[Mkguild] MK- Temper (2/2)

[Hallan Mirayas]

Again, /text/ denotes italics.  Thank you.

-----

   Drift sat at the bar in the Deaf Mule later that evening, one ale in his 
hand and two more in his belly.  "I have never known such a run of bad 
luck," he muttered, voice slurring perceptibly.  His head buzzed from the 
drink, which put him even more out of sorts.  He didn't remember ever 
getting buzzed from just three drinks before...  "I mean, I expected to have 
problems starting tinsmithing again after so long, but with the metal 
breaking so often...  I don't know what I'm going to do."  He downed the ale 
in two long gulps, and then tapped it for a refill.  Donnie shook his head.  
"What?  You're cutting me off -already-?  After -three- drinks?!  This is 
outrageous!  This is preposterous!  This is-"

   Whether it was Donnie's sharp glare or the pain in his foot that got him 
to sit back down and stop yelling was the subject of discussion around the 
bar for about ten minutes after, during which the samoyed could be heard 
grumbling irritably over a mug of mint tea, trying to resist the urge to 
scratch his cheek.  The fur was starting to regrow, and it -itched-.  He'd 
nearly pulled the stitches out the one time he'd given in to the urge to 
scratch it, and now kept his hand well away.  At least the burn on his hand 
had healed when he made his apology to Akkala, which left him one less thing 
to worry about.  But even so, the constant itching was making him even more 
short-tempered than normal, which he knew was problematic.  He was his 
father's son, with his father's temper, and he had to be careful not to-

   A shout of anger gave an instant's warning before a deluge of ale 
splashed across him from the side, soaking his fur and his lap in dark 
liquid.  He leaped up with a yell that turned into a yelp when he came down 
hard on his injured toes, his leg buckling and toppling him into the lap of 
the next person down the line.  This started off a domino effect as the bear 
he'd fallen against crashed into an age-regressed Keeper, who then toppled 
into a lizard just stepping up to the bar, a wooden cue stick in his hand.  
The bear shoved Drift off with a single powerful heave of his arm, right 
into the person who'd thrown the ale, a scraggly-bearded, heavyset man with 
a deeply lined face and the clothes of a caravan merchant.  Not that Drift 
cared about his clothes.  Or about the startled look on the man's face.  His 
fist was already on its way.

   He woke up in Coe's infirmary again the next morning, battered, bruised, 
and aching, with a headache fit to burst his head open.  He groaned, and 
then gasped in pain as a blazing shaft of sunlight lanced through his eye 
and blasted out the back of his skull.  Hastily bringing an arm up to shield 
himself from the barely opened window shutter, he hissed, "Oh Eli, somebody 
-please- close that window."  After a moment's pause, he repeated, louder, 
"Will somebod- ohhhh..."  His head was pure agony, and his stomach 
threatened to rebel at any moment.  Groans and growled admonitions to shut 
up arose from several points across the room, laced here and there with 
profanity and an occasional threat.  He rolled out of the thin line of 
sunlight, nearly toppling off the sickbed in the process, and looked around. 
  Finding what he was looking for after a moment, he reached and pulled it 
close just in time.  Nearly a minute later, his stomach long empty, he 
shoved the chamber pot away and finished his topple out of the bed, where he 
slumped back into unconsciousness for a while.

-----

   Drift's head ached as he stood before a large desk an hour later.  Or 
maybe it only looked large compared to the age-regressed Keeper dressed in 
the uniform of the Watch behind it.  Or maybe he was still dreaming.  No, 
his head hurt too much for him to be dreaming.  Meanwhile, the little girl 
frowned and said, "Mister Snow, do you know why you're here?"

   "Oh, please not so loud," Drift begged in a pained, whispering voice, 
eyes trying desperately not to screw shut, hand clasped tightly behind his 
back so they wouldn't fly instantly to his pounding temples.  He settled for 
plastering his ears as tightly as he could against his skull in hopes of 
muffling some of the sound.  Beside him, the merchant mirrored his reply and 
didn't bother with clasping his hands.

