulted from demolition, not combat. Confirmation came when the C-2 informed him the satellites showed no unexplainable recent traffic in Bitrel towards Denj.

“What’s going on, Captain? I have to tell you I feel like we are sitting here in the pincers.”

“I am not sure, Lieutenant. I have heard rumblings of a rebel plot called Ascension, we have no idea what it is about, so this may have something to with it.”

“Ascension?” a little voice in the corner of Ivar’s office asked. “The prince has been mumbling that in his sleep recently.”

Captain Dagnyer reacted first, “Lieutenant, time for you to pull out, get your boys kitted up and ready to leave.”

Ivar did not have time to reply before the captain signed off, instead he focused on Sascha wondering if the kid understood what was going on. Slowly he saw a look of fear settle over the pretty face, soon followed by a murmured, “I guess my hair colour doesn’t matter.”

Ivar directed his first real smile at Sascha. After all, he had always preferred bitter to sweet, so gallows humour touched him where candy failed. Still though his appreciation for the kid had grown, Ivar did not think Sascha’s dress would be good for a potentially bloody trip to the shuttles. “Sascha, do you have something else to wear?”

“Lots of things. Most of my closet.”

“Anything more appropriate for this situation?”

“I don’t understand, Lieutenant Bandle?” A confused Sascha said.

“You know, something less delicate than what you have on. Maybe something in which you can run.”

Hearing Ivar’s qualifiers, Sascha’s face began to light up, “I know, my adventuring outfit. The prince doesn’t like it, ’cause it doesn’t show as much, but he had it made for me to use when playing in the simulator against his men.”

“Ok, Sascha, why don’t you go change into your adventuring outfit,” the lieutenant replied. Then, watching the boy scamper out, he passed the word for everybody to kit up.

Not surprisingly, Sascha was ready last and before Ivar headed down to join his men he knocked on the boy’s room door to hurry him up. Hearing a muffled reply he entered to see clothes scattered all over and the most amazing behind staring back at him. Taken aback it took a moment to realize that Sascha was bent over a hair styling machine braiding his long, pink hair.

“Please, just a moment Lieutenant. I am just about ready, except for my stupid hair,” Sascha apologized.

Ivar’s waited and studied Sascha’s impressive adventuring outfit. A grayish, blue jumpsuit made from a rubber metal alloy that would stop the spray of most energy guns, the preferred weapon on Darson. It would also provide some stopping power against the rarer projectile weapons, like the mercenary’s needle guns. He guessed it was made of a better quality alloy than in the under-armour worn by Dawson’s Bunch, though their carbon hard shells made up the difference, specially against projectiles.

Nor did the Bunch wear their body suits skin-tight or with high-heeled boots. A good thing in Ivar’s mind, none of them had the curves showing on the tight little body in front of him. The view from the back and even more so from the front, shown after Sascha finished his braid and turned towards him, cast serious doubt on the the boy’s claim to maledom. Though in this Ivar believed Prince Fallan did not lie, nor had he been wrong in calling Sascha adventurous, for the boys face gleamed with excitement. Seeing Ivar, Sascha smiled, performed a showy pirouette, posed and challenged, “Is this more appropriate, Lieutenant?”

Stuttering over the first few words, Ivar replied, “Much better, Sascha, but don’t you have lower boots? You’ll end up stumbling all over the place in those.”

Waving dismissively, Sascha said, “They match my outfit and the heels are really strong, they won’t break. Besides Prince Fallan did something so it’s easy for me to walk in them.”

Then putting truth into words, Sascha glided over to a table. Ivar found it more natural than the elegant lady he had first seen or the girlish flounce brought about by the changing hair colour. For the first time it made Sascha appear truly feminine. Distracted the lieutenant barely took notice of the two silver objects Sascha attached to what he had previously thought were decorative straps around the thighs of the body suit.

“Woah, woah, woah! What are those?”

“They’re my needle guns. You’re not going to take them away from me? I need them for the adventure.”

“Are they live? Where did they come from?”

Sascha appeared insulted by the questions, “Of course they’re live. It wouldn’t make any sense to use my practice guns. And they were in my bag. You’re not going to take them away?”

“Well...”

“I do know what I’m doing with them, I practice in a Havoc Simulator all the time.”

This made Ivar pause. A Havoc Simulator was the military-grade, combat trainer that every member of the Bunch used for training and in which Ivar spent a significant amount of his time. “What level?”

“Well I have been to thirty-two, but I mostly practice at twenty-six.”

Ivar did not believe that, twenty-six was high and thirty-two was amazing. The Bunch only expected a trooper to be competent at eighteen. Looking at the kid he tried to decide how best to take the the guns away, but seeing the tears building in the big green eyes he growled, “Ok, you can keep them. Do you need anything else? We have to get our ass in gear.”

Triumphantly, Sascha held up a backpack and said, “I have my emergency pack, just like all my books recommend.”

Guessing he had been played, Ivar never-the-less opened the door and gestured towards it. The guess became proven when a passing Sascha giggled and in a horrible, high-pitched mimic of his growl said, “Let’s go kick some ass.”

Once outside, Ivar found the platoon spread about the yard in a defensive posture and First Sergeant Dasi gesturing for him. Rushing to his sergeant’s side and crouching down Ivar asked, “What’s up, Al?”

“I’m not sure, Sir, but the streets started emptying just before you came out. Makes me think someone learned about our evac, I wonder if they are going to do anything to stop it.”

“Shit! I hate being out in the boonies, they are crazy enough to try and stop us. Are we ready to move out?”

“Aye, ready when you say which route to take.”

Looking around he spotted 3rd squad towards the West, near a street that they and he had scouted the day before. It was wide and headed away from the village’s housing, towards a district of granaries and warehouses. Those buildings had fewer windows and doors from which to stage an ambush. And the route met the approval of Lance Corporal Deagle, the platoon’s regular point man. “We’ll be heading West, Deagle knows the path. Marching order on the left is 3rd squad, Me, Sascha, 2nd gun and 1st squad. Right side is 2nd squad, 1st gun, you and 4th squad.”

“We sledding or hoofin’ it Sir?”

“Best to hoof it, we’re too vulnerable to ambush on the sleds, easier to react on foot.”

“Yes, Sir.”

While the sergeant passed on the marching orders Ivar updated Sascha, while wishing they had a spare helmet so the boy could listen in on the general channel. Then, with Sacha in tow, he activated the sync to his sled so it glided over to follow a metre behind him. Each of his men had a sled or, in the case of the heavy weapons’ squad, cannon platforms. They were the standard mode of transport for light infantry units like Dawson’s Bunch, acting as both personnel and gear transport. They were rugged, could travel up to 80 klicks an hour and handled terrain impossible for wheeled or tracked vehicles.

In moments, everybody looked ready, so when Corporal Deagle saw Ivar’s signal he carefully moved out into the street. The rest of the platoon followed immediately behind in two columns at five metre intervals, all with weapons at the ready. Forty-two men and one sylph moved out into the unknown.

They were able to make quick progress for the first couple blocks and Ivar felt happy with their intervals and watchfulness. It allowed him to spend a few moments with his attention distracted while communicating with the lead shuttle pilot, confirming how long before the shuttle could perform a pickup. Another couple of blocks found them between two large warehouses where Deagle stopped them and broadcast, “Be ready for visitors, I hear vehicles.”

As everybody crouched down with weapons either pointing to fore or background Ivar ordered, “Ok, all, we aren’t going to dick around with these treacherous bastards. If any even look sidewise at us, put him in the ground.”

Soon after, he heard from the rear guard that they too heard trucks from behind. He briefly considered pushing forward to try to get out of the trap between the two groups, but decide the current location with the factory walls on either side provided the best protection they would find. “Gunners, be ready to take out any vehicle that gets within range.”

“Yes, Sir,” he heard from the two corporals, each in charge of a cannon.

Checking Sascha, he saw the kid had the sense to mimic the mercenaries, crouching down and darting eyes in multiple directions. A hand on a pistol made Ivar nervous, but no more than anything else about the mess.

It did not take long before he too began to hear the trucks and then from across the street the sound of 1st Gun firing backwards down the street. He turned in time to see a Gamdi militia truck, which had turned onto the street a block away go up in a ball of flame when hit by a fifteen centimetre shell of liquefied metal. So quick and violent was the explosion that not a single man in the truck had time to scream. Nor did the following truck have better fortune. The drivers of the third and fourth trucks were smart enough to not turn onto the street; however, the passengers were not nearly as smart and in a display of stupidity disguised as bravery they charged en masse around the corner to be mowed down by the calmly waiting mercenaries.

It was not much of a fight. The militia in their cloth uniforms and with their energy guns were no contest for the heavily armoured and armed mercenaries. Nor did the second attack from the front prove any more difficult to manage. In a few brief moments the population of Denj shrunk significantly.

While 1st and 2nd squads checked the wreckage in front and behind, Ivar got on the horn with HQ during which there came another attack, this time well coordinated and from an unexpected quarter. Explosions on either side of the street blasted holes through the walls of each warehouse and caught four of the mercenaries in the blast. Before the dust settled men showed in the holes, this time they were equipped similar to the Bunch and wore markings showing they were Prince Fallan’s personal troops.

Yet though similarly equipped, they were not as well trained. Nor could they feed enough men through to quickly overrun Ivar’s platoon. The attack started more successfully than the first two, but quick reactions by the defenders minimized its impact. On the right side of the street, the hole served as an easy target for multiple grenades, which blunted the guard’s attack so they were quickly overwhelmed by the mercenaries’ counter attack.

On the left, where the explosion had knocked down three men, Ivar watched in shock as Sascha flowed to his feet with a pistol appearing in each hand. Then, as calmly as someone at practice, fired towards the hole. Every shot, from either hand, targeted the weakest point in the enemies’ armour, the visor of their helmets. Proving the manufacturer’s warnings correct, Sascha fired well-placed 1.2 second bursts that were guaranteed to shatter a mask. A shot not recommended in training, since few could consistently make it. Apparently Sascha numbered amongst those few, for as man after man moved into the sunlight they were met by such a burst.

After seeing the first five of his colleagues collapse to the ground immediately upon exiting the warehouse, the next guard paused, during which time #2 gun began blasting shells through the hole, obliterating him, those behind him, and lighting fires within the warehouse.

Sascha’s actions removed Ivar’s doubts about the Havoc Simulator claims. What he had seen could only result from a natural gift combined with thousands of hours of practice. But when Sascha rushed to follow 3rd squad into the building Ivar grabbed the boy by an arm. When Sascha turned to him questioningly, Ivar stated, “I want your eyes and gun outside watching over the injured.”

It was one of those intuitive, quick decisions that good combat officers made. In that brief ten plus seconds, while Ivar watched Sascha in action, the boy had moved from the compartment in his mind labelled fluff into one labelled ’The Shootist’. And where a lieutenant of a platoon in danger had no need for fluff, he could always find room for a shootist. Sascha, with his ability to read people, saw this respect in Ivar’s eye and so his protest at the order died and he nodded like a good little soldier.

It took over ten minutes for the mercenaries to mop up the guards and see to their casualties. During which time Ivar learned that two of the four troopers, those closest to the breaches in the walls, had been killed by the blasts. A third man ended up unconscious with serious injuries, while the last had broken a leg and arm. Beyond these four, injuries were minor cuts and bruises.

While the medics strapped the two wounded men to their sleds, Ivar moved over to the men doing the same with the dead to ask, “Are either of their helmets still working?”

They looked questioningly at the lieutenant who answered by gesturing over his shoulder towards Sascha. The troopers looked at the boy with a broader appreciation than they would have earlier in the day and one nodding his head turned to the the bodies to gently remove the helmet from his dead friend before walking over to Sascha and saying, “Here you go, Miss, you can put it to better use than poor ole Guiarmo.”

The boy looked somewhat nauseously at the helmet before darting a quick glance at Ivar whose nod caused him to take the helmet with a whispered, “Thank you.”

Soon after they were once more on the move, both Ivar and Dasi warning the men to stick with the same purposeful pace they had used before the attacks. Their pace soon brought them to the outskirts of the village where they settled into a watchful stop while the lieutenant performed a final coordination with the shuttle pilots. After deciding upon an open field two klicks West of town, Ivar switched to a private channel to ask the Corporal in charge of 2nd gun, “Jenkins, do you have room for Sascha on your platform?”

“Well, it will be a tight fit, we might have to have her sit on somebody’s lap...”

“Corporal,” Ivar warned.

“Sorry, Sir, there will be no funny business. And yes, we can fit a tiny thing like her aboard.”

With that problem solved Ivar opened the general channel to let everybody know their destination, then with a growled ’mount up’, he and his men left their cover and zoomed out of the village. Some shots were fired from a nearby building, but the sleds travelled quickly and the shooter lacked the skill or luck needed to hit the moving targets. However, he was smart enough to stop when a shell from #1 gun blasted into his building. In minutes they reached the field and established a perimeter to wait for the arrival of the shuttles.

Relief at the sight of the first shuttle proved short lived for, as it slowed down to land, multiple missiles came streaking out of the village and smashed into the cockpit and front of the craft. As it plummeted to the ground, Ivar heard the pilot of the second shuttle on the open channel muttering ’Shit! Shit! Shit!’ as he fired his burners and rocketed back into the sky.

Once the man felt he had reached safety, he calmed down on channel and stated, “Sorry Lieutenant, they have Minknov Missiles, they can’t hit me when I am in the air, but my ship is incredibly vulnerable during landing or taking off. I’m not going to be able to evac you at this location.”

Ivar silently offered a prayer of thanks that the enemy had been too eager and had shot down the shuttle before he and his men were aboard, then followed it with a curse that they could not get out of this clusterfuck. “What’s the range on the missiles Ensign?”

“About seventy klicks Lieutenant, but they are only deadly within five.”

A third voice, recognizable as the XO, Major Radulsky, broke in on the conversation, “I can guess where you are headed, Lieutenant, but the missiles will be truck mounted, so you will not easily get out of range. You are going to have to keep on the move for now, while we prepare a force to get you out of there. For now, head Northwest. There is little in that direction, few people and the roads are terrible.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ensign Fong, I want you to act as a scout for the Lieutenant’s platoon, keep them out of trouble.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ok, get to it. I will have an update for both of you soonest.”

With his new orders, he keyed Dasi to ask, “Were you listening in?”

“Partially, Sir, I also made contact with Corporal Mubai who checked out the shuttle.”

“And?”

“Both the pilot and co-pilot are dead, Sir.”

“Shit can’t say I am surprised with that hit on the cockpit. Ok, have Mubai prep the corpses, strip the craft of anything we can use and prepare a surprise for any snooping pukes. I want us on our way in five minutes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It took longer than that, but they were soon on their way, with the shuttle high overhead scouting their path. About fifteen minutes into their escape, a loud explosion from behind proved someone had tripped the booby traps in the shuttle. This final act of violence temporarily ended any pursuit from Denj, allowing the platoon to gain some distance. Though even with this their body count grew by one when the seriously injured trooper expired from his wounds.

Ivar also learned of developments in the capital. Apparently King Nicholai had known nothing of the situation in Bitrel until Colonel Dawson had contacted him to lodge a protest about Prince Fallan’s actions. The king had reacted at his paranoid best. Minister Tor Aldieno had been arrested and put to questioning, which had soon led to an entire plot being uncovered. Apparently the prince had become tired of being the family goon, thinking that he did all the work while his brothers and father benefited; therefore, he had approached the rebels and dissatisfied members of the Gamdi clan. With these two groups he had struck a deal to help them overthrow the king and place him on the throne. In turn the rebels got the women from the Denj enclave plus pardons and the traitors were to prove themselves by sacrificing a platoon of the arrogant off worlders. Poor Sascha had been included because Fallan had grown bored with his sylph.

However, with the plot exposed, the king suspected all his allies to one degree or another. He had demanded that Dawson’s Bunch assume control of his personal security, then had begun confirming the loyalty of his own troops. As each grouped passed his tests they were sent after those who had been ratted out by Minister Aldieno. It placed the Bunch in a position that did not allow them to mount a rescue of their comrades.

Instead, for three days the platoon were kept on the run, being able to avoid contact they did not initiate. Contact occurred when they sprung ambushes to slow down their chasers, which cost three more dead and left five men with incapacitating injuries. Exhaustion had just about gotten the better of them when they passed into the Badlands and seemed to gain additional separation from their pursuers. With intelligence postulating that contact had been broken off, Ivar decided on a full night of rest and headed towards a defensible bluff one of the ever present shuttles had spotted.

After keeping the men on their feet long enough to improve the defensibility of the camp, Ivar assigned one squad to take watch while the others got some sleep. He also made Dasi, who should be awake while he slept but had joined the ranks of the walking wounded, take the first sleep. Fighting sleep of his own, Ivar moved between the members of the squad on watch, ensuring they stayed awake and gauging their mood. Like him and despite the chase and losses, they all were in good spirits. Honestly, they were adrenaline junkies at heart and days like the last three made them feel alive, it explained why they decided to become mercenaries.

The assessment made Ivar wonder how the lone member of their band, who had not made the choice, felt. He saw that Sascha no longer seemed as enthralled with adventure as he had been when they had left the inn. Though the boy had proven, in multiple ambushes, his marvelous skills with guns, the march had been extremely hard on him. For Sascha had lived a physically soft life and inhabited a body without the strength or reserves demanded for soldiering.

And as he had eaten away at his reserves, Sascha had grown paler and seemingly smaller. Nor did he smile as quickly since learning that the prince wanted him dead. Not that the kid was broken, he still acted cold and deadly when necessary, it just seemed that his vulnerability had increased, a vulnerability recognized even by the normally insensitive Ivar Bandle. Therefore, his next move was to make sure the boy could sleep. Pinpointing Sascha’s position on the bluff, he headed in that direction, realizing as he went that, despite his earlier dismissal of the idea, he had become the boy’s nursemaid.

He almost turned away when he realized the movements and sounds coming from beneath the blanket resulted from crying. Yet he did not, could not. No longer was Sascha an annoying burden nor a pretty toy, now he was one of Ivar’s men. Admittedly unique and special, but most definitely one of the team and Ivar looked after his team. Still he felt nervous as he that knelt down and posed the question, “What’s the matter, Sascha?”

At the sound of his voice the crying came to a stop, followed by quiet, “Nothin’.”

“Now that can’t be true, otherwise you wouldn’t be here crying. You can tell me what’s the matter, I won’t promise I can help, but I will try. Besides, this may be your only opportunity to see me acting sensitive.”

After some hesitation the blanket pulled back and a teary eyed Sascha looked at him like some beautiful waif then gestured towards the sleds holding the seven bodies saying, “It’s all of this.”

Taking a guess at what Sascha meant, Ivar stated, “Yes, it is all rather horrible.”

“It is. You must have thought I was such a fool for babbling about adventure the way I did?”

“Well...”

“That’s ok, you don’t need to lie. I know you like me better now than you did when we first met.”

Steering clear of this, Ivar focused on the question, “Most people are fools when it comes to adventure, be they those like you who dream of it or those like me who need it. I take it you are not one of the second?”

With a shake of his head, Sascha answered, “No. I would rather be almost anywhere else than here, where I could be clean, warm and in a nice, soft bed. And yet that is why it can’t end.”

“I’m sorry, Sascha, maybe it’s because I am tired, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does Lieutenant, it does. ’Cause even though I don’t like it, here I have a place. I am part of your group. I have never been a part of a group before, well, maybe with my brothers, but even then we were just Prince Fallan’s possessions. Now though, Prince Fallan doesn’t want me. Where am I going to go? Who is going to look after me?”

“You don’t need anybody to look after you, Sascha,” Ivar tried to calm him.

“But I do, I don’t know anything that’s any good. I can please a man in bed and I can shoot a gun. But I have no money and I don’t know how to get it. Someone has always looked after me, providing me food and clothes and a place to live. I don’t think I could survive on my own. And there is the way I look.”

“There is nothing wrong with the way you look,” Ivar blurted trying to stem the tide of self-doubt.

“Course there is,” Sascha scornfully replied. “Nobody looks like me, has my stupid eyes or hair. And I look like a girl, but am a boy. That means that I have to belong to somebody or I will end up in some horrible place. Blah, I will end up in some horrible place anyways. Likely with Prince Rudo, I know he wants me, but he is ugly and smells.”

“We will just have to get you off planet.”

“Off planet?” Sascha questioned in awe. “I never thought about going off planet. What would I do out there? And how would I survive?”

“Well, Dawson’s Bunch has contacts and we would help you get on your feet.”

“Oh, thank you, Lieutenant, maybe with help I could do it.”

“Sure you can, Sascha, you’re tougher than you think.”

“Off world where there are real women and girls? Will they be mad at me for looking like I do, think I am a fake? You know it isn’t my fault that I look like I do? Don’t you?”

“Well, Sascha, most won’t have a problem, though you may still run into some judgmental people or those jealous of the way you look. But most people won’t care. Heck, looking as you do, most won’t know. But if you want, maybe there is a way to turn you back into a boy.”

“Oh no, no! I don’t want to do that, I wouldn’t know how to be a boy. Besides if I was changed I wouldn’t be me and I like me.”

“Yeah, I like you too, Sascha.”

This caused Sascha to break out in a huge smile, “I like you too, Lieutenant Bandle. Oh, maybe I could stay with you or one of the others, I would do whatever you want.”

Stunned both by the question and his temptation, Ivar shook his head and said, “No, Sascha, you deserve more. You need to decide who you are, not have somebody make you into what he wants.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t mind. I really like you.”

Blushing at the emphasis on ’really’, Ivar reasoned, “Well, we can keep it as an option, but let’s try my idea first. Now do you think you can get some sleep? I need to make my rounds.”

“I’ll try, Lieutenant. Thank you for helping.”

As he walked away he thought he might have heard a whispered, ’But I’m still scared.’ This time he kept walking, because he did not need that perceptive kid to read his face. Sascha had every right to be scared, nothing would come easily for him after their escape, even if they could get him off world..

Their eventual escape proved anti-climatic for Ivar and his platoon. The next morning HQ ordered Ivar to maintain camp, as the chase had broken off. Apparently the King had finalized his purge in Taling and now had time to focus his vengeance upon Fallan and his traitors, which vengeance would be delivered by eight regiments of the King’s Guard that had moved into Bitrel and the surrounding provinces during the night. No longer could the prince worry about the rag-tag platoon, now it was he outnumbered and on the run.

During the lull they had their wounded and dead lifted out. However, since HQ still felt unwilling to risk another costly shuttle it was done by copters, meaning the rest of the platoon were left waiting, their role complete. During the wait, Ivar contacted HQ about Sascha. After failures in bureaucracy, involving three attempts to fill in Form 1101-0234 (Indigenous Ally Assistance Program), he finally got something set up. Both Ivar and Sascha were assured that the boy would disappear off planet before the locals even thought to look.

Ivar then sat back to wait for the end, which came during the afternoon. Fallan, having been the family enforcer, knew that there would be no mercy and he decided to go down swinging. Therefore, he made his last stand in a canyon rigged with explosives whose detonation hurled tonnes of rock down upon the King’s Guard, killing two-plus regiments of men.

The rebellion was over. But the damage done would make it difficult for the king to keep his throne and Ivar wondered if Dawson’s Bunch could extract themselves before that blow-up occurred. For now, he would just be happy getting back to the camp.

Yet, like everything else about the mission, it turned out to be more complicated than necessary. HQ ordered them to Baldon, a mining town over four hundred klicks away, serviced by an interplanetary trade shuttle-port with missile defenses. Ivar, deciding that everybody wanted to just get the mission over, decided not to delay and once more had everybody mount up to begin their final trek.

The next day, when he could finally get out of his gear and head to the showers, Ivar spared a moment of thought for Sascha. He had last seen the boy at Baldon sitting alone, looking tiny and scared, as he waited for a lift to an ore freighter orbiting the planet. Ivar knew that the boy was unprepared for what he would face and easy to once more victimize. He hoped that would not be the case, but decided that he would have to check up on Sascha.

Assuming he survived Darson.

Thank you to Hope Eternal Reigns and PuddinTane for the proofing work on this story

A Sylph Protected / A Shootist Avenged

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Escaped from Prince Fallan on Darson, Sascha finds himself struggling to understand and survive in the universe into which he has been thrust. It will take all of his skills, both those of a Sylph and those of a Shootist, to overcome the challenges in his path.

A Sylph Protected / A Shootist Avenged
by Arcie Emm

A Sylph Protected

Sascha focussed on the loading skiffs as they moved about the hold in their automated unconcern, content to be what they were. They did not need him, watching from above in the observation bubble, pretending that his presence was required, even though he knew it to be a lie. True, something could go wrong, maybe a skiff going out of control or breaking down, he was ready to react if that happened, had trained for it. Yet Sascha understood that either problem occurred, it would be a first, not just since he had come aboard The Lady Tramp, but since she had been placed into service. In actuality he was hiding.

Usually Sascha would be with Foster, in the freighter’s nav/con centre, whenever they were in orbit over a planet or moon to pick up a load of ore. While Foster dealt with the shuttle pilots and custom officials, Sascha would use a console to search the local airwaves, seeking anything to entertain the two of them during their long hauls between stops.

However, this planet was different. From here he wanted nothing, it had already given, and taken, too much.

Darson. The planet of his birth, where he had been made him into the man he was today. Though to look at him most would not know that, instead they would see a pretty little doll, and only the most observant would be able to see that he was a doll who had been taken out of his original wrapping, played with and discarded. Only an escape, over five of the most hellish days he hoped never again to experience, had stopped him from being discarded for good. Yet escape did not mean he was free.

Almost a year after his flight, Sascha had done little more than exchange the luxurious walls of Prince Fallan’s palaces for the spartan hull of The Lady Tramp. Though now he was in a prison of his own choice, unprepared as he felt to face normal society. He had made brief forays from the ship, at any number of the ports at which the Tramp had docked, yet the attention directed at him had always made him uncomfortable, in a hurry to return to the ship. Sascha did not believe Foster’s contention that it was because he was pretty, the sylph felt that everyone saw him as a freak.

How had Lieutenant Bandle even begun to consider that Sascha could survive on his own?

Actually, Sascha did not need to ask, he knew the answer. He and Ivar were two very different people. The lieutenant was not the type to be paralyzed by fear, he would always go forward, attack. Any body looking askance at Ivar would be met with cold challenge. It was not in Bandle to fear others, he made them fear him.

Realizing this, Sascha had been wary of Ivar’s plan for the sylph’s escape from the moment he had heard it. The first part, getting Sascha off planet, made sense. Good tactics from someone immersed in the tactical world of platoon command. On the other hand, the strategy for Sascha’s future had been lacking, relying on the sylph to navigate the unknown on his own. It relied upon Sascha having strengths that knew that he did not have, to navigate an unknown world, find authorities, declare himself a refugee, and place himself at their mercy. The plan was idiotic. Sascha had determined to abandon it at the first chance.

The chance came earlier than expected, soon after Sascha had been deposited aboard The Lady Tramp by a shuttle, similar to the one currently unloading its cargo. Once aboard the ore freighter it had not taken Sascha long to learn that Foster was the ship’s entire crew. He determined that Foster was shy and awkward, not particularly handsome, but eminently safe.

Meanwhile Sascha, despite the travails of his escape from Denj, was a fantasy come true for the lonely pilot. Unlike the self-confident Ivar Bandle, Foster did not stand a chance. Within hours Sascha had seduced him, and by the time they next hit planet fall, Foster had decided to keep the sylph around. Seeing as this is what he had wanted, Sascha readily accepted the offer. It had proven beneficial to both, Sascha was given an opportunity to learn, at his own pace, about the world beyond his silken walls. Meanwhile, Foster enjoyed the companionship Sascha offered and was thrilled to be, for the first time in his life, the envy of his friends.

Now they were back where it had all started. Sascha had not been pleased to hear that the next pickup was to be at Darson. He was scared that someone on the planet would find out about his presence, that he would be taken into their custody and turned over to the vile Prince Rudo. Foster trying to convince him that nothing would happen had led to the first fight between the two, something for which neither social neophyte was prepared. So the last few days had been an uncomfortable period, as each tried to avoid the other in the common areas of the big ship.

Now Sascha was beginning to worry that Foster had been correct. The transfer would soon be complete and still nothing was out of the ordinary; no sudden boarding by armed troops and no announcement of another vessel approaching. Just the skiffs doing their jobs. Skiffs that were beginning to return to their recharge stations, as they finished the loading. Then an ringing alarm announcing the uncoupling of the shuttle and the closing of the cargo door. Hearing the rumbling sound of the ship’s massive engines throttle up, he felt the subtle shift that told him The Lady Tramp was no longer drifting. Only one thing was left to prove that the visit was complete.

“All done Chacha, we’re on our way to the Transition point.”

At that moment Sascha realized that he had been wrong. He decided he better come up with something to get back on Foster’s good side, fortunately he had an idea.

* * *

Foster Lansdowne let lose a sigh of relief as he started his ship towards the coordinates where they could make the jump into Transition, that strange otherverse through which his ship’s Flamon engines would push them from point to point of the real universe. He was glad to have been proven right, for he had staked much of his future happiness on his statement to Sascha that everything would be alright, that this was just a regular pickup. But what else could he have told her? Definitely not the truth.

He could not tell her that the Darson pick up was the company’s shit duty. Piss off headquarters and they would send you to this turd of a planet, out on the outer-reaches of the boondocks of space. The first time Foster had been here was the result of too much whiskey and not enough brains, yet he had proven luckier than he deserved. It was that trip when Sascha, his wonderful little Chacha, had ended up in his life. Something that had for a brief period led to other company pilots wanting to go to Darson, each hoping to luck out with their own Sascha. But when nobody struck gold, it had reverted back to the haul nobody wanted.

When he had told her it was where they were headed, Foster had not been surprised by her reaction. So he had lied, told her everything would turn out okay, that she should not worry. It was not a lie in that he knew he lied, however, neither had he known if he told the truth.

Therefore, it felt good to be proven right. To have his cowardly gamble, to not tell the Sascha that why they were being punished, by being sent to Darson. If he told her that, then he would have to tell her why, but Foster could not tell her that he was being punished because of Sascha’s residence on The Lady Tramp. Though there were no rules in place, United Mining frowned on its pilots maintaining full time companionship on their freighters. Over the last couple of months Foster had been facing subtle pressures to end this flaunting of custom. No, he could not tell her that, she may think they should give in to United. That would be terrible.

Sascha was the best thing to ever happen to him, she was perfect. Incredibly gorgeous, but willingly to accept the long periods of silence that was his nature. Until she felt enough was enough and drew him out of his shell, almost magically bringing undreamed pleasure to his body. From the moment that she had seduced him, it had only gotten better and better, as she sought to please him. There were moments when his conscience would kick in, where he would half-heartedly protest that he expected nothing from her, that he was just glad for her company. Yet all she needed to do, was to tell him, in her adorable voice, that she liked pleasing him and the protests would die away.

Thus he had found the last few days very difficult, he had come to depend upon her presence. He missed her voice, her softness, her warmth, her touch, everything about her.

Now with Darson receding in the distance, he hoped that separation would end. More so, he decided he would make it end and began flicking through the ships cameras, trying to find her, so that he could go to her, and make things better. Finding her, his first thought was how unflattering the baggy coveralls were on her amazingly, tight, little body. Then he looked at her face and tried to guess her mood. Poor as he was at reading people, Foster thought he saw determination on Sascha’s face and in her walk. He watched as she walked the halls leading to her quarters, until she reached its hatch and entered.

He tried to determine what her mannerisms and destination meant, to him she seemed to walk with a purposeful stride. Maybe she was still mad at him, if so it likely was not a good time to bother him. Plus Sascha had gone to her room and Foster had promised to never bother her when she was there, since she deserved a place to call her own. Best to wait a little longer before he approached her. She was likely even now changing into something nicer before coming to end the fight?

Yes, it was best to wait.

* * *

As he got closer to his quarters Sascha could not help worrying about the damage his mistake had caused. Why had he forgotten his place? Would he be able to repair the rift he had caused?

Foster had always been really nice to him, never getting mad like Prince Fallan. But Sascha had never given him a reason to get mad, until now. How would the normally mellow pilot react? Sascha doubted it would be with violence, as would have likely been the case if he had done something that would have made the volatile prince angry. Yet violence was preferable to other punishments, such as banishment from The Lady Tramp.

Sascha was aware that Foster’s employers at United Mining were not pleased with their pilot’s decision to have a shipboard companion, though he was not aware that their trip to Darson was due to this displeasure. Now the sylph worried that his cold treatment of the man would provide an incentive for Foster to decided it was not worth the conflict to keep Sascha aboard the ship. Unprepared to survive on his own, Sascha felt he needed to prove to Foster why it was worthwhile to keep him on the ship.

Reaching his quarters, usually a place where he kept his clothes, not a place of sleep like it had been during the trip to Darson, Sascha disgustedly stepped out of his ill-fitting coveralls and pulled his long hair from its tight bun. What had he been thinking? By the time he was in his teens, his trainers had drilled into him the need to look perfect at all times. Not falling prey to his own desires had been one of the things that had separated him from his brothers during the competition to win Prince Fallan’s favour. Yet here he was, no longer a silly child, making the same foolish mistake. Sascha knew that he would have to hurry to make things right.

Nude, he stepped into the vibra-shower for a full forty-five second cleaning cycle. Powdering his hairless body with the sweet smelling and tasting powder Foster had bought him at a shop on Pylong 5, Sascha moved to his closet. It was full of costumes, he purchased for Foster’s pleasure, and reached in to take out the new, Texlaxian Dancing Girl, barely-visible leotard. Then he paused.

His sight had been drawn to another of the bagged costumes, one that had been in the closet as long as any, yet one Sascha had not been willing to wear. When he had stumbled upon Foster’s pornography, Sascha had found that the pilot’s favourite character, based on whose scenes had been watched most often, was Keleesa Shronsdottor, Captain of the Dedasian Queen’s Guard. From what Sascha could tell, Keleesa was a space vixen of the first order, always trying to put down plots against her beloved queen, while ending up having sex with an improbable string of enemies and allies. She also happened to be of a size and shape close to Sascha’s, which helped explain why Foster was so entranced by the sylph. It was a perfect costume, but still he had never worn it.

His problem was that Keleesa’s hair was dark blue, something that Sascha could easily accomplish as a result of Dr. Werner Eveline’s modifications, but he had been unwilling. Once aboard The Lady Tramp, Sascha had used the comb to change his hair back to its natural black, then had set it aside as an evil reminder of his slavery. Not even being prepared to use it while assuming one of the roles he play acted to fulfill Foster’s numerous fantasies. However, he had now backed himself into a corner. In order to get out, he felt he needed to thrill Foster like never before. He could not afford the luxury of pride.

Crouching down, he dug out the small bag that had been pushed to the back of the closet. From the bag he hesitantly pulled out the metal comb, once such a constant companion, but now a reminder of a cruel past. Sighing he carried it with him as he moved to sit cross-legged on the bed, before setting the controls, and beginning to stroke it through his hair. At first nothing happened, causing him to worry that the micro-organisms had died away from disuse; however, soon he began to feel the creepy feeling on his scalp as they vibrated in response to the comb. Watching in the mirror, on the wall at the head of the bed, he saw his hair slowly change from black to a glossy blue and found it did not bring painful memories. Instead he was enchanted by the feeling that he was changing into another person, not because someone else told him to do so, instead it was what he wanted.

And why would he not want to be someone else, someone braver than frightened, little Sascha? So unlike Keleesa who oozed confidence and had a devil-may-care attitude about how anybody perceived her. True she was over-sexed, but that did not bother Sascha. Many would judge him the same way, not understanding that it was one area of his life when he felt in control. He had even that way when he was Prince Fallan’s property.

So by the time he finished colouring his hair, he had decided that he was quite looking forward to the masquerade. He searched and found a picture of Keleesa on his personal console. Studying the image on the screen, Sascha planned the best way to bring the captain to life. Seeing that his hair was not quite right, he used his hair wand, from drawer beside his bed, to put a wave in his hair, before tying it into a perky, pony-tail high upon the back of his head. Next, were the eyes. His huge green eyes just would not do, fortunately Foster did not share Prince Fallan’s prejudices and had bought him a set of MultiCol Lenses to help his impersonations. So common were there use, the information included with the picture provided the proper settings that Signie Fesen, who played Keleesa Shronsdottor in the vids, used to create the captains’s greyish-blue eyes.

Making up his face was just as easy, Sascha’s skill allowed him to come to replicating the face on the screen. As a final step, he used the special lip balm, advertised by Signie Fesen, he had purchased with the costume. Made from an extract of the Harnovian Blueberry, it resulted in tasty blue lips, though a mild toxin in the berry caused a reaction that turned the wearer’s lips into the juicy plump pillows that Keleesa put to such good use. The advertisement proved correct and soon his lips were as kissable as could be. Liking the result and mischievously deciding to provide Foster with an extra surprise, Sascha used the balm to cover his nipples, causing him to gasp in pleasure as they turned into the proverbial glass cutters.

