For those of you that do, welcome back!  I hope you'll like the edited version!

For those of you new to my novel, allow me to explain!

I started posting my novel on this forum many moons ago, but was discouraged by the lack of feedback that I received.  

That's in the past, however, and I have a fresh new version for you guys!  I hope you'll enjoy it, and I would really, REALLY appreciate your feedback.

And now I present:  Wings of Madness

CHAPTER 1:
The Road to Adventure!

People were staring.

This was not the first time he had experienced this sort of treatment, nor did it seem likely that it would be the last.  Unfortunately, he did tend to attract a fair amount of attention with his bronzed skin, amber eyes, and long, curly blonde hair.  Denime sighed.  If only his problems were as simple at that.  He knew perfectly well that it was not his handsome features or tall, brawny body that attracted such attention.  In fact, his physical features were often completely ignored once people spotted the four gaudy, feathered wings that extended nearly four feet over his head from his back, ending in a graceful fold to create a thick, downy cloak that bristled as he felt more eyes slide over him, a sensation that made him feel as if he were being coated in cold grease.  He shivered as a cool autumn breeze whipped dust from the road into the air, temporarily obscuring any other travelers from view.  The road was crowded today.  Various merchants, blacksmiths, jewelers, alchemists, and performers were traveling, trying to get the last bit of coin they could earn before winter cooled business down.  Denime closed his eyes and offered thanks for this small blessing.  With so many carts full of sparkling gems and violently colored potions, many eyes would be distracted today.

A high-pitched, somewhat manic voice drifted up from below him, saying, “You know, this kind of situation could be entirely avoided if you would just take my advice and let us travel by night.”

As usual, Myrror was not above blurting out Denime’s thoughts before he had even expressed them.  

“I thought that you had promised the Pool that you would not practice illegal telepathy,” said Denime, his voice curt as he changed the subject.

“I would find great amusement should the Chancellors of the Pool attempt to stop me if I was, but, as it is, I do not need telepathy to know that your new appearance does not quite fit you as well as that older, more fragile body.”

Denime was forced to agree with this statement.  Born a wingless human, the past three weeks had opened his eyes.  He did not want to, but he had to feel some pity for Myrror.  While he, Denime, had only just begun to feel the sting of judging glares, Myrror had been a lich for many years now.  He glanced down at the tiny figure to his left.  Myrror was small.  There could be no denying this.  Born a Halfling, he had been rather short even before his transformation to undeath, which had taken its toll in other ways too.  His pale skin was stretched tight over his tiny skeleton, making him appear morbidly gaunt.  His laughing, grey eyes had been consumed in the process, and now were reduced to two flickers of silver fire in the void where each eye should have been.  His hair was thin, tangled, and deep grey, and it hung lank and lifeless, like that of a corpse.  So many clerics had bowed in reverence when Denime passed them on the road.  Being a Celestial, he was a symbol of all that is good and pure.  When these clerics spotted Myrror, however, they looked shocked at the blaspheme that was his existence.  A few had even gone so far as to try calling upon their deities to turn him from their presence.  

Denime adopted a vague look of helplessness, as if recalling an expression made when he heard these clerics chanting to end the “horrible ghoul’s unnatural life”.  Myrror had not looked sad, or worried, or even angry.  His face during these times had sent shivers down Denime’s spine.  He always adopted a look of supreme amusement, as though watching insects escape from a cage, only to tumble into a blazing fire.  The undead were a poorly accepted lot, but it seemed that the idea of one who could walk, speak, and even smile, was too much for many to bear.  Ghouls, skeletons, and zombies were nothing more hulking sacks of meat that only showed any interest in food.  Most were thought to be tragic, misguided souls, and were destroyed so that the soul could continue its journey.  A lich, however, was not a tragic soul imprisoned by magic.  A lich had willingly placed his soul into a most valued and prized object, and could therefore only be killed if this object was destroyed.  

“Becoming a lich cannot be forced onto a person,” Myrror had droned one night when Denime had asked, “The choice must be made willingly, and that is why the common people despise me so.”

Denime can back to himself just in time to see Myrror looking up at him.  He knew that his thoughts must be clear on his kind, honest face.  

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” asked Denime

“Why should I?” responded Myrror, a puzzled look in his face, “I have you, the sorcerers of the world, and Scrub.  Who else would I need?”

At the mention of Scrub, Denime’s smile fell a bit.  He had always known Myrror to be a bit odd, but, to Denime, Scrub had become a physical manifestation of his insanity.  The halfling reached into a small pocket in his black robes and pulled out a large, fat toad.  Myrror stroked the toad absently a few times, as is reassuring himself that Scrub was still there, and then replaced him.  Denime bristled.  Something was very strange about that toad.  He had caught it looking at him with keen interest and, it seemed, an almost human intelligence during the time that they had spent with each other.  All people told stories about the familiars of magic users and their extraordinary capabilities.  He himself had grown up on stories about Thaladus, and his serpent familiar that was, in the legend, able to speak glibly with dragons, humans, animals, elves, and even demons and devils.  It was, however, one thing to hear of such creatures, and quite another to spend time with one.  

“Scrub demands to know where we are going.” said Myrror all of a sudden, looking up at Denime inquisitively.  

Denime chose to ignore Scrub, and he instead answered to Myrror.  

“We are going to assist Lady Renalalda at the high temple to Valoran in Jules.” He answered, his voice firm.  He had been expecting the look of disgust on Myrror’s face at the sound of Valoran’s name.  

“I don’t have a choice!” he yelled, throwing up his hands in frustration, “I made a sacred oath when I promised to serve Him as a cleric, and part of that oath is a promise to assist any of my fellow clerics in need!!”

“Praise Ashista that I was born a sorcerer.” muttered Myrror under his breath.  His tone was grateful, but Denime saw the hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth.  He was teasing Denime.

“Indeed, praise Ashista,” agreed Denime in a mock serious tone, “She only knows what happened the last time we saw a halfling cleric.  Extremely energetic when it comes to worship, but not very controlled.  That cleric of Arrot was responsible for quite an interesting disease.”

Denime was quoting the legend of how lycanthropy had been created.  It is said that a halfling aspired to become a cleric, but the only god that would have her was Arrot, the god of pestilence.  Upon receiving her powers, she set about creating a new disease to honor His name.  She emerged from her prayer after three days, and then proceeded to sneeze violently, infecting all around her with this new virus. All humanoid races that caught the disease were sick for months, but recovered after the bout.  Animals, however, became violent and bloodthirsty.  When their blood mixed with a humanoid’s, the bitten creature would become it’s attacker upon the full moon, and remain a mix for the rest of the time.