   "You and Mr. Farrell here," continued their torturer in a voice slightly 
louder than before, "are charged with drunkenness, brawling, disorderly 
conduct, and destruction of property.  How do you plead?"

   "On my knees, ma'am," was out of the samoyed's mouth before he could get 
a hold of his addled mind, a reply that deepened the frown on the child's 
mouth considerably.

   She stepped out from behind the desk, reached up, and pulled Drift down 
to her level by a handful of belly fur, dropping him to his knees with a 
whimper.  "Very cute.  You just bought yourself another day washing dishes 
for Donnie.  Want to try for some time in the stocks instead?"  At Drift's 
small headshake, she let go of his fur.  "Good.  Stay down."

   The young girl turned her scowling attention to the merchant next.  
"Since Donnie corroborates your story about a 'little guy' throwing the ale 
instead of yourself, I'm inclined to let you go.  But for breaking a chair 
over Begging Boy's back," she said, thumbing over her shoulder, "and for 
punching Andrew in the snout-"  At the man's look of confusion, she 
prompted, "The bear.  For punching a full-grown bear in the snout, I'm going 
to call you quite possibly the -stupidest- man I have ever encountered and 
have you confined to your room at the inn until your caravan leaves.  That 
is, unless you'd like to wash dishes, too.  No?  Good.  Now, get out.  Both 
of you."

-----

   Scrub.   Scrub.  Scrape.  Splatter.  Splash.

   Drift whimpered, his fur soaked entirely through on his arms, chest, and 
belly.  He had his ring off and in his pocket to keep it from getting lost 
in the soapy water, and he was hot.  Between the humidity from the rain 
outside and the steamy heat of the dishwater, panting did him no good except 
to let him swallow soap whenever a dish splashed, which was often.  
Something else he did often was thanking Eli that it was his second and last 
day.  When he'd discovered that the ale that night had been spiked, Donnie 
had taken pity on his new dishwasher and gotten his punishment reduced from 
four to two days, for which Drift was deeply grateful.  He made a mental 
note to do something special for the bull.

   The kitchen door swung open, and Drift turned to recognize a familiar 
face...  just as he felt a tug in his right pocket and spotted a gray shape 
pulling away out of the corner of his eye.  "Hey!" he yelled as the 
pickpocket bolted out the back door, a lean, long-limbed canine of some 
sort. “That’s my ring!”

   The samoyed burst out the door in hot pursuit, tearing off the apron as 
he ran.  /Not enough time to switch to taur, but that body can't be built 
for endurance.  He's a sprinter.  He has to be.  As long as I can keep him 
in sight, I can run him to ground./  Drift's confidence died a sudden death 
as a familiar pain bloomed in his right foot.  /Ow!  Ow! Stupid toes!  Not 
now!/  Desperation cross Drift's face as he dropped from a run to a fast 
limp, watching the thief with growing despair as the greyhound accelerated 
away.

   Misha blasted past him in a thunderous charge, all four feet flinging 
clods of mud as he yelled and waved for people to clear a path.  Drift 
recognized a frying pan he'd just finished washing, just before Misha flung 
it edge-on after the thief.  It cut through the air with a strange wobbling 
whir, but the pan’s concave shape pulled it wide of its mark.  The thief 
looked aside as the pan clanged off the wall next to him, and was just 
starting to laugh when the fox yelled, "Now, Madog!"

   A silver-gray shape hurtled out of an alley just ahead of the thief, who 
barely had enough time for a scream of terror before being tackled.  As 
Drift approached, panting and limping, his eyes widened.  His sheer surprise 
temporarily drowned out the ache from his foot.  A large metal fox pinned 
the thief down, its jaws clamped around his throat.  From the sound of the 
thief's gurgling, the bite left just -barely- enough room to breathe.  It 
growled and tightened its grip whenever he struggled, which translated into 
him getting very still, very quickly.  At close range, he finally recognized 
the thief’s breed.  A greyhound.  A racer.  "Thank you, brother," Drift 
panted, wiping rainwater from his eyes.  "Thanks, um... Madog?"