Checking his face against the one on the console Sascha decided to change his earrings. Rummaging through the bedside drawer, he found some large hoops and quickly switched to them. Another check and Sascha decided while not perfect, he was close as he was going to get and definitely good enough for fantasy.

Returning to the closet he removed the bag, laid it upon his bed and opened it. First from the bag was a replica of the silver (actually made of stainless steel) torque Keleesa wore as a rank designation. Fortunately the company from which he had ordered the costume demanded exact measurements and equipped the torque with a sweat absorbing cloth liner, which meant that it was not nearly as uncomfortable as it appeared, though it forced him into the head held high posture with which faced the world.

Next he removed and pulled on a pair of silver, synth-leather, knee height boots that laced up the front. Platformed and stilettoed, they were nearly as high as the tallest he had ever worn for the prince. Remembering Lieutenant Bandle’s disbelief at the boots that had been part of the suit in Sascha had worn during their escape, he wondered what that man would think of these. Most likely he would be amazed at the ease that Sascha, like Signie as Keleesa, handled them.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he posed, naked except for the boots and the torque. Exciting his seldom apparent male libido, he wondered if he should even continue with the rest of the costume. He knew Foster would love how he looked, but realized that he would appreciate the full affect even more.

Noticing the countdown timer, until Transition, he realized he better hurry if he was to have enough time to perform the entire scene, he had rehearsed in his mind, for Foster. Opening a side pouch on the bag he took out two small pieces of white cloth and straps. Throwing one of these on the bed, Sascha threaded the other between his legs before tying bows, at his hips, to hold the tiny, thong panties, barely large enough to hold the emblem of the Dedasian Queen’s Guard, in place. He then fastened the matching bra, one that seemed just as small yet did an impressive job of presenting his breasts, which he always felt were just a wee too big.

Removing the skirt, made from the same material as his boots, from the bag, it would have been easy to mistakenly think it was longer than cheek showing number Keleesa wore. However, when Sascha gingerly stepped into it to pull it up, all the while cursing the fetish like zeal that had him put on the boots so early, the result was the expected micro skirt. Most of its length had been pulled up over his hips to just under his breasts. In the vids, this was poorly explained away as body armour, but as Sascha reached behind to trigger the switch, hidden as rivet, that made his small waist became tinier, its real purpose as a corset became apparent. As much as Sascha admired the affect, he was more impressed with the structural integrity and comfort of his tiny bra as the waist cinching made its job even more difficult.

Around his shrunken waist he fastened a blue, synth-leather utility belt. If held all the necessary items a Captain of the Queen’s Guard would need, things like wipes, make-up and spare panties. Plus it held wrist straps, from what Sascha tell after watching the vids, somebody was always ending up in the straps. More often than not, Keleesa herself.

The final part of the costume was a dark blue, bolero jacket. Again it was only just large enough and Sascha found it a tough pull to buckle together the two bottom parts, leaving the entire valley between his breasts exposed.

So he was dressed. Well kind of dressed, he amended as he checked his final appearance in the mirror. Still he suspected that Foster would love how he looked, heck he himself rather liked it. Sometimes Sascha could not deny that it was fun to be a sylph.

Recognizing the outfit needed one more thing, he put on a show while kneeling down to pull out a case from under and lift it onto his bed. Unlocking the metal case he removed his needle pistols, ensured they were in lock down mode and strapped them on. Giggling at how much longer the barrels were than his skirt he started to leave the room, before realizing he had no ammunition. Knowing he did not need any, he continued on his way, trying to ignore the feeling of having his guns strapped on, but not having any ammo. It left him feeling naked.

Laughing once more, he told himself that was likely due to what he was wearing.

* * *

Having completed all the necessary checklists before making the jump to Transition, Foster wondered if Sascha would be leaving her quarters. He wondered if he had guessed wrong, for he thought she should already have had enough time to change and make it to the nav/com centre. Maybe she was still mad at him and it would end up being him who had to bridge the gap between the two of them. He hoped not, knowing that he would be awkward and likely end up making it worse. It would be better if she made the first move; therefore, he would wait awhile longer

Besides he knew it was a bad time to leave the centre, this close to the Transition point. You never knew when another ship would pop out. True the ship’s computer should be able to stop any potential collision, but he liked to be there just in case. Providing himself an excuse for his cowardice, he forced his mind onto thinking about something else.

It took a number of fits and starts, but finally he settled on the vagaries of Transition, a topic complicated enough to fill books and endless afternoons of conversation. Transition, the name coined the dimension through which a ship could jump from one point of space to the next. It had been Jennifer Flamon who had discovered the parallel universe, over three thousand year ago, and then it took another millennia for it to be understood enough to use. For within it, a ship could move from one location to another, within the real universe, within minutes. This had provided a boon to human society and had led to the colonization of galaxies. However, there was an ugly underside, occurring when a ship spent too long in Transition. As the first scientists tried to travel further and further, things began to go wrong. Many never returned, while others returned insane or even worse, horribly mutated.

Those who could speak told fearfully of the Others who found them in that dimension, but what these Others were, they could never explain. For a period of time, the use of Transition was banned; however, its benefit was such that the ban did not last long. Instead, short jumps were deemed safe, allowing ships to make short hops, traveling at most fifty light years a jump. It seemed safe and only the desperate tested this safety net. People knew that if they stayed in Transition, then the Transition you experienced may not be the one that you wanted.

Fear of what could go wrong kept many planet-bound. Even amongst frequent Transitioners, like Foster, it was not unusual to have pre-jump jitters. Maybe because of his worry for Sascha and his thoughts Transition, this was one of those time. To ease those fears, he focussed upon plotted the twenty eight jumps they would take between Darson and their destination, at Telermor. Engrossed in this, he jumped in startlement when the intercom chimed and a high-pitched voice, failing at being officious, said, “Open this hatch now!”

Thrilled that Sascha had taken that first step in their reconciliation, Foster was even more excited that it sounded like it involved some play. And could it be? Well he would just have to play along to find out.

“Who is it?”

“It is Captain Keleesa Shronsdottor of the Queen’s Guard. Open up, I have received information that you are smuggling Dedasian diamonds.”

Showing a good amount of decorum, Foster did not leap up from his seat to do a happy jig at hearing this, instead he played along, “Honest Captain, I’m just a ore carrier. I would never smuggle, it’s against the law.”

“Then you should have no problem opening this hatch and letting me come in to see for myself, would you Mr. Lansdowne?”

“Well Captain...”

“I have explosives Mr. Lansdowne, either you open this hatch or I open it for you.”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m opening it now.” Then putting action to his words, activated switch to open the hatch. Not seeing his Chacha on the other side of the door, he waited for the next part of the scene.

“Put up your hands up where I can see them when I enter Mr. Lansdowne.”

“Their up Captain.”

And then with a cat’s grace, despite her impossible boots, Sascha glided into the centre behind her outstretched needle guns. Foster was struck by how friggen adorable she was, perfect for the role of Keleesa, better even than Signie Fesen.

“What are you smiling about Mr. Lansdowne?”

“Oh nothing Captain.”

“Then you would not mind me searching your ship?”

“Not at all Captain, though you’ll find nothing.”

“I am almost ready to believe you Mr. Lansdowne, but my duty requires that I be thorough.”

“I understand.”

“Then you don’t mind if I use these?” Holstering one of her pistols, Sascha removed the arm straps from her utility belt and held them up dangling from a finger.

“If that is the only way...”

With this tacit approval, Sascha strutted her way over to him. Then leaning down she loosely strapped his wrists to the arms of his flight chair, while ensuring that he was able to reach all the controls on each chair arm. Foster would have appreciated this, except he was much too distracted by the magnificent cleavage staring him in the face as she strapped him down. That complete she grinned, patted him on the cheek and said, “You stay here now, I’m going to look around.”

Sascha proceeded to do just that, putting on quite the show for the watching Foster. She used a technique of search unlikely to be copied by any police organization, seeing as how she only looked in those places where her posture would give him an excellent view up her skirt. This went on for a few moments and the results were as expected, Sascha found nothing and Foster became as horny as a Rodiniun rabbit. Finally, her search complete, Sascha strolled back to stand before him, unashamedly tugging her skirt back into place as she came. Standing there, with a finger tapping her oh so kissable lips, she looked searchingly around the room and then at Foster.

“I am beginning to thing that you are innocent Mr. Lansdowne.”

“I told you that Captain.”

And then like a scene straight out of a bad movie, that bad movie being Keleesa and the Diamond Smugglers, Sascha’s eyes lit up and she pronounced, “Ahah!”

With that she wiggled forward and placing her hand between his legs, grasped his hardness and told him, “It looks like I have found something after all Mr. Lansdowne, I am going to have to check it out.”

Without removing her hand, Sascha sunk to her knees between his legs. Bringing her other hand into the action she unfastened his flight suit, then reaching in she pulled him out, while leaning forward as if to looking for contraband. This act brought a moan to Foster’s lips as the close quarters of the search had her smooth cheek rubbing against his happy man, the moan turned to one of frustration when she sat back once more on her haunches and pronounced, “Well it seems there is nothing to see. Oops, let me put that back where it belongs. Why it does not seem to want to go, what shall I do?”

Looking up with innocent eyes, she told him, “I’m sorry Mr. Lansdowne, rules state that I am supposed to clean up after I perform a search. That means I am going to have to take drastic measures, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Foster only had time to squeak “Okay”, before she once more leaned to grasp him by the base of his rod and licked its entire length. Then taking him in her mouth she looked up at him with smiling eyes. With the gap since they had last sex and with the prepping done by her Keleesa impersonation, he was ready to immediately explode; however, the mild toxin in her lip balm delayed it from happening, while making him even harder. Still it was uneven battle for only a mild toxin, when it came head to head against Sascha’s skill and implicit knowledge of what Foster liked, and soon the build up returned. This time nothing could stop him.

Licking him clean, Sascha continued to look up at him, as if trying to read his face. Seeing only blissful aftershocks, she mumbled, “I’m sorry Foster.”

“What for Chacha?”

“For doubting you. For getting mad at you, not believing you when you said everything was going to be all right.”

“I know you were scared, coming back to Darson.”

“I was, but that didn’t mean that I should take it out on you. After all, nobody has ever been nicer to me, than you have been. And I knew you weren’t doing it to be mean.”

“No I wasn’t, I have to go where the company tells me. If not I would be out of a job and we would both be out of a home.”

“I know, it was silly of me. Plus I was miserable and missed you.”

“I missed you to Chacha. But you sure made the reunion good.”

With a twinkle in her eye, she asked, “Did you like it?”

“More than you could believe.”

“Well being on the end of it, I likely have a good idea. It was so silly, but I knew you would like it.”

At that moment the five minute to Transition alarm went off, a surprise since both of them had missed the ten minute alarm. Reaching up, she undid the arm straps, then said, “You know it doesn’t have to end.”

He knew what she wanted. He wanted it too, but always worried about it during Transition. Still when she looked up at him with those pleading eyes, combined with what she had just done for him, he could not refuse. Nodding his head, he told her, “Okay Chacha.”

* * *

Looking up at the smile on Foster’s face, Sascha was fairly sure that his performance had been enough to remind the pilot why it was a good idea to keep him around. Still he felt that it would not do any harm to apologize and so he did. Then when Foster admitted how much he had missed him, it made Sascha feel really good. And how Foster looked at him, it was not just with lust.

Through sculpting and training, the prince had ensured that Sascha would be desired by men. Even before he had left the estate on which he had been raised, Sascha had grown used to that look. But not until Prince Fallan had come to take him to the palace, had Sascha begun to recognize it offered the only power he was allowed over men, whose other emotion when looking at the sylph was disdain. Though not against the prince, over him Sascha had held no power, but the guards, the prince’s allies and family member had all wanted him, despite themselves. Yet Sascha had realized that in his selfishness, the prince shared nothing, specially not his masterpiece. At least he would not share, until he tired of a possession.

Understanding this protection had tempted Sascha into becoming somewhat of a tease. It was a dangerous hobby, as he had been told by Baselle, the prince’s body servant and the only person on Darson who may have seen Sascha as something other than a body. Baselle had warned of the long memory of those he teased and reminded what would happen if one day Prince Fallan tired of him. For a time he had stopped, but found himself lured back to the rather thrilling, though dangerous, pastime. Then he caught by the prince.

Sascha could remember his fear when the prince ordered to follow him after watching his sylph’s wiggling performance for some guards. However, rather than angry, the prince found it terribly amusing. Instead of stopping Sascha’s fun, he had greedily co-opted it, taken it away for his own use. No longer did Sascha perform for his own amusement, instead it was for the prince’s benefit. The interview on the launch, with Lieutenant Bandle, being the final such act.

So Sascha was used to being looked at by men. But none of their eyes held the tenderness he was seeing from Foster. It made him think that he was more than forgiven, he wondered if he had found a place to call his own.

Such passed through Sascha’s mind as he teased Foster about his reaction to the costume, until he was interrupted by the Transition prep alarm. Surprised by the passage of time, Sascha reached up to undo Foster’s arms. While doing that, another thought crept into his mind, one that may help prove whether his thoughts of acceptance were true. What he wanted to do was something that he liked more than did Foster. He wondered if it would be dangerous to ask, but decided that the response would tell him much; therefore, he said, “You know it doesn’t have to end yet.”

Watching the man think, Sascha felt he could guess Foster’s thoughts. The pilot had been taught, if not to fear Transition, to have a healthy degree of respect for it. He was leery of doing anything unusual, nervous that the difference could prove disastrous. He would not understand Sascha’s interest in sex during a jump and likely felt nothing but relief that the one, drunken time where the two had made a jump, while joined, had not proven disastrous. Yet he would still be in a sexual haze, as proven by the hard member that Sascha’s hand once more stroked; therefore, when he agreed, Sascha was not surprised.

Not surprised, but definitely pleased. For Sascha had not told Foster that the only one time in his life he had ever reached orgasm was the time they had sex while Transitioning. Foster did not realize that the prince, selfish in all things, had been more interested in his own pleasure when he had chosen Sascha’s vaginal implant. Wonderfully tight though it may be to any man, it provided little pleasure for Sascha, hinting at ecstasy, but never reaching it. At least not until that time with Foster in Transition. Since then, Sascha had wanted to experience it again. But remembering Foster’s relief when he had sobered up, the sylph had never asked to do it, unwilling to force the pilot into doing something that frightened him. On this day, Sascha wanted that pleasure, despite Foster’s fears. Possibly he still channeled the spirit of Captain Keleesa Shronsdottor, who was used to getting what she wanted.

Acting before Foster changed his mind, Sascha leaned forward once more to lick and prepare the member he had continued to stroke. Satisfied, Sascha rose to his feet from his knees, then daintily pulling his skirt the rest of the way over his hips, he climbed onto the flight chair to straddle Foster. Reaching between his legs to once more grasp Foster’s tool, he guided it past the minimal protection of his panties as he slowly lowered himself, until they were one.

As often as he had been in this position, Sascha found the anticipation, at that moment, delicious. Wrapping his arms around Foster’s neck, he raised himself just enough to nibble upon and whisper in an ear, “Thank you Foster,”

Foster’s answer was a contented sigh, before saying, “Just sit still for a moment Chacha, I need to prepare for the jump.”

Taking the murmured words as an order, Sascha settled down for the moment, though he used his skills to ensure that Foster stayed ready. His own readiness was apparent whenever one of Foster’s hands, as they danced across the controls on the chair’s arms, glanced against his bare flanks and sent shivers of pleasure throughout his body. Then the hands did more than glance against his thighs, they stroked, caressed, and led Sascha to breathlessly ask, “Is it time?”

Nodding his head, Foster said, “Everything is ready, we will be jumping in about a minute.”

“How long will we be in Transition?”

Foster’s groaned, as Sascha begun to slowly bob up and down on his lap, before saying, “We should be in for just under six minutes.”

“Mmmm, ok.”

Neither of them payed any attention to the rest of the count down, as the ship prepared to jump into Transition. Foster enthralled by what was happening to him and Sascha was controlling the pace so that Foster’s excitement did not rob him of what he wanted.

Then from one moment to the next, Sascha knew that he would not be robbed. They had passed into the unreality of Transition and suddenly he was afire with pleasure. It was as if its unreality canceled out his own, making everything about his body real. It felt so very good, and he could not help to feel saddened that he was normally denied this pleasure. However, this negative thought was soon chased away as he focussed upon the urgency of the moment. Instinctively he knew what brought him the most pleasure. So apparently did Foster, for not long after entry Sascha experienced his first orgasm, followed by more as the pilot maintained his stamina until just before they popped back into real space.

There, Sascha slumped against Foster’s chest, panting heavily as he tried to regain his breath. Only then did he notice the cramping in his legs, kneeling as he was astride the pilot. So he slithered free from the man until he was on his own feet, where he took some wipes from his utility belt to clean both himself and Foster, before tucking him away with a still happy smile.

“I really enjoyed that Foster.”

“Being on the end of it, I think I guessed,” Foster replied, with a grin.

“Are we all better, for real?”

“Yes we are all better, for real, Chacha.”

“Good. Do we have time for a bite to eat before our next Transition?”

“Actually I could definitely use something to eat, so yes.”

“Ok, I’ll run to the galley to get something for us. You wait here.”

Just as he was exiting the hatch, he was stopped by the sound of his nick-name. Turning back to Foster, he saw a leering grin and heard him say, “And keep on the get-up, you may still need to look for smuggled diamonds.”

Thinking of undiscovered surprise under his still fastened jacket, Sascha smiled back and said, “I think there may be some jewels for you to find as well.”

It was a much happier Sascha who walked through the halls, in comparison to the one who had ambled from the cargo hold earlier. He even found himself humming a tune as he made a quick stop at his quarters, in order to better clean up and check his makeup. While fixing his hair he suddenly heard Foster’s voice over the intercom. “Forget food for now Chacha, we have to get back ready for another jump.”

Hearing the concern in the pilot’s voice, Sascha triggered the intercom in his room, to ask, “What’s wrong Foster?”

“A ship just popped into real space, not too far away from us. And it does not seem to be showing a signature beacon.”

It was rare for another ship to appear in the same pocket of real space, when there was no planet fall or station. Never had it happened while Sascha had been on The Lady Tramp and his impression was that Foster had only seen it a few times. Unusual as it was, most times it was just a matter of coincidence, two ships on their journeys, criss-crossing paths. However, most planets mandated that all ships show a signature beacon, thus when a ship that did not show theirs and that had just popped into the Tramp’s pocket of space, it was rather ominous. The immediate worry that popped into his mind was that the ship was a pirate, something more common than most navies cared to admit. Based on Foster’s rush to jump to Transition, the pilot must have had the same thought.

“Will we have enough time to make the jump Foster?”

“Yes, it should only take fifteen minutes to regain jump momentum and they are too far away to close on us in that amount of time.”

“Okay, let me know if there is anything I can do to help?”

“Sorry Chacha, I can’t think of anything right now.”

After spending the first five of the fifteen minutes fretting, Sascha decided to feed his curiosity, so stopping his pacing, he sat in front of his console. After finding the right menu commands, he pulled up an image of the other ship and initiated a cross-match to search for any helpful information. The results were far from positive, showing that the ship was an Osprey 203. Osprey 203s were classified as a armed cutters, which had initially been used as planetary custom vessels. Normally crewed by twelve men, they mounted two plasma cannons, though did not have any torpedo launchers. The Osprey was no danger to even the smallest naval vessel, but could stop an unarmed ship, even one the size of The Lady Tramp. But the worst news, was that the Ospreys had mostly been decommissioned nearly twenty years earlier, though some of those doing the decommissioning had not been overly choosy about what happened to them. Quite a few ended up in the hands of non-desirables and it had become known as the ship of choice for pirates.

It was a completely different anticipation that Sascha felt this time during the lead up to the Transition jump. Though his nervous energy made him feel just as alive as had his earlier lust.

However, the jump, when it came, had no impact upon his body. After all, an escape from reality is significantly different from a real escape. At least Sascha hoped it would be a real escape, but he knew there were rumours that pirates were able to track a ship through Transition. Speculation was, that the amount of time they spent hiding within the otherverse, gave them a better understanding of it.

Anxiously Sascha waited for the end of Transition, hoping to put a lie to those rumours. So when The Lady Tramp popped back into reality his eyes stayed pinned to his console, while it was tuned to the ships external sensors. Sensors that soon pinged another ship joining them in their bubble, a ship recognizable as an Osprey 203.

There was only one thing to do, try another jump and another after that if needed, all the while hoping that Foster could lose the other ship. Or that the other ship would miscalculate a jump in comparison to the freighter.

So too did these hopes begin to dim, after the next two jumps. Each time the other ship appeared soon after they popped into space, yet each time it was closer, approaching the range of its plasma cannons. And even with Foster trying to convince both himself and Sascha that the next jump would do the trick, neither of them believed it. Too methodical and practiced was the other ship’s encroachment, obviously they had done this before. Sascha knew, though he was unwilling to admit it aloud to Foster, that they were not going to escape, that they would be caught.

Once more Sascha approached his closet, removing another costume that he had planned never to wear again. But plans must always be tempered by reality, so just as he had recognized the need for Keleesa’s earlier appearance, he knew that she was not the right person for the next job. True she always solved the mystery or caught the bad guys, which she would then celebrate with a final romp between the sheets, yet that was not real life.

No, it was time for someone more dangerous to show. Time for Sascha to be himself, the Shootist who had made the march with Dawson’s Bunch. Thus he needed the costume, no the outfit, he had worn on that march.

His nose wrinkled as he carried the body suit to his bed. Not in disgust at the smell, the suit had been thoroughly cleaned before he had put it away, but at the remembered hardships and the knowledge of what he had become while wearing it. The suit turned him into a killer and to be a killer is a horrible thing. Much better was it to give pleasure, not to take it away for all time. Still he doubted the pirates would give him a choice. They would see him as a toy, taking him like Prince Fallan had taken him, which Sascha had promised himself to never let happen again. He would offer it to those he chose, but he would rather fight to the death than allow someone to take it. Thus it was time to become the killer.

Shedding Keleesa, he first removed the holsters with his pistols from around his hips, which caused him to question why it was the suit and not the guns that reminded him of what he had done during those last days on Darson. They were the true instruments of death, yet they did not bother him. Too long had they been his, too often had he spent his days with them as his only companions, playing games on a simulator. Linked as they were to him, he could not blame them without blaming himself. No it was better to blame the suit, as with his other costumes, it was easier to attach a persona to clothes. Even if that persona was his own.

With the holsters carefully sat aside, it did not take long to shed the rest of the tiny garments that had made him Keleesa, leaving only his hair and nails as reminders of the role. The colour, which had seemed such a major step earlier, now was no more than a good match for the grayish, blue body suit. Braiding his hair, he fondly recalled the styling machine left behind in Denj, still he was quite accomplished with his hair and soon two long braids were formed. Braids he perversely tied off with white ribbons, fashioned into pretty bows.

Once more coating his body in the powder from Pylong 5, Sascha sat on his bed and slid each foot into a leg, of the suit, until they thunked home into the attached, high-heeled boot. Pulling it up to his thighs, he stood to wiggle the tight suit over his hips before threading his arms and hands into sleeves, which pulled the suit up over his torso. Reaching behind himself, he triggered the fastener that caused the suit to hug his body from toe to chin.

Attaching the holsters to his thighs Sascha returned to get a final item from the closet, a black helmet on which had been stenciled the name G.Rossi. The name of the Bunch member whose death, in Denj, had ended with Sascha being given the helmet that connected him to Ivar’s entire platoon during their escape. It’s weight was a solid presence in his hands and he spared a moment to wonder what “poor ole Guiarmo” had been like. Probably, like the helmet, the man would not have been flashy, but that he had been very good at his job, though unlucky in the end. As Sascha integrated the helmet to the ship’s information grid, something he would not have been able to do when he had first arrived on the Tramp, he spared a final question for the long dead man, ‘Had Guiarmo found the helmet as claustrophobic as he did?’

Deciding to not yet put on the helmet, he opened up the channel to Foster and asked, “How is it going Foster?”

He heard a tired sigh, before the pilot answered, “Not so good Chacha. The other ship is gaining on us each Transition, I don’t think it will be long before we are within range of its cannon.”

“Will they fire on us?”

“That is my guess, they will need to stop The Lady Tramp before they can board her.”

“Okay, I will get ready to meet them.”

“I guess that is better than nothing.”

The two of them had discussed what to do if they were boarded by pirates after Sascha had read a set of guidelines published United Mining and found that the section on pirates, which could be paraphrased as, ‘You likely won’t run into pirates, but if you do kiss your ass goodbye.’ This synched with Foster’s viewpoint, he had never experience anything like the escape from Denj with a group of professional, mayhem creators. Sascha could not convince him otherwise, the pilot being unwilling to accept the sylph’s experience from that apprenticeship. He did not understand, like Sascha understood, that sometimes you had to stand and fight.

“Okay Foster, keep me informed of anything that happens.”

“Will do. And Chacha...”

“Yes?”

“It’s been good.”

A Shootist Avenged

It would be wrong to say that Sascha was chameleon-like, that lizard changed its colours to match its surroundings, but stayed a chameleon. Meanwhile, Sascha changed on the inside to match the clothing he wore, with the helmet in place, the sylph was gone.

Walking through familiar corridors he saw them with different eyes. That closet a place to spring an ambush, the crossway between sections K and L an escape path. Terrain he intimately knew, could provide him an advantage, possibly enough to compensate for being outnumbered. He considered setting up a fortified position, but reasoned he was better on the move, able to encounter boarders in smaller numbers. Nor would he attack at the main hatch, he needed to determine their numbers before making his move.

Coming to the conclusion that his pacing burned energy he would need later, Sascha stopped at the galley. Though Foster said he was not hungry, Sascha took advantage of the time to fill his stomach, following the advice of the Bunch members, who had made him eat when they had a chance. Finishing a prepared package of rations, he filled up the canteen attached to his belt. Then he waited, guessing that it would not be long, for the pirate was almost in range. So when next they entered Transition, Sascha felt it would be the last time.

Immediately, on return, things went to hell, leaving Foster only enough time to shout, “Shit, they’re here.”

Then the large freighter was under attack. Such was the pirate’s skill and confidence in extrapolating their jumps, it had not even waited until the freighters return to reality before firing numerous salvos from its cannons. To The Lady Tramp, it was as if she had entered a meteor shower, though instead of rocks, it consisted of exploding slugs of uranium. And while many of the slugs missed, the ship hit enough to do their job.

As massive as a freighter needed to be, in order to hold its load, the impacts of those slugs was hardly noticeable to Sascha. He was not thrown from his seat, his removed helmet did not go flying from its seat on the table and he barely heard the explosions. Yet almost immediately he knew something bad had happened, the powerful engines now seemed to labour as opposed to their normal roar. Then a second salvo hit and even more damage was done. And then a third, and a fourth.

When he heard nothing more, no explosions nor the sounds of the engines, he used the intercom to asked, “Foster what’s the situation?”

“Foster?”

“Foster!”

There was no reply. Nervously, fearing the worse, he pulled up a status display on a console. The ship was not dead, but she had been crippled. Her engines were down and numerous breeches had been made in the hull. Most of these were not a problem, piercing the hold or a non-livable part of the ship. But at least two breeches, nearly on top of one another, were what Sascha guessed caused the silence from Foster. For there was little chance that the pilot would have survived the sudden loss of atmosphere within the nav/con centre.

Sascha realized he was alone.

A selfish first thought, when his best friend and only companion had just been killed. Yet some cold part within him, would not allow him to think about Foster. It was easier to feel sorry for himself or better yet, to hate the pirates who had caused the pain.

Hate, it was a curious feeling, one that Sascha had never felt. Though many on Darson, particularly Prince Fallan, had been deserving of it, he had always been too dependent upon them to allow it to blossom. Only with freedom was Sascha given the luxury to afford an emotion like hate. No longer a slave, he could finally have something to cherish, something that when taken away could serve as a catalyst to make his despair burn hot enough to become something harder. So new a feeling, yet it felt so very right. It was perfect fuel for what he needed to do.

Switching the console view to the image of the smaller, deadlier ship as it approached, Sascha realized that all that was left for him was to seek vengeance against those who it held. Either they or he needed to die.

Taking time for another drink and to use the head, Sascha then performed final checks upon his guns, ensuring they did not bind in their holsters and that they were loaded. He then pulled on the helmet, making the final transformation into the Shootist. With the helmet seated properly, he spoke the command that showed the view of the main hatch’s camera, in the top half of his visor. Taking a moment to get used to this split vision, Sascha then left the galley, moving to the location from which he planned to strike.

Like every utility closet on The Lady Tramp, Utility Closet FG44 provided access to wiring, tubing, equipment, or any number of things needed to allow make ship work. Yet a number of factors about this closet made it Sascha’s choice as his starting point. Most importantly, it had two entrances, one into corridor G and one into corridor F, two of the almost two kilometers of corridors on the large ship, corridors rarely used except for maintenance and soon, for ambush. However, just as important, while neither corridor led anywhere important, both corridors were criss-crossed by a number crossways. From this closet, Sascha knew he could move to strike in multiple directions, at whatever target seemed best.

Sitting on the floor of the closet, waiting for the Osprey 203 to make a linkage with the freighter, Sascha played with the displays available to him with the helmet. Checking that he could switch between the many cameras that surveyed most of the ship’s corridors. Deciding to keep the split view, Sascha hoped it did not hurt his marksmanship and wished he had spent more time practicing with the helmet, even if that practice was with the all-purpose simulator available on the Tramp, instead of a Havoc Simulator. If it did prove a distraction, then he would have to switch back to a single view.

Though the pirate’s ship had less mass than a full ore shuttle it weighed enough that Sascha felt it latch onto The Lady Tramp. Focussed upon the main hatch, in the top half of his visor, he waited. Something that, despite his age, he was quite good at. It had been learned while waiting upon Prince Fallan’s whim.

When something happened, it almost came as a surprise. Blinking, he missed the hatch slide open, only the gap where it allowed him to realize what had happened and forced him to intently watch for entry. Yet moments passed and none came, then a square box rolled into the room, one Sascha guessed held a camera. For nearly ten minutes the camera either sat spinning in place or dashing back and forth down near-by corridors.

Whoever was in charge, on the other side, finally decided that nobody waited for their incursion. A furtive movement at the door showed someone preparing to enter. The movement resolved into a man, who carefully stepped through the hatch, trailing behind the energy pistol he held in front of himself. Looking around the entrance, a look of disgust appeared on his face. He turned back to the hatch, and through the audio pick-up, Sascha heard him say, “So what the fuck you all waiting for, its not like ya bunch shitheads are going to get a written invitation.”

“Shut your cock-holster Booser, were coming,” growled a strange voice. “We was all hoping you would spring a trap, which would shut yours forever.”

“Fuck Dornor, I been saying that there was no fucking way that the pilot of this here shit can, could have survived being bent over by those slugs that fucked up the nav centre.”

“Still the Captain wants us to be smart, you second guessing him Booser?”

At these words, the other speaker lumbered through the hatchway and into Sascha’s nightmares. Huge, having to bend over to step through the hatch, his skin a dull grey making him appear more statue than man. Yet the sculptor apparently had lacked skill, for the result was blocky and poorly formed, making the figure man-shaped, though not a man. His appearance fully made Sascha understand what Foster had feared about Transition, for he doubted not that this Dornor was a victim of Transition gone wrong.

“Fuck no Dornor. You know I’m not a big enough fucktard to second guess the Captain. Fuck if he thought I was, he would rip off my head and take a shit down my neck.”

“So you’re second guessing me? You know, I am feeling the need to take a dump.”

“I’m just saying, you know?”

“I know, but you need to watch your trap Booser, otherwise someone will shut it for you.” Then turning away from the man, said, “Come on through you lot, we have work to do if we are to get this hulk moving again.”

What followed him through the hatch was a motley group if there ever was one. Fourteen of them, some normal looking like Booser, while four others challenged Dornor for the ugly prize. The normal ones were of each gender and ranged from the weasely first fellow to a blonde haired angel, yet it the others who drew Sascha’s attention. Having already seen Dornor, they lost some of their visual impact, yet he knew if any had been the first through the door, instead of the Man-Statue, they would have affected him just the same. Each appeared a perfect villain for a vid of even lesser quality than the Captain Keleesa stories, so he assigned them names right from such a tale of horror, there was; the Wolfman, the Red Demon, Headless Woman, Skeleton-Woman and the Ghoul.

Dornor formed his gang into groups, some to scavenge and others to begin repairs. Then they headed out, in multiple directions, as groups of two or three. The last group included Dornor and two normals; however, before he left, he yelled back into the ship with some orders. From this, Sascha guessed that the ship held more crew members than the fourteen boarders and the captain whom Dornor had spoke.

Sascha wondered if he should hold off attacking, until he had better information about their hidden numbers. But decided that the only way to gain that knowledge was to flush them out.

With the decision made, he began to flick through camera views, finding each grouping. Focusing on the scavenging teams, who appeared to be spreading the furthest from the others, Sascha determined his first target would be two of the normals, including the blonde haired woman. From what he could tell, they were headed in his general direction. They were traveling corridor I, popping into rooms they passed, which gave him a number of crossways from which to set an ambush. So quietly leaving the closet he made his way to the junction of corridor H and crossway 63, before ducking into a nook.

Watching their progression with the help of the cameras, it was the sound of their voices that made him realize how close they were to his location. Listening to the man try to flirt with the woman, while her constantly told him to shut the fuck up, Sascha heard the two of them walk past the crossway.

Silently, moving away from his hiding place on his rubber-soled high heels, he moved to the corner of corridor H, then taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the hall with his guns in hand. The two pirates, wrapped up in their argument, heard nothing of their approaching death. Instead, after taking a second to target, Sascha fired two bursts, from each of his guns, at the figure on the right. As the needles burst into a slender back, turning a blonde braid red, he frowned. The dispersal of the tiny missile, some even hitting the corridor’s wall, was totally unacceptable. He could blame it on his visor’s display, but recognized it to mostly be sloppiness.

However, Sascha redeemed himself upon the second target. The man, who had begun to turn at the sound of the needle guns, found himself burdened by the slumping corpse of his companion as it fell against him and was helpless as Sascha switched targets and fired. This time his aim was excellent. Four bursts, one hundred and twenty needles, created an entry wound just above the man’s right ear that could be covered by a small chit.

Knowing how unnecessary it was to check the two, so obviously dead pirates, Sascha wheeled back into crossway 63 and hurriedly returned to the nook from which he had attacked. Despite the success of the attack, he still found it had made his adrenaline surge. Trying to bring it under control, he flipped from camera to camera to see if any of the other groups were aware of the attack.

In a few moments, his heart rate was under control and he was sure that the rest of the pirates were still unaware of his existence. Thus he began to look for his next target, specifically he looked for the closest group. They were five corridors past his first targets, it was a group of three, consisting of two normal men and the abnormal he had named the Ghoul.

Leaving the nook, he slowly moved in their direction. Passing through corridor H he spared a moment’s glance towards his first victims, their bodies slumped together in a fashion that would surely have displeased the woman. Passing on he was soon within striking range, though frustrated by their spacing. Unlike the first pair, these three moved with a separation that would have even pleased Ivar, there was no way that Sascha would be able to pull off the same trick. If he let them all pass, then the Ghoul, who led, would be far enough away to make him a difficult target. His best choice was to split the three, while hoping that surprise, combined with his speed, would prove good enough. It was an option that he did not like, his safety depended upon the pirates’ reaction times. Sascha had to hope the three would be no better than the Bogrons, the monsters making up level 12 of the Havoc Simulator, on whom he had practice this attack.

Choosing to attack the gap between the two normals, where only one would see his initial attack, he moved towards crossway 48 and waited, hearing first one set of feet, then a second pass by. Dashing in and through the crossway, he found his timing to be off, coming out almost on top of the third man. Due more to reaction then planning, Sascha squeezed the triggers of his guns without aiming. Not that aiming was needed at that distance, the needles sliced up the pirate’s torso into his neck. Reacting more than thinking, Sascha spun away from the man, while ignoring the spray of arterial blood that splashed across his side and back, and fired at the second man, who was turning with a shout.

Confident in the damage those bursts would cause, Sascha stepped out of his pirouette, moving a couple paces to the right, obtaining a clear line of sight on the Ghoul. However, the speed of that pirate belayed his zombie-like appearance, before Sascha could fire, the man had turned, and fired his energy gun. Yet speed alone was not enough, when it did not include the natural instincts shown by his tiny attacker. For where Sascha had the pirate targeted, the Ghoul had just fired, bouncing the bolts from his gun of the walls. Only minor reflections struck the shootist, minor enough that his suit and helmet easily absorbed the energy.

Meanwhile, ignoring the bolts, Sascha finished his second step and opened fire upon the shooter. No more was he affected by the split screen, every needle went where he wanted it to go. Sascha was in the same zone which had allowed him to reach one of the highest scores ever obtained on a Havoc Simulator.