“Indeed, the High Chancellor herself told me that she greatly appreciated my race’s chaotic ingenuity.” said Myrror, now smiling.

“The High Chancellor seems to have a high opinion of halflings,” said Denime, pondering.

“How could Isra have been elected High Chancellor without liking them?” asked Myrror  with sarcastic bite.

“I suppose it worked against her while she was campaigning,” replied Denime.

“And yet she still won,” stated Myrror, “and, because of her tenacity, I have more respect for her.  She’s not like that sniveling Gald.  He changed his course of action every two or three days to suit what the voters wanted.”

The two continued to discuss politics for the remainder of the afternoon.  The halfling and the cleric were perhaps the most unlikely pair, yet they were relaxed and comfortable.  Many travelers stared at the two in absolute confusion, pausing to imagine what fate might have tossed these two together.  Stories ranged from the oddest of love tales to the most sinister of plots, but none came close to the truth.  Denime had met Myrror six years ago while he was still an acolyte at the temple in his hometown.  He had discovered Myrror tearing through the forbidden scrolls that were stored in a locked room in the center of the temple basement.  The scrolls contained, among other things, dark rituals and terrible spells that had been confiscated over centuries.  Denime had paused for the briefest moment upon discovering a halfling rifling through the materials to ponder on how he had even managed to gain entry to the room, which the priests kept locked and bolted.  Denime handed over the halfling to the High Priest Syrus to be tried and punished.  He had felt a twinge of pity immediately upon finding out that the halfling was a magic-user.  Any ordinary halfling would simply have been verbally admonished and sent upon his way, but the mage was certain to be imprisoned if he was lucky.  It came as a great shock then when Denime was called into the High Priest’s chambers after only an hour.  Syrus explained to Denime that from then on, he was to travel with the halfling on a sacred pilgrimage across the continent.  The pilgrimage, he explained, was a ruse in order to gain the halfling’s trust.  

“My dear boy,” the ancient Syrus had wheezed as he gazed out into the night sky, “this halfling is unlike any other.  He is mad, horribly, dangerously mad.  Myrror, I believe he said his name was, is far too insane and far too powerful to be ignored.  I have consulted Valoran on this issue, and He commanded that you, Denime, travel with him.  I believe that Valoran wishes for us to keep close watch on this mage.  The god has given you the great honor of asking for you by name.  You are to leave with the halfling at dawn.”

“But your Grace,” sputtered the young and still human Denime, “what about my clerical training?”

“Bah!” said Syrus with a casual wave of his hand, “You and I both know that you are more skilled and better prepared for such a great test in your faith than some of the oldest priests in our order!  Besides, you had already been given the power to heal before you came to us.  That miracle is further proof that you are the best man for this task.  Supplies will be prepared for you by the time you leave tomorrow.  Now I suggest that you get some sleep before you leave.  I have sent the halfling to sleep in your quarters.  May Valoran shine upon your path.”

Had it only been six years?  Denime felt that it must have been at least a century.  So much had happened since then.  He had seen famine, plague, pain, and death spread far and wide across the continent.  He had watched in horror as Myrror’s tiny body shriveled as his very life fled from his bones and became encased in….

Denime shivered.  That memory was better left tucked away into the darkest corners of his mind.  How many there were now!  Six years ago, he had seen only the bright, blinding radiance of his god.  His mind had been free of worry, care, and doubt.  Now there were places in his mind that even he was afraid to delve into, for fear that he might never return from them.  His body had suffered a drastic transformation.  Born a wingless, somewhat homely human, Denime was now a symbol of beauty, grace, piety, and righteousness.  His four wings, amber eyes, and bronze skin seemed to be physical manifestations of his new life, like the scars of a hardened soldier.  

The two were only ambushed twice, perhaps a historical record in these violent times.  The first was a pack of gaunt, fire-breathing wolves known as hellhounds.  Denime repelled with ease them by calling upon Valoran to grant him His strength.  He began to glow with a radiance that rivaled the sun, while Myrror ducked behind a tree for safety.  Two of the eight hounds disintegrated in a fiery flash, while the rest fled, most of their fur singed off.  The second attack might have been impressive.  Twenty-odd human bandits surrounded them while one bold man suggested that they pay the fine for travelling without swords.  Denime, worried that one of the brigands might try to take Myrror hostage, turned around just in time to see him chanting in a sing-song voice and shaping arcane signs in the air with his hands, leaving shimmering silver trails.  For a tense moment, the rogues looked around, uneasy, preparing for anything and everything that the spell might have called forth.  Nothing happened.  The audacious bandit donned a smug grin and began to walk toward the companions.  Then, without warning, the smile fell from his lips, a look of sheer terror in its place.  He began to scream as though he were being torn into pieces, contorting his body into an unnatural position, his eyes gushing blood while the scream turned into a bloody froth on his lips as he died.  The remaining bandits fled back into the woods.  

Night was falling fast as they rounded a bend in the meandering road to find a thriving city.  It was not near as large as the capital of Rendas, but it at least had a few taverns and inns.  Denime was glad for the cover of nightfall as they entered the town.  He had concealed his four wings under a long, thick, brown cloak.  Myrror, not to be outdone, cast an illusion over himself so that he appeared to be a handsome, young halfling.  Denime thought that he looked very similar to the halfling that Myrror had been born as, but attributed it to the bright light of the full moon.  They selected an inn, the Whirling Wheel, and entered, trying to avoid drawing any unwanted attention.

CHAPTER 2:
Whirling Wheels and Woeful Werewolves

They found their seats as an attractive human barmaid approached them to take their orders.

“G’d evenin’ sirs,” she drawled in a thick Rendathian accent, ”whut’ll be yur pleasure?”

“I’ll have pan fried salmon, and for my friend,” said Denime, gesturing to Myrror,”some honey-sweetened milk.”

She nodded her understanding, and then trotted off towards the door that Denime presumed to lead to the kitchen.  Denime’s eyes performed a rapid check of his surroundings, a habit that he had formed while adventuring.  The inn was old, but kept by loving hands.  The wooden booths and bar were beaten and worn, but still well polished and clean, and a cheery fire lit the room so that no corner was left dark and mysterious.  The inn was seemed to be well liked by the locals, who sat in a great mob at the bar, greeting each newcomer in cheerful uproar.  Denime counted fifty people sitting in various booths, chairs, and stools.  They were formed into twos and threes with the large group of locals sitting at the bar, occupying every stool and even a few chairs.  One patron, however, stuck out like fish in a henhouse, as Myrror would have said.  He sat alone in a corner booth, poking at his food with intense disinterest.  Every now and then, he would look out of the window, as if checking some water clock in the distance for the time.  