   Misha reached down and grabbed the front of the greyhound's shirt.  "Let 
him go, Madog.  I've got him."  With an effortless heave, he lifted the 
gasping dog with one arm and patted him down for weapons with the other.  
Finding a long knife, he flipped it to Madog, who caught it in midair and 
ate it, his tail swishing in unfeigned delight.  He also returned Drift's 
ring, then shook the greyhound to get his attention.  "Okay, you worthless 
piece of gutterscum, start talking.  Why Drift?  Why someone in the kitchen 
of a tavern when there are plenty of people on the street?"

   Despite Misha's implacable grip and fearsome gaze, the greyhound seemed 
more afraid of Madog and never took his eyes off him.  The dog trembled with 
fear as the automaton finished eating the knife, licked his lips, and 
started nosing at the thief's pockets.  "I s-s-saw his ring the other day," 
the thief stammered, "th-then spotted him through the window today with it 
off.  I f-f-f-figured he-  aaaah!"

   The thief gave a shrill scream when Madog's questing nose found a heavy 
coin purse tucked beneath his clothes, close against his upper thigh, and 
the metal fox bit through the cloth to rip it loose for chewing.  "He lies, 
Papa," said the fox matter-of-factly as he ate each coin like most Keepers 
would eat cookies, licking from his whiskers a few threads from the 
greyhound's inseam.

   Drift watched Madog in slack-jawed amazement, and made a mental note to 
get the whole story of the metal fox later.  Slipping his ring on, he gave a 
sigh of relief as the cooling magic flowed back through him, and then turned 
his attention to the growling Misha.  The angry foxtaur gave the thief a 
shake that set seams popping throughout the greyhound's shirt.  "The truth, 
or I'll feed you to him myself," the fox threatened, teeth bared and hackles 
raised all the way down his very considerable back.

   "Okay, okay!" the thief yelped, tail so tightly tucked that it pressed 
against his belly.  "Just keep that thing away from me!  Some guy hired me!" 
  He hastened on before Misha could shake him again, the words almost 
stumbling over each other in their haste to convince the murderous-looking 
fox.  "I don't know who!  I swear!  He would only show up at night, and 
always wore a long cloak!  I never got a decent look at him!  Honest!  He 
just said to steal the white guy's ring!  Even said I could keep it if I 
wanted!"

   Misha growled.  "What did he look like?"

   The greyhound whimpered.  If possible, his ears flattened even further 
back against his skull.  "I don't know!  Black cloak, long!"

   "You must remember -something- about him!  His voice, how he walked?"

   "Nothin', I swear!  Normal voice, same as you'd hear out of any guy in 
the marketplace!"

   Misha pulled the dog nose to nose, ears flat, lips rippled into a snarl, 
and yelled, "Give me -something-!!"  The dog's shirt chose that moment to 
tear apart and deposit the thief in a sobbing heap on the ground.

   The foxtaur wound up for a kick, but stopped when Drift laid a hand on 
his arm.  "I don't think we're going to get anything more out of him right 
now.  Let's hand him over to the Watch.  They can try to get more out of him 
once he's calmed down, okay?"  As a faint glimmer of hope flitted across the 
thief's face, Drift snuffed it with a smile.  "And if you're not satisfied 
with their conclusions, we can always have Madog sniff him out later, 
right?"

   Misha checked himself, realizing what damage he could have done if he'd 
kicked the dog-man while in taurform.  "You're right.  Help me get this sack 
of filth tied up, will you?"

