Faolan looked around at the various suits of armor as though they were instruments of torture

Faolan looked around at the various suits of armor as though they were instruments of torture. Denime deposited him in the middle of the room and immediately set about gathering armor pieces from here and there. When he returned, his arms were loaded with various scraps of leather, cloth, and metal. He set them down on a nearby stool with a groan and set about sizing each piece. He selected a large iron breastplate with gaudy trim and set about strapping it over the chainmail shirt that he had placed over Faolan before he caught a strange, pleading look in the werewolf’s eyes.

“What?” he asked, concerned.

“Perhaps not metal,” Faolan suggested, wincing.

Denime inspected the fit while he pondered. Immediately he saw the problem: the chainmail shirt was catching Faolan’s coarse fur, pulling it.

“Sorry!” he said immediately, removing the chafing shirt, “Perhaps we should stick to leather then.”

Faolan nodded and Denime set about strapping a gladiator’s harness over the werewolf’s broad, muscular chest. The harness was minimalistic, but provided a sturdy defense against many different slashes and thrusts. He stepped back to examine his work, then remembered something that Myrror had given him. He reached into a pocket and fished out a tiny silvered mirror. He set it against a nearby wall, where it grew to give Faolan a complete view of his new body.

“I guess now is as good a time as any for you to completely see the new you,” said Denime over his shoulder as he walked over to grab some more leather pieces of armor.

Faolan’s fur bristled in anticipation as he turned around to face the beast that he had become. As he turned, the first thing to come into view was his face. No longer the balding, pale young man that he had previously been, Faolan had the face of a wolf. His long, broad snout was coated in short, gray fur with a spattering of whiskers. His pointed ears sat on the top of his head, and he discovered that he could swivel them from side to side. He smiled as he watched them twitch to and fro, before he caught sight of his smile. It was certainly the human smile he remembered, but it now had a wolfish twist. His large canines glistened in the light, making him look sinister and devious. He looked into his eyes and was relieved to see that they had remained deep green with tiny flecks of gold in them. These were his old eyes, of which he had always been vain; a testament to his former human body.

He turned slightly to get a proper look at his new body. The muscles on his broad chest were plainly visible, despite being coated with deep grey fur. His arms, too, were strong, and his hands ended in sharp, canine claws. Looking down further, he felt his fur bristle in shock. It was not until now that he realized that he had been completely naked since his transformation. He felt himself blushing deeply beneath his fur as he realized that it was plain for the world to see that he was indeed a male werewolf. He did, however, refrain from covering himself. Everyone had already seen everything, so why start being bashful now? Turning, he saw Denime looking on with an understanding smirk on his face.

“I did the same thing too,” he said, his voice nostalgic, “I was completely inseparable from that mirror for the first few days after my own transformation.”

Faolan glanced at the armor that Denime had selected, and noticed a long loincloth among the choices. Following his eye, Denime also looked at the loincloth and smirked.

“Just because we’ve already seen doesn’t mean that the world needs to see what the stork saw,” he said as he held up the piece.

“The stork?” asked Faolan as he pulled the loincloth on.

“Something my mother told me when I was young. She said that the stork brought mommies and daddies their babies after they married.”

“Strange,” commented Faolan, “I take it that you found out the truth?”

“I kind of always knew. My older brother believed in the stork until the day he died though.”

“He died?”

“Yeah, the dancing plague took him years ago. My father contracted it too, but I healed him. That was how we discovered my healing powers.”

“Kael lahbo ve althe,” said Faolan, looking solemn.

“Huh?” asked Denime, puzzled.

“It’s something the Wild Elves say when one of their kind dies. It means old trees fertalize new trees,” replied Faolan, strapping leather bracers onto his wrists.

“Wild Elves? I heard you call them True Elves earlier.”

“The True Elves are not known to the mortal races very well. They live in their own forest and they do not die. The elves that you know are called the Wild Elves. They are not fae, like the True Elves or Faeries. They are mortals, and are more willing to interact with humans and other races,” explained Faolan as he pulled on a pair of leather pauldrons studded with tiny dragon teeth.

“Oh. Try this on,” said Denime, handing Faolan a large black cloak.