Yet that training proved his undoing. Four bursts, enough to immediately kill all of his prior targets, was not enough to take down the Ghoul. Unable to raise his energy gun, instead the man reached for his communicator and though he may not have had time to speak, anybody listening would have heard the second set of four bursts that finished him off. Surprise was now gone.

Sascha ran down the corridor, in the direction the three pirates had been walking. Not panicked, yet recognizing that he needed to put distance between himself and any of the other pirates, he ran to where none of them could yet be. Not worrying about what the pirates were doing in response, he ran until he reached Utility Closet ST89, with multiple entries like FG44, and slipped inside. This time it took longer to slow his heart and to regain his breath, even lifting his visor to take a drink. Then he began trying to determine what the pirate’s were doing in response, while unconsciously reloading his guns that now held less then half their load.

The pirates were definitely aware that something was going on, but did not appear sure of what. Therefore, every one of them had stopped what they were doing and were chattering away on their communicators.

Finally he found the camera containing Dornor in its sights. Unlike all the others, Dornor moved as he talked into his communicator. Momentarily Sascha wished he had picked up one of the communicators off of one of the pirate’s bodies, before reminded himself with his next thought that it would only have given them the ability to track him down. Guessing the Man-Statue was on his way to the main hatch, Sascha checked to ensure the other pirates were staying put. Returning to Dornor he saw him reach the hatch and wait to be joined by two heavily muscled men. They almost looked normal, if one did not look closely enough to see that each only had a single eye. Without a word, the three of them began moving in the direction of Sascha’s attacks, stopping along the way to pick up Wolfman and the Red Demon.

Sascha knew he had a decision to make. Did he wait for the approaching band of uglies? Or should he attack them? Or was it best to ignore them completely and go after someone else?

Not liking the confident swagger of the five beast-men, Sascha chose the last option. Though first he needed to get away from the quadrant of the ship in which the attacks had occurred. Leaving the closet he hurried, towards the stern of the ship, where he knew the fewest pirates were to be found, just a single group had headed that way, the Headless Woman and a normal man. Neither of them had appeared particularly dangerous, but he had not been able to find them on his most recent scan and that made him nervous.

Therefore, after he had put a fair amount of distance between himself and Utility Closet ST89, Sascha slowed his pace. Switching his visor from the view of Dornor and his crew, he once more scanned the through the cameras in the stern, trying to find the two missing pirates. Again he had no luck, nothing stood out.

He still had not found him when the five found his first victims. Soon after, Sascha had another idea and ducked into sheltered corner, then turning up the audio feed he once again flip from feed to feed in the section of the ship. On his third rotation he thought he heard a feint noise, though it was quickly gone. When more scans found nothing else, he decided to move towards the one area he had heard something, a camera not too far from his current location. Proceeding slowly, he passed through crossways and down corridors until he was close to his destination and listened, trying to hear the sound once more. After a few seconds, he thought he heard something and hesitantly moved in the direction from which it came.

As he got closer he thought it sounded familiar. And then it struck him, what it heard was something he had often caused. Knowing how little threat was posed by someone making that noise, he quickly moved towards the chamber from which it came. Then with guns ready he tripped the hatch and leaped inside.

Entering he was not surprised by what he saw, though somewhat sickened. The woman’s body was a work of art; long legged and voluptuously curved, yet so very incomplete without a head. Therefore, Sascha was disturbed by the depravity of the act in which the two were engaged. For a moment Sascha felt sympathy for the woman, almost a kinship, but then he remembered Foster and his heart hardened, allowing the twosome an become an easy target. Seconds later he was out the door and on the move.

Ducking into another nook, Sascha evaluated the situation. Though he had now accounted for nearly half of the initial boarding party, the task ahead of him seemed to be getting more and more complicated. Besides the group of five who were now prowling the hallways, it appeared the rest of the pirates, Skeleton-Woman and the remaining four normals, were on the move to link up near the main hatch. Estimating distances to travel, Sascha realized that he would not be able reach any of these before they met, meaning he would soon be facing two groups of five. Neither of which would be distracted or ignorant like those upon whom he had already preyed. He would have to change his tactics.

He wished he had the back up of Ivar Bandle and his command, or Corporal Jenkins and 2nd gun, even a bag of grenades would make him feel a better. Instead all he had available was any wisdom he had gleaned from the lieutenant during their escape, on Darson. Sascha reminded himself that his mobility was the key, he needed to shoot and scoot. His next question was how best to utilize that mobility. It would be impossible to take out an group of five in one attack; therefore, he needed to be able to escape quickly after firing. Unfortunately, the corridors were long and straight, with crossways in increments of fifty feet. Anybody left alive, would find it easy to target him before he was out of eye-sight, even if he had longer legs or was fleeter of foot. He needed to attack from directions from which he could retreat, rather than those from which he ran. He decided it was time to take to the ducts.

The amount of ducting dwarfed the lengths of corridors on the ship. Kilometers existed above and below the main deck. Sascha hoped that from these he could strike and vanish.

Even though he felt the group of beast-men were deadlier, he decided to make them his next target. Sascha expected to begin losing his edge at some point, so it seemed smart to strike the more dangerous pack before it happened. He also felt it would be smart to spring his new attack upon them before they began watch for it. Lastly, they were closer, meaning he would have less time to think about the craziness of his plan before he acted. So plotting their path, he chose an entry point into the ducting, and moved in that location.

Climbing up into the dusty ducting, he worked upon convincing himself that the plan was not nearly as stupid as it appeared. He told himself, that due to his size, it would be easier for him to move in the ducts, then most of the pirates, specially the five he planned to attack. Although he recognized that this may be for naught if their weapons were able to penetrate the ceiling and the ducting to seek him out.

Understanding that there was only one way to find the answer to this question, Sascha began the long crawl towards a vent, three corridors away, he guessed that they would pass beneath. Arriving, he found that he did not have a good camera angle, allowing him to see the length of the corridor. However, before he could find another location to serve him better, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Worried that if he moved they would hear him, he cautiously waited for someone to pass within eye and gun sight.

Suddenly the steps came to a halt. Nervous with his inability to see anything, he held his breath and waited. Until a voice, he recognized as Dornor’s, whispered, “What’s up Traling?”

The voice that replied was as harsh as his, sounding more a beast’s growl, than a human’s voice. “I smell something.”

“What is it?”

“Well it reminds me of a whore I know on Cyplon 8, she likes it doggy style.”

“Fuck we don’t need to hear about your sex life Tra,” a third, deep pitched voice spoke up.

“At least some of us have one Eddie. But what is interesting about her, is that she has this powder that turns her into a tasty little morsel. Well I smell what she smells like after I am done with her, that powder and sex.”

Cursing the stupidity of not having showered, in fact having used more of his powder, before changing from the Keleesa costume into his suit, Sascha waited to see what would happen.

“Shit are you in heat Tra?”

“Shut the fuck up Eddie,” Dornor stated, cutting off a growl from Traling. “When has his nose ever been wrong. The attacker is likely near-bye, though I am surprised it’s a chick. Splatter boy in the nav centre must have kept himself a floozy. Can you find her Traling?”

There was no immediate answer. However, in a few moments Sascha began to hear a sound, he recognized as sniffing, approaching. Aiming both guns at the openings in the vent, he waited, for who he guessed to be the Wolfman, to approach.

Even prepared for it, Sascha was surprised when the fur-covered, bestial head suddenly appeared beneath him. Nor could he immediately respond when that head turned to glare up at the vent with bitter, yellow eyes. Yet neither was the Wolfman prepared, before he could move away or finish shouting, “I see her”, Sascha opened fire. The first burst demolished the metal vent covering, but the rest did all the damage needed. First defacing that sensitive snout, then destroying the rest of the furry face. And unlike his cousin of lore, no silver bullets were needed.

Not sticking around to wait for another target, Sascha immediately began crawling back the way he had come upon his hands and knees. Ignoring the bruising to his fingers, clenched around guns, as his weight crushed them against the ducting, he fearfully listened to the shouting below. Then the men opened up, with their weapons, at the ceiling above their heads. Most of their shots, including all of those from energy guns, were more dangerous to themselves, bouncing back instead of piercing the ceiling. But at least one of the pirates had an automatic slug-propeller, which blasted a row of five inch holes through the ceiling and the duct above. Luckily for Sascha, he had crawled in the opposite direction, though if not for his helmet’s dampers, he would have been deafened. Still it made him crawl even faster, turning around the first corner he reached.

Sascha did not quit crawling, until the sounds of pursuit died away. Only then did he try to determine where his mad scamper, including numerous random turns, had placed him in relation to the two groups of pirates. Even with the frantic pace at which he had traveled, he saw that he had not put as much distance between himself and those he had just attacked as he had thought. Instead his escape was due to the ducting running perpendicular to the corridors, forcing the pirates to travel a significantly greater distance for them to have maintained contact.

Not that the four had continued the chase. When he located them, on camera, they were in a corridor not too far away from his attack, nor his current location. However, they did not seem particularly interested in finding him, instead the two Cyclops and the Red Demon appeared to be arguing with Dornor, though they were not near enough to an audio pick-up to be heard.

After a few minutes, Dornor finally waved them to be quiet and started talking on his communicator. Sascha switched his view to the camera nearest where the other group had last been, and found the rest of the pirates gathered near the hatch. Seeing them, he wished that he was closer, for their casual indolence made them appear to be easy target; however, they were far enough way, to be temporarily safe. What he found most curious about this group, was that none of them seemed to talking, with each other or with Dornor. Recognizing that the Man-Statue must be talking to someone aboard the pirate ship, Sascha zoomed in on the main hatch.

Not long after doing this he saw three more figures appear at the hatch, each bearing a slug-propeller. Two of these, were women who seemed to subscribe to the Keleesa Shronsdottor school of fashion. Thought the confident manner in which they bore the propellers, dared you to underestimate them at your own peril.

The third figure would never be underestimated. Dwarfing the two women on both its side, it appeared to be a large walking lizard, complete with a thick tail dragging along the ground, providing extra stability. Earless and with a snout bearing viscous fangs, its orange reptile-like skin made it into something right out of prehistory. At least up until you saw the slug-propeller, looking like a pistol, in one of its giant hands. People would first be frightened by its horrific appearance, but they would not know true fear until they saw the madness in eyes that held vertical pupils of blood red.

Instinctively Sascha knew that this was the Captain. He walked with a purpose showing he would happily rip off someone’s head off, in the pursuit of a toilet. In fact, it looked like that is what he hoped to do.

Guessing that these were the last three pirates from the other ship, Sascha assumed that they were through dicking around with him. Likely they planned to join the three groups together and then flush him out with their numbers. At least that is what he would have done if he was in their shoes. Therefore, he needed to come up with something fast, for him that meant one thing. He needed to attack.

Checking the four, he had earlier attacked, he found their argument over as they had spread out and appeared attentive. Sascha speculated that they waited for the others to join them. Before he recognized what he was doing, the shootist was on the move, heading for an exit from the ducting not far away. Only as he moved, did it click home that he had decided to set an ambush, planning to catch the others in their approach, hoping to gain surprise one last time. Sascha knew the perfect place to spring that trap. He just had to get there in time.

Carefully dropping into a corridor, he found himself dusty and grimy, in particular where the swath of blood, from the third pirate he had killed, had coated his side. Sascha had to fight the urge to hurry, but he forced himself to keep an eye on both sets of pirates and never crossed a corridor without checking its camera. However, due mostly to the deliberate pace set by the Lizard Captain, he reached the galley in plenty of time. Sascha even had time to grab a quick drink and an energy packet while rehearsing the gamble in his mind. He guessed it was as likely to backfire as it was to succeed, relying as it did upon the pirates passing the galley without looking inside. If that happened, he would have little time to escape down, through an opening in the floor, into the lower set of ducts. Still it was his the chance, he could think of, to lower his enemy’s numbers.

Monitoring their progress, he was happy to see them moving through a corridor off one of the galley’s four entrances, the one opposite through which he had entered. With the extra time available, he popped down into the duct to examine his escape route. The good thing was that it was nearly a metre below the flooring, no slug would be able to travel through that much metal, bringing death from above. On the other hand, it ran straight for quite a distance and held multiple near-by entrances. He would have to be prepared to fight in the tunnel, if he made it that far.

Then he waited.

He flitted back and forth between the open hole and the wall beside the hatch, neither location seeming comfortable. Finally he decided on the wall, thinking that if he was discovered, he would just have to take as many with him as he could.

When he spotted their approach, he knew that Ivar would have cursed them their spacing, as they were bunched together, such that most would be taken out by a single grenade. To bad he did not have one. Also, the order of their march (Skeletal-Woman leading, followed by the lizard and the two women, with the four men bringing up the rear) meant that not all would be able to bring their weapons to bear on the same target behind them. Maybe it would not be as dangerous to attack as he feared?

Sascha mentally urged them onward as he watched on his visor. Hoping they would continue passed the galley, he flicked his guns to full automatic. It would not be an ambush of skill, the more needles flying at the pirates, the better chance of success he would have. If only they did not check the door.

Recognizing he held his breath, Sascha quietly let it go. He watched and he waited. And then the group walked by the door, seeming more concerned with vents than they were with rooms.

Counting to fifteen, not wanting to rush things, he triggered the hatch and as it silently opened, he stepped out, with guns pointed in the direction of the pirates. Still unaware of his presence he began to shoot. It was no time for his regular precision shooting, instead he sprayed needles from side to side, hoping to hit as many of the group as possible. Even if they were not killed, wounds may take them out of action. Continuing to fire, Sascha knew he was hitting targets, but payed little attention to the actual damage.

It was like he was the statue of some Goddess of the Hunt, breasts proudly jutting forward as he stood, with high-heel boots planted at shoulder width, and for six point two seconds his only movement was the gentle oscillation of wrists and hands. When those six point two seconds were over and his guns were empty, he did not think to reload, instead he jumped back into the galley. Hitting the switch to close the hatch, he slid over to the hole and slithered, feet first, down into his escape route. Then he reloaded his guns, before beginning to creep away, ready to fire on anybody who dropped down to join him. Wiggling backwards on knees and one hand he was unable to hear nothing to tell him the impact of his attack. No screams of the injured or of rage, nothing which allowed Sascha to guess how successful he had been.

The pirates had been completely unprepared, fierce though they may have been, they were a disorganized group who barely trusted or liked one another. They did not have the cohesiveness or the wariness group, trained like Dawson’s Bunch; therefore, they had not had anyone watching their backs. And they paid for it.

First to be hit was a man, second from the right, in the back row. In ways he was the most unfortunate, the needles from Sascha’s attack had stitched across his lower back, causing multiple injuries, none as serious as the severed spine. His legs gave out from beneath him, giving him know time to see his attacker from behind, instead he crumpled to the floor in paralyzed shock. Unlucky until the end, the man, who had turned to crime after killing someone drunken brawl, returned to his senses, just in time to realize that he was bleeding to death and could do nothing about it.

The man to his right was more fortunate in death. Shorter than his colleague, and with the barrel of the Sascha’s right hand gun moving upwards, the needles that hit him were to his upper torso. Many of them pierced his lungs, which would have caused him to suffocate in his own blood, if not for the three needles bursting into his heart and causing instant death.

Though Sascha was able to track his left hand gun to follow the right with great skill, when he targeted it independently he lost much of his accuracy. This meant that the two men on the left survived the attack. The man in the middle was wounded, in his right side and shoulder, but was able to clamp cover ups to each wound, stopping the bleeding. The fourth man, yappy Booser, was not even nicked by a needle. Though he dropped, like a stone, to the ground, covering his head with his arms.

However, Sascha’s left gun was not completely useless. Through fortune, more than design, some of those needles that had missed the two men passed by to strike one of the women, who had come aboard with the lizard, in the back of head.

The results of the attack were better than could possibly have been expected, yet the damage was not complete. Showing her lack of experience with guns, proving that some people should not be allowed to use them, Skeleton-Woman turned around, raised her energy gun, and began to fire. However, she had forgotten the giant lizard striding behind and blocking her unknown target. A giant lizard enraged enough by the burning pain to step forward and swing a clawed paw at the head of his tormentor.

Only the second woman, who had boarded with the lizard, saw as the Skeleton-Woman’s head was ripped, bouncing away, from her shoulders. This sight, competed with that of the slumping body of her dead sister. Disgusted with everything and know longer seeing the man, in the beast, who she had once loved, she raised her slug-propeller and fired into his back. Putting him down for good, something she now knew should have been done long ago.

Unaware of the havoc above him, Sascha worried about putting distance between him and his attack. It was a difficult and nervous backwards wiggle, over twenty five metres, before he found a crossing shaft. Holstering his guns, hoping speed would offer safety, he turned into that shaft and crawling headfirst repeated his escape from before, taking random corners and caring less about getting lost, then getting away. He spent at least five minutes, crawling through the ducts, before stopping to determine what had and happening. Though first he took a deep drink of water and tried to control his breathing, gasping as he was both from exertion and fear.

He did not expect what he saw, on the display of his visor, when he looked at the hall outside of the galley. Studying the bodies laying on the ground, he was thrilled to see that five of them, including the biggest ugly, were not moving. Even better, the remaining three seemed glued to the spot, nobody was chasing him. Unless...but no, the group with the Man-Statue also did not move. Instead they once more argued with each other. This time the tow Cyclops and the Red Demon did not back down, before the three started walking back in the direction from which they had come, Dornor trailing angrily, shouting, behind. When they met up with their remaining colleagues, outside the galley, he continued his argument, but again was rebuffed.

Finally in frustration he nodded his head, apparently agreeing with the other six. A second, brief argument was resolved when the remaining woman pointed her gun at the rest of them. This led to the larger Cyclops picking up and carrying her sister, as they all tramped back to the main hatch.

Hardly believing that they may actually be giving up, Sascha tried not to let his hopes build up. And it appeared wise when he saw them stop upon arrival at the hatch, though this time he was able to listen in on the audio pickup.

“I can’t believe that you shit-for-brains are giving up, there’s only one of them,” Dornor cajoled.

“And how many of the crew did that one kill?” asked the woman.

“That’s why we need to get our revenge.”

“Bah revenge is for some fuckin’ prick in a story book. Not for us. We’re pirates, though if you ask me it is pathetic to pirate some stinking ore freighter.”

“You know we can get some good money for the ship and the cargo if we find the right buyer Val.”

“Yeah right, if we find the right buyer. No fuckin’ way does it make any sense to take any more risk on some shifty if. Nope I’m getting out of here.”

Looking around at the rest of the pirates, seeing them nod their agreement, Dornor angrily shouted, “But I’m in charge.”

The response was not what he expected, suddenly finding himself facing five weapons, “Shit Dor why did you have to go and try to pull rank on us. I’ve already killed a captain today, and I once loved Shubort. Killing a first officer wouldn’t even require moments thought. Niclai, take Dornor’s weapon.”

Grinning at the woman and throwing her a cheeky salute, the unburdened Cyclops approached Dornor, while ensuring he did not get between the weapons of his fellow mutineers and their former first officer. Taking the energy gun from Dornor’s holster, he retreated once more to their sides.

The woman then said, “In fact I’d like to apply for Captaincy of the Jumping Toad. Too long has she been run by shit head, brute strength. I’m thinking that using brains would be a better choice. What do you all think?”

Gaining an approving word or nod from everybody except Dornor, she said, “Well I guess that’s settled. Actually just mostly settled. I know I can’t trust you Dor, you will have me constantly looking over my shoulder and I need my beauty sleep. So what is a girl to do?”

“Going to kill me, you treacherous bitch?”

“You always were a smooth talker Dor. Nah, I’m not going to kill you, we were once friends. Instead I am going to reward you with a ship to command. Course it’s somewhat damaged and there is a killer aboard, but you and that shit-head in the lizard suit thought it was a ship worth dying for, so I will give you your wish.”

“Fuck Val, you can’t do that to me.”

“Well as you often said, command doesn’t allow you to have friends.”

With those words the six of them, still with weapons trained on the Man-Statue backed one by one through the hatch into their own ship. The last through, was he who had been first aboard The Lady Tramp, the foul-mouthed Booser. Before he left, he grinned a malicious grin and shared one final thought. “Shit Dornor, Val sure did fuck you up good. Wish I could help you, but then I hate your guts. Honestly this is making my fucking year, after all it couldn’t happen to a better fucktard than you. Now I really must go, don’t go missing us. ‘Cause we sure as fuck won’t miss you.”

Stepping through the hatch, he triggered its closure, leaving both the camera and Dornor staring at a solid wall. The camera took it better than did the pirate, for it did not throw itself against the closed hatch banging its fists and shouting curses. However, Dornor was enough of a realist to soon realize how little good his ranting would do, instead he turned around and in an almost conversation tone said, “Well I guess its just me and you, Chickie-poo.”

Sascha found himself believing it was a trick and that the pirates would be back. Yet outside cameras showed their ship detaching itself from The Lady Tramp and pulling away, gaining speed as it went.

All of a sudden it felt real, but he knew it was not yet over. There was one more thing to do, for just like Val’s unwillingness to look over her shoulder, so to Sascha could not leave Dornor on the lose. As the old saying went, the ship was not big enough for the two of them. Tired of the entire shifty affair, Sascha was ready to bring it to an end; therefore, he found the nearest exit and climbed out into a corridor. Seeing that Dornor was not moving, he decided to forego stealth, instead he strolled through the halls towards his last objective, who seemed just as willing to see things come to an end.

Arriving at the final corner, Sascha stopped. Ensuring his two guns were fully loaded, he decided that the should know who was his killer, whose vengeance he had triggered. Therefore, he removed the claustrophobic helmet and wiped a sweaty brow with his dirty sleeve.

Then he stepped around the corner, with guns prepared. Dornor was not even aware of his arrival before Sascha’s two needle guns had dispensed their slivers of justice, slamming the large figure back against the wall. Yet Dornor did not collapse in a fountain of blood, instead he held himself up with a hand against the wall. With his other hand he reached up to feel his chest, under shredded shirt, and what he felt raised a smile on his face.

Sascha did not need to see the smile to know something had gone wrong, Without hesitating he fired once more, not into the Man-Statue’s chest, but at his face and head. This time he saw, rather than blasting through skin and bone, many of the needles bouncing off.

Dornor’s smile grew larger as he survived this second barrage with only a pocketed and chipped face, thrilled he said, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Who would ever have thought that I would have been happy about being fucked over by Transition?”

He was interrupted by another burst of needles slamming him against the wall, though causing no more damage than the previous two times.

“And who would have thought a little doll like you would have done so much damage. Those pussies should be fucking embarrassed to have been run off by a cock ornament like you. Well I guess it does mean that I get you all to myself.”

He then pushed himself away from the wall and began walking towards Sascha, a confident look on his chalky face. A confidence well found against the vast majority of the population. Yet anybody who had successfully passed level 30 on a Havoc Simulator was equipped with the knowledge to defeat Dornor. While traipsing towards the hatch, Sascha had found himself thinking that pirate reminded him of the Golem Lord, who guarded the last door of that level. Many a frustrating hour Sascha had spent, being virtually flattened time and time again, before stumbling upon a solution. He had not tried it immediately, realizing that you did not need something difficult, unless it was hard. But when what would have killed any human failed, Sascha knew it was time to make it difficult.

His last shots fired had not been to wound or kill, Sascha realized that would not work. Instead it had been to allow him time to reload his guns and switch them again to automatic. Therefore, when Dornor began to walk towards him, Sascha fired not at chest, nor at head, but at the narrow, planted, left ankle. A pant leg and boot was demolished, then a few shards of rock broke away before the pirate crashed down to the ground.

With a wordless growl Dornor pushed himself to his feet, only to be brought down in the same fashion. Two, three more times this happened, with the target getting angrier and angrier at the gnat who stung. Cursing at Sascha, unaware of what the shootist was doing, he actually took a full step while Sascha once more reloaded and sent him down to the floor again.

This time, when Dornor stood, he immediately clattered to ground, before Sascha could even shoot. Trying again, he was met by the same result. Frustrated, he looked down and learned what pain receptors would have once told him, no longer was there a foot below his right ankle, Sascha had shot it away. Disbelief turning into fiery rage he began crawling towards his tiny tormentor, who, seemingly with all the time in the world, began shooting at his left arm just above his elbow. Slightly narrower, it did not take nearly as many bursts before Sascha separated lower from upper arm.

Crippled, yet driven by anger, Dornor continued to slide forward, forcing to Sascha to move backwards down the hall. And as he stepped backwards, he continued to shoot, slowly carving away piece after piece. Yet Dornor would not die.

Finally rage gave away to horror at what had become of him, first during that horrible Transition and now wiggling like a slug on the ground. Giving up, he looked at Sascha, and in a clear voice said, “Kill me.”

Sascha, just as rattled by what was happening, stopped at these words and looked at Dornor with sympathy. Yet instead of doing anything, he holstered his gun, turned and walked away, down the corridor to the sound of a shouting. “No! Kill me. Please kill me.”

It was over fifteen minutes before Sascha returned to find Dornor, laying where he had left him, sobbing tearlessly. It was the cart that Sascha pushed, more then his own steps, that drew the man’s attention. First questioning, then a flicker of understanding came into his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything else to do,” Sascha apologized.

“Do it.”

“Are you sure? You promise not to do anything?”

“Do it.”

Nodding his head, Sascha carefully pushed the cart closer, paying close attention to see that the pirate did try a final, desperate trick. However, Dornor laid quietly. When he was as close as he needed to get, Sascha reached to the tanks on the cart and turned the valves until their contents flowed into attached hoses. Reaching down with shaking hand, no longer steady as it was when holding a pistol, he picked up the torch connected to the end of hoses. Finally he triggered the plasma flow from its nozzle and slowly cut the head from the motionless statue.

And then Sascha was alone with his revenge.

* * *

For one hundred and forty three days The Lady Tramp had floated through space, like a ghost ship, her distress beacon drawing no answer. And though she held her share of dead, the one who haunted her was still alive, Sascha.

It had been a nightmarish period for him, he was not used to being alone, nor was used to having time to think. At first he was able to escape into a paranoid fear that the pirates would return seeking their revenge. So he had spent his days and often sleepless nights planning and preparing for the next attack. Sascha learned every inch of the ship which he could use, both the corridors and the ducting above or below. He established barricades from behind which to fight and escape routes between each. However, after twenty some days he had switched from being worried that the pirates would return, to being scared that nobody would ever appear.

At this point he also fell into a deep depression as he finally began to mourn the loss of Foster. Though he had, early after the attack, gathered up the bodies of the pirates and placed them in a sealed storage room, he had never ventured into the nav/con centre. He initially excused it by telling himself that he did not know how to handle the depressurized room, yet he had never tried to gain the knowledge needed through a moments search on a console.

He finally understood that he did not want to see whatever was left of Foster. He missed the man’s laugh, his presence, his arms, his smell, even his taste. But mostly he missed the comfort and protection that Foster had offered.

Even though he recognized his thoughts were often selfish, he could not deny how real they were. He may not have loved Foster, in fact he likely did not even understand what it was, but he would have stayed by his side, playing whatever roles the pilot had wanted, without a second thought. It was so much easier pleasing others, being what they wanted to be, then trying to determine who he was himself. He even found himself dressing up in one of the costumes, in which Foster had loved to see him, escaping into different character for days at a time.

One such time, while dressed in his now commonly worn Keleesa costume, he found posing in front of a mirror. He knew some people, like Ivar Bandle, would think it strange, maybe even wrong, that he loved the way he looked. They would not recognize that to him it was who and what he was, maybe it was due to brainwashing or the expectations in which he had been raised. Whatever it was, it made him feel good to be pretty, even when no men were around to appreciate and want him. The hyper-feminine parts of being a sylph had always seemed more of a reward than punishment as some saw it.

Despite that he still considered himself a boy, possibly after what he had experience, a man, though unlike most he had ever known. He still could not see himself as a woman, since he still had no idea of being a woman was like. No, a sylph he would stay, he felt he needed to hold onto some truth.

Yet in making the decision to stay who he had always been, Sascha did not take the opportunity, even while bored witless, to try to change, to grow. He spent no time trying to learn new things, to gain skills that may offer him a future. For Sascha, if he was ever able to get of The Lady Tramp, his plan for the future was to find a man to look after him. For his adventures had proven that life was always better when he was protected.

So Sascha spent his time fighting off depression through fantasy, about what his life would be like when he was rescued. About the man who would take him in and what the two of them would do. How they would treat each other. The fun that they would have. He convinced himself that it would happen.

He did not let himself give into the despair, that fear that he would drift alone forever.

Thus was the state of his mind on the one hundred and forty third day, the day when the frigate Commodore Tony Blaus, a ship in the League of Planetary Systems’ navy, entered his pocket of space. With its appearance, his rescuers had arrived.

Sascha was nervous. He had dreamed about this moment so often, that it had almost entirely been pushed away from the realm of now. Luckily he had prepared and practiced for rescue, he could get ready in his sleep. Returning to his quarters, he changed into his rescue outfit, one that showed him as the helpless maiden in need of rescue. He then hurried to the main hatch, while thinking how much better it was to greet guests face to face, rather than hiding in some utility closet, planning their deaths.

Though he had arrived in plenty of time, Sascha was surprised when the hatch opened and five marines burst through. Though not as surprised as they were to see the small, black haired beauty, in the pretty blue dress and heels. Finally one of the men blurted out, “Who are you?”

“I’m Sascha.”

“Where is Foster Lansdowne? He is the registered operator of this vehicle.”

“Oh it was terrible, he was killed months ago when we were attacked by pirates.”

“Umm...I’m guessing your not one of those pirates?”

“Oh no, I was Foster’s companion.”

“Then what happened to the pirates?”

“I scared them away.”

Sascha did not understand why the men found that so funny, but he joined in with a smile. It was so good to no longer be alone.

The Stocking Dead

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

500 < Short Story < 7500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Zombies!

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

It started in Tokyo. From there, the virus spread across Japan, to Korea, to Hong Kong, and beyond. Within weeks no city had escaped the infection, humanity was devastated. But some had escaped, though they were slowly being hunted to extinction by the stocking dead.

A strange tale of saccharin horror.

The Stocking Dead

by Arcie Emm

Shrieking snapped Matt awake, but only silence greeted him. Memories, nothing more than terrible memories that found fallow ground within his mind during those moments just before sleep ended.

“Can’t sleep, Rock Star?”

Matt looked towards Jase, recognizable in the sliver of moonlight that squeezed through the boarded up window at which he kept watch. Not yet answering the one time drummer of their band, Fade to Gray, he sat and stretched, cushions and mattresses found in the farmhouse having offered a good night of sleep, at least until the nightmares struck. Careful not to disturb Jennifer, nor any of the other sleepers scattered about the room, he rose and joined his friend.

“Nightmares.” Matt answered.

“Thinking about tomorrow?” Jase asked.

“Yeah.”

“We can do it, Matt.”

“Yeah but, ahh fuck, screw it, Jase, you’re right. It’s just all of this, you know, it just gets me down.”

“It gets us all down, Matt.”

“Sorry, Jase. Why don’t you grab some sleep? I’m not going to sleep anymore, so I may as well take watch.”

“Will do.”

“And thanks.”

“We’re in this together, just be there when I need the reminder.”

Ignoring the chair in which Jase had sat, Matt walked from room to room, checking with the others who stood watch. A motley crew, some of whom he couldn’t name, but who he trusted all the same, for they needed each other to survive and the untrustworthy had long ago become victims.

The watchers had seen nothing. Not surprising, since the day’s scouting had found no sign of the undead horde within twenty miles, nor did the dogs with whom they surrounded themselves bark a warning. Besides, members of the horde rarely ventured beyond the cities and towns that had once been their homes, there they waited for scavengers searching for food and supplies. And all survivors, even ones as well organized as the commune to which Matt belonged, found reasons to scavenge.

In the commune’s hierarchy, scavenging and scouting fell to those who did not have more needed skills, such as the members of Fade to Gray. Daily they would head out on dirt bikes looking for zombies. Usually they only spotted stragglers, which they unhesitatingly killed, but whenever a migratory pack formed they would bring warnings to the others. While a move was conducted, the scouts along with the hunters and soldiers would snipe from a distance at the pack, eroding it away over a period of days. In both of these situations, the openness of the countryside minimized the danger to the living, their vehicles providing speed and their guns offering distance. However, the scavenging mission, when they entered the towns where the horde congregated, were much more dangerous. Memories of past missions and worries about the next that awoke Matt from his sleep.

Medical supplies had become a concern; therefore, Ryan, Matt, Jase, and Tucker decided to venture into Buhl. In early days, knowledge gained from books and movies led them to spend days watching a target before going in. But time had taught them that this provided greater opportunity for the zombies to find their prey than for the prey to spot the monsters. Now they relied on memories of surviving locals, information found on the internet, which seemed destined to outlast its creators, and speed for scavenging missions.

Soon after sunrise, a time offering the optimal compromise between the horde’s nighttime sluggishness and being light enough to minimize surprise, the four rested in a field just South East of town, finalizing their plan. Satisfied, they restarted their bikes, raced across the field, just South of Aiken Avenue, and dashed a couple blocks North on Fair Street. There they found their target, the Family Health Services clinic.

Matt and Jase dismounted to go inside, while Ryan and Tucker stayed outside to keep watch, the two pairs planning to stay in touch via walkie talkies. With guns drawn, all four carried Mossberg 500 shotguns found in an abandoned cop shop, the two friends found the entrance unlocked, offering easy access, both for them and the horde. Cautiously they ventured inside, to the hum of still working fluorescent lights. Following the directions of Gus, a local farmer who had made use the clinic, they steadily headed for the medical storage room, pausing to look into every room and down every hall to see if any zombies lurked, nervously wondering what waited just out of sight.

They found the heavy door still locked, though marks and scratches around the simple punch lock showed they were not the first to attempt to get through the door. Either the previous scavengers had not known what they were doing, did not have the needed tools, or had not had the time to finish. Hoping for the first two reasons, and with Matt watching the hallways, Jase took a crowbar from his backpack and went to work on the lock. Like most of its kind, the lock offered only convenient security, which meant that Jase`s dedicated effort soon had him inside.

“Jackpot!”

“Hurry up, Jase, this doesn’t feel right.”

Before the virus, Jase would have answered with a smart ass remark, but the boys had become men. So Jase, feeling just as nervous as Matt, got busy breaking into the drug closet and filling his hiker’s backpack with the plastic bottles he found inside. Finished, the two switched places, soon Matt’s pack also bulged full.

Just as he finished, they heard, over the walkie talkie, Ryan say, “Get your asses out here, they’re coming.”

Rather than asking how many or how soon, Jase and Matt rushed back the way they had come. As the two neared the reception area that they came face to face with a pair of zombies. Ones recently turned, maybe, probably the scavengers who had left the marks on the door to the medical storage room.

During this phase, only about a month after receiving death’s kiss, the two were already deadly, but looked anything but. In fact they looked adorable. Neither was five foot tall, nor weighed more than eighty pounds, but something about their forms, covered in knee-length yellow school dresses over white knee length socks and patent mary-janes that hinted at what would come. And their faces did more than hint, framed by long, pig-tailed brunette hair, their fair complexions highlighted by pouting lips and large brown eyes, bereft of worry. Preteen princesses on the cusp of becoming teen temptresses.

The zombie on the left spoke, rather shrieked. “Oh-my-Gawd, it’s Justin Bieber.”

Barely were the words out of her mouth before the roar of Jase’s shotgun responded, Matt’s echoing its agreement. Not watching as the yellow clad figures fly backwards, the young men ran for the door. Jase snarling, “I don’t fucking look like Justin Bieber.”

Matt would have laughed, but the sound of shotgun blasts from outside, drove away all humor. Bursting through the door and sprinting to their bikes, they saw that Ryan and Tucker shot towards a pack a half block away, the numbers of zombies who approached turning each into sharp shooters.

Those that approached were not recently turned, they were fully evolved into their naughty evilness. No longer adorably cute, their heels had grown taller, their socks had thinned and climbed above the knees, while their skirts had turned to tartan, and shrunk to a height that offered hints of tiny panties as they ran. Dazzling, each and every one, lust personified. Or they should have been, the dreams they now engendered were those of nightmare and terror, instead of fantasy and lust. Now these gorgeous school girl zombies offered sure-fire damnation of body instead of the possible damnation of the soul.

Trying to ignore their approach, the two scavengers hopped on their bikes and kicked them to a start. The four raced out of the parking lot, now only fifty yards ahead of the leading members of the pack, and raced South along Fair Street.

Then that Matt made a mistake. He forgot the first rule of scouts, ‘Never look back, worry first about flight, then about fight.’

Barely out of the parking lot, he looked back and saw a stunning blonde pull away from the rest of the pack. Momentarily he thought how much he would love for her to catch him, which was immediately followed by the fear of being caught. Of course fear led to anger and anger led to a fired shotgun and a shouted, “Die, Zombie Bitch, die!”