   Drift tried to take a step forward, but yelped and leaned heavily against 
Misha's side as pain shot through his foot and up into his leg.  "Are you 
all right?" asked the foxtaur, steadying his friend and giving him a look of 
concern.

   The samoyed winced, his expression pinched and his foot held off the 
ground.  "No, I am not alright.  I cracked two toes a couple weeks ago, and 
I think running on them was a big mistake.  Ow.  Can you give me a ride to 
Coe's once we're done dropping this guy off, and let Donnie know where I've 
gone so I don't get thrown in the stocks for a week?"

   Madog got to his feet and enthusiastically wagged his grey tail.  "I 
help, Papa!  I go tell Donnie!" the mechanical fox yipped, and then 
scampered away before either of them could say anything.

   Drift watched him go, listening to the yells of alarm that marked Madog's 
progress back to the Mule, and then turned to give Misha a long, questioning 
look.  "One of these days, I have -got- to ask you how you made that thing." 
  When Misha opened his mouth to explain, Drift held up a hand.  "Preferably 
someday when I'm not standing on one foot in the rain in the middle of the 
street, okay?  Besides, you have a thief to tie up."

   Misha laughed.  "It's a long story, Drift," he said as he started tying 
the greyhound by his wrists and ankles before hoisting him aloft.  "A very 
long and very -old- story.  Here, you climb on first, and hold him in place. 
  As for you, you mongrel," he added, giving the thief a glare that tucked 
the greyhound's tail under again, "do you have a name?"

   "Runner."

   Misha growled impatiently, a dangerous gleam in his eye.  "A name, mutt, 
not a nickname."

   The thief cringed, cowed by the foxtaur's threatened wrath.  "D-David."

   "All right, David.  Hold still, keep quiet, don't tempt my patience, and 
I -might- not feed you to Madog.  Clear?"

   "Yessir," the thief whimpered quietly.

-----

   Coe was -not- happy to see Drift again.  "Didn't I tell you to stay off 
that foot as much as possible?  Didn't I tell you what might happen?"  His 
ears were flat to the sides, his voice carrying the edge of an angry chitter 
as he wrapped the samoyed's foot in bandages, two short sticks protruding 
from under the wrap.  "Your toes -were- cracked.  -Now- they're broken.  
You're looking at a month and a half of recovery time.  For the -last- time, 
stay -off- them.  If I see you walking with anything other than a cane or a 
crutch for the next six weeks, I will -personally- tie you to your bed.  Got 
it?  And no shifting.  Period."

   Drift's ears drooped with each sentence, but he was saved from having to 
answer by a thump against the door.  Madog, pushed the door open with a 
forepaw and stepped in, the mechanical fox carrying a cane in his jaws that 
he dropped next to Drift's hand.  "You forgot this at Donnie's, Uncle Drift. 
  I bring."  He sat down and wagged his tail, tongue lolling in a helpful 
smile.

   The samoyed twitched an ear back in confusion even as he smiled at the 
mechanical fox's happy expression.  "Uncle?" he asked, reaching out without 
thinking to rub his fingerpads over the metal behind Madog's ears, and he 
seemed surprised when Madog tilted his head into it.

   "Papa call you brother.  Papa's brother- my uncle," the fox said simply.

   Coe was not immune to the fox's charm, but he leveled a stern warning at 
Drift nonetheless.  "I mean it, Mr. Snow.  If you mess this up anymore, 
you'll need the Lightbringer's help again, and you'd probably be spending 
the next -year- working in their temple as payment.  Understand?"

   "Yes, sir, I understand," Drift said, picking up his cane and levering 
himself carefully to his feet.  "I'll be careful.  Thank you."

   "I watch Uncle Drift for you!" the metal fox chirped happily, getting to 
his feet with a clickety-clink. "He do what you want. I make sure!"

   A barking laugh from the doorway turned everyone's attention to Misha, 
who had just arrived.  "Now you're really in trouble, Drift," the fox said, 
leaning against the doorjamb.  "The last time he volunteered like that, he 
kept me stuck in bed for a week."