“What fabric is this?” he asked, feeling it with his sensitive paws.

“Silk, I think. Why?”

“I won’t wear silk. The silk necessary to create a cloak like this takes the lives of thousands of silkworms.”

“They’re just worms…”

“But it’s the principle. It’s like a slaughter. At least with leather the animal has a chance to fight for its survival,” said Faolan, dropping the cloak on the ground to emphasize his point.

“Okay, let me see if I can find something woolen,” said Denime evasively as he strode over to a nearby hanger to inspect another cloak.

Faolan bent to examine his reflection once more when he felt a slight brush against his leg. Looking down, he saw that the cloak had slid against his fur. He picked up the offending cloak by its bone clasps and tossed into a far corner. The material ruffled slightly after it landed, and Faolan heard the beginnings of what soon turned into a shuddering wail. Jumping, Faolan dodged the cloak just in time to avoid being struck by its bone clasps as it flew past him. The moaning elevated until it seemed to echo from each stone in the room. Faolan covered his ears, hoping to drown out the terrible sound. Denime turned, searching for the source of the noise, when he spotted the cloak floating in midair. It rushed toward him, and jabbed the bone clasp deep into his left arm. Gritting his teeth in agony, Denime grabbed the material and tugged. His arm was freed once more, and he cast the cloak onto the ground. It landed upside-down, revealing a large toothy, gaping maw and glowing red eyes that locked onto Faolan immediately. The creature righted itself before flying toward the werewolf with great haste. Denime pulled a small iron needle from his robes and began chanting. The needle glowed bright gold and he tossed it toward the flying cloak. He saw the needle make contact with the cloak dead center. The creature hovered just short of Faolan for a moment before it collapsed onto the ground, apparently pinned by the tiny needle. Faolan watched, enthralled, as the creature struggled against the crushing weight of the pin before Denime struck it with his mace and it ceased to move.

“Praise Myrror,” said Denime, sighing with relief.

“Why is that?” asked Faolan, his eyes still glued to the creature’s corpse.

“Because he taught me that curse. He uses a feather, but I can only get a needle to work with it.”

Denime grinned nervously and held up a brown woolen cloak for Faolan to inspect.

“I’m thinking that I can do without a cloak for a little while,” said the werewolf, tearing his sharp claws through the material.

CHAPTER 12

Tower Cleaning and Brain Washing

Denime and Faolan returned to the dining room and paused immediately upon entering.

“What?” inquired Myrror, looking down at them from the ceiling where he stood as he mopped cobwebs from the granite buttresses.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” said Denime, smirking slightly as Myrror dipped his mop into a bucket of steaming water that sat next to him.

“Welcome back!” said Leyen, his voice cheerful, but his face distraught, “How did everything go?”

“How could you leave me here with a mad sorcerer with no protection?! Why would you do that to me?! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?! And furthermore, how does that water stay in the bucket!?” whispered Leyen fervently before they could answer, his voice filled with both rage and terror.

All three looked up at the halfling that stood above them. He was mopping cheerfully as he sang lines from an old bard’s tale about a famous battle. The song was normal enough except that Myrror kept replacing words like “men” and “warriors” with words like “earwigs” and “noodles.” He noticed the other three watching him intently, smiled cheerily, waved, and continued his song, apparently oblivious to his errors.

“You haven’t seen madness, Northman,” responded Denime, his voice grave, “This is Myrror normally. There is a reason he’s known as Myrror the Mad to the Wizarding Society.”

Both Leyen and Faolan shuddered as they tried to picture Myrror at the height of insanity. Neither liked the image that they produced.

“What say I get dinner started?” asked Denime, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Faolan and Leyen both nodded and followed Denime over to the fire to help him get their supper started. After only a few minutes, Denime produced a large roast, spitted and grilled over the fire in the mantle, boiled potatoes spiced with chives, and simmered mushrooms in a thick garlic sauce to put over the roast. As the smell permeated the room, Myrror hissed at them from the ceiling and flitted into the shadows.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Leyen as he took a hearty bite of roast.

“Myrror has three things in this world that he absolutely despises. Third on that list is garlic. His parents don’t care for it either, but I can’t help myself. It flavors food so well.”