Six months earlier, when he had been a guy from suburbia, traveling the boondocks with his band, Matt had never fired a gun nor operated a dirt bike. Since then he had grown competent at both, but firing the shotgun to the rear, while speeding along the street, proved more than his skills allowed. The combination caused him to wobble, then over correct, yanking the bike against the curb. From this would be no recovery, the tires jerked violently in different directions, then the bike snapped completely out of control. The next thing Matt knew, he tumbled down the street, his bike bouncing crazily over top of him to crash in a useless heap.

Rolling to a stop, bottles of drugs spilling from his pack onto the street, his helmet and leathers offered surprising protection. Yet it took an unknown something to force Matt to his feet, his shotgun still in hand, to turn towards the horde of undead. He felt a moment of satisfaction that the blonde was down, but the others passed her by without a glance. No time to run, instead he raised the shotgun and fired once more. Five more times, each remaining shell jolting a zombie back to sprawl on the dirty gray pavement.

That should have been the end, if not for his friend’s ignoring the second rule, ‘Leave him, don’t go back.’ Suddenly they appeared beside him, each firing into the nearby pack, their concerted fired actually making the zombies pause.

“Get on. Get on.” Ryan yelled.

Running towards his friend’s bike Matt jumped on the back, wrapped his arms around Ryan and shouted. “Go.”

It was a near thing, for the bike did not jump forward with its normal zip. One of the zombies, a red head, dove towards the back of the bike and wrapped her arms around Matt’s right leg, but he kicked her off. This time they pulled away with no looking back, no stopping. Staying on Fair Street all the way to Cemetery Road, where they turned East, which they followed most of the way to Twin Falls, before heading cross country to the farm that served as their current base.

There they were greeted by others, including Matt`s girlfriend, Jennifer, who had studied to become an EMT at the College of Southern Idaho before the outbreak. Fortunately, the virus came while she summered on her parent`s farm. Now she served as a medic to the commune, her worries being those that led to the days mission. Worries forgotten as she saw the state of her boyfriend’s leathers.

Just as she was about to chivy him inside, to tend to his scrapes and bruises, they smelled it. The sickly scent of synthetic cherry.

Matt did not need to look, Jennifer’s gasp and stare told him everything he needed to know. Still he stuck his right leg out and looked at the long rend in his leathers. Through which he saw road rash, but also a pink mark. His kick had not been quick enough, the zombie who had grabbed his leg had left a perfectly shaped imprint of her two lips, as if on a mirror.

The kiss of death.

Looking up, he saw his friends watching at him, stricken looks on their faces. Yet that was better than the others, who backed away from him as if he already was a monster. In ways he was, for no cure existed and within thirty hours he would be unconscious, racked by the fever that would eat away at his body until he shrunk to the size of child and died. Only to rise, but as a mindless beast.

It surprised him that he felt no panic. He realized he never expected to survive, doom had stalked his steps from the day the virus had crossed the Pacific, finally he had been caught.

A crooked grin forming on his face, he said, “Perrine.”

Four hours later, still only early afternoon, Matt drove a Peterbilt semi-tractor into Twin Falls, along Addison Avenue, the sound system blasting through open windows. The truck seemed almost like a tank, perfect for his last hurrah, one he unhesitatingly steered at any zombie who he saw upon the streets. He sought them out, soon a pack formed behind him, consisting of those who survived when he blasted through the smaller groups ahead. Watching for Highway 93 signs, Matt slowly turned North on Blue Lakes Boulevard, keeping those behind within sight, speeding up only when more looked to block him. After passing the campus, it seemed no time before he reached the outskirts of the city, yet still the horde followed.

Like the Pied Piper, he led his flock further North along Highway 93, towards Snake River, keeping his speed low enough to keep them close. For he wanted them to continue the chase. He did not increase his speed until he spotted the opening that foretold Snake River Canyon. Now he needed some distance and knew they zombies would continue to chase.

About one hundred yards short of chasm, he brought the Peterbilt to a stop on the shoulder. Jumping out, Matt ran to a dirt bike that waited and zoomed towards the canyon, the shrieks of his chasers almost drowning out the metal blasting out of the truck’s windows.

Matt sought not to emulate Evel Knievel failure, instead he crossed onto I. B. Perrine Bridge, which carried Highway 93 the nearly fifteen hundred feet across the river, far below. However, the bridge offered no escape, though it had once. But that one time, for those who fled Twin Falls when the virus first struck, had ended when survivors had blasted a hole about three quarters across. Something the members of Fade to Gray had found during a scouting mission, something which led to a plan for what they considered a great swan song, one Matt now played.

Just before the gap he found the chicken wire fence they had installed, its posts bolted into the pavement, which stretched across the four lanes of the bridge and the walkways beside. Calmly he dismounted and entered through the one gate, bolting it shut behind him.

Crossing the ten feet to look over the edge, down at the river rushing far below, he felt no fear, no remorse, no desire to escape. Instead Matt walked towards the small generator in the center of the bridge, where the divider that had separated North and South traffic had broken away. With the generator were remnants from the van in which they sought their fame. His amp, his guitar, speakers, and a mic, all of which had been hooked up in the simplest manner. He swung the strap of his guitar around a shoulder, hooked it in place, then reached for the mic.

“Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3.”

It sounded horrible, but none-the-less brought a manic grin to his face. Matt played and sang, as his adoring audience rushed the stage. The fence held, barely. As all the shrieking school girl zombies, who had chased him through and from Twin Falls, hundreds of them, swarmed along the bridge.

If any were not mindless beasts and if they had seen Fade to Gray play in the past, they would have recognized it as Matt’s best ever performance. But he knew and that was enough him. Five, then ten minutes went by, the zombies pressed against the bulging fence before he saw them. In the distance, four more vehicles approached along Highway 93, unnoticed by any but him.

Not until the four snow plows, side by side, two in the North lanes and two in the South lanes, were well onto the bridge, their own CD players in harmony, did any of Matt’s audience turn to watch the approach of their own destruction. And as the trucks grew closer, Matt let his guitar swing free, as he growled the chorus to the song they played.

Crawl on me
Sink into me
Die for me
Living Dead Girl

Blood on her skin
Dripping with Sin
Do it again
Living Dead Girl*

Then the snow plows barreled into the pack, causing the chicken wire to strain further under the pressure. But now the fence served as a burden to living, so Matt reached for a small controller, shouted “don’t forget to tip your waitress”, and pressed the button. Immediately a number of loud bangs were heard, snapping many of the posts, allowing the fence to clatter down, the zombies spilling over top.

But their target was gone. Matt had flung himself backwards, into nothingness.

For a couple of seconds, he was alone, even the sounds from above having disappeared, but then the first of his pursuers fell over the edge after him. Smiling at the success of the plan, he spread his arms, almost in welcome. Seeing this, those who fell after him shrieked their adoration.

It almost made him feel like a rock star.

The End.

*Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie

The Tower of Astrielle

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

With the arrival of the Tower of the The Great Witch Astrielle on Vilimar's soil, none could ignore the threat. Even Sir Garmra, last of the despised Knights of Ceredol.

The Tower of Astrielle
by Arcie Emm

Sir Garmra of Vilimar tried to pull his weapon from the corpse of the gargoyle, the last of many beasts he had slain that day; however, in its death it had returned to its stone form, trapping his sword forever. He sighed, even in defeat, the infernal guardians of the Tower of Astrielle continued to serve their Mistress by weakening the attackers, making every step taken difficult. First it had been William and Duese, neither old or skilled enough, lost to the wyrm at the front gate. In Garmra’s opinion, neither they, nor Stefan the Elder, who had died to the treants in the courtyard, belonged in the company, but it had not been up to him to choose. No that had been Kestrel, Golden Kestrel, The Champion of Vilimar, The Best.

Yes it had been Kestrel who had chosen to bring along his old tutor and the sons of his two closest friends, understanding that none of three would likely return from the Tower. It had also been Kestrel who had nodded in acceptance when Garmra had joined the troop just before they arrived upon Tower’s lands, this despite the looks of disgust from the others and the fact that it had been his accusations that brought down Garmra’s order.

But then Kestrel had not destroyed the Knights of Ceredol out of hatred or disgust, he had done it because he liked to win. Which also explained why he included the three, probably knowing they would die, but that their deaths may spare others who could continue on. And he had accepted Garmra, knowing of the man’s fighting prowess.

Garmra had almost been sad to see his hated enemy ripped apart by the death throws of the wyvern into which Kestrel had just thrust a spear. Almost.

After that, it seemed that much of the heart had gone out of the Knights of Kestrel. The party, once fifty strong, shrank smaller and smaller during every single fight. Until Garmra no longer noticed the dead, cataloguing instead the equipment he lost on their path to this door, this fight. His mace’s shaft broken like the spine of the ettin it had killed. The war hammer, from one of the fallen knights, sizzling away in the acidic blood of the leech after he has methodically hammered it to ruin. Spears left in various bodies of wolves and goblins and bears. A shield battered beyond repair by a steel golem. And now his sword.

It made him take notice of the last member of the company to survive this far, Mirren the Hedge Witch. Early on Garmra had noticed men giving their life to save hers, from this he had deduced her presence to be vital to the unknown plan of the assault. So without any orders, for none would speak to such as him, he became her protector. And due to this, she alone, of her glittering company, had arrived at these final doors, where her own impatience had killed her.

Looking down at the once beautiful woman, Garmra wished she had paid heed to his shout to wait. But no, seeing the doors, she rushed forward, ignoring the ugly stone creature crouch above who had come to life and snuffed out her’s with a single blow.

Silly woman, to come so far, for nothing. To be reduced to no role other than having borne a plain, unblooded, short sword all the way from Vilimar. Taking it from her corpse, he approached the oaken doors, as they swung open.

Apparently he was expected.

However, he did not rush forward, naivety having been beaten out of him long ago when he was just a squire. Slowly he approached, looking for the next trap, next beast, next thing ready to kill him. But there was nothing, just a door opening to show a well-lit stairwell of stone down which a a crystal voice echoed, beckoning him onwards. “Do come up to see me, Sir Garmra.”

The first voice to speak his name in over a year and it was an enemy, but then was not everyone? Uncomfortable with that question, he hesitantly took the first step and paused. Nothing seeming to happen, he took the next step, again nothing. Taking the third step he noticed the tingling in his fingers. Magic, but what else should one expect when one sought the life of a Greater Witch. Not that it would stop him.

Four more steps and the tingling had spread throughout his entire hand, though not painful, curiosity made him remove a gauntlet to see what was wrong. Somehow he was not surprised by what he saw. Retreating down to the bottom, he watched the change to his hand disappear. Returning to the seventh step he finally understood the reason that the Knights of Kestrel had included Mirren in their party, the prudish bastards. None of their, well except maybe for Kestrel’s, inflated egos would be able to handle such a change. Blunt, thick fingers becoming long and graceful, tipped in crystal like nails sparkling like so many tiny shards. Calloused palms and scarred back of hand becoming pristine and delicate, while the skin changed from darkened tan to alabaster.

Each step, the tingling reached further and further up his arms, until he reached the next landing and knew his arms were now those of a woman. Yet, he did not consider stopping, his entire life he had also taken that next step, plodding as often as striding with confidence. Moving up the next flight, he learned that the magic affected not only him, but also his equipment, as his bulky gauntlets transformed into silver bracelets, with delicate chains running down to fantastical rings on each finger and thumb. Tarnished rings bearing beasts, such as; a wyrm, a treant, a wyvern, a golem, an so on.

Garmra realized that his climb up the stairs was not turning into just any woman, instead he slowly became she who waited at the top. The woman he continued upwards to see.

From there, the progression of the flights followed in the same fashion. One to change his body, one to clothe it properly. Muscled legs becoming graceful pedestals, no longer covered in metal boots and greaves, but in satin slippers and silken hose. Solid torso taking on the luscious curves of a courtesan, wilting under the weight of a chain coat until it changed into a long, figure hugging dress of a midnight blue velvet, cinched at the waist by a filigreed belt of silver.

Relief from the weight of the coat was offset by the tightness and length of the gown. The belt being unable to hold his short sword, and he being unwilling to let it go, Garmra struggled up the next, short flight of stairs, using his left hand to provide some lift to his skirts. Fortunately Astrielle, recognizing his struggles, used that flight to change the sword into a folded fan. Opening it for a moment to study the mountain scene, Garmra smiled, not at the lovely work, but at what it hid, before folding it up once more and hanging it from a loop on the delicate belt. Free to use both hands to manage his skirts, he found climbing easier. Though no longer with the purposeful stalk of a hunter, instead he climbed as if he was a lady-in-waiting off to see her queen.

Able to see the top of the stairs, the next long flight brought the tingling to his face and head. Able to only see the lustrous, black hair hanging to his knees, he reached up to feel the changes. Rough skin and features had been changed to skin so very soft and a face that was as fine and delicate as the hand that gently caressed.

His helm, taken from one of the dead knights, after he had lost his down a crevice opening almost at his feet to disgorge a salamander, was the last and least of him to be left. And soon it to was gone, transforming into a delicate crown as he climbed the final flight to enter into the chamber at the top of the tower. For a room made of stone, it was as lovely as any could be made, but Garmra saw none of the graceful, polished furniture, nor silken curtains. His attention was focussed upon she who could serve as his mirror.

She was beautiful.

“Sir Garmra, what a pleasure to see you. And may I say, you are looking particularly lovely today.”

“Lady.” He greeted, speaking in her voice with a quick bow his head.

“So very formal. But I suppose it is appropriate when one seeks to kill someone such as I.”

“Someone who is a threat to my city.”

“The city the loathes and despises you?”

“Even so.”

“What of the magic that transformed you? Are you willing to chance that my death will leave you looking like me?”

“It is a chance I am willing to take.”

“There are few places where I have not left my mark. You would be even more hated.”

“I am used to hate.”

“Or is there something else? Do we learn the reason why you retained the markings of the Knights of Buggery?”

Long since impervious to the insulting, though truthful charge that had caused his brethren to take their own lives, even those who who had not been a lover of Ceredol, he answered, “Nay, Ceredol did not take me to his bed. He and those closest to him could not find it in themselves to offer love to one such as I.”

“Ooooh, do tell. What naughty secret do you have, that is worse than theirs?”

“I like to kill.”

Then in a three twirling steps, belying the tightness of his velvet gown, Sir Garmra, last of the Knights of Ceredol spun across the room, snatching the war fan from his belt, snapping it open and slashing it across the graceful, alabaster neck, so very like his own.

The Transformation of Gwri

Author:

Arcie Emm

Organizational:

Title Page

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

The Transformation of Gwri
by Arcie Emm

To subvert your will to vengeance requires you to throw yourself to something with no understanding of mercy. So it will use you, take from you your very being, in the pursuit of its end. And if victory is achieved, then vengeance will toss you aside, unneeded and forgotten.

Comb of Gold;
The thief will need to be bold,
if he’d steal the liquid ore
and pour it in its mold.

Fallen stone;
Sailing in the dark, all alone.
Defeating spirits and cold,
to take hold and bring it home.

Linen gift;
Harvest stalks, then cast adrift,
crush and weave into a swath,
craft the cloth to hide your shift.

Woven belt;
Foul betrayal will be felt.
Servitude will then result,
‘til vanity’s fault is dealt.

Dragon’s tears;
To ignore the breath that sears
and obtain the beast’s reward,
the bard conquer all death’s fears.

Phoenix eggs;
On his knees Aengus did beg
and for the sake of kinship
‘pon friendship he would renege.

In April, last year, the May Day contest was announced and I struck upon an idea built around a Celtic saga, based around the attributes to which I see in those stories (mischief, vengeance, violence, journeys, betrayal, monsters). It quickly ballooned in size and into doubt, but it would not let go of my brain and I struggled to write something else. Finally, I am in the home stretch and plan to post it over the next month, though I'm not sure if it was worth it.

Warning: It is more of a transformation (a slow transformation) story than a transgendered story.

Some Notes:
- Decorative caps come from a free tattoo pattern site - http://freetattoopatternsonline.com/celtic-letters-of-the-al...
- In part two, the Second Battle of Mag Tured is mentioned - http://web.ncf.ca/dc920/tured.html
- In part seven, Gwri plays and sings The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir are known as the Three Sorrows of Storytelling. Links to them are as follows:

Exile of the Sons of Uisliu é Deirdre of the Sorrows - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/usnech.html
Death of the Children of Tuireann - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/turenn.html
The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/lir.html

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 1 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 1 of 10 - Prelude

But first there needs to be something avenged.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 1 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Bealtaine

ires heralded the end of the season of dark, welcoming the season of light. Fires lit by Con the Druid, using logs from the nine sacred trees carried by the nine chosen men of the farming village of Begagha. Fires between which the cattle had been driven to their summer pastures, and through which the people, old or young, weak or hale, had walked or been carried. Fires which provided spark to hearth and home. Brilliant fires of fortune. Brilliant fires of health. Brilliant fires of prosperity. The fires of Bealtaine.

As the flames leapt to chase away the dark, so too did the songs and dance of the merry making villagers. But as the flames sunk low, the villagers began to leave the hill top. First babes in arms and toddlers in hands of grandmothers, followed by older children shooed away by mother and father, then couples hand in hand in all directions, like the rays from the sun they would welcome in the morning.

With only embers left, few remained on the hill besides the old men and the drunkards, the first reminiscing quietly, the second snoring loudly. Only Con and his apprentice, Eoghann, paid attention to the two fires while they chanted the ancient chants.

Their duty kept them awake and aware, more deeply aware than at any other time of the year. Hence it was a feeling, as much as the first signs of the sun’s nimbus forming on the horizon, which told Con that Bealtaine Eve was ending. As had been the case for a number of years, he begrudged the loss of the night’s peace, knowing that daybreak would replace it with joyful mayhem.

Gesturing Eoghann to his side, Con said, “Eoghann, you will lead the festivities today, I'll take the coals from the sacred fires and spread them amongst the fields.”

“Master?” The apprentice asked, barely concealed excitement in his voice.

“It is a festival for the young and you are more than ready. While I, I would experience solitude a little longer.”

“Thank you, Master. I will not disappoint.”

“I know you won't, Eoghann. Now go, the people will soon begin to gather the boughs and flowers with which to decorate the village.”

“Yes, Master.”

As the young man hurried off, brimming with enthusiasm, Con took a moment before heaving himself first to knees and then to feet. Stretching, he chased away some of the age that had crept into his bones during the night. A hunk of bread and pitcher of small beer, left over from the previous night, served to break his fast, while watching the sun creep over the horizon, into the sky, to start to a new season.

The time was right, so he scooped coals from the left fire into one clay pot and coals from the right fire into another. Ensuring his actions had stirred the coals to expose red embers, which would provide the passing villagers with the sparks needed to relight the fires in their own homes, Con used a yoke to lift the pots to rest upon his shoulders. All morning, he walked amongst the fields, casting coals in all directions. It reminded him of his days when he had been the apprentice and for a time a spring came to Con’s step. But by the time he had blessed the last field, he felt the miles walked and the sleepless night. Deciding to delay return to his people, the druid took a drink from a nearby creek and lay upon it`s bank to rest.

When he awoke, Con saw the sun had traveled through much of its afternoon’s journey. Laying still for a moment longer, he listened to the growl of his belly compete with the songs of the birds. When the sounds of hunger won the contest, the druid decided his time for solitude was over. Struggling to his feet, Con again lifted the yoke, now with its empty pots, to his shoulders. Then putting one foot before the other, he began the trek home to Begagha.

Passing the pasture lands, into which Sloan and Tanguy, the grandsons of old Weylyn, had driven the village's cattle the night before, he looked for, but did not see either them or their charges. Reasoning that the cattle were at the stream, beyond the pasture’s hill, Con continued onwards.

However, the smell of smoke, made him question his reasoning. Unlike the clean smell of the Bealtaine fires, it seemed heavier, cloying, almost sickly. Con did not need to see its source to know what burned. Dropping the yoke and wishing good luck to the out-of-sight cow herders, he trotted forward, his legs protesting but willing to be so used, once more. Then his eyes confirmed what his nose had already told him.

Begagha burned.

He paused, not in cowardice, for the only invaders who remained were the ravens and crows flitting about the village, but in guilt. He knew that in shirking his duty, during the day`s rite of fortune, he had brought misfortune upon his people.

With heavy heart he plodded the final steps to the village and encountered the first victims. Kentigem the Headman and Weylyn the Wolf, both of whom had quit reaving to become farmers, yet died with sword, not plow, in hand. With them were all the other stout men of Begagha. Even Eoghann, staff in hand, had ended his days attempting to stem the raiders’ advance. Moving from hut to hut, Con found no signs of life, except for missing faces.

Unsurprised to see Cinnia, the day’s Queen, and her maidens missing, all lovely girls, he wondered why Berta, the wife of Kentigem, was taken. Last seen, heavy with child, seeking to ease birth by circling the Bealtaine fires, she had left the festivities along with the grandmothers guiding babes and toddlers. The raiders would have no reason to take her. He wondered if she had not been absent, for she would find the festivities wearisome. She may have sought peace, just as had he. If so, Con knew where to look. Often, when he searched for herbs and plants, he found her at a quiet glen not far from the village. Hope leant his footsteps speed as he headed in that direction.

“Con. Con!”

Spotting Nareene, Berta's maidservant, he hurried to her near the edge of the trees and asked, “Nareene, where is Berta?”

“Oh, Con, she needs you. We came here for the quiet, but when we heard the shouts from the village and it was all I could to stop the Lady from returning. But it was too late, the commotion caused the baby to come early.”

“And you left her alone?”

“Oh, no, her mother is with her. Keelin was waiting at the glen when we arrived.”

Usually the minstrel made Con nervous, but now he was glad she was near. “Lead me to them, Nareene.”

They were too late. When they arrived, they saw a cloaked figure laying upon the ground, which caused Con to bow his head and Nareene to let forth a keen of sorrow.

“Quiet, woman, before you bring down the crows of Brarn upon our heads. Here, take this to occupy your mind.”

Their eyes were drawn from the unmoving figure to the woman who stood above, clad in dun coloured leathers and holding the swaddled figure of a babe. Seeing this, Nareene rushed forward to take the baby from the older woman, cooing to comfort herself as much as it.

Her burden removed, Keelin gazed at Con and said, “I had not expected you to be still with us, Druid.”

“I should not be. But I shirked my duties, preferring the quiet of the fields, rather than the merriment of the village.”

“I did not accuse, Druid. In fact I am gladdened to see that you have escaped the noose of Brarn the Reaver and his crows.”

“Brarn?”

Keelin looked towards her harp bag, but did not move towards it. Still, a minstrel must tell a story as a minstrel will.

Brarn’s Geis

fter the first Battle of Mag Tured, Nuada, the King of Tuatha Dé Danann, was removed from his throne. Physical perfection, having been lost when the Fir Bolg champion, Sreng, had, with a mighty swing of his sword, sliced through Nuada’s shield and wrist. On his throne was placed Eochu Bres, son of á‰riu and the Fomorian, Prince Elatha.

A poor choice, for Bres identified with his father’s people, subjecting the battle diminished numbers of Dé Danann to tribute and slavery. However, his reign was short, for the leech Dian Cecht grew a silver hand for the maimed ex-king, which allowed Nuada of the Silver Hand to regain his throne. Deposed, Bres fled to the protection of the Formorians, whose thumb still rested upon their cousins and would until the coming of Lug, also of mixed birth.

Now Bres and Lug were not the only children to be born both of Fomorian and Dé Danann. Unlike them, most were not born into greatness, many were born into poverty and despair. Often the unwanted and unnamed get of foreman upon slave woman.

They were the lowest of the low, but when Lug called forth all Tuatha Dé Danann to join him in overthrowing their oppressors, few of the half-bloods did not heed the call. Arriving in Mag Aurfolaig, on Samhain, they found that the host still scorned them. But the leaders, who knew how much greater were the numbers of Fomorian over the numbers of Dé Danann, ignored that each was unblooded and ill-prepared, instead they welcomed the half-bloods. Clad only in rags for armour, Lug sent them to Goibniu the smith, Luchta the wright, and Crecht the artisan to each have made three spears to throw, one to thrust, and a shield to fend off those of others.

But upon reaching the three craftsmen, Goibniu asked, “Hast thou ever cast a spear?”

Each of the half-bloods answered, “No.”

And Luchta asked, “Hast thou ever thrust a spear?”

Again, each of half-bloods answered, “No.”

And Crecht asked, “Hast thou ever wielded a shield of protection?”

For a third time, each of half-bloods answered, “No.”

At this, all three craftsmen, in one voice, asked, “What weapons dost thou know?”

The half-bloods were chagrined, for their lives had been those of beasts of labor. Finally the eldest stepped forward, with half of his fellows, and said, “We have wielded axe to fell more trees than there are stars in the sky.”

Then the largest stepped forward, with the second half, and said, “We have wielded hammer against mountains, seizing gold and silver and copper from their greedy grasp.”

Hearing this, Goibniu went to his fires and forged the heads of great axes and monstrous hammers. During this time Luchta carved long shafts of sturdy yew. These they took to Crecht, who made the rivets and cleaved the makings of Goibniu to the makings of Luchta. And so the half-bloods were armed.

But arms did not make them ready for battle against the hauberked and helmed warriors of the Formorians. Though the half-bloods proved ferocious and fearless, not a single escaped being struck down in the first day of battle. More than half would never rise. The rest, no matter how fiercely wounded, were carried and dropped into Slane, the well into which Dian Cecht and his family sang their spells of healing, making each of the wounded whole and able to face their enemy on the next day.

So the mold was cast for each day of the Second Battle of Mag Tured ( http://web.ncf.ca/dc920/tured.html ). The numbers of the half-bloods shrunk, but those who were left grew quickly in skill. Deadly became the slash of axe and brutal became the swing of hammer.

In the end, after Lug had slain his grandfather and the Formorians were sent fleeing to the seas, only six were left. Three who wielded axe and three who bore hammer. Champions all, but with battle ended, none had a home to which they could return. The oldest, who had become their leader, sought a lord to welcome them into his hold. Again and again he was rebuffed, until he came before Morrigu, the new wife of the Dagda, who saw the anger lurking beneath the surface of her petitioner. It matched her own.

Thus she said to him. “Find me, you and yours, upon the shores to the East and I will offer you position and place.”

There they waited, until Morrigu found them, after having spread word of the mighty battle to every corner of Eire. When she did arrive, Morrigu appeared upon a black boat, with three oars to a side, and into whose prow was carved a raven’s head. Grounding the boat, she approached them in her terrible splendor, causing the six to settle upon knees before her.

At this Morrigu said, “I cannot take your oaths if I do not know your names.”

The leader answered, “We have no names. Neither our fathers nor mothers wanted us.”

Morrigu said, “I will be your mother and give you names.”

The oldest shall be Brarn, leader to his brethren.
The largest shall be Maccus, lethal in his might.
The fairest shall be Fiacre, fierce in a fight.
The darkest shall be Dewain, bringer of my doom.
The smallest shall be Calum, strongly shall he cleave.
And the last shall be Brasil, in the end the bravest.

Hearing this, Morrigu’s sons said, “We accept, Mother.”
Brarn, as was his right, said for all. “What would you have of us, Mother?”

Morrigu's gaze swept across her sons, then settled upon Brarn. To him she said:

From Samhain ‘til Bealtaine, during the Season of Death,
Thou shall roam across the oceans,
Punishing those who kept us in chains.

From Bealtaine ‘til Samhain, during the Season of Life,
Thou shall take as thy queen.
She who is fairest on Bealtaine's eve.

As a reaver, no man shall stand before you.
As a lover, no man shall stand beside you.

Brarn bowed his head in agreement. Gesturing towards his brothers, they took up their packs and axe or hammer, then as one they boarded Dáoltas. Pushing away from land, they began to row, nobody except their mother, Morrigu, watching or caring where they went.

In April, last year, the May Day contest was announced and I struck upon an idea built around a Celtic saga, based around the attributes to which I see in those stories (mischief, vengeance, violence, journeys, betrayal, monsters). It quickly ballooned in size and into doubt, but it would not let go of my brain and struggled to write something else. Finally, I am in the home stretch and plan to post it over the next month.

Warning: It is more of a transformation (a slow transformation) story than a transgendered story.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 2 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 2 of 10 - A Youth and a Smith

After there is something to be something avenged. Then there needs to be someone who seeks it and someone to be the tool of that vengeance

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 2 of 10

by Arcie Emm

The Fostering of Gwri

wri wandered far from Mullinglas, needing time on his own to think. To decide amongst his many choices what profession he would follow. Maybe the path of the warrior, taught by Sloan and Tanguy, who had escaped the massacre of Begagha. Or he could follow Con the druid or Einon the smith or Leigh the healer or Edna the potter or...

He had shown skill at many things, but none felt right. Often he wished to learn about everything, even if it meant becoming master of nothing.

Yet no matter how far he walked, the decision grew no closer. Nor did he find a faerie to provide an answer. Thus, as nightfall approached, Gwri turned for home, still undecided.

Nearing Mullinglas, Gwri spotted a figure on the road ahead, whose harp case identified her as his Grandmother Keelin. Of all his teachers, she never pressured Gwri to follow her trade and become a minstrel. Instead, she expected Gwri to kill the reaver Brarn.

The need for his death consumed her. When she had searched, Keelin found the tracks of whoever destroyed Begagha came from nowhere and disappeared to the same place. This convinced here that the reavers came from Tár na ná“g. Always there after, as she traveled the roads as a minstrel, she sought information that could help bring about her vengeance.

Her vengeance, but not Gwri’s. He did not feel the need to avenge his family, since to him, his family were Nareene, Con, the brothers, and Keelin. Nor did he think the idea of revenge, against some faerie lord, realistic.

So he avoided her. Cutting through the woods, heading for Con's hut.

Greeting him, Con said, "Your grandmother’s returned. There will be a gathering for her to tell all the news of land."

"Aye, I saw her approach."

"And did not greet her? Don't look so innocent. I know your feelings about what she wants from you. Can't say I blame you."

"I would be the grandson she wished. But what she wants from me..."

"...is as silly as many of the songs she sings. Still, you will be at the fire. Let’s hope the audience will bring about her best behavior."

Though Gwri shared that wish, too often had his grandmother embarrassed him to expect it to be true. So, even while Keelin spoke of deaths and births, marriages and conflicts, he worried. She even made it through the news, without delving into her favourite topic, then she sang some popular songs and told some requested stories.

When she paused, looking from face to face, seeking yet not receiving another request, Gwri knew what she would next sing. He recognized the chords she played. A song of her own making, which brought no smile to any face.

Yet all stayed to listen as she sang the Raid of Begagha, which she had meshed together with the story of Brarn the Half-blood. They waited to hear if new verses had been added, signifying additional information Keelin had learned about her enemy, during her wanderings. But the minstrel sang a song unchanged, but she continued to slowly strum at her harp, her gaze upon her grandson. Once, then twice, then again, it appeared as if she would speak. Yet each time she reconsidered, until finally, almost against her will, she put down the harp.

This signaled the end. People stood and stretched, offered their good eves and went their separate ways. Gwri wished to join them, but manners kept him while his grandmother stowed her harp in its case, to walk her home. Though with her frequent absences, he felt the house belonged to him and Nareene, with Keelin being their guest.

But Keelin did not hurry to leave the fire. Seeing his questioning look, Keelin said, "I know many think I am mad. Sometimes I think so myself. For what else but madness would drive someone to ignore all else in her pursuit for revenge against some imaginary foe?"

Even though he agreed, Gwri said, "No, Grandmother, everybody understands why the quest is so important to you."

"But not to you?"

"No. It isn't." He said, voicing an admission always hidden from her.

"Do you not care about your parents?"

"I don't know them as my parents. Their only role in my life are as names in your songs, no different than Lug or Cáº Chulainn. Maybe if their lives were as important as their deaths, they would matter more. Instead, it seems their fate was to die, not to be my parents."

Keelin thought to argue, but the truth of Gwri's words struck her silent. Then wide-eyed in dismay, she quietly asked, "Have I truly diminished their memories in such a way?"

"Grandmother..."

"Did I never tell you of your father's boisterous cheer nor your mother's joy, despite her pain, when she first saw you whole?"

"No."

"No? Divine Cairbre, was I truly such a greedy old woman? Miserly hording happiness, while sharing only grief? I have. Oh, Gwri, I am so very sorry. I would tell you all about your mother, my beautiful Berta, and of your father, her ferocious Kentigem."

Long into the night Keelin shared cherished memories with her grandson. And for the first time, his parents came alive in his mind. For his grandmother spoke about their lives and he learned they were worth missing. When Keelin grew quiet, they sat together in silence beneath the moon and the stars.

After a time, Gwri said, "Thank you."

"I apologize for not sharing this with you sooner. And for the mistake I almost made earlier tonight."

"Grandmother?"

"I had planned to chastise you, before all, for not seeking vengeance upon your parent's slayers. I hoped to embarrass you, to lessen you in the eyes of your friends, to pressure you into joining my quest."

"It would not have worked." Gwri said, a hint of anger underlying his calm response to the unfulfilled betrayal.

"Aye, when I looked at you, comfortably seated amongst the others, I knew that everyone now saw me as the outsider. They would have sided with you."

"Maybe."

"No, I am sure and it would have driven a wedge between me and the village. I could not chance that. You, everybody in Mullinglas, are my escape from my madness. On the road, my desire for revenge upon Brarn burns so fiercely that I fear it will boil over. But here, though it simmers, I can let my mind wander."

"Then why did you even consider it?"

"Because I have finally learned how to extract my vengeance. And I need your help."

Fintan Mac Gabhann

t took five days before Gwri could leave Mullinglas along with Con, Sloan, and Tanguy, riding four of the brothers' horses. Amongst those who watched the foursome leave was Keelin, whose emotions warred between satisfaction and frustration. Satisfaction that her grandson finally took interest in her revenge, but frustration that his friends separated her from him when it finally happened.

Yet she could not ask for more. Gwri had taken her statement, about knowing how to get revenge, with less grace than he had her admitted plan to shame him. All that had been mended between them had instantly been rent anew. He refused to talk anymore that night, nor during the next day. Instead she had found herself approached by Con, who Gwri trusted above all others, asking her what she had learned. Keelin told him of a tinker, who spoke of a smith named Fintan Mac Gabhann, who sought help to kill Brarn the Reaver.

Con had listened to Keelin's tale and left, giving no impression if he believed or not. It had led to a restless evening, as she wondered what her grandson thought, for she did not doubt that the druid had gone directly from her to Gwri. Fortunately, Gwri had not forced her to endure a second sleepless night, approaching her to say that he, along with his friends, would go alone to speak to this Mac Gabhann. To judge the truth without her hopes clouding what he said.

So the four rode far to North, to Slieve Gullion, seeking Poolrua, the home of Mac Gabhann. They easily found the mountain, but it took three more days before they found a narrow path, leading towards where they had learned their quarry could be found.

On the trail they spotted a man, grey-haired yet walking robustly towards them and who, when close enough to be heard without shouting, said, "Well met strangers. What brings you to this dreary place?"

The three younger men of Mullinglas looked towards Con to answer. He said, "We seek the smith, Fintan Mac Gabhann."

"You do? And why would you seek such a reprobate?"

"We heard that he holds grievance with Brarn the Reaver, as do we."

"Do you indeed? I will take you to him."

Following, each on foot and leading his horse, they soon arrived upon a plateau with a hut and stable nestled against the side of the mountain. Stripping gear from their horses, they made the beasts comfortable and entered the hut, into which the man had already passed.

Unsurprisingly, they found him alone. Taking offered seats around the table, Con once more spoke for all. "I take it that you are Fintan Mac Gabhann?"

"Aye, though call me Fin, less of a mouthful. And who would the four of you be?"

Introducing himself and his companions, Con found himself telling Fin what had brought them North. He spoke of Begagha and their dead. He explained Keelin’s quest. And he described their decision to find him. Not until he finished speaking did Con realize how strange it seemed for him to be so open with a stranger. Trying to regain initiative, Con asked, "Keelin heard that you could help us?"

"Personally, I have had no dealings with this Brarn. Instead my knowledge comes from my, I guess you could call him my patron, who had a run in with the reaver and knows how to end Brarn's terror."

"Who is your patron?"

"The Goban Saor."

Seeing the disbelief on their faces, Fin only smiled, and said, "You find that hard to believe, do you? Would you believe that all you need to kill Brarn, Morrigu's son, is a comb, a stone, a piece of linen, a belt, two tears, and some eggs."

Snorting, Gwri said, "Doubtless, much like those items Lug demanded as eiric for his father, these are more than they first appear."

"But of course. Do you wish to hear more?"

"I don't." Tanguy said.

"Me neither." Sloan agreed. "I don't believe in this Brarn of Keelin's, now I'm to believe the Gabon Saor is involved?"

But Con, who sensed something in the smith, said, “I would hear.”