When the barmaid returned, she placed a heaping plate containing no less than five steaming fried salmon, as well as some boiled, spiced potatoes for good measure.  

“A big man such as yurself’s gotta feed ‘is body,” said the barmaid to Denime when he cast her a confused look, “and someone so sweet lookin’ as ye mus’ try me fresh baked cookies!”

At her last declaration, she thrust a heaping plate of cookies at Myrror, and then looked at him, eyes brimming with anticipation.  

Myrror tossed her an awkward grin, and then took a small bite from one of the many cookies, chewing.  He adopted a look of supreme ecstasy, nodded at her to show his approval, and then took a hearty swig of milk from the mug that was larger than his head.  The barmaid looked delighted at this reaction.  She patted Myrror on the head, as if he were a child, and then returned to the kitchen with a contented smile on her face.

Denime made to grab one of the cookies, but was deflected by a swift smack of Myrror’s tiny hand.  He recoiled and threw him a look of offended jealousy.

“I want to try a cookie!” he pleaded, trying not to sound like a child.

“Praise Ashista, Lyssendra, Zelia, and Dhaleya that I am a lich,” Myrror whispered, naming the goddesses of darkness, water, air, and halflings,”or I might have been poisoned by that foul, cursed confection that she dares to call a cookie!!”

At this comment, the lone man in the corner sniggered in private amusement.  He cast an appreciative look at their table, and raised his mug in a toast.  

“Thank you, sirs, for giving me one last good laugh,” he said, sounding harried.

Denime raised his mug in return, but Myrror focused those keen, gray eyes on the man in intense scrutiny.  He moved his lips silently as he stared, as if counting.  Denime had grown accustomed to these fits.  He knew that Myrror had likely seen something in the man’s words that was not there.  Myrror had the uncanny ability to see four paths for every turn, and three sides to each sword.  Denime ignored him and dove into his meal.  

The night dragged on without incident.  Near midnight, the lone man stood and strode over to the exit after paying for his meal.  As he neared the door, a few now-drunken locals spotted him, and swaggered over.

“Where do ya think yur goin’, buddy?” one man asked in a drunken slur, “Ya haven’ even had a drink wif us!”

The lone man glanced from his drunken beleaguerer to the window, as if taking advice from some source outside of the inn.  Inspecting the crowd, he took a seat in the mob at the bar with an air of dignified reluctance.  He refused every drink passed his way and tried to slip away unnoticed every few seconds, only to be pulled back by one of the merrymakers.  At last it seemed that all the activity was too much for him to bear.  He tried to force his way past, but was held by two of his drunken attackers.  They dragged the man over to the bar where they once again forced him into a stool.  The man began to cough, gasping for air and making choking sounds.  The people around him became sobered up and began to look nervous as he started to shake and spasm.  

“I…..must…..leave,” he gasped in between hacks and wheezes, sounding more and more desperate with each word.

“Someone call for a cleric!” screamed a corpulent woman as she pushed back the crowd that had formed.

Denime had already begun to unpack his healer’s kit, and was on his way to assist the poor man when all nine hells broke loose.  The group surrounding Denime’s patient had ceased to move, speak, and even breathe.  Denime watched in fascinated horror as the man stood, increasing quite rapidly in size.  Nobody dared to flinch as he doubled over in anguish.  It was not until the man had disappeared from view, leaving a shivering ball of fur in his place that the townspeople were able to react at last.  

“L……L……L…...L…..,” stuttered a short, bald man.

“He’s a lycanthrope.” stated Myrror with interest, appearing, quite unexpected, near the center of the crowd, “A werewolf if I were to wager a guess.  Wolves tend to have the most violent changes, though I myself, would still rather become a wolf than, say, ….a wereslug.”  

“Wereslugs aren’t real!” protested a haughty, feminine voice from the back.

The subject seemed to have stirred a great amount of interest among the patrons.  Each turned to their neighbor, vehement to affirm or deny the existence of the creatures.  As the debate intensified, the poor werewolf soon became ignored.

“Of course they are!!” shouted the fat lady, “My great uncle Malleaus slew hundreds during their uprising forty-three years ago!”

“Halfling tales!” said a burly man standing by Myrror.

“I don’t like that expression.” hissed Myrror, glaring up at the man.

“I DON’T THINK THAT NOW IS THE BEST TIME TO BE DEBATING THE EXISTENCE OF WERESLUGS!!!” Denime bellowed above the bickering crowd.

Indeed, Denime’s words seemed to be amplified by the sudden movement of the deep gray wolf, now standing among a large crowd of people, to bite the hand of the barmaid that had served Myrror and Denime earlier.  She was barely able to snatch away her hand before the wolf’s jaws snapped shut.  It snarled, then lunged at a thin, tragic looking man who was snatched away by the plump woman just in the nick of time.  The werewolf ended up in a pile of toppled barstools instead.  The townsfolk fled in hysteria.  The exodus occurred so rapidly that it confused the wolf, who attempted to bite at passersby, but wound up striking only air.

“We should help him,” said Myrror, suddenly appearing at Denime’s side, unscathed by the chaos that surrounded them.

The oddity of this statement struck Denime like a fish in a henhouse, as Myrror would have said, rather inappropriately.  It struck him more like a lightning bolt from a blue sky.  Myrror had made what seemed suspiciously like a kind and caring statement, then expressed interest in carrying out said statement.  

“What?!?!” asked Denime as he reeled in shock.

“We…..should…..help…...him.” drawled Myrror, enunciating each syllable very clearly and slowly, as if speaking to a goblin.

“Why?!” asked Denime.

“He could be of some use to us.” replied Myrror.

“No, I mean why would you say that?!” inquired Denime.

“Say what?” asked Myrror.

“We should help him!” repeated Denime.

“Why?” asked Myrror.

Denime growled, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“Never mind!” he said, storming off toward the werewolf.  

As Denime approached the werewolf, he spoke in soft, pacifying tones.

“Sir?” he said, “Can you understand me?”

His words attracted the attention of the wolf, which responded by growling and baring its teeth at him.  For several long moments neither moved.  As Denime became more confident that the man had some influence over his actions, he began to inch closer once again.  The wolf seemed to have calmed during this time.  Its teeth were no longer visible, and the growl had diminished to a slight whimper.

Denime reached out is hand to allow the wolf to smell it, as though it were a normal dog.  It sniffed at his outstretched hand, and began to wag its tail.  Denime smiled with relief.  

So the man inside was exerting firm control over his lycanthrope form, he thought.  This would make containing him until the end of the full moon much easier.  