“Will he be okay?” inquired Faolan between bites of roast. He had been unable to manage silverware with his clawed hands, so he had to resort to eating bent over his plate, using his long, canine tongue to scoop food into his mouth.

“It doesn’t hurt him like it does vampires. He just can’t stand the smell. If someone even cooks food near other food that has garlic in it, he can taste it and won’t touch it. But he’ll be back once the smell clears.”

“I think I understand. I can’t really taste all that well now, but the smell is certainly overpowering. It probably has something to do with his Fox Spirit. I could only stand it because it was so appetizing. If he doesn’t like it…” said Faolan, now finished with his meal.

“That could be the case,” pondered Denime as he offered Faolan more food

“No, thanks. I’m done,” he said.

“Already?! You really wolfed it down!” exclaimed Leyen.

Both Denime and Faolan groaned and held their heads. From somewhere above them, they also heard Myrror groaning in agony. Leyen thought for a moment before twisting his own face and joining the groans.

“That was AWFUL!” he apologized.

“Let’s just make sure that never happens again,” said Denime, his voice stern.

“I’m already dead and I don’t think I can take that again,” echoed Myrror’s voice from the shadowy ceiling.

“So where are we going tomorrow?” asked Leyen, “I heard something about Myrror’s parents, but I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“We are going to go visit Myrror’s family. His sister just graduated from the Eastern School of Bardic Arts and she has expressed some interest in joining us,” explained Denime.

“Myrror has a sister?!” asked Faolan, doubtful.

“Yes, he does. She isn’t his natural sister, though. She’s a human that his mother found in her hospital storeroom when he was about twelve. Her name is Dahlia and, although I’ve never met her, everyone in Myrror’s town says that she is perhaps the most beautiful woman in the East.”

“And what of his parents?” inquired Leyen, “What are they like?”

“His mother is from the islands of the East. She is a druidess that runs a large charity hospital dedicated to Lyssendra. His father is an architect from the Eastern jungles. He designs temples. They are extremely wealthy because of his father’s work, so wealthy, in fact, that they are near nobility in the East. Myrror is a darling of the Emperor of Nyong’s court, and is well known among the courtiers of the Xial court. The Xial Reng himself has requested that Myrror attend his court during the winter months,” answered Denime.

“Ummmm….a few questions,” said Faolan, sheepish, “Nyong? Xial? Xial Reng?”

“Nyong is Myrror’s home country, where his parents live. The city that he is from is very near to the country of Xial, which is how the Xial Reng knows of Myrror. The Xial Reng is the undisputed ruler of the East. Although he does not officially rule outside of Xial, every other country has learned that it is best to obey him. Xial is massive. It takes up about three quarters of the East, so without the Xial Reng’s blessing, no trade occurs in the East,” explained Denime.

“In my home, my mother does not normally speak common,” said Myrror, stepping out of the fireplace, “She will only because you are guests. There will be some differences. My name in Xialeng is Shuishen Nu Hu Yingzi, but my parents will call me Hu. Denime was wrong about the meaning, mostly because he is very bad at speaking Xialeng. My name means the fox’s reflection in our water goddess. Another thing: my home is built for halflings, so I will provide you with a ring that will shrink you to the appropriate size. The ring will also allow you to speak Xialeng perfectly and understand it. Don’t worry about etiquette yet. My mother and father will teach you about court etiquette so that you will be ready,”

“Ready for what?” asked Leyen, nervous.

“Ready to attend the Xial Reng’s court with us in two months,” explained Denime.

“I can’t be a courtier! I’m not a noble!” protested Leyen with Faolan nodding in agreement.

“Officially, you won’t be courtiers,” said Myrror.

“Myrror will be the only one to attend court. The rest of us are going to be under the service of the Xial Reng’s nephew, the crown prince of Xial. He is next in line for the throne, and the Xial Reng has asked us to care for him. Myrror and I accepted the job, and his majesty will be very happy to hear that two more skilled warriors are coming to assist us,” explained Denime.

“Why would we do that?” asked Faolan and Leyen together.

“Because we will be against the Fire group in this struggle. The group created by Yrdrasil, the fire god, will be attempting to assassinate the prince. If he dies, we are out of the competition,” Myrror said.