Looking mainly at Gwri, Fin recited.

Finished, he said, “As a poet, my patron makes a better brewer.”

Then Fin stood, moved to the back wall to sweep aside a hanging blanket and show an opening. Beckoning them to follow, he ducked inside. The companions found a tunnel bored into the side of the mountain, a red glow lighting the way deeper. Looking at the others in curiosity, they joined their host as he walked down the tunnel, feeling heat waft up to greet them. Then they entered a large cavern where Fin stopped near a massive anvil, which sat beside a pool of bubbling red fire. Yet the eyes of the visitors were drawn to the magnificent trees, amongst which birds fluttered, around the cavern’s perimeter.

Not recognizing their type, Con, who knew all trees in the land, moved to the nearest and touched it, jerking his hand back to say, "It's metal."

"Aye, as are the birds."

Wide eyed, Con looked closer at what he had assumed to be a wren, perched in the tree. Reaching forth a finger he felt not the soft plumage he expected, instead the metal edge of a feather scratched at his finger as the bird startled into flight.

"How?"

"My patron has taught me many wonderful things. And some not so wondrous."

Sloan first to slap at his neck, as if stung by an flea, then Con and Tanguy mimicked him. Too late, for each slid to the floor as if dead. Leaning over Tanguy, who fell nearest to him, Gwri found the warrior breathed, but seemed in the deepest of sleep. Shooting an angry glance at the smith, he asked, "What have you done?"

"Your friends sleep the long sleep of the fae now, Gwri."

"Wake them."

"Why then would you help the Goban Saor?”

Gwri did not answer. Seeing his friends drop, followed by this pronouncement, had caused him to turn and run back the way in which they had come. Grabbing his pack from the table, he had rushed outside into the dark and saddled his tired mount, before leading it to the path upon which they had arrived. He had only one goal, to seek help for his friends, but after a time he thought the trail longer than remembered. Not believing his own perception, Gwri continued onward. Even when that perception turned into undeniable reality, he kept walking. Only when his horse resisted going forward did he stop.

Frustrated he turned to look back, only to see a single light that he came from the still visible hut. Tempting his horse to follow him once more, Gwri returned towards the plateau. Having stabled the horse, Gwri entered the hut and found the smith asleep. Spotting his chance, the young man pulled out his knife. Slowly, quietly, he crept across the floor, planning to take the man by surprise and force him to waken his friends.

And though no creaks sounded from the floorboards, he still heard Fin speak. “It won’t work, Gwri. Sleep now, in the morning you will be better able to consider your options.”

Fin proved right, Gwri found sleep welcome and woke refreshed. Breaking his fast from his captor’s shelves, he looked outside for the man. Not seeing him, Gwri guessed him at his forge. With opportunity to escape, he took it, ignoring the horses. Long did he walk that day, but he never reached the end of the trail. Again he returned to the hut and slept.

Each of the next nine days Gwri attempted escape. He tried with each of the horses, then all of them. He tried to ride and he tried to climb the rocks, ignoring the trail. But each night found him upon the same mat.

On the tenth morning he began once more, then stopped. Bowing his head in defeat, he returned inside and found the smith sitting at the table. Gwri asked, “Why me? Con is wiser and either of the brothers are better suited to survive an adventure.”

“The tasks require a younger man.”

“Or one who more readily bides to your wishes?”

“That doesn’t hurt.”

“Are you the Goban Saor?”

“How could you mistake a humble smith for such as he?”

In accepting the non-answer, Gwri accepted all. “Very well, what do you need of me?”

“The answer to that is simple. As told in the poem, you need to bring me a golden comb, a fallen stone, a linen gift, a woven belt, two dragon tears, and a phoenix’s eggs.”

“And how am I to acquire these items?”

“Now that is much less simple.”

Poetry is hard, I really am not that good at it. Nor did it help that I chose to write it in a Celtic style, I found at the following site http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic1.html called Rannaicheacht Ghairid (ron-a'yach cha'r-rid):

A quatrain stanza with uneven lines. The first line has three syllables, the other three have seven. The stanza rhymes a a b a, with a cross-rhyme between three and four.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 3 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 3 of 10

Comb of Gold;
The thief will need to be bold,
if he’ll steal the liquid ore
and pour it in the mold.

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the first of those tasks.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 3 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Comb of Gold;
The thief will need to be bold,
if he’ll steal the liquid ore
and pour it in the mold.

aking the morning after accepting his fate, Gwri found Mac Gabhann bustling about the hut. Watching with distrustful eyes, he saw Fin carrying his own pack to the table.

Gwri asked, “How do you sabotage me now, smith?”

“No sabotage. Since you act for my patron, I seek to assure your success. Look here, will these not serve you better than your own.”

Rising from his blankets, Gwri moved to the table where lay a sword, spear, shield, and helm. Even before he picked each up, he sensed they were of a quality better than those Einon had made for him in Mullinglas. His hand reached towards the shimmering sword, tempted, but he forced himself to jerk it away, to instead take a hunk of bread.

“Take them, Gwri, they’re yours.”

“What will you require in payment?”

“Only what you have already agreed to do.”

Gwri finished the bread before he studied each, confirming with touch what his eyes had already seen. Worthy of a lord. Sighing in acceptance, he took the tooled leather sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Sliding the sword into its sheath, he settled the helm upon his head, strapped the shield and pack to his back, and lifted the spear.

“Is there any reason for me to delay?”

“No, I have prepared all you need.”

“You have no more advice other than the poem?”

“The poem and the knowledge that the path will take you where you need to go.”

With a nod of his head, but no good bye, Gwri left the hut. Ignoring the stables and the horses, Gwri set foot upon the path. Almost immediately he found a turn that had not existed during his attempts at escape and knew this time he would be free of its grasp. Momentarily, he wondered if he should ignore his promise, to again seek escape, but when he remembered his slumbering friends and the powers of Fintan Mac Gabhann, or more likely his patron, he decided to keep his word. No sooner had he decided this, then the trail came to an end. However, an end unlike the beginning he remembered, instead he looked out upon a vast, unknown forest. Fin proved correct, the trail’s magic of the trail, or more likely the Goban Saor’s magic, guided Gwri’s steps to where he needed to travel.

Unfairly he cursed his grandmother, for getting him into this predicament, but he cast aside all thoughts of blame. Rather he look over the endless forest, wondering where to find a comb of gold. Until, in the distance, he spotted a mound thrusting above the trees. In this direction he marched.

A journey that proved longer than initially expected. Nightfall barely found him the outskirts of the woods and anxious about being so. The trees grew larger than any he had ever seen and the animal spoor seemed of a size to match. Nervously he decided to forego a fire, instead he climbed a tree and tied himself upon a branch against its trunk. An uncomfortable night, but when awoken by the snuffling of a beast at the tree’s base, he felt grateful for the perch.

The next day found him moving carefully, particularly after he spotted a giant bear drinking from a stream. In fact, every beast he saw, from rabbit too deer was larger than normal, making him wonder if he had crossed into Tár na ná“g.

Not until the fifth morning did he approach his destination, though still Gwri did not grow careless. Thus he scrambled down, beside a tree, at the sound of loud buzzing. Laying there, he looked about, trying to identify the source of the sound. He saw a bee, almost the size of his shield floated amongst the trees.

Throughout the day, he ducked for cover whenever he heard that sound. Well he did, for later on, while crouched beside another tree, the buzzing grew louder. Fearfully he stayed in place, as the sound of snapping branches and hoof prints heralded a running deer, fleeing not from bear or wolf, but a swarm of the bees. Gwri was spared the sight of its demise, for it ran with great heart, until he heard the unmistakable sound of its death shriek.

The deer served enough to feed the insects, for no longer did he hear them as he moved toward his destination. Reaching it, late in the day, he crept to the forest’s edge to look at the mound, a tunnel bored into its side from which bees fluttered in and out. Apparently it served them as their hive.

In that moment, Gwri knew his prize would be found inside, guarded by hundreds, if not thousands, of the giant bees. Indeed he would have to be bold to steal the ore from inside. Better still, he needed to be smart.

Thus he spent the rest of the afternoon, hidden away, watching. In many ways the hive seemed no different from any other. Only their size was strange and the workers returning with bloodied hunks of meat. Unsure how to proceed, Gwri retreated into the woods, found a tree for sleep and returned, in the cool morning, before they stirred from their hive. While he watched, he hatched a plan in his mind.

Only after the sun sunk and the workers returned to their hive did Gwri enter the clearing. Quietly he made for the entrance, where he listened, but heard nothing. Satisfied, he scoured woods, gathered dry dead fall, and piled it near the entrance. Long into the night he worked, the light from the nearly full moon guiding his steps, still he did light it before retreating to his previous night’s camp.

At his post the next day, Gwri felt pleased to see the bees ignore his construction. Anxious though he was, Gwri again did not light the fire on that calm night, wanting the wind to blow towards the tunnel. Therefore, he added more timber to his pyre.

Sleeping late, he spent the next day scraping moss from trees. He also killed every bee he saw, his spear’s thrust proving deadly to the insects.

As the wind grew throughout the day, he anxiously waited for the evening, while trying to hold his boldness fast. Finally he decided to light the tinder. In a short order the dry wood took the flame, smoke billowing towards the hole in the side of the mound. Slowly he added more logs until the fire’s heat made it difficult to approach it. Lastly he threw the gathered moss on the fire, turning the smoke acrid.

It was time.

Gwri wrapped a soaked cloth around his face to cover nose and mouth. Thrusting a prepared torch into the fire, he held it in his left hand, thrusting above the shield strapped to that arm. With sword drawn, he entered the tunnel.

Despite his mask, the smoke almost overwhelmed, causing the flames of his torch to flicker strangely against the ceiling and walls. In that light he noticed pick marks, proving the tunnel had once been mined, hopefully a gold mine not emptied of all its wealth. Gwri continued forward, until the flames from his fire disappeared in the distance. Penetrating deep into the earth, he spotted the first guard, fluttering erratically towards him. Without thought, Gwri took three steps and slashed it in two.

Then he saw it, blocking him from going any deeper. From side to side, floor to ceiling, stood a wall of honey comb, solid except for a hole in the middle, through which came a distant angry buzz. Frustrated that he had found no vein of gold, he almost turned back.

Dismissing the cowardly thought, Gwri thrust his sword into its sheath and unhooked the pick-axe from his pack. Hefting it, to measure its weight, he slammed it forward into the wall, which caused a large chunk to break away, falling upon the floor. Again and again he struck, into the fragile yet thick wall or at the curious bees, which came through the hole.

It proved slow going, despite how the pick damaged the barrier. Light headed from the smoke and tiring work, he lowered his arm in rest. Unsuccessfully he brushed sleeve across his face in an attempt to remove the reddish tinged honey splattered across his face. Somewhat rested, he again swing the pick-axe against the wall. Soon, he swung it as often against bees as at the wall, he worried about failing before he finished a single verse of the poem.

That thought made Gwri think about the verse and his assumption he needed to find gold ore, melt it down, and pour it into the mold, which Fin had placed inside his pack. Now he wondered. Why would he not take any ore to Poolrua? How could he turn nuggets into molten ore in the middle of a forest?

Suddenly a new thought forced itself through the fog in his brain. Dropping his shield, he dragged the pack from his back and scrounged inside until he found a cup and the mold for the golden comb, to two blocks of wood wrapped together with cord and bored through on one end into which liquid could be poured. Killing another bee, to add to the pile heaping upon the ground, Gwri grasped a chunk of honey comb and squeezed so its contents dripped into his cup. Another piece met the same fate, then three more before the cup was full, ready to pour into the mold.

While he refilled the cup, he noticed he breathed easier and his eyes teared less.. Frantically Gwri worked to fill the mold before the angry bees shook off the hold of the smoke. Nervous looks towards the hole in the combs made him slow to react when the mold overflowed. Two more combs me their doom before he used the waxen mess to seal the liquid in. He placed the mold into his pack, which he shouldered into, before he picked up his shield and torch.

Almost immediately, another bug came through the hole. He thrust the torch forward, its fibrous hairs instantly starting afire. Watching it writhe in agony, he thrust once more, this time at the wall of honey comb. Multiple strikes caused the wall to burst into flame. The smell of singed eyebrows temporarily overpowered by the sweet smell of burning honey, as Gwri ran towards the entrance. Again smoke enveloped him, this time from the attacking flames that consumed the wall. Finally he reached the outside, gasped for air, then turned to look at the opening.

Waiting.

Nothing came. Nothing except the smoke.

Gwri crept into the forest’s edge to watch. He waited until the first rays of sunlight appeared above the trees. Even when the light of the sun drove away the shadows of the trees, long after the workers normally left their tunnel, none appeared. Not then, not when the sun rose to its apex.

Satisfied, Gwri left the clearing and began to walk. First to a nearby stream, where he failed to remove the sticky mess from himself and his gear. Then on towards the mountain.

Tired, he did not get far, before climbing into a tree to sleep. Yet he awoke early. Continued his trek.

As he walked, his worry about the predators was pushed aside by the worry he had made a mistake. Should he have returned to the caves, to seek once more for gold, instead of walking away with a mold full of honey? Should he have searched for nuggets from the forest’s streams, instead of bracing the bees? But when he reached Slieve Gullion and spotted the trail, he began to hope his idea proved correct.

Relieved that home, or at least a home, was near, his pace quickened. It lead him toward the plateau upon which Mac Gabhann’s hut stood. Inside, Gwri passed through the blanketed opening into a tunnel, which now seemed more welcoming after that in the mound.

The sound of the hammer upon anvil, drew him to Fin, in the cavern where slept his friends. Each laid upon newly cut reeds and covered in his own blanket.

“So I take it you found it?” Fin asked, turning from his task.

Not answering, Gwri dropped his sticky pack and reached inside for the mold. This he placed upon Fin’s anvil. Peering first at it, then at Gwri, Fin grinned. “Well done, lad, well done.”

While the smith examined the treasure, Gwri sought the metal trough against the wall and ducked his head beneath the warm water. Repeated dunks softened the honey caked spikes into which his hair had been shaped, allowing his scalp to shed the itch it had endured. Looking towards the smith, he saw the man throw the wooden mold into the bubbling pool. As it burst into flame, Gwri surged upright, his hair shedding a spray of water, and shouted in anger.

Fin ignored him. Instead he used long handled tongs to take something from the pool and drop it into a bucket of water. Waiting for the burst of steam to diminish, he reached inside.

Gwri saw Fin hold up a red tinged, honey coloured comb. The glow from the pool flickering through its transparent form.

“Is it what you needed?” Gwri asked.

“Close enough.”

“What’s it for?”

“Ehhh? I guess it’s to comb hair.”

“What! That’s all? After all I’ve been through?” Gwri said, outraged by the unfairness.

Somewhat abashed, Fin said, “It does seem underwhelming.”

“Bah, you may as well give it to me. Maybe it will help me get this honey out of my hair.”

Catching the thrown comb, he stared at it angrily, seeing little difference between it and any other comb, before drawing it through matted hair. Yet instead of catching, yanking at snags, it glided through unhindered. Grateful he finally felt clean, Gwri continued his long strokes.

“Oh, that’s what it does.” Fin said.

Gwri did not answer. Instead he looked, wide eyed, at the hunk of hair through which he had run the comb, so much thicker and longer than ever before.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 4 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 4 of 10

Fallen Stone;
Sailing in the dark, all alone.
Defeating spirits and cold,
to grab hold and take it home.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 4 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Fallen Stone;
Sailing in the dark, all alone.
Defeating spirits and cold,
to grab hold and take it home.

rowning into a piece of polished metal, Gwri studied the curse of the comb. Though his mother, in their brief time together, had named him for the shock of yellow hair on his head, time had turned it into a dirty brown. No longer, now it hung to his waist and a shone a fiery gold.

Fin tried to ease his mind with stories of Lug’s golden hair, but Gwri would not be appeased, thinking Niamh a worthier comparison. Thus, he had taken a knife and lopped it off. However, later that eve, while relaxing after a meal, he found himself absentmindedly running the comb through his hair, restoring the golden mane. No matter how often he cut it, at some point he would find comb in hand, undoing the knife’s slice. Finally he had given up, letting it hang down his back, tied in place with a leather thong.

Meanwhile Gwri prepared for the next verse. Cleaning and repairing gear, he tried to extract clues from Fin.

“My guesses are probably the same as yours, Gwri. The fallen stone is probably a sky stone. But where to find it? Well I suspect you need to follow the path.”

Gwri’s guesses matched Fin’s. Thus one morning he walked along the path, following it as it soon curved towards the North. This journey lasted much longer than that to the forest and the slight incline caused his legs to ache as he climbed into the cold. Prepared by the verse, he added another tunic and then his coat. In time he found himself in a snow covered expanse, the path drawing a straight, black line to the North. Onwards he walked, his pack growing lighter as he emptied it of the clothes needed to stay warm. Rarely stopping, for that made him feel the cold even worse, he worried about the night. He saw no shelter on the horizon nor anything with which to start a fire.

So he walked, dreading the arrival of a dark that never came. On and on, until he did not want to continue. Yet he forced himself to take another step and then another. Wrapped in his woolen blanket, head bowed to shelter his face from the wind, he grew weak. Fearfully Gwri looked upwards, seeking anything in the barren lands. Weary steps stumbled at what he spotted.

Ahead, stood a stone fence, circling a pasture in which cattle grazed. Almost he thought he dreamt, until his steps brought him against a gate where the path intersected the wall.

Reaching for the latch, Gwri hesitated. Who would he find in this seeming paradise, surrounded by nothing? Assuredly someone with powers beyond the norm. And how would they take his arrival? He decided it did not matter, since he could not turn back. He had come too far and when he looked to his rear, the path no longer existed. He needed to stop, to rest. Therefore, he opened the gate and stepped onto grass. From the winter cold into summer warmth.

As the cattle curiously lowed their greetings, Gwri moved towards a small hut, seeing smoke arise from a hole in the thatched roof. Nearing it, he spotted a dock and a boat, both seemingly frozen into ice. He realized he had reached the Sea, though one not of water.

Looking out over the frozen sea, Gwri momentarily forgot the hut. Thus he spun in surprise when a voice said, “Greetings stranger, what brings you to my farm?”

Unsure who to expect, Gwri saw a farm wife, probably of an age with Nareene. Confused, he answered, “My name is Gwri, Goodwife. I ask shelter for the night.”

“But why are you here?”

“I seek a sky stone.”

She snorted and said, “Which one of them set your foot on that trail?”

Something in that disdainful snort told Gwri he faced no normal woman, as if he had not already suspected. “The Goban Saor, Ma'am.”

“Of course. I should have known, particularly after finding his clever toy beside my dock. Well come inside and we’ll talk. And call me Ann.”

First inclination led him to doubt she could be who he guessed. But when he thought about this fertile farm in the middle of winter, cattle in its pasture, and suspected she truly was Anu. With this understanding, Gwri meekly followed her and sat where directed. While she prepared a meal, he told his story.

“You’ve been ill prepared for such a journey, young Gwri. Yet the rescue of your friends is a worthy goal, as is the end of Brarn. I would offer help, if you would accept?”

“Willingly, Ann. I have no idea where I am going, how to get there, or what to do if I arrive. The Goban Saor picked poorly in choosing me as his tool.”

“As always, he assuredly has his reasons, convoluted though they probably would be to understand. So be assured that he believes you have a chance to succeed, another reason why it is worth my time to assist. First you must prepare for the cold, which makes the winter around my home seem as summer. Eat.”

That proved to be a common command during the following days, as Ann prepared him for the journey. Days separated by sleep and work rather than light and dark. And whenever he returned from his tasks, she would have waiting a meal of potatoes, onions, and beef. So often and so much did she feed him, that his girth grew until it seemed his footsteps plodded with a thump similar to that of the cattle.

Each day, Ann sent Gwri out to work on one of two main tasks. Mainly he gathered rations. Bags of vegetables from Ann’s gardens or sides of beef, harvested from the unshrinking herd of cattle. Or chunks of ice, cut from the frozen sea, to melt for drink. All of which he stored in the hold of the Goban Saor’s boat, Sgá th. As Ann had said, the boat was a clever creation, sitting upon skis so as not to be frozen into the ice and equipped with an ever burning stove, within its comfortable cabin, to make the months worth of rations he gathered edible or drinkable.

On the boat he also found iron traps, which made his second task possible. Hunting the giant snow bears that prowled the ice. From their carcasses, he obtained thick fur pelts, which he sewed together so fur faced out from either side. These two sided pelts he sewed into pants, shirt, long coat, gloves, hat, and boots. Thus clothed, he barely felt the bitter cold.

Ann also helped him prepare his mind. She told him the loneliness and darkness would be his greatest enemy. That they would prey on his thoughts, attempting to break down the walls of his mind’s fortress to let in the demons. For they would not be ravening beasts, seeking to him tear apart, instead they would be wraiths trying to drive him mad, to make him forget his task, to tempt him into joining them in their endless prison of despair. In order to combat this, Ann had him learn to distract himself with the songs and lays taught by his Grandmother. Presented with a worn old harp, similar to Keelin’s even to its sound, she told Gwri to play, to sing, while she went about her chores. If he turned his head at a loud noise or responded to a comment, she chastised him. Repeated practice brought an end to these admonishments.

A final defense came not from Ann, but from the Goban Saor. Again, aboard the Sgá th, Gwri found a featureless bronze mask, polished to a mirrored sheen, which comfortably molded to his face, due to a soft leather lining. Ann speculated it would reflect a demon’s visage back upon itself, confusing it. And while she doubted the effectiveness of the mask, she agreed that any help was worth accepting.

By the time he boarded the Sgá th to begin his journey North, few would recognize Gwri. Faceless behind the mask and massive like the bears in whose furs he now clothed himself.

As the boat glided Northwards, requiring no assistance from its passenger, Gwri found himself surrounded by emptiness. The very nothingness proved oppressive when all he had to combat this oppression was his stories and songs. Only in sleep or while eating did he allow himself silence. Silence he cherished. Yet he did not cheat, for Ann had told him to sing, so sing he did.

Only once did he forget her warnings. Uncounted, endless days after setting sail, he climbed above deck to survey the horizon. What he saw struck him dumb, for the boat slid towards a wall of darkness. Not like approaching night, instead it seemed as if the brightest of day and the darkest of night had been sundered in twain at that very spot. Unsure what approached, he armed himself and returned to deck to wait. Doubting his ability to combat whatever lurked in the dark, he loudly sang battle hymns, trying to rally his nerve.

And then it was dark.

And Gwri was still alone.

How long he stood on deck, waiting, he did not know. For time in the dark held no more meaning than it had in the light. Finally he lowered his shield, spear, and voice to look about the boat. He could see nothing, but time had emblazoned his surroundings upon his mind’s eye. So with the horizon hidden, he returned to his cabin. There he sat until his body told him to sleep, accepting the dark, though comforted by the warm glow of the Sgá th’s stove.

The light to which his awakening sight slowly adjusted, until he could see. What he saw caused him to yell his fright, before immediately he launched into song, specifically the Raid of Begagha. Where his scream caused the ghostly figures to open their mouths and add their dreadful cacophony, the song calmed them while it distracted him.

Instead they just stared. Waited.

With the return of his wits, Gwri realized these were the demons for which he had prepared. Momentarily their prior wailing made him think of the feared Ban Sidhe, until he saw some appeared male. They also seemed to have a patience not associated with those harbingers of death.

All through all the time he stayed awake they hovered, never allowing a moment between songs without starting to shriek. Each bite of food, each drink to soothe his raw throat, resulted in the return of the horrific sound. Not until he felt too exhausted to care did he fall asleep, slumped in the chair that had served as battleground during that long, dark day. Only to have it start again when he awoke. Day following upon day.

Slowly Gwri found himself able to look upon the demons with tempered fear, as they did not attack. With time he could distinguish individuals, wondering who they had been in life or if they had ever lived. Many would pass through the cabin once, never to be seen again, but the four became regular visitors.

One who appeared to have been middle aged man, with tangled brown hair falling to his shoulders, seemed to be attracted to the music, often drumming silently along with his fingers. The next two, an old man and an old woman, were drawn to the Sgá th`s stove, causing Gwri to wonder if they felt its warmth. Last, was a beautiful young woman, yet she frightened him most.

The others kept their distance, but she drifted close. While he now usually murmured his songs under breath, her presence found him in full voice. Yet she ignored that, until she hovered within an arm’s length. Gwri’s voice did not tremble as his terror fermented beneath his calm nor did he flinch in fear, as she lifted an arm. Yet she did not strike, instead her hand slowly rose to touch her own face. Confused, Gwri suddenly remembered his mirrored mask. He suspected that she looked not at him, instead she looked at herself. Again and again her vanity drew her to him until he hardly noticed her hovering form.

Over time, Gwri almost thought of these four as his companions, taking comfort in their presence. So while others who floated through were horrible to look upon, victims of vicious wounds or death’s rot, he welcomed the four.

Instead a new worry took hold. His food supply, once abundant, had shrunk nearly in half. Not having begun the return trip, Gwri cut his meals in half. Now he fought a battle of willpower with his appetite, grown immense during his time with Ann. Often he gave in, until time allowed him to conquer his cravings. Still, barely a third of his supplies were left when, one day, he realized the boat had stopped.

Pulling on his coat, mittens, and hat, Gwri took his weapons and a torch with him as climbed above deck. There he found the Sgá th against the shore, a blizzard obscuring most everything beyond the light. However, one area remained free of the storm. The path from Fin’s cabin had reappeared.

Unsure how far it would be before he reached his destination, Gwri decided to scout forward a short distance. Climbing down from the boat, onto the ice, he felt unsteady, for the sway that had grown natural did not exist upon the ice. Taking hold of the boat, he waited until the ice felt solid under his feet, then carefully he walked to shore and stepped onto the path. With the storm howling to either side, Gwri moved forward, almost immediately coming to a stop.

He had expected numerous ends to this journey. A temple to some unknown deity. A mythical beast to overcome. Yet a crater, its edges blackened against the snow, holding a grey rock, had never came to mind.

It pleased him in a way that little had, since leaving Mullinglas. In this happiness, Gwri knelt to lift the stone, but found it frozen in place. So with his dagger, he dug around the edges until it moved and he could lift it free of the earth’s grip. The size of a human’s head, Gwri found it heavier than expected. Confirmation that he held his prize came when he climbed aboard the boat and the Sgá th glided away from the island, traveling in a great arc before heading back in the direction from which he had come.

Gwri’s days varied little from those during his outward journey, though no more did his ghostly visitors appear, not even the regular four. All he could do was to wait for the trip to end and worry about his shrinking supplies. That grew to be all he thought about, as even his meals left him hungry. Constantly he found himself in the hold counting, stacking, sorting, and parceling provisions out for meals. Meals he held off from eating, for as long as possible.

By the time the Sgá th slid back into the light, Gwri’s clothes had grown baggy. By the time he reached the shore, his food long gone, he appeared a shadow of his former massive self.

To his dismay, Ann’s farm no longer appeared to exist. Only the trail.

Hungrily, Gwri hitched drooping pants with a length of rope, ensured his prize was tucked away inside his pack, and began his next journey. If his journey to the sea had seemed difficult, he learned how wrong he had been. Physically weak and unused to the solid ground, he shuffled along from the very beginning. Only the hope of reaching Fin’s allowed him to keep moving.

Thus, never had Gwri seen a more welcome sight than the plateau with its stable and hut. Where once he could not wait to escape, now his shuffle became a shambling jog as approached.

Fin, sitting at his table eating a meal, looked at him, frowned, and asked, “Who be you, barging into my home like this?”

Hardly noticing the man, his gaze focussed on the food, Gwri said, “Fin, I’ve got it. What’s the matter? It’s me, Gwri.”

“Gwri?” Fin asked, in a hushed tone.

Remembering, Gwri reached to take off his mask, but could not find its straps. With a sinking feeling, he gently touched a petite nose, then full lips. A gesture strikingly similar seen so many times, just out of his reach, by the female wraith.

Understanding

igh above Fin’s cabin rose a cliff face, one that Gwri had climbed too during his aborted attempts to escape. Desperate thoughts had brought him to it once more. During that prior attempt at escape, one method he had not considered.

Now, looking out over the cliff, he knew it still was not an option. Even with so little control left of his life, Gwri knew there was too much and too many people he liked, to give up the chance to not experience them again, whenever, if ever, the Goban Saor’s capricious plan came to fruition. A plan which he suspected he now understood. One totally in keeping with the mythical smith’s reputation as a trickster, who solved problems in a manner unconsidered by anyone else. He felt the plan depended on the geis placed upon Brarn by his adoptive mother Morrigu.

From Samhain ‘til Bealtaine, during the Season of Death,
Thou shall roam across the oceans,
Punishing those who kept us in chains.

From Bealtaine ‘til Samhain, during the Season of Life,
Thou shall take as thy queen.
She who is fairest on Beltaine's eve.

As a reaver, no man shall stand before you.
As a lover, no man shall stand beside you.

Of particular interest was the final line, which could hold the key to the reaver’s defeat. Could Brarn only be killed by a man during the Season of Life, when he would surely shelter himself away from all except his queen of the year? And if only she would be with Brarn when he could be defeated, how could the Goban Saor set the killer beside the reaver? It seemed like a task that could only be performed by the greatest of craftsmen, to replace the loveliest of the yearly Bealtaine’s queens with the man who would do the killing?

The Goban Saor apparently thought himself that craftsman. Unfortunately for Gwri, he appeared to be the ingot that the smith attempted to mold. First his hair, now long and gold. Then his face, shaped to mimic that of a beautiful ghost. And there still remained four more verses.

Gwri looked upon the only escape left, then turned, and began the decent to the cabin. There he found a relieved Fin, who he ignored. Instead, Gwri finished his preparations to once more leave. However, before he left, Fin spoke.

“You’ll need to want to survive the fire, Gwri. For even the finest of smith will toss aside a bar with impurities.”

As he accepted the prison of the path, Gwri thought about the warning and wondered once more if Fin actually was the Goban Saor? If so, should he place more weight upon that warning? Likely not, the words held a truth no matter from whom they came. He knew he would try as hard as possible to succeed, even if the final destination appeared so bleak. He could do no less. Not if he wanted to save Con, Sloan, and Tanguy. Not if he wanted to offer the needed comfort to his grandmother, Keelin. Not if he wanted to be true to himself.

Therefore he could not, would not, intentionally sabotage this twisted journey which he traveled. If he survived to its end, he could decided upon his next step.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 5 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 5 of 10

Linen Gift;
Harvest stalks, then cast adrift,
crush and weave into a swath,
craft the cloth to hide your shift.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 5 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Linen Gift;
Harvest stalks, then cast adrift,
crush and weave into a swath,
craft the cloth to hide your shift.

rapped in his thoughts, Gwri let the path lead him to wherever it wished. Not until he heard the sound of birds and smelled the nearby fields of flax did he notice his surroundings. Looking about, he found himself in land similar to that in which he had grown. Fighting a surge of home sickness, particularly when he spotted a village on the horizon, Gwri guessed this journey would be short.

A village and its inhabitants, made Gwri nervous about his strange appearance. From the neck up, he appeared a young maiden, yet his body did not match, even if recent starvation had left him a shadow of himself. So he wore a robe, complete with hood, similar to Con’s.

He could only hope the villagers would allow him his privacy.

However, as he walked closer, Gwri wondered if anybody was about to question his appearance. Despite carts in the fields and scythes laying beside rows of freshly cut flax, he saw nobody.

The reason for this became apparent as he approached the village, when the sound of shouting and the clash of metal against metal came to his ears. Dropping everything but his weapons and shield, Gwri rushed forward. He struggled through a hedge, which yanked at his fluttering robe, he found himself in a village, hauntingly similar to Mullinglas. The sounds provided a direction in which to run, until he saw a solid wall, unlike the hedge that had blocked his entrance, which had an open gate before which battle raged.

Ignoring the startled shout of a villager who spotted his appearance, Gwri lifted a spear and threw it into the chest of a man with the head of a pig. His second spear followed close behind to strike another with that of a fox.

Gwri’s doubted not that these were his foe, dressed for war unlike most of the villagers. Stories told of such creatures being in the employ of the Fomorians, possibly even a twisted branch of Fomorian. Nothing good was ever said of these man-beasts, only their cruelty was remembered.

Hurling himself behind his spears, Gwri felt thrilled by the simplicity in fighting against an obvious foe. Unlike the previous two adventures, this was something for which he had prepared, trained to fight by the Grandsons of Weylan. And though his actual fighting experience consisted only of fisticuffs, Gwri’s rage at his situation and the surprise of his attack allowed his skills to blossom. Unhesitatingly he cut down pig-face, who stared unbelieving at the spear stuck in his side. With a shout he fell upon another fox-headed foe.

Barely did the fox block the blow of Gwri’s sword. A feat owing much to the reflexes that allowed him to immediately counter with a thrust of his own. Almost this poem came to an end, but the depravations of his last journey had left Gwri with a quickness unknown to his previous self. Thus he interposed his shield in time. Again and again each blade darted towards an opponent, only to meet metal of sword or hide covered wood of shield. As quick as the other, Gwri found that in losing much of his mass, the loss had not sapped him of his strength. Instead it had been tempered into wiry sinew, which allowed him to beat his opponent backwards. Yet the fight ended due to a rock, thrown by a villager, which missed all who fought, but lay on the smooth ground waiting to trip the fox.

Unconcerned with chivalry, Gwri took the opportunity presented and thrust towards the stumbling enemy. As the red wave surged from the fox’s neck, a shout of victory came unbidden to Gwri’s throat. Empowered, he turned to assist a defender, fighting a desperate defense against two more pig-men, killing the first while the embattled villager took the opportunity to finish the other.

Hardly noticing the woman he saved, Gwri turned to see another defender collapse before a brute with the head of a bear. Unhesitatingly he leapt forward, the woman following behind. Almost like hounds baiting an true bear the two leapt forward and back, swords flicking out to sting and enrage the raging beast. Angered he attacked with a two-headed axe, forgetting all concept of defense. Dodging aside at the onrush, Gwri saw the bear slow before sinking to the ground, his hamstrings cut by the woman to whom he had presented his back. The man’s maw opened, but before his keen of pain could penetrate the raging battle, a sword’s point thrust out his chest.

Renewed by their victory over the beast, Gwri and the women fell upon another enemy. And each time they rescued another defender, she would attach herself to the pair. Their numbers began to tell, while the beast-men learned their individual skill and ferocity was not enough to ensure a victory that had seemed certain minutes before. Just as they fought, each as a single being, so too did they decide as individuals to retreat, instead of answering to any horn. Soon only the most stubborn or berserk was left to be cut down by the defenders.

About to chase after the fleeing foe, Gwri felt a hand grip his shoulder. Twirling his sword raised, he saw the dark-haired woman whom he had helped.

When sense returned to his eyes, she said, “Let them go, Sister.”

Gwri’s denial was drowned out by a loud squeal from the gate’s chains, as it closed. Watching it clang shut, he realized the cowl of his robe had fallen loose during the chaos of the battle, robbing him of the ability to mask his appearance. Once more he tried to speak the truth, only to stop when the women held a quieting finger to her lips.

“Could you watch for the return of Donella’s men, Sister, while we look to our fallen? Later, when I am finished, we can talk.”

Seeing her point towards one of the platforms at the side of the gate, piled high with stacked stones, Gwri accepted the order and climbed on top, with the aid of pegs stuck into the wall. He did so, because he sensed something in her manner that warned of unknown danger. Possibly something to do with all the defenders and villagers he had seen being women and his knowledge that she was not fooled into thinking he belonged amongst their number.

Atop the platform, he looked over the wall and gasped in surprise. Unlike the side from which he had arrived, protected by a hedge that would only keep out roving animals, this side of the village looked over a precipice, with only a single road leading upwards. This explained why the beast-men, who currently milled about outside of spear throwing range, had not attempted to flank the village. Yet he wondered how had they had reached the open gate, the battle maidens amongst the villagers had not seemed incompetent enough to have let that happen? Hopefully that would be one of many things his new friend could answer? If she were indeed his friend.

Glancing back at the women, hurrying about behind him, Gwri ignored his questions for the moment. Instead he watched the attackers, who beyond their angry glances, did not look to again assault the wall. Like the villagers they first dealt with their wounds, then in unspoken accord, they retreated to where others held horses. Mounting, they rode down the hill and out of sight. They did not return.

As the sun sank, Gwri regretted leaving behind his pack with water skin and food, but it soon appeared, carried by the woman. After she offered him his pack, she looked look over the wall and rubbed a strong arm across an exhausted, yet comely face. Not looking away from the road, she spoke.

“I am Aife, leader of the Shield Maidens of Leitergort.”

“I am Gwri.”

“And not a sister?”

“No.”

“How?”

Again Gwri told his story, delving deeper into his frustrations and worries with Aife than he had with Ann. For the bond that joins those who had fought together to achieve victory, a bond that would grow thinner with time, still held him in tightly in its grasp.