He came back to himself just in time to see the creature make a sudden move.  Time slowed to a crawl as Denime watched the wolf open its jaws wide, then close down on his hand with stunning force.  The wolf gave one last threatening growl, then ran off through the open kitchen door into the woods behind the inn.  

Denime did not feel any pain, even though his hand was bleeding badly.  He sank to his knees, staring at the ten holes in his skin as blood welled up through them and spattered onto the polished wooden floor.  He felt as though he had been transported to a world made of ice.  His stomach clenched and his heart hammered a violent cadence in his throat, all the while one enfeebling fact ran through his head:  He had been bitten.

His life as he knew it was over.  People told stories of the lives of lycanthropes.  None were happy or even mediocre; at best they were complete misery.  Lycanthropes could not live among or even near humans, nor were permitted near any form of civilization.  They were isolated from the human world.  Many went mad from sheer lack of intelligent interaction.  He was a condemned man. The disease that was even now infecting him, changing his entire body, had forced out his future, and was now filling it with empty years of solitude.  

CHAPTER 3:  
A Flight of Hope and a Crash of Virtues

Myrror watched Denime approach the wolf with a feeling of mild amusement.  That boy could be so bright sometimes, and yet sometimes he was so inexperienced, he thought, smiling.  Denime was a clerical prodigy, but his utter lack of any knowledge of the world was a source of great amusement to Myrror.  

He watched the wolf lunge out to bite Denime, but he did not know of any spells that could prevent the damage in time.  The creature raced off into the woods through the kitchen, and Myrror saw Denime sink to his knees.

He crossed the polished floorboards and placed himself squarely in front of Denime, inspecting him with an appraising eye.  His first impression was that Denime had fainted.  He was not breathing as far as he could surmise, and did not appear to be supporting his own body.  On closer inspection, he saw that Denime had become extraordinarily pale, rivaling Myrror’s own pallid complexion.  He was staring at his own hand, clutching it as though it might attack him, as he watched the blood dribble down onto the floor.

“Well,” said Myrror, “heal it so that we can get going.  If we want to catch him, we’ll need to move fast.”

Denime looked up at him with an expression of absolute wretchedness.

“Kill me.” he mouthed wordlessly.

“Oh don’t be such a baby!” snapped Myrror

“Kill me!”

“I may very well do that if you won’t stop being such a fool.”

“My life is over!”

“IT’S JUST A LITTLE BITE!!  FOR ASHISTA’S SAKE I’VE BEEN DECAPITATED THREE TIMES!!!!” shouted Myrror, losing his patience.  

“I’m a lycanthrope now!” wailed Denime, on the verge of hysterics.

“YOU’RE SUCH A….wait….what?”

“I’ve been infected.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“THE WEREWOLF BIT ME!!”

“You can’t catch lycanthropy.” stated Myrror, regaining his patience, “Celestials are immune to mortal diseases.  You catching lycanthropy would be like a chicken getting cowpox.”

“Oh…” said Denime, ignoring the Myrror’s bizarre metaphor, “I’m still not used to this body.  How do you know all of this stuff?”

“Scrub told me.” answered Myrror with finality.  

Myrror watched as his friend’s pale face regained some blood.  Denime stood with new hope sparkling in his eyes.  A soft, golden light began to emanate from his body as he walked back over to the booth they had occupied, grabbed their things, and returned.  

They walked out of the inn and saw a small patch of blood smeared onto the damp grass.  A few steps further, they spotted another, smeared onto a large maple leaf.  The crisp autumn air, which provided a comfortable chill this time of year, was warm and sluggish tonight, as if in defiance of winter’s chill approach.  As Myrror glanced back at the homes of the villagers in the distance, he saw dark figures sittingon the porches, and caught fragmented bits of conversations in the distance.  The inhabitants of the town were relaxing before a busy harvest moon.  The news of the werewolf had obviously not spread yet.  That would never do, thought Myrror, his mind brimming with wicked thoughts.

“I’ll go ahead.  You stay back and see if you can find anyone that will assist us.” said Denime with authority.

At his words, he spread the four feathered wings that had been concealed underneath his cloak.  He stretched those long wings in the night air, embracing the warming feeling that spread through them.  Upon realizing Denime’s intentions, Myrror nearly laughed aloud.  Surely he wasn’t going to attempt flying!!  Myrror thought back to a wizard that he had known in his childhood that had created a spell to give him great dragon’s wings.  His first attempt at flight had gone badly.  The ensuing funeral, however, had been rather enjoyable as far as funerals went.  

Denime flapped a few times, trying to get a feel for the air.  He ran towards the trees and leapt into the air, pushing his wings down hard.  He left the ground and rose over the treetops.  Myrror smiled.  That shouldn’t last too long.  As he returned to the kitchen, he climbed up onto the wooden counter to grab a glass lantern that was hanging on the wall beside the exit.  This should liven up the townsfolk, he thought.  As he walked out the door, he tossed the lantern behind him with a careless grace, hearing a crash.  

He walked deeper into the forest, not really concerned that he had not procured an assistant.  They would just scowl at him and tell him to leave or worse.  He heard a faint whooshing sound somewhere in the distance behind him, and a great number of shouting people.  A bright, yellow light from behind him lit the way.

Myrror walked at a casual pace through the underbrush.  The fire at the inn would serve multiple purposes.  It would give Denime and himself light to search by and cover from the wolf’s sense of smell, all while keeping the townsfolk occupied and out of harm’s way, not that he really cared about them.  He had not even given his spontaneous act of arson any thought.  His intuition told him that it may be a good idea to torch the place.  Why shouldn’t he have listened?  Mayhem and Chaos were wonderful traveling companions, and, as he flung them far and wide, they always seemed to assist him.  

“Speaking of assistance…” he muttered as he pulled Scrub from his pocket and woke him up.  

“Scrub,” he said,”I need you to search these woods and find anyone that looks like they can assist us.  If you do find someone, you know how to persuade them to come.”

Scrub did not answer verbally, but gave a slight nod of his bumpy head and, after chirping, disappeared into a nearby shadow.  