   Drift, for as long as he lived, would never be able to figure out how a 
metal fox could look so thoroughly smug.  "Papa got better, didn't he?" was 
the automaton's reply.

   Misha laughed and walked over, leaning down to give Madog a pat on the 
head and fishing out a metal disk for him to eat.  "That I did, Madog.  That 
I did."

   "I'll replace the pants you destroyed helping me get my ring back, 
Misha," Drift said, eyeing the new pair the fox was wearing.

   Misha waved away the offer with a negligent flip of the hand.  "Don't 
worry about it, brother.  I'd been meaning to replace that pair for a while 
now.  Caroline hated them."

   "Still-"

   The fox put a finger on the protesting dogmorph's nose, quieting him with 
a level, serious glance.   "Drift, I mean it.  Don't worry about paying 
anything back.  You and I are even, and will remain so.  Now, if you're done 
trying to convince me that you should be paying off a nonexistent debt, 
let's see about getting you back to your room.  I've found out some things 
that I think you should know."  Turning his attention to Coe, who had moved 
off to help a pair of assistants with a supply inventory, Misha said, "Thank 
you for your time, Healer Coe.  Madog and I will make sure he doesn't darken 
your doorstep again anytime soon."

   "Thank you, sir," Drift added.

   "You can thank me by staying -off- that foot, Mr. Snow," growled the 
raccoon.

-----

   Drift flopped down on his bed, the simple wooden frame creaking slightly 
as the ropes under the mattress took the weight.  Its construction was 
indicative of the room in general: simple and utilitarian, without much need 
for finery.  The only exception to this was a beautiful stained glass 
window, through which the light of the fading sunset shone, a plain white 
glass cross in the center of a sea of reds, yellows, and blues.  The 
mattress itself compressed softly and soundlessly under the samoyed's 
weight, suggesting a stuffing other than straw.  Next to the bed was a 
covered wicker basket, from beneath the lid of which protruded a tuft of 
suspiciously familiar white fur.  "Ah, that feels good.  Pass me that brush 
off the dresser, would you, Misha?  I need to get my fur brushed out before 
it dries, or it's going to itch like mad and be a hellish job to get 
untangled."  He shifted uncomfortably and scratched at his chest, which had 
been bare since he tore off the apron back at the Deaf Mule.  "Feels like 
I've already let it go too long," he added, taking the brush Misha offered 
him and starting to brush out the tangled fur on his arms.  "Ow.  Pull up a 
chair, if you would.  You said you had something you needed to talk to me 
about?"

   Misha pulled up a chair made of the same simple design as the bed, then 
spun it around and sat on it backward, his tail hanging off the seat and his 
arms resting crossed on the back.  "Yes.  I was wondering how things were 
progressing with the forge.  I have those designs you requested finished, 
plus a few more."

   The samoyed winced, both from pulling on a half-dried tangle and from 
Misha's question.  "Honestly?  It's going rather poorly.  I don't know 
what's going wrong, but about a third of the metal I buy winds up as scrap.  
It just comes apart under stress.  That's how I picked up this lovely little 
slice."  Drift drew his finger along the stitches in his cheek for 
illustration.  "It's also hard to judge whether the fire's the right 
temperature with this ring on, and hell itself with the ring off, which 
sends even more material into the scrap bin."  His ears and shoulders 
drooped in disappointment.  "I don't know...  It might just be that I'm so 
out of practice, but I'm starting to feel like I'm not cut out for this."

   Misha shook his head, ears set back in empathy.  "You just need more 
practice.  Maybe you're getting some bad ore, too."

   "Maybe."  Drift didn't sound convinced.

   A few long moments of silence followed before Misha deliberately changed 
the subject.  "That's a beautiful window, brother," he said, admiring the 
stained glass.