Silence stretched after his explanation. Finally Aife said, “I am glad you are not similar to those we fought, with the head of a woman instead of a beast.”

“Why would I fight them if I were?” Gwri asked.

“They are full of hate, hating each other as much as those who are whole. We of Leitergort forgot that, to our grief. Never should we have traded with them except behind walls, the temptations we offer is too much for them.”

“Because you’re all women?”

“Yes. Which doubtless confuses you, as it does most outsiders. Suffice to say, we provide refuge for those who have no where else to go or need to escape from those whose beast is hidden within, unlike those of today. Thus many will judge you harshly. To them, you are a threat.”

“Are you one of the many, Aife?”

“No, Gwri, but I have not experienced their lives. Instead I was born here and my life has mostly been fair. Even when traveling beyond the walls there has been no need for me to cover myself with the same shell.”

“Then I will continue onwards. I would not bring more grief to Leitergort than has already been dealt to it.” Gwri said, wondering if the trail continued and what dangers existed in the lands of the beast-men.

“I can’t let you do that, Gwri.”

At these word, his hand darted to the hilt of his sword. Just as quickly, Aife’s hand reached out to rest upon his, not the grip of strength with which she was capable, instead it seemed a gentle caress.

“It is because we need you. The attack today left five of my shield maidens dead and seven more wounded. We do not have enough left to guard the village and the others while we finish the harvest.”

“Will I be accepted?”

“You won’t be, truth be known. But, currently the others see your appearance was foretold.”

“What?”

“My mother, Brigitte, recently spoke of a dream, in which a golden haired shield maiden of surpassing beauty came to us in our time of need.”

“Is your mother an oracle?”

“A smith.”

“The Goban Saor.” Gwri said through clenched teeth.

“It makes sense that he would smooth the path for you.”

“He has not to this point. Besides it would not work, Aife. I am not a traveling player to disguise myself as someone else, the truth will become known and everybody will be made more angry by the lie.”

“But we need you, Gwri.”

“It will end in disaster.”

“Maybe, but it also may end in the gift needed to fulfill your third requirement. For nobody beyond our walls makes linen with the skill of those in this village.”

“Probably a burial shroud.”

“Please, Gwri.”

Eyes closed, Gwri bowed his head in thought. He asked, “How long?”

“Only until the flax is harvested, while we are the most scattered. Probably eight or ten days. After the harvest, we begin making of linen, which we do within the village and will allow others to take over guard duty.”

“That is too long.”

“Likely.”

“Do you wish it, Aife?”

“Yes.”

“You will need to help me.”

“Of course.”

“Very well.”

Aife smile chased away much of her tiredness, as she said, “Thank you. Can you continue to watch until nightfall?”

“Aye.”

As Aife climbed to the ground, Gwri reached into his pack hoping that while chasing away hunger, he could also chase away the sense of impending doom. By the time she returned, trailed by two girls to take his place, that hope proved unfulfilled. Yet he said nothing, both knew the lie would be exposed.

Maybe that is why she led him to her own hut and why they found themselves in each other’s arms. Undemanded by either, yet it seemed the inevitable result of the day in both their minds. And while neither felt a magical connection of true love, they found that despite being beginners at this dance, their earlier, deadlier dance had robbed them of the ability to be awkward with one another. Again, they moved together in unspoken accord.

Satisfied, they lay side by side, until Aife said, “Cinnia.”

“What?”

“That shall be your name.”

“Oh.”

“Would you prefer another?”

“I guess not.” Gwri said.

“Then Cinnia it shall be. Now sleep, while I check the watchers still watch.”

Gwri almost offered to go along, but realized he preferred to be alone. So did Aife. Thus when she returned, she felt happy to see her guest slept. Yet that did not stop her from laying beside him, back to back.

Morning brought their masquerade into being, aided by Brigitte, Aife’s mother, who had not spoken her entire dream. Brigitte knew that he would be a he and had prepared for his arrival. While her daughter braided his hair into twin ropes, she took armour from a sack. Firstly she gave him a bronze helm that left his face exposed. Then she helped into a bronze cuirass, shaped like Aife’s to fit female curves he did not have. Adding a kilt consisting strips of studded leather over his trousers, he looked little different than the muscular Aife, in fact his hair and features probably left him more feminine than she.

Satisfied by his appearance, Aife said, “Very good, Cinnia. But I think it would be best to have you patrol alone, westerly along the embankment. Donella’s men have attempted to climb it before.”

“Donella?”

“She considers herself the queen of the beast-men. And since they follow her commands, I guess she deserves the title.”

They hustled him from the hut, into a morning not yet broken, then to a break in the brush through which he had originally entered. Pointing Westward, Aife told him he would know when to turn back and so Gwri trekked along the edge of embankment. For a couple hours he walked, looking over the cliff’s edge for anybody brave enough to attempt the climb. When he reached a mountain face, probably the one through which the path had guided him, he turned back towards the village.

Again and again he walked those miles, first to the West and then to the East, during the next five days. Always alone, instinctively singing to himself.

Each night he returned in the dark and each morning he left before the sun defeated the horizon. He did not even speak to Aife, for the only time he was not alone, was while he slept. Nor did the two consider again the joining of the first night, instead they slept back to back as shield mates, not as life mates.

Gwri accepted this, even welcomed it, for in his worry about the women of Leitergort and the men of Donella’s, he had forgotten his true enemy, Brarn the Reaver. However, the Goban Saor had not forgotten, for that matter the smith may be a truer enemy than Brarn. For he sought to change Gwri into someone else, which Gwri should have remembered before he put on armour provided by the voice of the mythical smith. Slowly, so that at first he did not notice, his body molded itself to fit the armour, shrinking or growing as necessary.

Caught unaware by this development, but unsurprised, Gwri accepted being further unmanned without anger. Nor did he look over the embankment for any reason other than to spot intruders. That battle had already been fought and won.

By the end of the fourth day, no more changes were forthcoming and on the fifth day he found that armour meant once to disguise, now fit as if made for him. Thus he found himself making the journey too and from the mountain faster than in the past. The fifth trip would always end after dusk, but on this day, the gloom had not descended. Wondering if it he should wait to return to the hut, he spotted someone in a dress walking towards him. Before he could turn away, she waved. Caught between a desire to run and habitual politeness, he sighed relief when he recognized Aife.

She was radiant.

“Oh, Cinnia, it is a good news day, we have made peace with Queen Donella. You no longer need to walk your lonely route, instead we celebrate.”

“But...”

“Worry not, I have told everyone about how shy you are, you can lurk in the background with nobody bothering you. Besides you’ll have appropriate dress.”

Unrelieved by this offer, Gwri none-the-less followed in Aife’s wake, eyes downcast. Inside her hut, Aife presented him with a linen shift and grey woolen dress, then chivied him out of the armour and clothes Reluctant, with her watching, Gwri slowly undressed, which resulted in Aife gasping at what he revealed. Now hurried, he pulled the shift over his head and let it fall past his knees.

A quirky smile came to his face, as he recognized that the shift hid the change to his body, but what it implied to hide was now there in truth. Noticing that Aife still watched, wide-eyed in surprise, Gwri said, “The Goban Saor’s plan continues apace.

“It will help your disguise.” She said, as he pulled on the grey dress. “Sit down, I want to do something different with your hair.”

Realizing argument would be meaningless, he sat before her, trying to think about nothing. As Aife worked upon him, Brigitte arrived.

Seeking distraction, Gwri asked, “How did you achieve peace with Queen Donella?”

Brigitte answered, “We offered to pay tribute?”

“How much, Mother?” Aife asked.

“Nothing that we cannot afford, Dear. Now shall we go? You are both too pretty to hide away.”

Nervous, almost sick to the stomach, Gwri stood. Sensing this, Aife took one of his hands gently in hers and led him outside. Disaster waited, in the form of six shield maidens, each with a shield and club in hand.

Tightly clenching his hand, Aife once more asked, “What is the tribute, Mother.”

“Cinnia.”

“But, Mother.”

“Now honestly, Aife. He is not one of us, besides he killed the bulk of her men. Let him bear the brunt of her vengeance, if it will keep us safe. And is that not your duty.”

He never knew if what more the two said in their discussion, as one of the shield maidens stepped forward and swung her club. Gwri saw it coming, believed he could dodge that blow, maybe even another. But how many?

So he did not try.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 6 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 6 of 10

Woven belt;
Foul betrayal will be felt.
Servitude will then result,
‘til vanity’s fault is dealt.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 6 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Woven belt;
Foul betrayal will be felt.
Servitude will then result,
‘til vanity’s fault is dealt.

ine hundred and forty granite tiles covered the floor outside the great hall in Donella’s fortress of Lisdarrow. So Gwri had been told by Cardew the beaver-headed steward the third day after his betrayal, which preceded the announcement that Gwri’s responsibilities involved keeping each dirty square clean. Such was his punishment for taking up arms against the beast-men, who saw menial labour as a humiliation beyond ken for a warrior.

Yet for Gwri, the drudgery of his task, the bruised knees, and bloodied knuckles were nothing compared to the taunts and casual cruelty of his captors. To them, normal men and women were lesser. And he, being both and neither, was lower still.

Such he had learned on the second day, while still sick and dizzy from the blow that had made him forget the first. It had been then, when dragged as much as carried by two bull-headed guards, he had first appeared before Donella. Cast down before a dais upon which two sat and one stood, the guards forced him onto his stomach. A position that caused laughter from those gathered in the hall, but not from the three before him.

Daring not to look, fearing the spear that tickled the back of his neck, Gwri needed to be content with the look he had obtained of them on his way in. Queen Donella had been easy to pick out, for she was the only female. Dressed in a green gown, which showed off her womanly form, it had been her lynx head that had drawn his eyes. Beside her sat a man, on a throne less ornate than her own, with a lion’s head and wearing the garb of a warrior. While the third, standing to the side, with the head of an owl dressed in a robe similar to the one he had worn from Fin’s.

The attention with which they studied him felt physical, almost enough to drive the fear of the spear’s point from his mind. The tension grew in his body as laughter ended, until silence made him wish for anything to be said, even a pronouncement of his doom.

“Undress.” The command, spoken in a female voice, dripped with malicious glee. “We heard a most amazing story from our contact in Leitergort. We would see if it is true.”

At the command, the touch of cold steal disappeared. Yet he could not move, the indignity of the command holding him locked in place.

“Undress. Or shall we have you undressed? We know, if it was up to us, we would not wish to have our only clothes cut away from our body.”

Hesitantly, Gwri rose to his feet. Not looking anywhere except down, he slowly pulled the grey dress over his head. Clad only in the cursed linen shift he paused, unsure if he could continue. But the slither of a sword being drawn from its sheath forced him to loosen the shift’s ties at his neck and let it slide off his shoulders to the ground. Ashamed, he closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what they saw. The torso, hips, and thighs of a women, though not a lush as those hinted at by the Queen’s green gown. However, all eyes went to his manhood, shrunken to the size of a boy’s, which dangled for all to see.

He burned in rage and mortification. Something made worse when the queen laughed, first muffled titters, then whole-heartedly. This set off her court and soon they added their bellows and snorts, not a joyful chuckle in the bunch. Their mirth battered against him like waves crashing upon a beach. On an on their caustic pleasure seared.

“So this is the slayer of Turi the Younger?” The seated man asked, when the laughter died down. Shifting his gaze to someone standing behind Gwri, he smiled and said, “How embarrassing that must be.”

In answer, Gwri heard a growl from the side, the sound of footsteps bringing forward a man with a bear’s head, grey fur implying an age not apparent in his steps. He said, “My Queen, we of the House Bear, would have this...this thing’s head as á¨raic for the death of my son.”

“And what about House Pig and House Fox, Turi the Elder? Or should it now be Turi the Only?” The lion-headed man asked, contorting his features into what Gwri took for a smirk.

“I am in no mood for you little games, Llewelyn.” Turi said with a snarl.

“Now, now, we cannot have our two most loyal supporters arguing, can we?” Donella asked. “And though we understand your anger, Turi. Llewelyn raises a fair point about Pig and Fox. Too often the lesser houses believe we take advantage of them, this would surely be such a case.”

“Who cares what they think, they would be dirt scrabblers if left on their own?”

“Still, we remain thankful that they are so willing to be at the forefront when our forces go into battle. Though, usually they expect their commanders to notice when it is time to retreat, rather than counting coup along side of them.”

Gwri heard the chastisement in the Queen’s words, so did Turi the Elder, who response took humbler on a humbler tone. “True, my son was always overeager. We warned him of that. So if you will not give me its head, what shall be done to punish this thing?”

“Thing? I like that. Now what to do with it? Kayne?”

“My Queen?” The owl head man, standing behind her, asked.

“You are full of such clever ideas, what would you recommend?”

“Well its death you can have at any time, so for now why not put it to use? Cardew constantly complains he needs more help, give it to him until you have a different need.”

“Will that suit, Turi the Elder?”

“For now, my Queen.”

“Very well. Guards, take this thing to Cardew. Oh, let it take it’s clothes, for we will not replace any that are lost.”

To the sound of renewed laughter, Gwri stooped to bundle the dress and shift into his arms. Then with each upper arm clenched in a fist of a bull-headed guard, he scurried from the hall, trying to match their long strides.

Cardew had not been happy to be given a new maid, but nothing really made him happy. In particular he had been unhappy with a further command, ordering him to make the thing clean the entrance to the great hall. By the way Cardew had carried on, who preferred to send him to the jakes or the kitchen, the steward worried more about getting work done than humiliating the prisoner. But that explained why he was the steward and not a leader amongst his people. He did not understand that if the prisoner was kept out of sight, his fellows would be unable to mock and laugh at it kneeling on the floor, as it tried to remove the horse shit that fell of the boots of your companions. However, Gwri quickly learned this truth, as the cruel haunting of the beast-men, most often by those of House Bear, Fox, or Pig, made that of the wraiths on the frozen sea seem benign in comparison. They did not even allow him his songs, a cuff the head being the usual signal that he unwittingly had begun to sing.

Yet, like a cat with a mouse, cruelty towards an unresponsive victim grows boring. Though Gwri proved fortunate to not meet the mouse’s normal fate when his captors grew bored with his presence. Instead he remained a maid, scrubbing the endlessly dirty floor, days marked only with gruel as food and a hard floor as mattress, his mind constantly seeking a plan of not just escape, but also how to obtain the woven belt. And he now knew where to find it. Every time Queen Donella walked near him, he saw it about her trim waist, its two knotted ends hanging almost to the floor. Yet no opportunity arose, for the bull-headed guards who surrounded the great hall were always watched.

One day when Gwri had almost grown used to his slave’s life, one of those guards ordered him to hurriedly take his pail and hide in an alcove off the entranceway. Barely settled, he heard the outside doors, twice as tall as he, swing open, footsteps following close behind. Nervous, yet curious, he peaked and spotted ten tall men, in shining armour, march towards the great hall. And though none had the heads of beasts, in fact each was coldly handsome, their supercilious expressions and lofty smugness made him realize these would not be his rescuers.

Their stay, in the great hall, proved short. Soon after they entered they exited, pleased looks upon their faces. No doubt providing explanation for the angry shouts that momentarily pierced the great hall’s doors, before they opened to allow an angry Llewelyn, accompanied by members of his house, to leave.

The actions of this day resulted in an oppressive level of tension within Lisdarrow. Though it took many days before Gwri learned why.

Apparently Donella, without the knowledge of her consort, Llewelyn, had sent a missive to the ruler of the neighbouring, Fomorian kingdom. In it she proposed dynastic marriage between herself and its king, Bricriu. The ten men had been the king’s response, who bluntly and rudely chastised her, before her court, for such a presumption by a mongrel. Taken aback, she had not known how to respond, nor had she reacted with more aplomb when an angry Llewelyn accused her of attempting to cast him and his house aside, before he stormed out. Now everyone played house politics, traveling only with their own kind, while House Lynx and House Lion sought to gather allies amongst the other great houses, leaving those of the lesser hoping to go unnoticed.

Once, during this time, Gwri looked up from his scrubbing to find Kayne overhead. Saying nothing, the owl-headed man gestured for the prisoner to follow and walked towards the rear of the castle.

Seeking nervously permission from a nearby guard, Gwri scrambled to his feet and hurried after, Kayne, the most mysterious figure who served Queen Donella. The lone member of House Owl, he held power all seemed to fear. Magic. Rumours spoke of him as a druid of great, awful power, which had brought to him the position of Chief Advisor to the queen, whom all knew he fully supported. In fact whispers reported he now worked on a special project for her.

Their destination proved to be a room full of bizarre items and apparatuses. Apparently, the druid’s workshop.

“Stand there and do not move.” Kayne said, pointing to a corner. When Gwri obeyed, he moved to a table and fiddled with one of his instruments, looking up only when Gwri stirred.

After a time Kayne looked towards the far wall. Following his gaze, Gwri saw a crack appear, which turned into an opening through which the queen entered, before allowing the gap to close behind her. Ignoring him, Donella demanded of the druid.

“Can you do it, Kayne?”

“I can, my Queen. But won’t your people see it as a betrayal?”

“What do I care, the plan will only become necessary if Llewelyn convinces them to betray me first.”

“Is that likely?”

“It is too early to say. Few of the great houses are willing to commit to either side and of those who have, the split between Lynx and Lion is even. However, if I were to guess, I would say Llewelyn’s constant barbs and jibes will prove his undoing.”

“Then why this plan, my Queen?”

“I have not been shy about making enemies of my own, Kayne. Therefore, it is always wise to have a bolt hole.”

“But with Bricriu, he...”

“...has made his opinion of me abundantly clear. And I plan to make him pay for that, but first I may need him to survive. Once in his clutches, I will be able to grasp him in mine.”

“How, my Queen?”

“He is a man, I am a woman. But I will need more of your improvements.” At these words, Donella strolled towards Gwri, then quick as an adder she grabbed him by his long grimy hair, yanked him forward, and pointed towards his face, said, “In particular. This!”

“Ahh, that explains your request.”

Letting go of Gwri’s hair, Donella looked at her hand in distaste before wiping it on his dress. She asked, “Are you sure it is temporary? Will you be able to turn me back?”

“This very night.”

“And will it survive? I would not lose such a pretty face.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Lucky Thing, to suddenly have a purpose. Very well, Kayne, show me.”

“My apologies, my Queen, but first preparations must be made.”

“What?” she snapped. “You said you were ready?”

“I am, but in order for my spell to work you and the thing need to switch garments.”

“If you knew of this, Kayne, why did you not have it cleaned and dressed in something other than rags?”

“Forgive me, my Queen, I did not think.”

“No, you did not, remember to do so in the future. Is it truly necessary?”

“It is, my Queen. See it’s a matter of like seeking...”

“Spare me the details of your accursed dabbling, Kayne. Very well. Thing, strip.”

Gwri’s mind had furiously worked throughout their discussion. At first he had feared the removal of his head, for the rumours of Kayne’s experiments had been grisly indeed. Thus he sighed relief at the realization he would be kept whole. In fact, he felt excited at the chance offered to get his hands upon the belt. Admittedly it would not lead to his escape, but...for now he removed his clothes. Easier this time, since they already knew his shame.

Nose wrinkling as she gingerly took his shift and dress, Donella walked behind a screen in order to change. Returned, wearing the dirty and torn dress, she thrust her own garb at him. Almost he smiled as stepped into the clean shift, little different than his own and probably from the same source. But when he looked for the belt, he did not see it. Not reacting, Gwri pulled on the soft, green woolen dress, gold threaded embroidery at its cuffs, hem, and neck.

Kayne asked, “And the belt, my Queen?”

“Even that?”

“Yes, even that.”

When Donella looked towards the screen, Gwri eagerness almost caused him dash forward. However, he waited for Kayne’s command before he moved and found the long rope. Woven from strands of gold wire, it proved supple as a snake as he wrapped it about his waist. Knotting end over end, he tightened it until no slack remained. Jaw gaping, he saw he filled out the gown as well as had the queen and remembered her comments about improvements. Now he understood why the Goban Saor would have him seek this belt.

“Let’s finish this.”

“Yes, my Queen. Here, drink this. It will help quell any unpleasantness you may feel.”

He handed each a goblet, in which Gwri saw red liquid that smelled like wine. Nervously he took a sip, appreciating its high quality, so rich compared to anything he had ever drank or eaten. Eagerly he emptied the goblet, savouring the glorious after taste. However, when she drank, the queen sway, a glazed look coming to her eyes.

Kayne said, “Now we’re ready.”

Gwri felt a tingling run across his face and over his scalp. Just as quickly it disappeared, but his attention was drawn to Donella. For she now had his face and long greasy hair. Wondering, he reached for his own face, but instead of the expected soft fur, he found nothing changed from when he returned with the stone.

“What? But...”

“Quiet, we wait for one more player.”

“Who?”

“I said quiet!”

This wait proved longer than for the queen, who now stood unaware of what went on around her. After a time, even Kayne glanced nervously at the door. Finally a smile appeared on his face, just before the door to his chambers banged open to show Llewelyn, a snarl upon his face. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and spoke.

“So the conspirators are all together. Yes, yes I have heard about this abomination you plan.”

At these words he took a long, viscous dagger, its pommel a large ruby, from his belt, showed it to Gwri, and said, “Remember when you gave this to me, Donella? When you promised me we would always be together. Yes, you do, don’t you? Well it’s time to keep your word.”

Before anybody could react he moved the five steps to Donella, who he saw as Gwri, and thrust upwards with his dagger. Dazed and unaware the queen made no attempt to dodge, nor did she feel anything as the dagger`s point smashed through her lower jaw, pierced upward into her brain, and lifted her from her feet. Casually stepping aside, so none of the gushing blood struck him, Llewelyn looked towards a stunned Gwri.

“Dismiss any thoughts of escape, Donella. You’re mine.”

Then with as much energy as with which he had arrived, Llewelyn departed. Gwri found himself looking between the corpse and the druid, unsure of anything. He did not expect Kayne to laugh.

”Oh, well done, Turi, well done. I knew I could count on you to point the dimwitted lion in the right direction.”

Gwri said, “I don’t understand.”

“There is no reason you should. But think, what will happen when someone of Donella’s house finds her dead, so obviously killed by Llewelyn? I’ll tell you. War in the halls of Lisdarrow. Both Lion and Lynx bleeding each other dry, until someone else is able to step forward.”

“Bear? Why?”

“I recently discovered that Turi and I share a hatred.”

“Me?”

“Doesn’t someone think highly of herself. No, we both hate Leitergort. Turi now understands you were a tool in the hands of those women, just as you were a tool in mine tonight.”

“Why do you hate them?”

At this question, Gwri felt that tingling once more, which replaced the disturbing sight of his own face on Donella’s corpse with one only slightly less disturbing, her own. Yet Gwri looked at Kayne. Gone was the owl’s head, replaced by that of a plain featured, middle aged man.

“In your stay at Leitergort, did you never wonder why there were no boys amongst the women? Did they tell you they had all escaped the brutality of men? Once that would have been true, but generations ago. Now only a few can make that claim, the majority being born too, but not born in the village. Those who will become mothers temporarily leave to seek mates and give birth. If the babe is a girl they return with her, if he is a boy, well then any number of things can occur. My own mother, Areia, she stayed with me, looked after me, but when I became a young man she grew sick. Worried, we traveled to Leitergort, seeking their aid. They offered her a place, but not me. My mother would have none of it, but I knew she needed help and so I insisted she stay. In the end, she agreed. It left me......bitter.”

Gwri did not comment on his bitterness, instead he asked, “And me, what will you do with me?”

“Worry not, I cannot have your corpse about, to be found and lend strength to any claim Llewelyn makes that it was you and not the queen he killed. Follow me.”

Through the opening Donella had used, Gwri followed the druid until they came to another wall. Reaching for a lever, Kayne yanked, a narrow section of the wall swinging open as a result.

“Go.” Kayne commanded.

Nervous at what waited on the other side, Gwri did not move until Kayne pushed him from behind. Outside, in the moon lit night, he looked about, until the grinding of stone upon stone wakened him to the realization that escape was truly nigh. Wondering which way to go, his eyes fell upon a recognizable sight at his feet, the Goban Saor’s trail. For once happy to be upon it, Gwri walked, the skirts of Donella’s dress rustling as he moved.

It lead him first to the bottom of the embankment above which he had once patrolled. Then up a previously unseen trail, winding back and forth, to make the climb manageable for someone in skirts. He looked Eastward, seeing the lanterns of Leitergort.

Almost he stepped off the path, thinking to warn them of what may come. But instead he continued towards the mountains.

In that moment Gwri’s understanding of his Grandmother, the Goban Saor, even Kayne increased. Vengeance did not like to be denied.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 7 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 7 of 10

Dragon’s tears;
To ignore the breath that sears
and obtain the beast’s reward,
the bard must conquer his fears.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 7 of 10

by Arcie Emm

The Forge

ike so many times since returning to Fin’s hut, Gwri found his thoughts drifting away from his task, towards the Land of What If. What if Kayne and Turi succeeded in taking the throne of Lisdarrow? What if Aife needed him? What if he should have warned Leitergort? What if, in capitulating to vengeance, he had proved himself unworthy to be its tool?

He knew Fin would tell him that what ifs didn’t matter, in particular any dealing Lisdarrow. As far as he was concerned, they had used Gwri both as shield and as sacrifice, casting him aside to be a toy to Donella’s whims when they no longer had need of him. And when Gwri said the betrayal belonged to Brigitte, not to Aife, Fin dismissed the protests, saying she had not stopped it from happening.

But Fin did not seem to like people very much, which probably explained why he lived as a hermit. Unlike Gwri, despite all that had happened. In fact he was shackled to this geis because of his ties to people. And it was why, when he grew bored with his task, he decided to seek out the smith in the forge.

As he stood, a grimace came to Gwri’s pretty features when he felt his skirts temporarily bind his legs. What he had brought with him from Mullinglas was no longer his, lost to his betrayers in Leitergort. Now all he owned were the prizes from his journeys, the comb he had used to return his hair to its former glory, Ann’s harp needed for his next task, and the clothing of the late queen of the beast-men. However, that dress belonged in a castle, not in the wilderness or the smith’s hut. Finally Fin agreed to Gwri’s complaints and dug a musty smelling, faded blue dress out of a chest. After some work with soap and water, Gwri found it to be an acceptable replacement, though attempts to find out to whom it once belonged were met with silence from the smith.

While tinkering with something at his work bench, Fin sensed Gwri`s arrival and asked, “How goes the song choice?”

“There are so many choices, how do I choose?”

“Sad songs, I’m guessing, if you’re to make it cry. And the Dagda knows there are enough of those.”

“I suppose, but...bah, never mind for now. What do you work upon?”

“You remember the sky stone?”

Gwri rolled his eyes at the smith’s back, then said, “Of course and the mark its retrieval left upon me. Have you made something from it?”

“Several somethings, actually. Though what purpose they will serve, I do not know.”

Curious, Gwri joined Fin at the bench. Besides implements meant for crafting sat three items, which made him turn to the smith in disbelief. “Baubles? You used the stone to make baubles?”

Fin frowned his own confusion at what lay before him, pausing before he answered, “I, I guess. But I don’t know why. Once I extracted the metal from the stone, I thought to make a dagger blade, though barely enough metal existed for that. But that is my last memory until your return. Only when I arrived this morning did I truly see what I had wrought. It makes no sense.”

The smith’s confusion, mixed with more than slight anger, finally convinced Gwri that Fin was as much a pawn as he, though apparently not one so ill used. Either that or Fin was the finest of actors, but Gwri could not believe that, for he needed some things to be real.

“Doubtless the doing of your patron.”

“Who? Oh, the Goban Saor. I tell you, I don’t like it none.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Fin said, looking at Gwri, his gaze flickering over the changeling before him.

“Let me see what he made?”

One could not fault the Goban Saor’s craftsmanship. Two of the pieces were mirrors of each other, these drew both his eyes and hands. Despite apparent delicateness, the butterfly, lacquered in jeweled reds, golds, and greens, weighed solidly in his hand and had three metal prongs, the middle being longer than the others and slightly curved until it finished in a sharp point.

“I’m guessing they’re for your hair.” Fin said.

“Yes, but why?”

“Probably because that spike looks rather dangerous, but it can be disguised as a comb in your hair.”

Gripping the butterfly like a punch dagger, Gwri felt the points of the wings fig into his palm and said, “Not particularly comfortable, but better than nothing. Well let’s see how it looks.”

No longer worried that his hair appeared feminine, Gwri had let it hang lose after he had washed and combed the greasy mess. Now he used the two ornaments to secure it so that none of it fell into his eyes.

“Pretty.” Fin said. “But the way you now look, if you replaced the butterflies with a cow patty, it would probably still look pretty.”

Deciding to ignore that comment, Gwri`s attention turned to the third item. A sheet of goldish coloured metal had been pounded into a thin strip the width of his fingers, then it had been halved and shaped into two sides of a torc. Hinged together in the back, the front of each had half a butterfly, which would form a whole when closed, a black tipped pin that hung from a tiny chain fastening it shut. Testing it, he felt amused by how the top of the pin mimicked a butterfly’s head, yet he looked at the rest of the torc with distrust.

Fin said, “I don’t think it will fit.”

“It’s not me it needs to fit, Fin. It’s the me who the Goban Saor wishes me for whom it was made.”

With these words, Gwri lifted the torc and ensuring that none of his hair became caught, clamped the two parts around his neck, until they slotted together. He then lifted the pin into place and dropped it into place.

“How does it fit?”

“I do not even notice it.” Seeing Fin’s eyes grow wide at his answer, Gwri could only say. “Oh, I hate him so much.”

However, the melodious lilt in which he now spoke ensured that all the rough edges in such a statement were smoothed away.

Dragon’s tears;
To ignore the breath that sears
and obtain the beast’s reward,
the bard must conquer his fears.

t took time before Gwri grew comfortable with his new voice, but just as had everything else, it too soon became natural. Sometimes he wondered at that, did his mind change along with his body? He thought not, but how would he know? Maybe he could not allow himself to care? Or maybe he had fallen off his horse, landed on his head, and was now trapped in a mind fever. In many ways, that made more sense than his climbing a mountain upon a magical path, while wearing a faded blue dress, in order to perform before a dragon.

Madness.

Though he had learned, while practicing, that his new voice leant itself to song in a manner his old could not duplicate. Joy sounded more joyful and sadness sounded more sad, Gwri had even detected a tear on Fin’s cheek during one session. Of course, if a dragon did exist, he doubted it would care about his voice.

If anything, it would be disappointed that its victim was not the man who had set sail upon the Sgá th from Ann’s farm, for who remained would barely provide a meal. A thought that amused him more than it should. Would it not be the cruelest of jokes to undergo this physical transformation, only to stare down the maw of a dragon in his final moments. It would serve the Goban Saor right. And Gwri, himself, would no longer have any worries.

Such thoughts grew less amusing as he climbed the mountain, particularly when he detected the odor of death and decay wafting out of a gaping cave entrance. For a moment he wished for weapons greater than those in his hair, but those would only anger the dragon. And that would assuredly lead to a dead Gwri.

Instead, all he had was the harp case hugged to breast while he fearfully stared into the dark hole. Try as he might, he could not force himself to go forward, so he turned. But he found no way back, just a precipitous drop. Again he was forced onwards, leaving him to wonder how many heroic songs were about those who could not turn back?

Hand outstretched to touch a wall, Gwri made his way forward, the light from behind guiding his steps. Just when it disappeared, about to cast him into darkness, he spotted a glimmer in the distance. As it turned into sunlight, so did the stench grow stronger. It caused him to stay his steps.

“Come, small one, I sense your presence.” A loud voice said, one that almost made him clap hands to ears. “It is rare that one of your kind comes to visit and I would know why.”

Sighing, Gwri took the last few steps into the light. He wanted to look towards the sun, shining through a jagged hole at the top of the cavern, but his eyes could only see the beast curled in a heap at the centre of the large open space. Huge, with a jagged back reaching almost twice as Gwri`s own head. Gloriously dangerous, white scales on its belly slowly darkening to sparkling midnight blacks and blues as they climbed its side, while its reptilian head, large fangs glistening almost as brightly as its green eyes, rested upon its front, sword length claws. It stared at him, unblinking, reminding him of a feral cat, brimming with confidence and sunning itself until it worked up the energy to once more kill.

The dragon said, “I never knew a human to burst free of its cocoon like the butterflies with which you adorn yourself.”

“You know? How?”

“I see, I smell, I feel, I understand. It is how I know that you are not one of those fools who seek to slay me, to take what is mine. But it does not tell me why you are here, where there is nothing good to be found for your kind.”

Fumbling at the knots, which tied his harp case shut, Gwri finally extracted the instrument. With it held trembling before him, almost as if it could shield him from the beast, he said, “I hope to play for you.”

“Play for me? Why would you think I would be interested?”

“I don’t know, but I am forced to do so. By the Goban Saor.”

“Ahh, I know of him. Truly the King of Foolishness, I doubt not he would set someone to such a task, to offer me as an obstacle to overcome. But do you know the songs of my kind? The songs of the highest skies, deepest oceans, and burning mountains?”

“No.” Gwri answered, quietly.

“Of course not. You will only know those of your kind. Songs of war and songs of love and songs of hate and songs of sorrow. Songs wallowing in the pettiness of humanity. And you expect me to want to listen?”

“Would you?”

“No bluster? No demands? No anger? You may as well offer your throat to me. But where is my amusement in that? You don’t even have weapons other than the ornaments in your hair, would you blunt their points against my scales?”

“No.”

“Yet you offer yourself to me, reeking of bland fear, without anger or hope to provide needed spice. How disappointing.”

With this statement the dragon closed its eyes, as if to sleep. Surprised at such dismissal, Gwri gaped in confusion. What was he to do? The only that came to mind was to begin playing, but hardly had he brought finger to string when the dragon, without opening its eyes, commanded.

“Silence. Listen.”

Initially he could hear nothing over the roar of his blood pulsing throughout his body. Almost he questioned, but then he heard something, somewhere beyond the beast. Possibly chimes, but never had the wind played with such skill. Unaware, he took a step forward and then another, each bringing the sound closer, allowing him to recognize it to be a harp that played the intricate, unrecognizable melody. Again and again the same notes repeated, capturing his mind and transporting him away from the dragon’s den.

“Will you play as perfectly?”

Startled, Gwri awoke from his trance and found himself mere steps away from the dragon. Frozen in place, he took a moment to remember what had been asked. He truthfully answered, “Sadly no.”

“Why would I accept anything less than perfection?”

“I could offer variety.” Gwri said, “Does your harpist play anything else?”

“Finally a pinch of pride. Variety does have its draw, particularly for the young, before they learn what makes them happy, content. I am not young.”

“Umm...”

“Maybe in time I will listen, but for now I would sleep. And you would be wise not to disturb me.”

Again the beast’s eyes closed, leaving Gwri to wonder if he dared to play his harp. In the end, he did not give in to temptation and quietly placed it back in its case. Instead a new emotion had taken hold, curiosity. Who was the harp player? How long had he been here? Why did he continually play the same melody over and over?

Carefully, quietly, he stepped backwards, not wanting to wake the sleeping dragon. Near where he first entered, Gwri stepped sideways into the shadows where the cavern’s roof had not fallen. Almost immediately he felt his eye drawn to a glitter, which examination proved to be the broken off tip of a sword’s blade. That proved only the first such piece of metal, for as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw sundered armour, twisted weapons, and tarnished bracers and brooches, all having proven useless to their owners whose broken bones they often still adorned. The fools who had sought, and ultimately failed, to slay the midnight beast.

Slowly Gwri forced his eyes away from expected doom, to continue around the outskirts of the cavern, carefully avoiding the scattered debris so he did not make a noise. Throughout it all, the music continued to play, only its increasing volume telling him he moved closer. Then he spotted the outline of a great harp, almost as tall as he, standing before a stool. Yet he did not see the matching outline of a harpist. Momentarily confused, he soon realized the harp had no harpist. But how?

The answer, unsurprisingly, was magic, but not been cast upon the ornately carved harp. Instead, the magic resided in two slender arms, their graceful fingers plucking at the strings. Arms not attached to any torso and which proved to be hollowed as if they were long gloves. Absentmindedly, he reached fingers out towards the strings, but jerked them away when the dragon spoke.

“Brave or foolhardy, you would be, to pluck a string without my leave. Which are you, pretty Butterfly?”

Recumbent, the beast had been frightening, but now that it stood upon four massive legs it was awe-inspiring. Gwri found his mouth dry as he answered, “Foolishness, Lord Dragon. That, not bravery, guides my steps.”

“Does wisdom approach? And do I care? Maybe, but probably not, for dinner is paramount in my thoughts. Quake not, Butterfly, it is not yet your time.”