Satisfied that this should placate Denime, he too stepped into a nearby shadow.  The entire world seemed to spin as he closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate.  When he opened his eyes, the world seemed to have turned to ash.  All color had been drained from the landscape, leaving a depressing shade of grey.  Myrror breathed a heavy sigh of relief.  He was more at home on the Plane of Shadow than on the Material Plane.  Here he was invisible and free.  The natives of this plain were, for the most part, rather docile.  The landscape was a reflection of the Material Plane, but this reflection was contorted because of its passage through shadow.  This place existed at the edges of the Material Plane, and, as such, traveling here was much faster.  Each shadow could serve as a door back, and, at nighttime, the doors stood open and free, stretched across hundreds of miles of land.  The sky was pure blackness, lacking in stars, moons, and even clouds.  No sun blazed down from those blank heavens, but light shone everywhere, illuminating each and every tree and rock in the forest.  Myrror walked on, and, with each step he took, the landscape flew beneath him.  Within nine steps, he was standing upon a vast ocean.  He had gone too far.  He jumped backwards about two steps, and found himself face to face with a great grey dragon.  Damn, he was still too far.  He jumped two steps further, and was once again in the forest.  He could see a large, grey, birdlike wing poking out from a tall maple tree.

He saw a nearby shadow that would accommodate him, and jumped into it.  The world span once again, and he stepped out into the light of the full moon.  He was surprised.  He must be at least ten miles from the inn now.  Denime had flown for quite some time, very impressive for his first attempt.  He pulled a small stick of charcoal from his spell component pouch.  Chanting, he drew several arcane runes at the tip of each finger on his left hand.  The spell was not difficult for any normal magic user, but Myrror, unaccustomed to writing with his right hand, always found it more difficult.  Each symbol glowed bright silver, then vanished.  The fog surrounding him formed itself into a large phantasmal hand and reached toward Denime.  It parted the trees and grasped his enrobed form, lowering him from his wooden cradle.  Myrror dismissed the spell and strode over to Denime.  He was unconscious, having fainted from exhaustion.

Myrror heard a faint chirping from a shadow nearby.  Scrub, as always, had performed exceptionally.  Only a few minutes had passed, and he had found someone to assist in this wolf hunt.  He whispered a strange word, and Denime’s cloak swirled to cover his downy wings, leaving no feather visible.  He turned toward the shadowy area where he had heard Scrub, and chirped inquiringly.  Scrub responded with a few peeps and a final croak.  

“A human from the Plains of Ice?”  Myrror pondered aloud.

As he said these words, two figures materialized from the shadows under a nearby elm.  The smaller of the two hopped over to Myrror and looked up at him, his tiny, beady eyes begging.  

“Yes, you did very well Scrub,” cooed Myrror, admiration in his voice.

The second figure began to stir, and it groaned as it stood.  

“Funny…” it said, in a deep voice, “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

As the man stood, his figure began to take shape.  What was once just an inky mass in the shadows became a tall human frame.  Muscles, thick from years of a hard life and harder training coated the man’s body.  His years of traveling alone were apparent as he spoke to himself.  His hair was loosely curled and worn short.  Myrror could not determine the color of his eyes or hair through the shadows.  As the man become conscious, he turned and spotted Myrror, who had once again cast an illusion over himself.  

“Oh!” he whispered, as he stumbled back in alarm, “I didn’t hear you approach….”

His last words were not directed to Myrror.  As the man began to calm down, Myrror introduced himself.

“Greetings, Northman, I am Myrror.” he said, keen grey eyes locked on the man’s, scouring his every move for information

“I am Leyen.” responded the Northman

Leyen began to look around, his memory returning to him slowly.  He was no longer near the small brook that he last recalled.  Something was not quite right here.  He could not place his finger on it, but it seemed as though he could remember….

Leyen gasped as a vital memory returned into his head.  The last thing he remembered hearing was the croak of a toad.  There were no toads in the forests in autumn, and yet here one sat upon the lap of this halfling.  

Myrror released the man from his telepathy.  So, he thought, this Leyen is not as much of a fool as he appears.  Not only that, but Scrub’s spell had not erased the man’s memory.  He had heard of humans that learned to resist magic, but he had never encountered one.

“Leyen.” snapped Myrror, an imperious edge on his voice.

Leyen turned his head toward Myrror, and looked directly into his eyes.  No, not his eyes; the places where eyes should be.  There were no eyes there.  All Leyen saw was the flicker of two silver flames, before he was carried off into his own memories.  

Pictures flashed before his eyes, independent of his own mind:  a barren plane of ice and snow, stretching for miles and miles; a grizzled, scarred face, looking down at him in admiration; a great white wyrm, laying dead upon the snow; his own hand, grasping a sword, then an axe, then a bow; his mother’s face, smiling, though her eyes were full of pain; his brother, thin and wasting, laying near the fire in their home, his eyes blank as he stared into the flames.

Leyen tried to avert his eyes from the pictures, feeling the pain of old wounds once more.  No matter what he tried, however, his eyes remained fixed as more painful images came at him in an unyielding barrage:  here was his mother again, now screaming, crying, tearing at him as he dragged her from his brother’s bed; a great fire blazed before him, his brother’s body atop the wood that fueled it; his father lay in pieces on the floor of his own home, and a great wolf stood in the middle of the room, growling with bestial ferocity; his mother sat in her bedroom, grasping her bleeding hand as she wrote on a small piece of parchment; his mother’s dead body laying on her own bed, her own cooking knife lodged into her chest.  At this image, Leyen felt dizzy and disoriented.  Unconsciousness began to draw black curtains on the corners of his eyes.  When he was able to see at last, he saw that halfling sitting there.  

“I…I…I’m…” he began, trying to regain his composure and explain his strange behavior.

“Well, enough idle chitchat.” said Myrror, “I’m sure that you are looking for that werewolf, and I could use your assistance.  My friend,” he said, gesturing to Denime’s still unconscious body, ”is a healer that is trying to find the poor thing and contain it so that it does not spread the disease, at least until we can find out who it is and send word to its family.”

The word “werewolf” burned through the pain that Leyen was feeling, jarring him from his shock.  That is what he had been doing!  He had heard the howl of a werewolf in the forest, and he had been on his way to slay the beast when he had heard that toad.  

Having placed the last few hours back in order, he now grew suspicious.

“It’s unusual for a toad to be out and about in autumn.”  Leyen stated conversationally

“Oh, but Scrub is no wild toad!  He is my companion.  He saw you fall unconscious into that brook, and called me to come help you,” Myrror protested, pointing with a small hand to a nearby stream.

“Well thank you very much Scrub!” said Leyen.  Now he understood what was going on.  This halfling was an assistant healer, and the toad had saved him from near certain death, either by freezing or by drowning.

“I’m so glad that you have recovered from your fall.” said Myrror, “My friend was struck by a falling branch, and I cannot wake him up.  He is still alive, but I cannot carry him, and we must hurry if we wish to find that werewolf.”

“If you’re searching for werewolves, then you could have found no better man!” said Leyen in a deep, heroic tone, “I will carry him on my back, and, together, we’ll find that creature in no time!”