   "Thank you.  It was there when I moved in, but I appreciate it.  I don't 
know how Kyia knew I liked stained glass."

   "If you like stained glass," Misha said, "there are some windows at the 
Chapel that you really should see."

   Drift's ears flipped back and he looked up as if he couldn't believe he'd 
heard Misha right.  "Go into the chapel of the Ecclesia?  Into the viper 
pit?  I don't think so, brother.  Sure, they -say- they're all nice and 
friendly, but I've had family burned at the stake down south.  I trust the 
Ecclesia about as far as I can throw them."

   Misha frowned, but a metallic clatter and a very distinct 'ptooey' from 
the forge area interrupted further discussion.  The fox leaned back in his 
chair to look through the open door to the forge.  "Madog, what are you up 
to in there?"

   Madog was just barely visible, a piece of scrap between his paws, which 
he regarded with unmistakable disgust.  "This taste -bad-, Papa.  Yucky."

   "What tastes 'yucky'?" echoed Drift, giving Misha a look of confusion.  
He couldn't see Madog from the bed, so could only guess what the automaton 
was up to.  He made a mental note to ask later how a metal fox could taste 
things.

   Misha frowned, sharing Drift's confusion, and beckoned.  "It tastes bad, 
Madog?  Bring it here, please.  Let me take a look."  Taking the piece of 
scrap metal from Madog when the fox brought it over, he held it up next to 
the lantern by the bedside.  "That's odd.  It -looks- normal enough.  Do you 
mind if I run a few tests on it back at my forge?"

   Drift shook his head as he finished brushing out the fur on his arms and 
started on his chest and belly.  "Not at- ow, all.  Take the whole scrap 
bin, if you feel like it.  You'll have plenty of time to test it, with 
Healer Coe demanding six weeks of 
'stay-off-that-foot-or-I'll-tie-you-down'."  He managed a fairly passable 
imitation of the angry raccoon.  "I'm not crazy enough to try forging while 
sitting down, so I guess I'll be pursuing other hobbies for a while."  The 
samoyed paused to empty the brush, which had become clotted with fur for the 
fourth time since he'd started, carefully sifting through the resulting pile 
and throwing away any tangles before putting the rest in the wicker basket 
next to the bed, which Misha noticed was nearly full.

   "What's that?" the fox asked, ears and whiskers tipped forward in 
curiosity.

   Drift chuckled.  "It's shedding season.  What do you think?"

   Misha's ears rocked back.  "You really do sell your fur?  I thought you 
were joking!"

   "Nope.  I don't need it, and it's a few extra coins."  Drift thumped his 
mattress, then reached over and tossed his pillow to Misha.  "I have all I 
need already.  See?"

   Misha gave the pillow a squeeze, and didn't feel any pricks from feather 
quills amid the softness.  "This is all your fur?"

   "That's right.  That's a week or two of shedding for me.  Honestly, it 
wouldn't surprise me if more of us who caught the animal curse don't reuse 
shed fur or feathers.  I mean, it's free, it's simple to gather, and there's 
plenty of it."

   Misha just laughed and shook his head. "You're lucky. We foxes have a 
thin coat.  On the other hand, I have to admit I am proud of my tail," he 
said, swishing his tail back and forth.

   "I'm lucky?"  Drift snickered and held up his right hand, letting the 
ring glitter in the light of the lantern.  "Yeah.  Sure.  At least you've 
got a tail that's straight.  Mine keeps curling up against my back.  Not a 
problem like this, but as a taur, it can be a bit embarrassing.  No puns, 
please."

   Misha grinned, his voice mischievous and his tail twitching with 
amusement as he replied, "Too many jokes to choose from, with a straight 
line like that."

   "Thank you," came Drift's deadpan response.  "I aim to please.  And, hey, 
at least you're not a sheep.  Can you imagine a sheep Keeper getting 
sheared?"