With this assurance, the mighty beast leapt into the air and with a flap of its wings burst through the ceiling’s gap into the sky. Childlike wonder caused Gwri to dash forward, looking upwards to watch it quickly disappear from view. Almost immediately his thought turned to escape and he rushed out through the tunnel, even while expecting it would lead nowhere. Soon this proved to be true and he returned first to the cave, where he found himself back at the harp. Again he reached out to a string, yet while the disembodied hands plucked out their masterpiece, he found it to be unyielding to his efforts.

It was obvious what he needed to do, had been from the moment he first studied the harp, surely another of his tormentor’s creations. Gwri sat upon the stool and arranged his skirts for comfort, then reached forth, his hand and arms penetrating the into the long, leather gloves meeting no resistance until his hands felt firmly encased.

No sooner had his fingers slid home then they danced from string, no longer his to control. Disturbed, he pulled back, happy to discover that they slid free of the gloves as easily as they had entered.

Bringing a delicate hand to his face, he felt no surprise how it now looked, how it would seem as if the gloves had been made for him. But changes no longer mattered, only his quest and he doubted not that the harp played a role in his success. If only he could learn to control it. Again he reached forth and lost control of his limbs. This time he did not panic, but allowed himself to caught within the melody, learning the feel of a harp more complicated than any he had ever played. And while his hands moved to someone else’s rhythm, Gwri attempted to convince them to play something else.

Yet every time he tried to impose his will, he failed, until he doubted whether he had ever had the ability to play on his own. Seeking proof, he switched to his own harp, playing a simple tune, repeating it while attempting to embed its notes within his fingers. Again he reached into the gloves.

It worked.

His fingers were not immediately pulled into the harp’s melody and for a moment silence reigned, before he heard his song play. Yet though his desire brought it into being, his hands were once more just along for the ride, no different than if he were stuck in oarless currach as it raced down a speeding river. In ways it increased his appreciation of the magic, for the harp played with a verve and cleanliness that he knew he could not create himself. Curiously he tried to switch back to the prior song and found change as easy as thought, but only those two songs. Thus began a time of switching between the two harps, while he sought to teach the great harp the songs he had planned to play for the dragon. Yet barely had he begun before a shadow blocked the sun, the dragon swooping through the opening to thump down upon the cavern’s floor. Ripping his arms free of the glove’s embrace, Gwri experienced a moment of horrified realization that the harp played a song different from that which had filled the space before the dragon left.

“Variety?” The dragon asked, as it cocked it’s head to listen. “I do not know that I like it.”

At this announcement, the beast lowered his head, snaking it underneath the overhang to peer balefully at Gwri. He in turn froze in place, the sight of fresh blood stains on its snout driving aside the overwhelming stench of death.

“I...I can change it back.”

“Can you? How clever a Butterfly.”

Gwri’s fear made his mind go blank, the dragon’s melody seeming to disappear from his mind. Fortunately, when his fingers slid home into the gloves, they proved to have a memory greater than his own. When the dragon mumbled its satisfaction, he slumped in relief. Though no closer to having achieved his goal, at least he lived. A state which did not change during the following days and with each day he believed he grew him closer to achieving his goal. For whenever the dragon left, he took the opportunity to teach the harp new songs.

And in time the relationship between dragon and human changed. Gwri lost much of his fear at becoming a meal, but he learned the dragon saw him as little more than its pet. For when not sleeping or out hunting food, it liked to talk, mostly about dragons and men, the nobility of the first and the foolishness of the second. It displayed an ego and pettiness as massive as its form. Almost he wished to be free of its arrogance more than he had wanted to be free of the beast-men’s cruelty. Yet in his mind he did not yet feel confident in his ability with the harp and accepted the need to lay the necessary groundwork for his future performance. No longer attempting to hide what he did while the dragon was away. Instead, he did not immediately stop when the dragon returned. Longer and longer he pushed the boundary, until one day he completed an entire song. On the next day, he added words, his voice and harp smoothly melding together. Waiting for a complaint that did not come, Gwri decided to continue.

At that song’s end, he played another. A simple song, the type that would be played while everybody gathered for the evening, unimportant except for setting a mood. Like songs followed, while he watched the dragon who in turn watched him, showing no reaction. In time he performed songs with more weight, including his grandmother’s Raid of Begagha, before singing the Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, then the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and finally The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir.

But while those songs of sorrow could bring tears to the hardest hearted warrior, they had no impact on the dragon. It just watched. When Gwri stopped, exhausted by the chance he had taken and its failure, it said, “Foolishness.”

Then it lowered its head to rest upon wicked claws and slept, leaving Gwri to despair. And for a time he gave up, not even touching the harp when the dragon left on a hunt. All his careful planning, days spent choosing the saddest songs he knew, was for not. He had misjudged. For nothing he had learned, since arriving in its lair, pointed to the dragon being moved by human suffering, which it considered beneath him. Upon realizing this, Gwri knew he needed a new approach.

Now he thought not of the songs taught by his grandmother, instead he remembered those he had learned as a child from other children or since from men away from the company of their women. Songs of humour, often crude, but always cutting towards their subjects. Songs with only the simplest of tunes.

So, when next the dragon returned, Gwri felt ready to attempt another performance. This time he only sang of the uncouth or humourous. Almost immediately he noticed that the dragon’s eyes did not show the expected droop, which led to slumber. During the fifth song, the dragon snorted in laughter at the doings of a druid who had fallen in love with a willow. Then the tale of two suitors, who whiled competing for the hand of the same woman found their attempts at wooing bypassed her and caught the other, actually made it laugh. But it was a story of a king, who through grandiose plans ended up as ruler of nothing more than a midden, which pushed it over the edge.

Now on the death of Queen Divone
Her consort Vaugn arrived
To sit his behind on the throne.
But unlike all who before had thrived.
His taking a seat led to a splinter
Forcing him to until winter.

King Vaugn the Small was not so wise
but knew himself for quite the prize.

...

Looking towards an aged king
Vaughn sought his daughter’s hand
For to last life the king did cling
And once wed Vaughn could take his land.
But when our hero first met his bride
He found her old and rather wide.

King Vaugn the Small was not so wise
but ventured forth with covered eyes.

...

As Gwri sang the many verses in the Luck of King Vaughn the Small, each more foolish than the last, he watched the beast convulse in unsuppressed laughter. He looked into its twinkling eyes, watching for tears of laughter to form, while hoping his voice would last until they did. Finally a drop formed on the edge of each eye and oozed its way down a long snout. As it did, a new worry grew within the singer’s mind. How could he to collect those tears?

Abandoning hope, as he saw first one then the other splash to the ground, he once more stopped.

“Ahh, Butterfly, are you done?”

“Sorry, Lord Dragon, my voice was about to break.”

“Just as well, variety kept me from my nap, I would rather it not keep me from my next meal.”

When it took off to seek that meal, Gwri hurried forward to where it had lay and scrambled about on his knees, until he saw the sun sparkle upon the ground. There he spotted a circle where a tear had fallen, but when he reached out a finger to touch, he did not feel moisture, instead something stuck to his finger. Held close to his face, he saw a tiny perfectly formed circle of green glass. So clear and delicate he worried that it would break. Thus, he took his water pouch, filled from a spring trickling through the cave, and after a long drink, dropped the tear inside with the hope it would not dissolve. Now he searched for the second tear, finding it only a pace away from the first. Soon it joined its twin inside the pouch.

There was no time to waste. Gathering his gear, Gwri trotted to and through the tunnel, where he found the trail returned. He did not even think as he set foot upon it and allowed it to take him wherever it may.

While he walked, he thought he heard a faint shout from the dragon. Almost he though it shouted, “Butterfly.” But he probably heard wrong, just as he probably was wrong to think it sounded lonely.

Notes: The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir are known as the Three Sorrows of Storytelling. Links to them are as follows:

Exile of the Sons of Uisliu é Deirdre of the Sorrows - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/usnech.html
Death of the Children of Tuireann - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/turenn.html
The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/lir.html

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 8 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

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Posted by author(s)

Part 8 of 10

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 8 of 10

by Arcie Emm

A Smith Speaks

he two perfectly formed circles floated upon the surface of the bowl into which Gwri had emptied his water pouch, the afternoon light twinkling off of each. So perfectly formed, yet so perfectly useless.

“What are they for, Fin?”

Gwri’s warden looked up from the bowl when he answered, “They’re to help with the phoenix.”

Surprised that, for the first time, Fin offered an answer, Gwri asked, “How?”

“You know, I wasn’t always someone to hide away from the world.” The smith said, turning his gaze back to the tears floating in the bowl. “Once I was a smith in a village probably little different than your own. I was respected and I was loved.”

He paused, looking deeply into the bowl, almost as if he could scry that past. In turn, Gwri said nothing, not wanting to interrupt the man’s thoughts or chase them away before they could be spoken.

“Her name was Lavena. She was beautiful and when she accepted my hand, she made my world whole, introduced me to a joy I never believed possible. And then she made it greater, when she gave me our son, Eghan. It was......wonderful. Perfect. Maybe that is why it could not last.

“I hated to be gone from them, but I had duties, responsibilities. I was a respected man, the village relied upon me and I served it well. Just as my family grew with my daughter, Cara, so did the village grow, until it became difficult for me to keep up with the demands upon my skill. There was no time to cut my own lumber, to fire my own charcoal. And so one day, I traveled to the neighbouring village and talked to their smith, who told me of the charcoal burners who supplied him. With his directions, I went into the woods and reached a similar agreement. But it was late by the time we finished and they convinced me of the dangers in the forest at night, offering their floor upon which I bedded down to sleep.

“I awoke to a feeling guilty, for Lavena had expected my return the day before. Therefore, I tarried not for breakfast, but immediately began my journey. My only stop was at Widow Brangaine’s, known as the finest dressmaker in the region, and from her I brought a blue dress. It was pretty. I hoped Lavena would forgive my absence when I gave it to her.”

Gwri looked downwards at what he wore, nervous speculation growing within his stomach at what was about to come.

“Arlan met me on the road. He was my friend and saw my approach as he tended his fields. Immediately I knew something was wrong, for he greeted me not in his normal fashion, instead his eyes would not meet mine. He spoke of a fire at my forge during the night and how it must have spread to my nearby home before anybody noticed. He told me how sorry he was, asked if he could do anything to help.”

Now Fin looked directly at Gwri with incredibly sad eyes, but ones that had already shed all their tears. “I was broken. I did not finish my journey home, for home and those I held dear no longer existed. I turned away and walked, eaten by my guilt at not having been there when they needed me most. For not ensuring the forge was safe before I left. For their deaths. Aimlessly I wandered. For how long? I do not know, for it proved to be a time where nothing mattered. But it could not last forever, I could only relive my mistakes so many times before I questioned them. As much as I chastised myself for the forge, part of me knew that I had done nothing wrong, that I had left it safe. I did not cause the fire.”

Fin did not question when he said this, the statement held a conviction of truth. Almost it seemed he challenged Gwri. “I believe you, Fin.”

“A need to know the truth wedged itself into my mind between my grief and my guilt. While I found myself in this state, he came to me with an offer to help learn the truth.

“The Goban Saor?”

“Aye, though at the time I knew him only as a man who offered me a chance at answers. Maybe if I had known the truth, it would have been different, but I doubt it. Above all else, the Goban Saor is skilled at offering what men desire most. For me I needed answers and those he offered to help find. He made me believe in him, probably because he never denied how difficult it would be to find those answer. Almost impossible he said, yet he sold me a dream. that of the phoenix.”

Gwri nodded in bewilderment, realizing a response was expected, but not knowing what to say.

“Have you ever wondered why the phoenix is locked in a never ending cycle of fiery death and rebirth? Because it was not always the case, in the beginning the phoenix was one of the many songbirds that were drawn to áengus, though greater than all the others. Flying not about his head, but at his side or sometimes even serving as his mount. The phoenix was with him when he tricked his father, the Dagda, into giving him his home in Bráº na Bá³inne, when he slew Lugh Lamfada, and while he searched for Caer, the girl in his dreams.

“And together the two watched over and protected the son of Donn, Lord of the Dead, who asked áengus to raise Diarmuid as his foster-child. áengus and the phoenix nurtured the boy through childhood and offered aid when the young man fled under a geis placed upon him by Grá¡inne, daughter of Cormac mac Airt, who found the handsome young warrior irresistible and wished not to marry the aged Fionn. Many were their trials until áengus brought piece between Fionn and the couple, allowing them to settle at Keshcorran in County Sligo. But neither step-father nor phoenix were present when Diarmuid joined Fionn in a boar hunt upon Ben Bulben and so the prophecy that Donn`s son would be killed by a boar came to pass. All the two found when they arrived was Diarmuid`s corpse, which they took home to Bráº na Bá³inne, while the soul returned to its father, Donn.

“Deep was áengus's sorrow at failing to keep his foster-son alive, for in a life devoted to love, Diarmuid held a special place. Questions arose in his mind. Was he not more of a father than Donn could ever be? Why then was the Dark One rewarded while he only had an empty shell? Unable to accept the loss, áengus mounted the phoenix and flew to Tech Duinn, where he confronted Donn, demanding Diarmuid be returned to life. And though in life, the Lord of the Dead had placed his son into the hands of someone so full of life, in death he felt his son belonged with him. Thus he held tightly to what was his and rebuffed both demands and pleas, finally he banished áengus from his island.”

The smith did not have the skill of his grandmother, nor even Gwri, at telling a story, but that did not stop the changeling from being mesmerized by the tale. Not a word did he speak as Fin paused to dip a cup into a pail of water. Emptying the cup, Fin continued.

“However, while speaking to Donn, áengus had noticed the Dark One glance towards a steaming cauldron whenever Diarmuid’s name was mentioned. áengus guessed this vessel held the soul of his foster-son and with diplomacy having failed, he decided to try stealth. In the deepest night, áengus and the phoenix once more flew to Tech Duinn. There they waited and they watched, hoping Donn would wander away from his seat, leaving them free to venture forth and take what they sought. Many days passed, Donn sitting as if a statue upon his throne, before the Dark One’s head swiveled and he looked into the distance. Neither of the watchers heard or saw what drew his attention, but they felt a surge of anticipation when the Lord of the Dead heaved himself to his feet and stomped off in that direction.

“Chance offered, áengus crept from his hiding place and to the Cauldron of Souls. There a lesser man would have been stumped, but áengus came prepared. Looking into the cauldron, with its contents that boiled despite there being no fire under the stand upon which it sat, áengus lifted a chain over his head from his neck. A chain from which hung an iron ring that had long circled the thumb of Diarmuid`s hand. Holding the chain, áengus let the ring drop into the cauldron. Immediately it took on a glow as it attracted the essence of its owner. When the glowing stopped and the ring was lifted from the murky pool, áengus found it cold to the touch and changed to silver, rather than iron. Satisfied he draped the chain once more around his neck and turned to leave.

“But the cauldron would not give up its bounty so readily. Barely had he turned before he felt the ring being pulled towards the cauldron. As the ring upon its chain was pulled, so to was the thief. Unable to leave with his prize, but unwilling to leave without it, áengus allowed himself to be pulled in the direction of the cauldron. Pulled within a pace, he kicked its stand out from beneath the cauldron, spilling many lifetimes of souls onto the floor.

“Suddenly áengus realized what he had wrought in his grief. Like a naughty child, embarrassment caused him to flee to where the phoenix waited, seeking escape. However, Donn was drawn by the sound of the cauldron’s crash. Outraged at the desecration, he spotted the phoenix climbing into the air, though he did not see áengus upon its back. And so he called forth to the seas surrounding his island to rise into a mighty storm. Caught in the winds and the rains of the storm, the phoenix and its rider were pummeled from all sides, until áengus was ripped from his seat to plummet towards the seas. Just before he splashed down, he rescued himself by turning into a swan and in this form he rode out the storm, upon its giant waves, and then took flight for Bráº na Bá³inne. There he placed the silver ring upon the thumb of Diarmuid’s corpse and once more he heard his foster-son speak.”

Gwri had heard the stories of Diarmuid many times before, including those that included áengus, but never the version told by Fin. Still their end was not the end that interested him, one question remained. “Fin, what happened to the phoenix?”

“Ah yes, the phoenix. Not being a bird of the seas, it flew towards the nearest land when separated from áengus. Unfortunately, that was Tech Duinn, where waited the Dark One, who imprisoned it while he contemplated cruel punishment. For with the cauldron of souls cracked from its fall, he no longer had a vessel, beyond himself, to hold the deaths he gathered. And strong willed though he was, Donn already staggered beneath the weight of those he had rescued from the broken cauldron, never mind the continuous flow of new despair.

“He decided it was only right that the trespasser, who he believed to have done the damage, should help him carry the load. Therefore, Donn climbed to the top of the highest tower in Tech Duinn, where the phoenix roosted, a shackle about its leg. One after another he fed it the deaths that he had rescued. Slowly its beautiful plumage lost its lustre and colour, becoming dull and colourless, since the bird who had only known beauty and joy was unable to understand the sorrow cascading down upon it. The songs that it had once sung were washed away by a tide of sorrow. Finally it could no longer accept anymore anguish and its heart burst. However, Donn would not accept its death.

“What he had been unwilling to do for Diarmuid, Donn now attempted to force upon the phoenix. Finding its broken body unable to hold onto its being, he summoned forth a conflagration to consume the carcass, until all that remained were numerous eggs scattered about the perch where it had once roosted. If someone were to have counted, they would have found one hen, sized egg of smoky grey translucence for each death it had consumed. They also would have seen one other egg, much larger and glowing with an internal fire that grew steadily brighter before it shattered. For a moment, the phoenix reborn appeared as glorious as ever, its song bursting forth in hopeful renewal.

“Some say that hope can be the most cruel of emotions, since it so often toys with its owners. However, if you have ever been without it, you will that its absence is worse. The phoenix shows the truth behind this, cruel though Donn’s ongoing punishment towards the bird may be, how much worse would it be if at every rebirth it did not hope that things would this time be better?”

“But doesn’t Donn know the truth?” Gwri asked. “That áengus, not the phoenix, broke the cauldron?”

“Probably.”

“Why does he continue to punish it? Why hasn’t áengus done something.”

“The Dark One probably no longer sees it as punishment, for it serves him well, gathering the dead. As for áengus, never forget that the friendship of our betters means more to us than it does to them.”

Gwri nodded at this truth. Even in wanting to believe in a god like áengus, who championed beauty and youth, he could not deny that other tales hinted at someone whose temper readily changed. Nervous at the expected answer to his next questioned, “So I need to rescue the phoenix?”

Fin initial answer was a snort. “Hardly. No, I expect you’re to claim your dead. For you alone cannot pull off your masquerade.”

“And the dragon’s tears?

“In birth and death the phoenix burns as brightly as the afternoon’s sun. To look upon it during this time is to look upon the last thing you would ever see. But a dragon is also a creature of fire, its flame burns just as brightly, and with its tears so to will you be protected.”

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 9 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 9 of 10

Phoenix eggs;
On his knees áengus did beg
and for the sake of kinship
‘pon friendship he would renege

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 9 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Phoenix eggs;
On his knees áengus did beg
and for the sake of kinship
‘pon friendship he would renege

arely did they bother him. Although at times, when he thought about the dragon’s tears, his long lashes would flutter, though not in the manner of a flirt, instead it seemed he tried to stave off a nervous tick. However, Gwri’s initial thoughts when he learned what he was to do with the tears had been unease. something that had taken the rest of the day to overcome. Even then, he needed Fin’s help. The smith’s gentle strength overcoming Gwri’s squeamishness, as the two tears fell into place like drops of rain. He felt no discomfort, no sudden burst of unnatural sight, the only impact was to turn his eyes a brilliant green and to fill his mind with the knowledge of their presence.

Actually the unease proved less than the distaste he felt at wearing a dead woman’s dress. A feeling that caused him to search through the packs of his sleeping friends, finding a tunic and trousers within Con’s that somewhat fit. Once clothed, it seemed wrong to continue his delay. And so a four nights after Fin had told his tale, Gwri said, “I think it’s time. Tomorrow morning I will head out.”

“What’s your plan?” Fin asked.

“I really don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m getting into, nor how to find the proper eggs even if I have the chance. I guess, like áengus and the storms, I have just grown used to riding out the waves. Knowing my luck, this is the one that will drown me.”

“Well I have confidence in you.”

“It`s good that someone does.”

“In fact...ahh, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“Well I don’t really have the right to ask. Not after what I’ve helped do to you.”

Gwri had no need to be told what was on the smith’s mind and since he no longer blamed the man, he said, “If I can, Fin, I’ll try to return with your dead as well as mine. But I cannot promise.”

The smith looked downwards at the offer, hiding his face. But he gave a quick nod and in a hushed tone said, “Thank you, Gwri”

The two did not speak of the matter again, neither that evening nor over breakfast in the morning. Nor did they discuss the seeming hopelessness of the verse’s task. In fact they spoke little, though Gwri did leave with a deeply felt, “Good luck.”

Where his journey to the dragon’s den had been filled with dark humour, this one was quite different. Maybe it was because the end, be it good or bad, seemed attainable. Possibly it was the sorrow of the smith’s and the phoenix’s tale, which caused his own to pale in comparison. Or more likely the hope each felt despite those sorrows. Very likely it had nothing to do with anything other than it being a beautiful summer day, the type he had always enjoyed. Not the type of day one associated with going to Tech Duinn. Yet it was a day to enjoy and Gwri took the opportunity to do so. Only when he smelled the sea did he begin to wonder how the Goban Saor planned to get him to the Island of the Dead.

Before that answer became needed, the path led him to and along side a river, which also descended from the mountain. Over a stone’s throw wide, it held not the eagerness of winter’s melt, but still flowed with a speed that made it dangerous. Guessing the river emptied into the sea, Gwri followed until its murmur turned into a roar as it cascaded over the edge of high cliff into the sea below. For a time, he stared at the majestic sight, wondering how to continue.

No option existed but to stay upon the Goban Saor’s path, trusting in it. A trust sorely tested when the path dropped over the edge of the cliff face, down onto a ledge that circled behind the curtain of water. Carefully Gwri lowered himself to the stone, fearing that errant splatter from the falls made it slippery, before he moved behind the waterfall and spotted narrow steps cut into the stone wall. Weaving back and forth, he slowly made his way to the bottom where waited a cave, the sun’s rays passing through the water to bathe it in a gentle blue glow.

Exploration found the trail led into a tunnel at the back of the cave. Knowing the Goban Saor’s penchant for tunnels Gwri suspected he had found his route to Tech Duinn. However, he decided not yet to proceed. Instead, with the descent soaking him to the skin, his attention was drawn to a stack of wood. Seeing the opportunity to dry his clothing, Gwri started a fire and waited for the morrow.

Later, while wrapped in his blanket as his clothes lay beside the fire, he tracked the sun’s descent upon the curtain of water and the moon’s rise. The hypnotic sound of its noise, less of a roar when behind and below than it had been above and beside, lulling him into sleep.

Night still reigned when he awoke, only embers from the fire providing a sullen red highlight against the dark. Embers he stirred into awareness with a log that soon offered itself up in flame for light and warmth, allowing him to drop the blanket and pull on his still damp clothing. Dressed, he broke his fast and prepared three torches, thrusting the first into the fire and setting it ablaze.

With the torch held above his head, Gwri moved into the tunnel. Remembering the danger at the end of the tunnels in which he had gathered honey for the comb and captured a dragon’s tears, he was surprised at his lack of nervousness.

Switching to his second torch, he wondered if three would be enough, but soon after Gwri reached his destination. A stone wall with metal rungs embedded into leading to a wooden trapdoor in the roof overhead. Now fear made itself felt, as he realized he planned to steal from the Dark One, the thing that had led to the phoenix’s horrific punishment. If caught, he doubted fate would show him the same kindness shown to áengus.

At the same moment, Gwri realized that the fear would not stop him from climbing those rungs and opening the trapdoor. So placing his torch in a bracket mounted on the wall, he climbed until he could press his ear against the wooden door. However, he heard nothing through the thick planks. He raised a hand above his head, pushing up on a corner of the door and perched on his toes to peek through the crack. From what he could see, little more than flagstones and what appeared to be barrels, he guessed the trapdoor opened into a storeroom. Additional furtive looks did nothing to change his initial suspicion.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly lifted the trapdoor and slid it onto the floor, careful to make as little sound as possible. When the opening was exposed, Gwri reached with both hands to grab ahold of the its sides and heave himself through, twisting to sit on the floor while his legs still dangled below.

His actions were met by someone clapping behind him.

Spinning towards the sound, Gwri spotted a man sitting upon one of the barrel, watching with an amused expression on his face. A large man dressed in brown clothing of exceptional quality, his brown hair and beard were perfectly trimmed. And though the watcher appeared in the prime of his live, he had an ageless quality about him. Gwri knew he looked upon Donn, the Dark One. Guilt at such early discovery made him flush in embarrassment and stammer out an apology.

“Worry not or at least worry less. I know you are no more to blame for being here than would be a puppet. The Goban Saor would not have spent years digging the tunnel if he had not expected it to be used. No reason capture would alter his plans.”

“Lord Donn?” Gwri asked in confusion.

“Your puppet-master had no better luck in arriving undetected than did you, for I guard my home more carefully than I did in the past. And when I met him here, just as I met you, he did not hesitate to tell me his plans.”

“You knew I was coming?”

“Better to say I suspected someone would come, though not specifically who, Gwri of Mullinglas. Still I had little doubt that the Goban Saor, after the troubles he experienced in preparation for this escapade, would coerce someone into helping him against Brarn. Particularly after he realized I hold my own grievance with the reaver and the Morrigu’s geis, under which he lives. It has allowed Brarn to escape from my domain, no matter how often he should have been died.”

Gwri felt a moment of hope at this pronouncement, but just as quickly it dampened with doubt things could be so easy. However, Donn must have noticed the hope flare.

“So I took that into consideration when negotiating a fitting punishment for his trespass. He agreed to serve me from the time of his capture until Samhain until Bealtaine and then to Samhain again. But since I have already admitted your crime is less than his, to you I present a lesser punishment, to serve me from now until Samhain and then until Bealtaine.”

“What would you have me do?” Gwri asked, almost forgetting what little choice he had in the matter.

“I doubt you have the skills of your patron, who built me a great hall during his captivity.” Donn said, not waiting for an answer. “Before seeing you, I suspected it was his masterpiece. He truly is skilled beyond all other craftsmen, for even in those rags you are quite magnificent to look upon. Frown not, I know the truth behind your guise, lovely though it may be. And so, for you, I have a different task.”

***

ike uncounted times since his arrival upon Tech Duinn, Gwri awoke in the simple chamber he called his own. Uncounted because time moved strangely on the Island of the Dead, having a rhythm to which he had slowly grown accustomed. So he sensed, but did not know, he had plenty of time to get ready. Which was proven by the wait for a knock on the door. An escort was the one thing to mark those who were prisoners, amongst all who moved throughout the halls of Donn’s cavernous fortress.

The people surprised Gwri the most. From stories heard, the Dark One’s home always matched this appellation, barren and dark, empty and gloomy. However, while Donn held dominion over the dead, his demesne also consisted of the entire island and a mighty fortress, which he kept sparsely populated through deals. Similar to those he had with the Goban Saor or Gwri, though normally an agreement initiated by the other party, those at death’s door.

When meeting one of Donn`s subjects, he found it possible to speculate why he answered their plea. Invariably each was a great warrior, a skilled craftsman, a brilliant bard, or any such person who enriched Tech Duinn. But the deals each had struck were unknown, never to be spoken.

Despite his status as a prisoner, the knock upon his door was courteous, as was the warrior who waited on the other side to guide him to his destination. A walk he could have made on his own, for it always led to the same place, the great hall that Donn had spoken of during first meeting, the hall built by the Goban Saor during his imprisonment.

Every time Gwri walked through its doors he found himself stopping to stare. As Donn had said, it was a masterpiece, besides which the great hall in Lisdarrow appeared seemed fit only for hogs. Shaped into a circle, a large man took one hundred and sixty two steps to cross from one side to the other, stepping between twelve concentric rings of marble, from purest white through darker shades until he reached a circle of red and then back across those same colours in reverse. The walls, the same stone as the outer ring, rose beyond sight and held nine windows, each as tall as the highest tree, inviting in light while keeping out rain with giant sheets of glass. And in the second ring were nine round pillars of stone to match, carved vines of ivy twisting around each and topped by another ring reached via metal stairs spiralling about the tower between wall and pillar. If one climbed to the top of those stairs, they would find two marble rings, which mimicked those upon the floor below, with nine pillars thrusting higher, stairs circling about to take someone to the next level. Seven more times this would be repeated, until the entire structure ended with a red platform, where the phoenix roosted.

Few of those who populated the hall, be they deep in conversation, eating from a table flowing with the Dark One’s bounty, or dancing to music played by a harpist whose skill Gwri could only imagine owning, would ever climb to the top. Instead they happily celebrated the moment, ignoring both the future and the past in a way possible only to those who seen their own end. In the Hall of Death, the prevailing emotion was joy.

However, scattered about the hall were figures dressed in red gowns, they had been to the top of the tower, had seen the phoenix. Every one of them was beautiful and the celebration of the now swirled about them, in their laughter and on the dance floor where they gracefully twirled about. For them, a single blemish in their appearance was allowed, a blemish that enhanced rather than diminished. A strip of red lace, tied end to end underneath their long hair, covered each pair of eyes. Sometimes, it signified they accepted the risk of looking upon ultimate sorrow. Other times, the wearer had already looked upon it, their masks hid not vibrant colour, but sightless eyes of milky white. They were the Maidens of the Phoenix, who climbed the stairs and gathered the dead spilled by Donn’s vessel when it burst into renewal.

Only a moment was Gwri allowed to look before he noticed Donn approach and offer an arm. Short was the pause before Gwri reached out to take it with both of his hands, allowing the man to escort him, the skirts of his red gown gracefully swaying as they moved to the fifth ring to join the rest of the dancers.

In time, Gwri`s smile became less wooden, swept up by the enthusiasm of those around him. It always happened, alone he could brood upon his existence as pretty maiden who danced with men, but within Donn`s great hall, surrounded by those who celebrated the moment, he could not help but be caught within its thrall. Noticing the thaw, Donn’s own smile grew larger, as he spun Gwri into the next dance. Three more songs played before the end of the last found them at the foot of stairs, leading into the tower.

Letting go of Gwri’s waist, Donn stepped backwards, offered a bow, and said, “Careful, war is afoot.”

Watching the Dark One walk into the crowd, choosing his next maiden, Gwri placed a foot upon the first stair to begin his ascent. As he climbed, he thought on the offered warning. It, along with the similar one concerning sickness and plague, always made a maiden nervous. Both meant death came more frequently, which increased the chance she would be caught by the phoenix`s demise. During his time in Tech Duinn, one maiden had experienced that fate and sometimes, when alone in his chamber, he found himself reliving the sounds of her shrieks, as she had been helped from the tower. Her return to the fold, somehow as able as before, offered little comfort.

The climb was long and boring. Gwri always tried to count the steps, but as always lost count. He studied the pillars on each level, many carved by a whimsical mind, but he had studied them before. He wondered why he never grew tired on the long climb, but felt glad it was true.

On the final ring, just before the phoenix’s platform, he found an attendant waiting. Who weaved baskets from reeds and filled them with straw, preparing for eggs to be gathered and carried away. Taking one of the baskets, Gwri’s unease grew as he recognized the maiden who had been blinded during his stay. Not unusual, since the blind always acted as attendants, both to give them a task and to serve as reminder about what waited on the next level. Still...

With basket in hand, Gwri mounted the last flight of stairs. His pace no different than during the entire climb until he reached eye-level with the platform. Like all the Maidens of the Phoenix, his sight was immediately drawn to the bird.

Never had he seen it in such dire straits. It seemed smaller, with plumage was a dull as dirt and its eyes, which usually followed him like a watching hawk, drooped shut. Gwri knew he had little time to collect the eggs scattered about the platform and place them in his basket. Yet he could not rush, for despite their surprising firmness, he wished not to break one of the smoky eggs and earn a punishment unknown. Turning to look at the phoenix, whenever he placed egg into basket, his anxiety grew greater. Believing himself finished he hurried towards the stairs, turning to look one more time.

What he saw dismayed him.

On the other side of the platform, near its edge, rested a single egg. One he had missed. Tempted to ignore it, he wondered if it were a test. Deciding he could not chance it, Gwri scurried across to pick up the lone egg and place it with the others. He turned and saw the phoenix looked towards him, a look that almost begged forgiveness in its eyes.

Gwri wondered why he did not burn? Was the flame too hot to feel? He braced for the pain, but it did not come.

Then reason reminded him that the other maiden, the one who waited below, had not suffered burns from her exposure to the phoenix’s flame, only the loss of sight. He opened his eyes, but they were already open, seeing nothing. Almost it seemed as if the spots that appeared whenever he looked towards the sun had claimed his entire vision. Feeling objects, doubtless newly created eggs, bouncing off of him, he realized the dragon’s tears had failed. And with their failure, he thought all had failed. All that he had experienced in this crazy adventure was for naught.

“Sister? Sister? Are you okay?”

Turning towards the sound, he at first saw nothing. But slowly a shape appeared, causing him to close and reopen his eyes. Now he saw the red of his colleague’s dress, but not until after more blinks did he see her, an expression of concern on her lovely face.

“I can see? I can see.”

“But how?”

Unsure how to answer the question, asked in tone both of wonder and anger, Gwri focussed upon a glowing egg, unlike all the others. Anticipation grew as cracks appeared and then in a burst.

The phoenix had returned.

Gorgeous in a way unimagined. In that moment, even before it burst into wondrous song, Gwri accepted all indignities he had endured. To live that moment, he would willingly experience anything.

“It is beautiful.” The blind maiden said, though only able only to hear the song.

“Yes, sister, it is.”

But the spark already dimmed. Wishing to keep the image and song in his mind, Gwri decided to let someone else could collect the new bounty of souls. So he linked a red sleeved arm with his own and together the two maidens descended to the first landing where they shared a moment of awed silence.

Finally the other maiden said, “You should go.”

Nodding his head, though she could not see, Gwri let go of her arm and started his descent. One slower than his climb, for he still felt caught in the wonder of renewed sight. Frequent were his pauses whenever he discovered something previously unseen in the Goban Saor’s carvings. And when he reached the bottom, he was almost overwhelmed by the appearance of the revelers. They were beautiful, both the women and the men, and they were so alive. He could not help but smile his joy. A smile answered by each person he passed in his walk to the door, where the warrior waited to escort him as he delivered his basket.

This led them to another door, through which Gwri entered to be met by another waiting attendant. After he handed her the basket, he found himself following as she moved into the giant storage room, walking between rows of shelving. Every so often the maiden would stop to stand one of the eggs from the basket, the fat end down, upon a hole drilled into the shelves. Almost he asked how she knew where each egg belonged, but stopped when he realized it was knowledge he did not wish to own. Instead he silently followed, sensing she lead him somewhere.

The basket was nearly empty when the maiden reached a section far from the door. However, when she continued onward, Gwri did go with her. He felt drawn towards the section of shelving upon which he had last seen her place an last egg.

“So it is time to claim your dead.” Donn asked, appearing from the dark with a basket in his hand.

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly. You have served me well, but we struck a bargain, one you ably fulfilled. Now it is my turn.”

With unerring judgment, the Dark One moved along the shelf, choosing individual eggs from amongst the many, including the last one placed. Finished, he handed the full basket to Gwri and said, “Without their bodies, they will be yours only for a short time before returning to me. But that time should be enough. And this, take it for your friend, the smith.”

This was a pouch, in which Gwri felt a single egg. Placing Fin’s dead in the basket with his own, he said, “Thank you, Lord Donn.”

The Dark One smiled his smile and said, “I look forward to when we next meet.”

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 10 of 10

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Blackmail

TG Elements:

Other Keywords:

Slow Transformation

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Part 10 of 10

His tasks completed, Gwri now is only left to face his dead and those upon who he would seek their revenge.

The Transformation of Gwri - Part 10 of 10

by Arcie Emm

Bealtaine

omething felt wrong. Gwri sensed it before he stepped onto the plateau where Fin’s home stood. A silence greater than the norm, even here where birds rarely roosted. Even the stable appeared empty. Again he wished for a sword or spear in hand as he carefully crept forward to look inside. He saw no horses, nor did it appear to have recently housed any within.

From the stable, he made for the hut, finding it empty. Though not unusual, Gwri suspected something was not right and searched for a weapon. However, the wall against which Fin leaned his spears was bare. He exchanged his basket for a knife from the table, good for little more than cutting bread or cheese, before he stepped through the blanket covered opening. As he crept downwards to the forge he hoped to hear the sounds of Fin working. Yet no noise rose to greet him, for it too was empty.

Nobody was there.

Not the smith, nor any of Gwri’s three friends. He did not even see the reeds upon which they had slept the long sleep of the fae. But why? What mischief were the Goban Saor and his minion up to now? What had they done to his friends?