“Oh, what a wonderful plan!” exclaimed Myrror, the tiniest of smirks gracing his lips.

Leyen proceeded to hoist Denime’s unconscious body up over his large, brawny shoulders as easily as he might have lifted a child.  The cleric weighed very little, a fact that struck Leyen as odd.  Though the healer was shorter than he by nearly a foot, he looked was healthy and fit.  The boy was too light for his size, almost like a bird.  The warrior adjusted Denime’s limp body on his shoulders one final time, and then began the long process of tying his sword to his belt.  

Myrror took this time to assess the Northman.  His armor was functional yet decorative, a telltale sign that this particular suit had been passed down for many, many generations.  Various symbols and lines told the tales of Leyen’s ancestors, though Myrror could not read what they meant.  His sword, too, was covered in heavy decoration.  The untrained eye might have glanced upon it and dismissed the symbols and patterns that were traced so delicately upon it to little more than decorative filigree.  Myrror’s eyes, however, saw each rune and the role that it played in the swords very old, very powerful magic.  The spell was complex, ancient, and written by wizards, making deciphering it impossible for Myrror without a library of tome’s and spellbooks at his fingertips.  This being determined, he stored the memory of the sword deep within his mind for another time.  Myrror had determined from his very risky Mindrape spell that this man bore a deep grudge against werewolves.  Could he be trusted for this most delicate of tasks?  

Myrror was not cold and calculating like his wizard counterparts.  Such a mind could not be persuaded by the magic, as a sorcerer’s mind must be.  Wizards must spend their entire childhood learning to speak the difficult tongue of magic.  When the pupil proves to her teacher that she has mastered speech, around the age of eight, she is allowed to begin learning the written language of magic, which takes about seven years of constant study.  Even after learning its language, wizards cannot control magic.  Many, many more years are spent gradually bending the magic to the wizard’s will, until at last she is capable of rudimentary spells, called cantrips.  This refinement of magic gives a wizard a wide variety of spells to choose from, allowing her to learn hundreds upon hundreds of spells, though she must spend some of their own energy to cast them.  Sorcerers, on the other hand, cannot learn magic.  It is not a developed science that can be measured and delegated.  A sorcerer is born with the magic in his blood.  The hand motions and spoken words that are used to summon and form the magic by wizards are not the same for sorcerers, if they are present at all.  A sorcerer feels the magic guide him.  His hands move to form the magic in a way that is unrehearsed and chaotic.  Where a wizard’s words are spoken from years of memorization and recitation, a sorcerer speaks like a lover, with words that pour from his soul, body, and blood.  The chaotic nature of sorcerous magic makes formal training impossible.  Each sorcerer learns his own way of casting through experience and instinct.  When sorcerers compare spells, sometimes they are similar, but more often than not they are completely different.  Clerics learn to have faith in their gods to gain power, wizards are taught to trust in their years of study and research, but sorcerers learn to trust in themselves and to have faith in the magic.  Sorcerers are horribly uncommon, being outnumbered by their wizard counterparts seventy to one.  Most wizards and the majority of the non-magical community view sorcerers with distrust, and feel that they are little better than renegade wizards.

After a moment of intense thought, Myrror concluded that even if this Leyen turned out to be unfit for the job, he could dispatched without much trouble.  

Leyen turned to Myrror, having finished his preparations, and beamed.  
“All set!” he said, his eyes aglow with the spark of adventure.

“Wonderful,” said Myrror, “but how do you plan to find the man?”

“I learned tracking from the best in the worst of conditions.” Leyen explained, “It shouldn’t be too difficult to track a bleeding werewolf through a soft forest bed.”

And, with that statement, Leyen proceeded to walk into the forest, following the path of dark, red splotches along the trees and leaves.  Myrror clapped in appropriate awe each time Leyen heroically pointed out a tricky turn that the werewolf had taken to avoid tracking.  Myrror had to admit to himself that this human was very good at what he was doing.  After only an hour of walking, Denime began to come around.  

“Unnnhhhh….” he moaned as he stirred on Leyen’s broad back.  

Leyen set him down and proceeded to remove his waterskin from his belt and offer it to Denime.  At first Denime looked up at the Northman with apprehension, but he recognized Myrror’s whispered voice in his ear.  

“This man is helping us find the werewolf.” it stated in very soft tones.  

Denime turned to find the source of the voice, but Myrror was partially hidden in a grove of trees in the distance.  He was chanting something that sounded very similar to the spell that he used to cast illusions over himself.  Denime, feeling a bit more relaxed, pulled a small golden disk from his bag and pressed it up against his forehead, whispering words of prayer.  His body was filled with holy energy, and he stood up renewed.  He made to introduce himself when Myrror cut him off.  

“No time for introductions now,” he said, “we have a sick man to catch.”

“Right,” murmured Denime, hitching his flowing clerical robes up around his knees.

The three resumed their chase, moving with astonishing speed through the underbrush thank to Leyen’s wilderness lore.  After a few minutes of running, they pick up the first traces of a werewolf in the distance.  A sullen, mournful howl split the night, causing Denime and Leyen to bristle with fear.  Leyen, Denime, and Myrror were mentally preparing themselves for the fight that would almost certainly take place.  The beast is close, thought Leyen, feeling the familiar tingling of battle lust in his muscles.  My patient is near, thought Denime, feeling Valoran’s might and courage flow through him.  The missing piece, thought Myrror, his body singing as the magic began to wind its way through him.

They heard a second howl closer still.  Leyen drew his antique sword from its scabbard as he ran.  The braided leather handle felt warm and familiar in his hand, reminding him of his blood oath.  When he had returned from his brother’s funeral that fateful night to find his father in pieces scattered about his home, he had sworn that he would kill every werewolf that he came across until he had his revenge.  He had seen the creature responsible for the deaths of his father and mother.  It was small wolf with deep roan fur and pale green eyes.  Eyes that were filled with pain, the result of internal torment reflected through them; eyes that had once laughed and sang when she had shared his bed; eyes that had filled with tears of joy when he promised to wed her.  Leyen tired to be discreet as he wiped tears from his bright blue eyes, trying to deal with the pain that he knew must subside.  At last he regained control over his mind and began to refocus his thoughts on the battle that lay just ahead in a moonlit glade.

CHAPTER 4:
Might Makes Right!

As the Denime, Myrror, and Leyen burst from the dense forest into the clear glade, the wolf wheeled around and snarled, eyes darting for an escape route.  There were none.  The three were seasoned warriors, and had positioned themselves to prevent such an escape.