   "Yeah.  'He-e-e-y!  Watch the ha-a-a-ands, pa-a-al!'" quipped the fox, 
rolling several of the vowels in an approximation of an angry sheep's bleat.

   Madog looked from one to the other as both laughed, his expression 
quizzical.  "You're silly," he said when the laughter tapered off.  This set 
off more laughter, but it also reminded Drift of a question he'd wanted to 
ask.

   "Well, now that I'm not standing on one foot in the middle of a street, 
would you have time to tell me how you built this little guy, Misha?"

   Misha glanced at the growing darkness outside.  "It's a long story, 
Drift," he warned.

   The samoyed settled back on the bed, the wooden bedframe creaking as he 
rested his back against the wall and propped his bound foot up.  "Does it 
look like I'm going anywhere?" he asked as he laced his fingers behind his 
head, the brushing finally done for the night.  "I have six entire -weeks- 
to fill."

   Misha laughed.  "Good point.  Truth be told, I -didn't- build him.  I 
found him and re-built him.  It all started about a year ago..."

   The story continued well into the night.

-----

   Deep in the dark hours of the night, long after Misha had departed, Drift 
Snow dreamed.  In his dream, he was back in the Lothanasi temple, delirious 
with fever, body wracked with tetanus spasms.  Through eyes that watered 
with pain, he saw a face above him, framed by long, golden tresses, and he 
felt a gentle hand stroking his forehead. Cool, wet cloths wrapped around 
his hands and feet, which poured with sweat, and a damp sponge gently wiped 
his dry, cracked lips and nose, careful to avoid blocking the rasping 
whistle of air through his locked teeth.  "Dear Snowchild, let me help you," 
said the woman as she slipped a hand down along the curve of his muzzle.  
When her delicate fingers reached the back left edge of his jaw, they 
pressed inward, and a wonderful coolness spread from them.  The samoyed's 
clenched jaws cracked open slightly, then suddenly released in an explosive 
gasp for air as the tetanus poisons were purged from his body.  His chest 
heaved, sucking in lungful after lungful of sweet, blessed air, and tears 
started to roll from his eyes, blurring his view of this strange woman.  
Weak and exhausted, his voice was only a whisper as he asked, "Momma?"

   The woman smiled and shook her head.  "No, dear Snowchild.  She is beyond 
my view.  Now, rest.  You will feel better in the morning."

   But then the woman did something she had not done that night.  She leaned 
down and whispered in his ear, "Beware, Snowchild.  Beware, Heart of Fire.  
Beware of enemies both within and without.  Both are stronger than you 
realize.  Swallow your pride and accept Raven's offer, for six weeks of rest 
is time that you cannot afford.  Beware."

-----

   The greyhound thief huddled in his prison cell that night, unable to 
sleep.  Somewhere far, far away, a dark and handsome man watched the 
reflection of that cell in a ruby-studded golden basin.  After gazing at the 
greyhound for a long moment, he leaned back in his throne, turning away in 
disgust.

   "Fool," he scoffed, stroking a perfectly trimmed beard between fingers 
that dripped with emeralds and diamonds.  "He tries to use the same tactics 
on the son as worked on the father, without adjusting for the differences 
between them.  And -still- he tries to cut corners, to save his precious 
coins by buying cheap, while still expecting quality results.  Twice a fool. 
  Thestilus!"

   A small shape darted into place before him, kneeling.  "You summoned, 
milord?"

   "Have that thief killed before the next dawn, before the investigators 
can wrest any information from him.  Then go and tell our old friend to do 
it right or not to do it at all.  Also, tell him that if he cannot figure 
things out for himself, then I'm sure another 'arrangement' can be made."

   "Yes, milord.  At once."  The shape was gone in the span of an eyeblink.

   Alone once more, the dark man smiled and rubbed his hands together and 
his silken robes rustled as both of his targets swirled into view within the 
basin.  "These two promise to be most entertaining.  I am going to enjoy 
this."

Fin.

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