With no clues as to the men’s whereabouts in the forge, Gwri returned above ground. Unlike moments earlier, this time he noticed the contents of the room not just the lack of occupants. It seemed different. Though everything appeared in place, with nothing new, it somehow felt more lived in. While pondering this mystery, a flash of green at the corner of his eye drew his attention. There, upon the pallet that he had claimed as his own, lay the green dress that once belonged to Queen Donella. Beside it lay the golden belt and white shift, all ready for someone to don.

In that moment all mystery disappeared. Gwri remembered the terms of his punishment meant he would serve Donn until Bealtaine. And during Bealtaine he long had expected to masquerade as the day’s fairest queen, bait to draw the attention of Brarn. Hopefully to be taken by him and when alone, utilizing surprise and relying upon the chink in the armour offered by the geis Morrigu had placed upon Brarn, claim revenge for all of the reaver’s victims. But a Bealtaine queen could not exist by herself, so Gwri had ventured to Tech Duinn. She also needed her village, so while Gwri sought its inhabitants, Fin’s assignment required him to build a village in which they would wait for the crew of the Dáoltas. Doubtlessly, the others were drafted to complete the building in time for Gwri’s return.

Had he finally reached the end?

It never had seemed impossible that he would even get this far, yet chance and fortune had led him to a point unreachable if he relied only upon skill and forethought. Still with all he had experienced, he had only reached the end of the preparation. Now was the time to determine if those preparations had been wasted, to see if he succeeded, and if that lead to happiness? Clearing away those thoughts, Gwri remembered his lessons of Tech Duinn. Too easily could the importance of now shrink when compared to the past that lurked in one’s mind or the future that beckoned one into the murky unknown.

Taking off his trousers and tunic of a better quality and fit than those he had worn when caught by the Dark One, he changed into the green dress, wrapping the golden belt about his small waist. He found the comb from his first adventure, removed the butterflies, and brushed his long honey coloured hair until it gleamed. Finished, he swept the hair out of his face and pinned the strands into place with the ornaments, ensuring they would not snag if given the chance to use them for their intended purpose. All of this he did without thought, for Gwri had not only learned to live in the now while serving as a Maiden of the Phoenix, in time he adopted the habits and learned the mannerisms that made him a match for any. With this had come acceptance, even pride of his place amongst the other beauties. As a result, his being had been molded to better match the molding of his form.

Ready for his performance, Gwri waited outside for the arrival of Fin or Con or either of the brothers. But none of them appeared, causing him to wonder if he had misread the purpose of the clothing upon the pallet. As the sun set, he spotted flames in the distance and realized that the fires of Bealtaine waited. Collecting his basket of souls from inside he set foot, one final time, upon the trail that had guided his steps for so long, an eager readiness infusing his thoughts. His pace quickened as he neared the fires and saw a figure highlighted by the flames.

“Fin.”

The smith turned at the call, staring in shock. No less than Gwri’s own. Despite the grey in his hair, Fin always seemed to have an ageless quality about him. A solidness that placed the smith in the prime of his life. No more was this the case. Grey hair had turned to white, sturdy muscles had shrunk, and a straight back had bent.

“How?”

“Gwri, is it really you? I had almost lost hope. You were gone so long.”

As the awful truth, behind the strange flow of time on the Island of the Dead, filled his thoughts, Gwri asked, “How long have I been gone?”

“I don’t know. Years? You left so long ago. What happened to you? We thought you had failed.”

“I was at Tech Duinn, serving Donn. It did not seem to be years to me? But you said we, where are the others; Con, Tanguy, and Sloan?”

“They’ve been gone for years as well. When last you left, the Goban Saor came and awoke them. Lucky for me, because they directed their wrath at him rather than me. He told them that they needed to help me build a village for your return. We did, over there.”

Looking out into the darkness at which Fin pointed, Gwri saw nothing. Instead he asked, “Will they be joining us?”

“When you did not come that first year, they returned to your village. For a time, at each Bealtaine, they would appear. Then one year, only the brothers came, saying Con was too sick to travel. But they never believed, they didn’t need to believe. Since then I have conducted these vigils alone.”

Gwri took a moment to understand what Fin did not say. His head lowered, his gaze going to the interior of the basket, as he wondered who he had claimed.

“Did you succeed?” Fin asked, a hint of excitement entering his voice, warring with the confusion of moment’s past.

The question served as a welcome distraction. It gave Gwri a chance to ignore his building grief, to focus on another that had never grown stale. So he reached into the basket for the pouch Donn had offered as his final act and held it out to the smith. Barely able to see the hopeful look on the man’s face, because of his own building tears, Gwri said, “I succeeded.”

Fin stared at the pouch, wondering if it truly held the long sought answer to the demon’s that almost drove him mad. Looking from it to Gwri, seeing a nod of a lovely head, he slowly reached out, gently taking the pouch, and holding it to his chest. Yet though his heart demanded he look inside, he did not. He waited.

“Go, Fin. We each have our own past we need to face. Better to do it on our own.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

No more words did the share, though Gwri watched the smith’s back until it disappeared up the trail. He momentarily wondered what the man would learn, but his own past beckoned. Again he reached into the basket, his hand unerringly finding the egg that marked his freedom from Tech Duinn. Cupping it in a hand he hesitated, then with a deep breath Gwri tossed it into the fire at his right.

It never landed. As the egg flew, the fire`s flames reached out in caress. The shell glowed, cracked, and burst. Allowing the smoke inside to roll out and dance with that from the Bealtaine fire. And when the smoke from the fire of life coupled with that of death, the two birthed a ghostly figure who quickly became real.

Sloan landed on the far side of the fire, almost as if he had just completed a jump made many times during Bealtaine festivals. Hale, younger than when he had journeyed from Mullinglas, though not the youth who had escaped Brarn’s net, he turned a smile unlike his normal glower towards Gwri. Who in turn found himself smiling back and reaching for more eggs. One went into the left fire, then into the right, again to the left, and finally to the right. Beside Sloan now stood Tanguy and Nareene and Con and his grandmother, Keelin.

Though more eggs remained, Gwri stopped. Their time would come, but these five were his own, while the rest were theirs. He needed his moment, which started when Keelin wrapped her arms around him and allowed him to cry on her shoulder.

***

oo long had he been alone. Even when with others, be it Fin or Ann or Aife or any of Donn’s court, he had not been with those he loved and who loved him in turn. And though his heart threatened to break, because after this night that would never again be possible, Gwri smiled. He laughed at the jokes of the ghosts with whom he celebrated Bealtaine Eve, he joined in their songs, he blushed at praises to his beauty, and accepted offers of dance from those who gave the praise. And in moments of silence, he sat with friends and shared. He met his mother, he met his father, and when he saw how much they loved each other he took little of the time they would share with the other.

Yet in that time together he learned if he had been born a girl, they would have named him Oriana. In that moment he was reborn. Always he would be Gwri, but now he accepted, just as all his loved ones seemed to accept, that he was no longer only Gwri. An acceptance born from their knowledge about the journey he had traveled, even though he did not speak of it.

In truth, it was Oriana that left the burnt out fires in the morning with the villagers on the trip towards the buildings that would temporarily be their home. It was Oriana who walked beside Berta, each with an arm around the other’s waist. It was Oriana’s head upon which Kentigem placed a crown he had weaved from spring flowers. And it was Oriana who waited in the village centre, with five other lovely maidens, all the others surrounding them in a protective cocoon that everybody expected to soon be sundered.

It was Gwri who saw six strangers appear in the distance, walking unhurriedly forward.

As they approached, he studied them. Each was larger than the largest man he had ever met, but none moved with his awkwardness. They owned a grace that made a mockery of his own deadly dance with Aife at Leitergort and they knew it. Their handsome faces showed uncaring confidence, as if what they approached a herd of cattle meant for slaughter. Nor did the waiting villagers, each holding a weapon found within the otherwise empty huts, give them pause.

They attacked.

Parley was not part of Dáoltas crew’s vocabulary. They took what they wanted, leaving death and destruction in their wake. Yet never had they fought the dead, who had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Not caring about defense, the dead rushed forward to their doom, seeking with number to pull down one of the reavers. At first the six were stunned by a ferocious counter-attack and soon each bled from a cuts; however, their skill, forged during many battles, and their fearsome weapons proved the difference. Villagers collapsed to the ground, meeting their deaths in the same manner as years before, until only Tanguy and Sloan remained. Soon they too dropped and the six moved forward to capture the six girls.

Hands tied in front , the prisoners marched with their grim captors until they arrived at a shore that should not exist, a large boat pulled onto the beach. There they were lifted aboard, after which they dealt with their wounds before pushing Dáoltas out into the seas, three taking hold of the oars to the right and three the oars to the left. With these they propelled their vessel over the calm seas.

Their silence is what Gwri noticed. No words were spoken, complaints uttered, or prideful boasts proclaimed. Barely did they look at each other or towards the captives. They seemed less lifelike than the girls with whom he was held captive.

At some point he slept and when he opened his eyes he saw dark skies overhead, stars flickering through clouds that floated out of sight. Still they silently rowed.

His next awakening came after the sun had returned to the sky. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gwri rose to look over the edge, drawing only a glance from one of the men. On the horizon he spotted a town, a blockish tower looming overhead, marked with numerous piers thrust out into the water, the largest of which proved to be the Dioltas’ destination.

For the first time, the warriors appeared human, slumping in their seats in exhaustion. But only for a moment, as other people appeared with horses in tow, their posture and face turned again to stone. One one of their number tossed a rope to a man on the dock, who tied their boat in place, which allowed five to climb overboard. The largest remained and he turned towards the waiting captives. One at a time he scooped each them his arms, ignoring protests or squeaks of surprise, and pitched them upwards to be caught by the second largest of his brothers.

First to be so manhandled, Gwri’s face tried to hide his embarrassment at this treatment and the squeak he had allowed to escape. Set upon his feet, he watched his crown, fallen from his head to the bottom of the boat, get crushed beneath the sole of the man’s boot as he finished unloading their prizes from the boat. Joining his brothers, all the reavers finally turned their attention upon the captives.

Almost Gwri wished they leered, like the men with the horses. Instead their eyes roamed over curvaceous forms and beautiful faces in appraisal little different than a trader looking over a potential purchase.

In that moment a horrifying thought entered his mind. What if Brarn did not choose him? To have come so far and not be given a chance to succeed would be worse than having died before he reached this point. So he too studied the men, remembering the story of their naming and trying to determine who was Brarn. Maccus and Calum, the largest and the smallest, were the first he recognized. Then Fiacre and Dewain, the fairest and the darkest. But the two who remained could have blood brothers, rather than only in spirit. Brarn and Brasil, who was who?

Gwri held his breath as one of those two stepped forward and clutched the red haired girl by her upper arm. However, before disappointment could overwhelm he saw the war hammer, strapped to the man’s back, stretching above his head. Four more time he chanced failure until he nearly slumped in relief when the last man, Brarn, stepped forward, took his arm, and led him towards the horses.

With a heave the warrior settled Gwri atop the horse, before climbing behind his prize. Taking reins in one hand, he wrapped the other arm around his Gwri’s waist and held his captive against his chest. He must have felt the tremor this induced, for in a deep voice, he said, “Worry not, Pretty Lady, I am not always a monster.”

No answer formed in Gwri’s mind, so he said nothing. Nor did Brarn speak again before they arrived at the tower.

The tower matched what Gwri had expected of Tech Duinn. Built of dark stone, it perched above the village like a watching crow, an iron clad door of barring entry to anyone who Morrigu’s son wished to keep out. Through this door twelve entered, conquerors and captives, the other men having returned to the village. Dark and foreboding though the outside had appeared, the interior offered little more comfort. They found themselves in a square room meant for cooking, with a blocky table in the middle, a large fireplace, currently unlit, on the far wall, and foodstuff stored along the right wall.

But this room served not as their destination. Brarn, with Gwri in tow, led the five other couples to the bottom of a set of stairs, winding upwards, back and forth, against the wall to the left. Ugly and plain, the climb held nothing of the majesty imbued within the Tower of the Phoenix. But like that tower, the climb passed a number of landings, each holding a door into a single room. Stopped before each, the reavers would clench forearm to forearm with one of their companions, before he would open the door and step through with his bride, allowing the others to continue their climb. First Brasil, then Calum, then Dewain, then Fiacre, and finally Maccus. Only Brarn and Gwri climbed the last flight to find a last landing, entered the last door, and barred it from inside.

The room, slightly smaller than that at the bottom of the tower, proved sparsely furnished, which meant Gwri’s attention was immediately drawn to the bed. But Brarn did not move towards it as he removed his axe from his back and leaned it against the wall, before he sat in the lone chair and gazed at the figure in the green dress. Under this attention Gwri failed to keep himself from fidgeting. This brought something approaching a smile to the man’s face, who twirled his finger. Gwri glared in response, but spun in a slow circle.

As he turned, Gwri found himself wondering how to perform his assassination. Though slumped in the chair, the reaver still had a watchfulness in his eyes and the axe was within easy reach. Nor could Gwri do anything with his wrists still tied together. That he needed to rectify before anything else.

“Will you undo my hands, Lord?”

“Come here.”

As Gwri approached, Brarn pulled a knife from his belt and looked at his captive’s outstretched hands. “And what will you offer in exchange for this favour, Pretty Lady?”

“I, I have nothing.”

“Your dress.”

“Pardon?”

“That is my price in exchange for freeing from your bindings.”

“I doubt it would fit you, Lord?”

Brarn did not react to this quip, he only arched a questioning brow. And as much as Gwri disliked where the offer implied to lead, it was a price he knew he must pay. He nodded his agreement. Taking both of Gwri’s hands in one his own, Brarn slid the blade between each slender wrist and leather thong, to release him. Gwri took a moment to rub his wrists, even though the bindings had left no marks, attempting to build his courage. Not until he saw the humour vacate Brarn’s eyes did he slowly removed his dress, left to stand only in his shift.

Immediately a flush came over the reaver’s face, his gaze leaving his captive’s face to hungrily stare at Gwri’s full breasts, now barely disguised by the thin material of the shift. With a voice more threatening than before, he said, “And the shift, that too.”

The time was now. Gwri found the ribbon at his neck, unknotted it, then pulled the opening wide to display creamy shoulders. Watching a bead of sweat form on the man’s forehead, he steeled his own nerves, and let go. With practiced speed, his hands reached for the combs that decorated his hair. However, he was not quick enough.

With a roar of anger, Brarn exploded from his seat and scooped up his axe to shout. “What foul trickery is this?”

Gwri was not given a chance to answer before that wicked axe hissed through the air to strike at a slender neck. No chance to dodge, yet he did not feel its slash, did not know if he lived or died. So as he watched Brarn wrench around due to the violence of the swing, he felt the wing points of the butterflies bite into his palms. And though Brarn stared for a time at the shards of metal that clanked to the stone floor, when he turned to gape at his expected victim, he saw Gwri waited. Quick as an adder, Gwri struck with his right hand and then with the left hand. Brarn dropped the handle of his axe, to join shards that remained of its shattered head, and clasped hands to sightless eyes as he howled his agony.

Yet it awoke no sympathy within Gwri`s heart. Dropping the dripping hair pins, he reached for the knife that had recently granted him freedom. With it, in turn, he granted Brarn freedom from his geis.

Revenge had been struck.

In wonder, Gwri reached to feel the delicate torc that had apparently saved his life. It had proved the only armour he needed.

His wonder proved short lived, for from the other side of the door came the sound of shouting and a hammer’s thunk against the thick wood. Victory would be short lived. As he accepted that trickery and chance would not save him this time, Gwri clothed himself and waited for Brarn`s brothers to break through the door.

An axe’s blade cut made the first hole, but then a great hammer widened it to allow faces to look through. Faces that grew angrier as they saw their leader dead upon the ground, his own dagger plunged into his chest. Yet just when it seemed the door could only withstand a few more strikes, a voice from behind them said, “What are we going to do? Kill her? Me, I’m glad he’s dead.”

“How can you say that, Brasil. He was our leader, our brother.”

“And his geis held us captive. No more. No longer must we follow the reaver’s road. Have we not already punished those who once held us in chains? Now the only chains that bind are of our own making?”

“But Morrigu, our mother, she...”

“Bah, Morrigu is no more our mother than an archer is to his arrow. She fired us at her target and forgot we existed. I no longer will be her arrow.”

Brasil’s words rang truly amongst his brothers. All of whom were tired of death, of each other, of life. As individuals, they turned from the damaged door and descended the stairs. Some stopped in their rooms, empty now that their newest brides had returned to Donn’s realm, to sleep or to be alone. Other continued to the bottom, out into the village, where waited a prior bride he had always loved.

The Goban Saor

itting cross-legged upon the bed, Gwri decided success felt empty. Too much of himself had he given for revenge that did not matter. It did not bring his parent`s back life, nor had his Grandmother lived to see it, instead they had only lost all their time together. And he had lost himself.

Who was he now? No longer was he Gwri, but neither could he be Oriana, for he did not know her.

What would he do? He had given up his past in the pursuit of this meaningless vengeance. And without a past, how could he make a future?

He found himself wondering if it would have been better to fail. To have convinced him to step over the edge of the cliff, to have not let what no longer existed stop his plunge.

It was from this contemplation that the sound of knocking distracted him. Expecting the return of one of Brarn’s brothers, Gwri was surprised to see the face of a handsome young man through the hole in the door, mischievous eyes twinkling at what he saw.

“Want to let me in?”

Gwri did not know whether to scream or to yank the knife from Brarn’s chest and attack the new arrival. But he felt too tired for either act, instead he stood and unbarred the door.

“I’m surprised that everything actually worked?” the Goban Saor said, as he entered.

“You thought I would fail?”

“Well you have to admit that it was rather an intricate plan, with many points where failure seemed natural. But I’m honest and vain enough to admit that I do incredibly good work. Besides you definitely held up your end of the heavy lifting.”

“Why?”

“Why the revenge? Or why you?”

“Both.”

“As to the first, well I can now admit my reasons are rather petty. See I built this tower for Brarn, but instead of the two hundred barrels of ale and one hundred cows he was to pay for my work, he only gave me one hundred and seventy five barrels and ninety cows. Looking about now, I likely didn’t even deserve that much. It’s rather a grim place.”

“You mean to say that you prepared all this and made me endure your insanity, all for a few barrels of ale and some cows?”

“I was younger when it happened. My pride had been stung and I wanted revenge. But somewhere along the way my revenged changed into this amazing project with a life of its own. It challenged me like nothing else before.”

Flopping onto the bed, Gwri covered his eyes with an arm, and asked, “And why me?”

“Well that’s your fault.”

“What!” Gwri shouted, snapping upright into a seated position.

Nodding his head, the Goban Saor said, “Yes, it was you who sought out some faerie to help you decide what to do with your life. Well that’s me.”

“You thought I wanted to be turned into a female vengeance seeker?”

“Don’t be silly, that was just part of becoming my apprentice.”

“Your apprentice?”

“Of course my apprentice. You`ve already proven your dedication to a task. There’s much I can teach and have friends who can teach you more. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Look at me, do you think I wanted to look like this?”

“Umm, no?”

“Of course not, change me back.” Gwri said in demand.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start. You wouldn’t believe how much thought and work I invested into your appearance, though I have to admit, seeing you, that it was well worth effort.”

“You...”

“Although I do have an idea how to finish the job if you’re interested. That could our first project together.”

“You...”

“Besides it would do me a world of good to have such a pretty companion.”

“I wouldn’t let me touch me, you lech.”

“I know.” the Goban Saor said, gesturing for Gwri to calm down. “But everybody will expect that you do. And if there’s one thing I`ve learned about women, it’s that they`re competitive. Surely some other lovely will try to still me away from you. Reluctantly, I will surely give in.”

The man’s grin seemed impregnable. All Gwri could do was to flop back onto the bed, recover his eyes, and mumble. “I don’t think I like you.”

“But that’s only because we’ve just met.”

The End

Thunderstruck

Author:

Arcie Emm

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Crossdressing

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Few teenage boys fill the world with brilliant ideas, a rare possibility exponentially diminished with each teenage boy you include in the group. Add alcohol to the mix and the ideas generated can cause a group of crap throwing monkeys to stop and shake their head in amazement at the stupidity. But what makes teenage boys unique and special is their ability, even after determining the stupidity of an idea themselves, to bring those ideas to fruition.

Unfortunately for Dylan Campbell, he is a prototypical member of the species.

Thunderstruck
by Arcie Emm

They had not been completely sober, Alex the Dropout having snuck them a twelve-pack in exchange for a six-pack of his own, when the idea had come up. And though nobody remembered exactly whose idea it was, each remembered that Dylan had drunkenly agreed to it.

The next day, after sobering up, it had not taken him long to realize the idiocy of the idea. Therefore, he spent the next week protesting that there was no way that he was going to follow through. Despite taunts of being a chicken, guilt trips at backing out on a promise, and even the silent treatment for a day, he still would not give in. Then the guys had decided to play dirty, convincing Jennifer, Cody’s sister, to join them in the persuasion game.

Against her Dylan was almost powerless, had been ever since he first went to Cody’s place to play. In the end he had only been strong enough to extract the promise to let him take her to a movie in exchange for his night of humiliation.

Now that night had arrived and he was being rewarded with a questionable bonus, spending the first part of the Friday evening, beginning the Labour Day long weekend, with Jennifer in her grandparent`s fifth wheel trailer. It would have been so much better if she was not helping him get dressed as a girl.

“You look a lot better with your hair clean, instead of your usual straggly mess, Dylan.”

“It makes it all poofy, looks goofy. Umm, what’re you going to do with it?”

“Well, you would look cute if I give you a couple of braids, with pink bows.”

“Jennnn...”

“Well, maybe just a pony tail, but not yet, first you need to get dressed. Head to the bedroom, at the back end of the trailer, where you’ll find your outfit.”

Mumbling the entire way, Dylan moved towards his doom. Mumbling that did not abate when Jennifer pleasantly called out, “You should be grateful, I’m not going to have you wear a bra and I got you boy shorts for panties.”

“Thanks, Jennifer.” He answered, the dripping sarcasm only causing her to laugh.

Closing the door behind him, Dylan leaned backwards, banging his head against it, once, twice, and then three times. “You really are an idiot, Dylan Campbell.”

With that undoubted truth out of the way, he looked at the outfit laying on the bed. Sighing, he gave up the fight and began to undress, kicking off his sandals, before removing his t-shirt, shorts, and boxer briefs. Those last he quickly exchanged for the — inappropriately named in his mind — boy shorts, which had a pattern he admitted was amusing. He then put on the short sleeved, white blouse, its rounded collar and backwards buttons differentiating it from a similar dress shirt he owned. Now the moment of truth, one that he decided not to delay, stepping into the red and black checked skirt, which he pulled it up to his waist, its short length barely hiding the panties. Finding the shirt not long enough to tuck in, he located a zipper at the back and pulled it up.

Thinking he was being quite a good sport about the whole thing, Dylan frowned down at the last package on the bed. Deciding enough was enough, he picked it up and left the bedroom, saying, “I’m not wearing these, Jennifer.”

“Well, then we’ll just have to shave your legs.”

“What?”

“Well, if you’re not willing to wear stockings to hide the hair on your legs, you’ll just have to shave them.”

“But...but...but it’s only for one night.”

“Just kidding, Dylan.” Jennifer laughed. “Will these socks be better?”

“Definitely.”

“Good, and why are you wearing your skirt like that?”

“Uhh? Like what?”

Instead of answering, she stepped towards him, and began to twist the skirt around his waist. “Didn’t you notice the safety pin? It’s supposed to be at the front and the zipper at your side. There, that’s better, now sit down and put on your socks.”

He almost protested, before deciding it was quite okay to not know the proper way to wear a skirt. Taking the white socks, he found them quite thin, like dress socks. Pulling them up, almost to his knees, he noticed Jennifer’s smirk. Guessing that he had somehow been had, he said nothing. Instead, looking at the shoes she held, he asked, “Golf shoes?”

“Of course not, silly. A good girl always wears saddle shoes with her uniform.”

With no answer, he just put them on, then let Jennifer help him with the short plaid tie. Moving him to a bench seat, folding his skirt under his bum as he sat, she wrapped a beach towel around his neck, covering his clothes, she said, “Ready for some make-up?”

“More than anything in my life, Jennifer.”

“Funny boy. Don’t worry, you’ll be a doll.”

A doll may have been a bit of a stretch, but she did a good enough job that only a close-up examination would give away the truth. A pony-tail of his long hair, tied high on his head with a red ribbon, only made the disguise better. Deflated, Dylan limply sat there, letting Jennifer paint his finger nails pink, when the door of the trailer opened and his four idiot friends entered. Their stares causing him to blush.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe you went through with it, Dylan.” Anthony, the group’s leader, laughed.

“You’re a miracle worker, Jennifer.” Cody said, while Jon and Kevin satisfied themselves with Beavis and Butthead laughs.

“What the fuck do you mean, you can’t believe I went through with it? I thought you were expecting me to be dressed like this.”

“Well, we all thought you would chicken out, or come to your senses.”

“Shiiit. You didn’t expect me to do it?”

“Nope!”

“You guys are assholes. Okay, I’m changing back, how do I get this make-up off?”

“Don’t you want me to go on a date with me, Dylan?”

“Wha...of course, Jennifer.”

“Well, the deal was only if you do this.”

“Buuut...”

“Come on, Dylan, you’ve already gone this far and it will only be for thirty minutes. It’ll be a laugh.” Cody said.

“For you guys, maybe.”

“Definitely, but I’m sure you will look back on it and laugh with us.”

“Ah, fuuuuuuu....I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. Screw it, okay, but if I get beat up, you all got to let me kick you in the balls.”

“You’re not going to get beat up and no fuckin’ way.” Anthony said.

“Bah, you all suck.”

“You offering, cutie. Heh heh.”

“Heh heh.”

“You’re a pervert, Kevin.”

“Like I didn’t know that, so you going to do it?”

“I guess. But I’m probably going to regret it.”

“Without doubt.”

“For sure.”

“Absolutely!”

“Heh heh.”

“Come on, Dylan. We already went to all this work and I’m really looking forward to the movie tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s do this.”

“Load up the stuff, guys.” Jennifer said, “Dylan, needs a few finishing touches.”

Looking at her warily, he was somewhat relieved when she took a red girl’s blazer from the closet, which she helped him into, pulling his ponytail out of the way. Doing up the shiny, gold button, he shook his head at what she next removed from the closet. “No way, no friggen way.”

“Come on, Dylan. You agreed that I get to decide what you’re going to wear.”

“It’ll get in the way.”

“You idiots force me to watch all those YouTubes. You know that’s not true.”

“But it’s so pink.”

“Of course, it’s Hello Kitty, what do you expect?”

“Something not pink.”

“Sometimes we don’t get what we want, here let me help you.”

“No, I need to hang the strap over my right shoulder.” Deciding, it was best to do it himself, Dylan took the Hello Kitty schoolbag from Jennifer, made sure the strap was extended to its full length, and hung it so it fell to his lower back. “Is that all?”

“Just about, I only have this left.”

“A beret? Really, Jennifer, a beret?”

“It will be the perfect topper to the outfit.”

“That’s bad, Jennifer. I think you just leave the bad puns to Cody, it’s the only purpose he serves in your family.”

“Hey, I heard that.” Cody yelled.

“Good. Okay, pass it over. How’s that look?”

Jennifer said, “Cute.”

“Ain’t that just ducky. Hey, idiot, give me that before you drop it.”

This last was said to Jon, from whom he took his prized possession. It was his Gibson electric guitar, an Angus Young Signature SG that had cost him most of the money he had received from his grandfather’s will. The guitar was his hobby, his escape, and also part of the reason he found himself in this situation, although the guitar would be the thing that got the least amount of blame. Checking that it was, he strapped it over his left shoulder, flipping the Hello Kitty schoolbag out of the way to let the guitar’s strap rest comfortably against his back. By this time the band had loaded the rest of their equipment on a trailer hooked to Cody’s quad.

“You guys ready?”

“Yep, why don’t you wait here, while we set up, then come over in about fifteen minutes.” Anthony offered.

“No friggen way, I’m not wandering about by myself. There’s safety in numbers.”

“Okay, but it will give people more chance to see you.”

“If they stare, I’ll just tell them I’m your girlfriend.”

“Funny, Dylan, real funny. Then let’s go.”

Following the rest of them out of the fifth wheeler, Dylan was glad it was dark and that nobody else was around. Jennifer claimed the quad, while the rest of band, all taller than him, unconsciously surrounded their friend in the school girl outfit with rather pourous protection. Walking across the dimly lit parking lot toward the city park stage, they heard the sound of poorly-played ZZ-Top.

“She’s got legs, she knows how to use them.
She never begs. she knows how to choose them.”

Hearing those lines, Kevin looked down at Dylan’s legs, sticking out from his short skirt, and burst out in laughter. Dylan could not help it, he joined in and soon after everyone was laughing. With the mood lightened as the entered the lit area behind the stage, Anthony headed off to get instructions. Meanwhile Dylan sat on the trailer trying to blend in with the drum set. That, or Jennifer’s skill, seemed to work as nobody looked too closely at them before Anthony returned.

“Okay, we’re on next. Red Roadster will soon be finishing up, then they`ll have five minutes to get their crap off the stage, after which we have five minutes to set up. Everybody feeling it?”

“Yeah.” They mumbled.

“I said, is everybody feeling it?” Anthony asked, with more force, just as if they were his Triple-A Midget hockey team, of which he was the captain.

“We mumbled, yeah.” Jon said with a grin.

“You guys suck.”

“You offering, cutie. Heh heh.”

“Damn it, Kevin. It wasn’t funny the first time, either. And the rest of you, quit laughing.”

Ignoring their lead singer, who always got edgy before a performance, the rest chatted until the music came to a conclusion, followed by half-hearted applause. Guessing their time was close, they drifted towards the stage, which caused the small group of support staff to look their way in curiosity. Most noticed Dylan, but despite rolling their eyes at the school girl’s outfit, nobody seemed to realize he not the girl he appeared to be. Soon they were able to start lugging their gear to the curtained off stage, after the rather sad looking members of Red Roadster left.

With sound equipment provided and the minimal amount of gear they owned, setup did not require the full five minutes. Instead each took the time to perform a few warm up exercises, before Anthony confirmed everybody`s readiness and informed the guy running the stage.

Not long after, they all heard Rick Judson, the morning show host announcing them on the other side of the curtain. “How’s everybody doing? I said, how’s everybody doing? That’s better. You all ready for the next band in Rock 82.7’s Battle of the Cover Bands, presented by Miller’s Autobody Shop? Let’s hear it for High Voltage.”

With that the curtain rose and the members of High Voltage were greeted by weak clapping from the fifteen hundred or so spectators, a much larger crowd than they had played before at the Youth Hall. Fortunately some of their fans, mostly friends, were there providing as much noise as they could. But it was also from this group of hooters and howelers that Dylan heard someone shout, “What the fuck?”

That was as good a cue as Dylan had ever received. Without another thought about his idiotic appearance, he began the introduction to Thunderstruck. Within a few chords he had the bob going, tapping his left foot twice while banging his head down, then twice with his right foot as he brought his head up. Gently at first, but then as he got further into the intro, heavier and heavier. And when Jon joined in with the drums, hard enough that the beret went flying, intentionally. He had spent enough time on YouTube rewatching the AC/DC videos available, particularly those from Donnington. And though he had never worn the schoolboy outfit of his idol, Angus Young, he always mimicked his movements when performing. Tonight he planned to hide even further in his morphed version of that character.

Soon after Anthony began to sing, he found himself strutting and running about the small stage, dipping down into the duck walk as it struck him. The band did not care, Dylan was the best musician and performer amongst the five, they all knew it and were happy to ride along while they played at being a band during the final years of high school.

After Thunderstruck, it was onto Shoot to Thrill, through which the red ribbon in his hair did not survive. Loosened by multiple bobs, it joined the beret on the stage during a duck walk. Still, many in the crowd remained unaware of his true status, distance, the stage’s lighting, and his constant antics providing camouflage. However, the information had begun to flow from their knot of friends and by the time they finished Back and Black the truth had spread throughout the crowd. Its mood changed, not yet negative, but less responsive than it had been at the end of the first two songs. Noticing this and deciding to get things into the open, he motioned for the band’s attention when the song finished.

Seeing them all looking at him, he mouthed, “Jail Break, like Donnington.”

Anthony’s eyes open questioningly, but he only nodded his head at which point Cody, on rhythm guitar, began playing the intro, not leaving anything for Anthony but to start singing. Soon the rest of the band had joined in. Not quite three minutes into the song, after Anthony finished the chorus, Dylan stepped forward and ripped out the appropriate riffs. However, Anthony did not start the next verse, instead Jon and Kevin (on bass guitar) started playing a repetitive hypnotic beat, Dylan throwing riffs in once in awhile.

He had to work up his courage, but he could not take the minutes used by the AC/DC to build up tension. High Voltage could never hold their audience’s attention like their heroes. One more crazy riff and he was beside the drums, removing his guitar and the stupid Hello Kitty bag.

Moving towards the front of the stage, he unbuttoned the blazer, raised his hands above his head and thrust his hips back and forth. Then continuing his strut around the stage, back and forth, he slowly removed his jacket, twirling it beside himself, before swinging it around his head, Jon upping the beat on his symbols in accompaniment. Lowering it again as Dylan brought the jacket down between his legs, scissoring it back and forth before flinging it aside.

Many of the crowd were confused at his act, but there were enough metal heads to know what he was doing. They began to shout and he fed off their energy.

Untying the tie, he turned away from them, writhing as he slid it back and forth, down his back, until it too was dropped. Turning back to the crowd and undoing a button of his blouse, he paused, looking out questioningly.

“Take it off! Take it off!”

Only a small group of shouters, but he began to slowly unbutton the shirt, in a flirtatious parody. More people joined the shouting, almost in tune with the throbbing beat played by his band mates. Turning away from the crowd as he finished unbuttoning the shirt, he looked over his shoulder questioningly, and receiving an even louder, “Take it off!”

Turning back to them, he ran to one side of the stage, flinging the shirt wide open, showing his skinny chest. Then he repeated it, running to the other side of the stage, before letting the shirt fall to the ground. Turning again away from the crowd, he bent over, and suggestively grasped the top of his skirt, swaying his bum. Pretending he did not receive the proper response, Dylan ran over and repeated his actions on the other side of the stage, then in the middle. Drawing it out, the drum and bass pounding away, the crowd shouting for him to take it off, Dylan waited. Finally, he reached downwards, grabbed the hem of the skirt and yanked it up, showing the Union Jack panties.

As the crowd roared their laughter, he pranced over to his guitar and strapped it on, letting Anthony retake the stage, once more it was time for a Jaiiiilbreak. One that ended with Dylan laying on his back, spinning about, kicking and shaking as he performed Angus Young’s spasm.

The crowd was again on their side, as they moved into Money Talks and the band was grinning and enjoying themselves while Dylan continued to run and jump about the stage, the sweat turning his hair into its usual stringy mop and making his make-up run messily. He did not care, he was in the zone, and was more than ready to start Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap at the end of the song, if not for the stage manager cutting their sound and Rick Judson coming onto the stage.

“Let’s hear it for High Voltage, ladies and gentlemen.” Waiting for the cheers to die down, the host moved towards Dylan to ask, “And what’s your name, young lady?”

Hardly able to be mad at this joke, Dylan raised his hands to his head, used his index fingers to make the devil’s horns, and said, “Dylan Campbell.”

“Well, Dylan, if you’re one of Hell’s belles, I think they need to do some more recruiting.”

Dylan just grinned, too amped up on the energy of the performance to not enjoy the terrible joke. Judson just smiled at the crowd and shouted, “Well what do you think, do you want High Voltage back for tomorrow’s finals? DO YOU?”

Listening to the applause, gesturing for more with his hand, he finally turned to look at the band and said, “High Voltage, see you tomorrow.”

With this, the curtain dropped upon their performance. Continuing to look at them, Rick said, “Well, you fellows took a chance, but it worked out for you.”

“It was just stupidity, actually.” Anthony admitted. “We came up with it when we were drunk, then pestered Dylan into doing it, and he was too dumb to back down.”

“Hey, a good gimmick’s a good gimmick. Of course you’re now stuck with it, people will expect it to be part of your act now.”

“Fuck!”

“Now, Belle, is that the way for a young lady to speak?”

Dylan, not taking offense, just looked at the sky in question while everybody laughed. He only looked down when Jennifer, who had joined them on stage, grabbed his arm and said, “Don’t worry, since we’ll be together tomorrow afternoon, there will be lots of time for me to help you get ready.”

The End

Afterward

A silly little story. I have often thought about a story with someone imitating Angus Young's school boy as a school girl, tonight this idea coalesced into this story. However, the main benefit of its existance, from a personal standpoint, is to get me back into the saddle. I have hardly written anything since November and I just needed to remind myself that I can create a story, no matter how minor. And it also gave me an opportunity to spend a good chunk of my writing time with AC/DC YouTubes on monitor #2.