Leyen moved in closer to the creature, swinging his sword in a wide upward arc, trying to end the battle quickly, before one of them made a mistake and got themselves infected.  The swing was well-aimed, but his sword went spinning from his hand, embedding itself deep in the trunk of a nearby pine.  

Reeling, Leyen searched for whom or what had deflected his attack.  The cleric, Denime, stood between him and the werewolf, guarding it bodily.  

“Are you insane?!” screamed Denime, “You can’t just kill him!”

“And what would you do then, Your High Holiness?!” Leyen protested in mock respect.

“We are going to subdue the man and contain him!”

“Why and how in the name of Ghrin do you intend to do that?!” asked Leyen, referring to the god of humans.

“I have no idea…” muttered Denime, turning to face the wolf.  He spoke a strange word and his robes swirled about him, folding and expanding, until at last they settled.  The cloth had changed into steel and bronze, so that he now wore a set of full plate mail armor.  

“Myrror, make sure he doesn’t get in our way,” commanded Denime as he drew a massive bronze mace from its holder on his waist.  The cleric focused in on his target as Myrror moved to detain Leyen

“Of course,” said Myrror, positioning himself between the impaled pine and the warrior.

Leyen turned and saw the tiny man standing ready between him and his sword and nearly laughed.  The halfling was small even by halfling standards!  Overpowering him would strain his conscience more than his body.  He strode over to the halfling, confident,  and found himself looking at the starry sky.  

He scrambled to his feet and took a second look at the halfling.  Instead of the flowing blue and silver robes that he had been wearing earlier, he now wore loose fitting leggings and a black tunic.  He was standing with one foot behind the other, his left palm extended out past his body at eye level.  The stance reminded him of the time that he had spent near the far-eastern countries of the continent.  

“Well spotted, Northman.  This type of fighting does indeed originate in the far east,” answered the halfling, reading his thoughts, “It is centered around eight creatures of the eastern zodiac, and you may find that, when enhanced by magic, it can be very effective.”

Damn, thought Leyen.  He had not expected this.  Magic-users were complicated enough to combat, but one that knew how to fight hand-to-hand as well could prove to be even more complicated.  Leyen checked his list of options.  He, like any good warrior, had many other small weapons concealed on his body, but drawing and using one on this mage would be tricky.  

Meanwhile, Denime also performed a mental check of his options.  Lycanthropes could resist his prayers better than most common monsters, so an effective holy attack would need to be quick and precise.  Deciding on a course of action, Denime took a few steps toward the wolf, ignoring its increased furor.  

“Sleep,” he said, his voice echoing with holy power.

The lycanthrope shuddered and looked groggy for a moment, but it shook its head and snapped at the vulnerable cleric.  Its teeth caught hold on his armored thigh and clamped down hard.  The attack had little effect, but it did jar Denime from the brief apathy that he always felt after using a clerical prayer.  Denime regained his composure and retreated a few feet, giving himself some space to think.  

“Myrror, I need your magic!”  Denime called after a moment of thought.  He knew of no more prayers that could contain the beast without harming it.  Myrror would almost certainly have a spell ready that would suffice.

Myrror gave Leyen a final, threatening glance and strode over to Denime, ready to assist him.  They exchanged brief glances, communicating vast amounts of information without speaking a single word in the way that only two people that have faced great trials together can.  Myrror ducked behind Denime for cover, calling to mind the effect that he wished for the magic to produce.

Leyen seized this opportunity to retrieve his sword from the pine tree.  The blade slipped from the hard wood with unnatural ease.  Leyen had learned long ago that the sword had magical properties, but he had never discovered the extent of its power.  Thus far he had found that the sword never needed sharpening and that it could easily penetrate though tough surfaces, even the thick permafrost of the far north.  He returned his sword to its sheath and turned around to find out what the cleric and the mage were planning.  Denime stood between the mage and the werewolf, giving his friend the cover that he needed to cast a spell.  The wind had begun to build, and the air was turning a nasty green.  A storm was brewing somewhere in the distance.  A sudden gust of wind caught the cleric’s thick cloak, causing it to billow out and his feathered wings to ruffle.  Feathered wings?!  Leyen did a double take and sure enough there were four large, feathery wings attached to the healer’s back.  Some powerful emotion stirred deep inside him, and his eyes darted to the magic-user, his heart hoping against hopes.  Leyen’s heart sank as he saw the same young halfling face chanting some arcane spell.  He was on the verge of turning around and leaving the melee when he spotted a faint silvery aura about the mage from the corner of his eye.  

Leyen reeled, his hopes soaring as the illusion fell from the halfling, revealing the unmistakable face of a corpse.  His brother’s prophecy!  These were two of the three that his brother had seen!  His mind drifted back in time to the days just before the tragic death of his younger brother.  His brother, Noad, had been a sorcerer.  Or, he could have been a sorcerer.  His family was distrustful of magic, and when they had discovered Noad using it, they forbade him from ever practicing the art.  For ten years, his brother was happy and healthy.  Noad was known throughout the Plains of Ice for his fantastic luck.  Noad’s luck had brought his family wealth, restored its honor, and had even been responsible for the recovery of its ancestral sword and armor, which Leyen had inherited.  All was well until a strange fever began to devour Noad’s body, shattering his mind.  He became delusional, spouting off strange prophecies from his sickbed without cease.  At first, his family believed that these stories were nothing but the results of the fever on his brother’s mind, but soon they began coming true, starting with the death of the village shaman.  One summer night, Noad prophesized that Leyen would take part in a reunion of the gods, and that he would be responsible for the lives of three other warriors.  Together, the four would rally the shattered races of Ceal against the stars.  One would be a warrior of light, his mighty wings serving as a banner for their cause.  Another would be a warrior of the shadow, his magic guiding their journey up to the heavens.  Another was to be a warrior of the heavens, his sword cleaving the earth.  The last would be a warrior of the earth, his power warping life and love.  Leyen knew by process of elimination that it was he who was the Warrior of the Stars.  He had no wings, magic, or druidic powers, so he could only be the Star.  
Now here stood the warriors of Light and Shadow, their fates entwined; their hearts as one.  The flawless poetry of the story made him wonder what god had spun such a tale, what immortal hand guided the threads of their lives through the pattern of time.  Leyen shivered at that thought and returned to the present.  

Myrror finished chanting and spread his fingers apart, his hands surrounded by the silvery aura of his magic.  He moved his hands together, meshing his fingers until his palms touched.  The nearby shadows of the trees wiggled and darted out into the moonlight, streaking across the grass until they formed a shadowy net over the glade.  Myrror cupped his hands, forming them into a tight prison, as though he was holding a moth.  The shadowy net twisted and writhed.  It rose from the ground, whirling itself into an inky prison around the wolf.  The frightened creature thrashed about, searching desperately for an escape.  The prison closed, the wolf disappeared from view, and the shadows condensed and hardened, forming a smooth, flat surface.  Denime crept over to the dark cage, his eyes scrutinizing Myrror’s work.  

“That’s quite a spell,” Denime admitted, running his hands over the smooth surface “What is this stuff?”

“It is what shadows on the Plane of Shadow are made from,” answered Myrror, “I call it Nether.”  

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice, but how do you intend for us to carry him now?” asked Leyen.

“Oh, well I thought you might shove it up your ass, but seeing as how yours seems to have absorbed your entire body, I don’t really know,” said Myrror smiling as he pointed at the shadow cage.

Leyen flushed and began cleaning his unused sword.  Denime was about to ask Myrror how he really intended to transport the man when he saw the halfling tread over to the sphere.  Myrror chanted some arcane order and the cage shrank to the size of an apple.  Myrror picked up the miniature shadow cage and, without missing a beat, swallowed the whole thing in one gulp.  

“Isn’t that bad for him?” Leyen whispered into Denime’s ear, voice filled with genuine concern

“I honestly have no idea,” he replied, his eyes wide.

CHAPTER 5:
Campfire Chaos!

“So, you rang some sort of sanctified bell inside an ancient church that turned you into a Celestial?” asked Leyen.  

The three had built a merry fire in the glade where they captured the werewolf, and Denime had just finished relating the story of how he had become a Celestial.  

“Well, that’s basically it…I don’t really know if the bell was responsible to transforming me,” Denime answered.

“Well, what do you think Myrror?” inquired Denime.  

“I have no idea.  Even if I was able to examine the bell, I would merely be able to determine whether or not it was an arcane spell.  But, as I could not enter the church, I can’t tell you anything,” responded Myrror.  

“Myrror couldn’t go in?” asked Leyen.

“No,” replied Denime.

“Why?”

“He’s a lich.  He can’t enter into shrines that are dedicated to holy gods of light,”

“He’s a lich?  I thought he was just extremely unhealthy…”

“He is indeed a lich,” said Myrror

“Well I suppose being dead would be at the top of a list of unhealthy things, so I’m not entirely wrong.”

“Can we get off the subject of Myrror being dead?” asked Myrror

“Why is Myrror speaking of himself in the third-person?” inquired Denime

“He does not have the slightest clue,” answered Myrror without a touch of humor.

“Hmmm…then Denime is going to as well,” said Denime, smiling.  

“And Leyen also!” proclaimed Leyen

“Myrror doesn’t think that this is nearly as amusing as when he was doing it alone.”

“Perhaps, but it amuses Leyen very much!”

“What were we discussing again?” asked Denime, having lost his train of thought.  

“What we are going to do with the werewolf,” replied Myrror helpfully.  

“Ah, yes….Well, I thought that perhaps we should take him with us to the High Temple to Valoran,” suggested Denime.  

“And what would we do with him there?” inquired Myrror, “The clerics cannot heal his malady.  Arrot has gained far too much power from lycanthropy to let it go so easily.”

“That’s why I wanted to kill it in the first place,” muttered Leyen under his breath.  

“An old wizard friend of mine is conducting some experiments involving Transfiguratory Alchemy, and I think that our werewolf friend could benefit greatly from his experiments,” said Myrror.  

“Tramsfigoriteary Alchemy?  What in the name of the Staaldmire Glacier is that?” asked Leyen.  

“It is the manipulation of the six basic elements that make up all life to induce a fundamental change in its nature,” recited Myrror.

Leyen smiled stupidly and looked left to right, as if seeking divine aid.  Myrror sighed.  He moved so that he stood face to face with the seated Northman, wearing an impish smile.  

“Magic!” he exclaimed in a theatrical voice, spreading his hands in a grand gesture.  

“You don’t have to be so sarcastic about it…” said Leyen, sounding hurt.  

“You’ll get used to it,” said Denime, solemn, as he turned to Myrror, “Can this friend of yours truly help him?”

“Oh, I seriously doubt that there is much that even the gods could do to help this poor soul,” Myrror declared, patting Leyen’s broad back comfortingly.  

“I meant the werewolf,” stated Denime flatly, both he and Leyen glaring at the halfling with murderous intent.  

“Oh!” said Myrror with seemingly real innocence, “Of course he can!  He’s a pioneer in his field, and he knows a thing or two about magical diseases to boot!  His laboratory is near the Eastern Kingdoms though…”

“Renalalda can wait.  My commitment to this man is much more important,” stated Denime.  

“Don’t worry, I’m sure that between him and me, we can help this poor man,” pressed Myrror, patting his now-swollen stomach, “Ooh!  He’s kicking!”

“Oh, let me feel!” said Denime before he could stop himself.  He felt his cheeks burn as Myrror fell over laughing and Leyen turned to ask him what was so funny about wanting to feel the baby kick.

A bright flash of lightning followed by ominous thunder ended Myrror’s laughter

“Well,” said Leyen, downcast, “We had better look for someplace to get inside, otherwise this rainstorm will make tonight miserable.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” said Denime, “It isn’t a natural storm. It was created by a druid for some reason. It should blow right over us, towards the village we came from.”

“Let’s set watch then. I’ll take first watch so that you and the sorcerer can recover some strength,” Leyen offered.

“Actually, I don’t sleep,” said Denime, “and neither does Myrror. Well…not really. I will recover my power once I commune with Valoran at sunrise.”

“And though I do not truly sleep, I do need to recover my magic,” said Myrror.

Leyen appeared confused at first. Surely all people needed to sleep! It was a few moments before he remembered that these two were not normal creatures like humans and animals. What an adventure it would be journeying with these two! He had already decided that he would accompany them on their travels. Something in his gut told him that his destiny was entwined with theirs, and not only because of the prophecy. Something else seemed to call him to join this holy cleric and this dark sorcerer. He bid them goodnight and let these nighttime thoughts drift away as he fell into unconsciousness.

“See you at sunrise.” Myrror told Denime. The halfling sat down upon a thick satin sheet that he had pulled from his voluminous sleeves. He closed his eyes and began to chant. His words were not the words of magic. He spoke words from some ancient, mysterious tongue that echoed through the night air, making it soft and warm. A faint aura surrounded Myrror, coating his satin robes in the shimmering quicksilver that was his magic. This aura drifted away as mist, carried by some ethereal breeze, only to condense nearby. The mist took shape, slowly bending and twisting until a small, silvery fox stood in the glen.