[Mkguild] Story: William and Emily, Part 1 - A Chance Meeting

[Shazer Fox]

*deep breath*

Okay, here goes!  My first attempt at a Metamor Keep story.  I've read through it a couple times and fixed a few things here and there, but I'm sure there's stuff I missed.
Also, let me know if I'm fitting it well into the MK universe, and if I got anything wrong.





William and Emily

Part 1: A Chance
Meeting





 
August,
704 CR

 

                Emily
practically bounced in her seat, watching with great anticipation as they
neared the top of what her father said was, “the last ridge, I promise!”  They had been journeying for three long days
from their home outside of Leilwahl, a tiny village in the mountains above
Komley, to….

                “Metamor!  Papa, I see it!”  Emily was standing up on the seat as the
wagon shook and shuttered on the bumpy road, pointing off in the distance as
they crested a hill.  Her father,
Douglas, reached out a hand to steady her, pulling her back down to sit beside
him.  He let out a frustrated breath of
air.

                It had
been a long three days, indeed.

                Despite
his impatience with his young daughter, he could not help but marvel at the
magnificent Keep as it came into view. 
Its tall towers and heavy walls had stood for thousands of years,
guarding the mountain pass between the Northern Midlands and the
Giantdowns.  Countless battles had been
waged in this valley; much blood had soaked the fertile soil.  Metamor was a place of bravery, scholarship,
art, and magic.

                It was
the magic of Metamor that caused legends to roam far from the Keep.  

                Eli had
been good to his family this year.  His
wagon was loaded with a wonderful crop of potatoes—so much so that a market for
them could not be found close to home—so he came here, to Metamor.  The Keep survived only by trading with the
surrounding lands.  What they could not
immediately use, they laid up in store against a future siege that was sure to
come.  Douglas Blackham knew his potatoes
would be appreciated, and would fetch a fair price.

                For
Emily, who had turned twelve years of age on this trip, potatoes were the
furthest thing from her mind.  She had
heard so many stories of battles and magic from Metamor, that she was thrilled
to finally visit it.  Her father, albeit
reluctantly, had invited her to accompany him to the market, and she had jumped
at the chance.  There were so many rumors
and travelers’ tales about the Curse of Metamor, she wanted to see for herself.

                Douglas,
for his own part, was curious as well. 
He had not visited the Keep since before the Battle of the Three Gates,
when Nasoj had worked his terrible magic on the valley.  The Keepers prevailed against him, but not
without paying a horrible price.

                He noted
the day and the time.  Four days was all
he would allow down in the valley.  Any
longer than that, and he and his daughter risked falling victim to the Curse.  

                Only
Eli knows what could become of them, then. 


                “Papa,
is it true that animals talk at the Keep?” Emily asked him, finally calming
down a bit.  It seemed she had the energy
of a dozen twelve-year olds sometimes, but her curiosity always trumped her
velocity.

                Douglas
chuckled a bit, resting the reins in his lap. 
Their team of horses continued plodding along the road.  “I don’t know, sweetest,” he replied.  “I’ve heard far too many tales to know what
to believe.”

                “I also
heard that there are lots of children at Metamor! “

                Douglas
sighed.  Thanks to warfare, there
probably were many children at
Metamor, orphaned by the loss of their parents. 
He looked over to his daughter. 
Her brown eyes were aglow and fixed on the horizon, watching the Keep as
they drew near.   She rarely got to play
with other children her age, and probably spent too much time doing chores with
her mother.  Leilwahl was far-removed
from any sizeable city, and their plot of land was still a respectable distance
outside the village.  

                Maybe a
few days at Metamor would give her a much-needed dose of childhood.

 

                As the
day wore on, they penetrated further into Metamor Valley.  The Keep practically loomed overhead, and
they passed several small villages set out from the road, near the foothills of
the Great Barrier Range.  A wagon passed
going the opposite way, an elderly man waving kindly to them, then another driven
by a young woman.  Emily stared with
great intent, but was disappointed to find nothing remarkable about them.  She had quieted down; obviously her wild
expectations for Metamor were being quashed.

                But her
eyes lit up as they met a horse following the road, only the horse had no
rider, and walked upright on two legs.  He
wore trousers and a vest like a man, but walked barefoot on hoof-like
feet.  A floppy, wide-brimmed hat sat on
his head, a broad muzzle protruding out from underneath, and a long tail
swaying cheerfully with each step.  He
waved a strange hoofed hand at them as they came up behind.

                Emily’s
mouth hung open, unabashedly staring at the horse-man.  He laughed out-loud at the girl’s amazement,
bent to pluck a wild daisy from the side of the road, and reached up over the
wagon wheel to hand it to her.  Emily
hesitated a moment, blushed, but accepted the flower.

                “Welcome
to Metamor, lass,” he offered, bowing his head to her.  She giggled, putting the daisy up to her nose
and waving as they pulled ahead.  The horse-man
tipped his weathered hat at her father.

                “Well,
I’ll be,” Douglas muttered, himself not able to help a couple backwards glances
at him.  “What do you think of that,
Emily?”

                “I
think he was quite handsome,” she said, giggling a bit.  She twirled the daisy in the bright evening
sunlight.  “For a horse.”

 

*             *             *

 

 

                “Around
the big tree, or between it and the boulder?”

                “Around! 
I already told you!”

                “That’s
not how we did it before.”

                “Yes,
it is!”

                “I
don’t think so….”

                “No, it
is!  Remember when you tripped over that
root?”

                “Oh.  I bloodied my nose doing that.”

                Mikey
laughed.  “Now, after the big tree….”

                “Around
the tree, you mean?”

                Mikey
slapped his younger brother upside the head. 
“Pay attention!  After rounding,” he drew out the word long on
his tongue, “the big tree, drop down into the ravine and follow it to the
creek.”

                “So, up
the creek, then across the lake….”

                “Right.”

                William
nodded.  He started to unbutton his
shirt, and Mikey did the same.  They both
slipped out of their trousers and undid the leather wraps covering their
feet.  In moments, Mikey had shrunk down
to his full otter form, waiting for his brother to catch up.

                It took
William much longer to force the change. 
Having been cursed only three weeks prior, just after he had reached his
fourteenth birthday, he still had not got the hang of it.  He had to close his eyes and really
concentrate, trying to picture each limb reforming and his body shrinking.  Several long seconds passed until he felt the
first bits of magical energy begin to warm his veins.  His flat feet were stretched out until he
could no longer stand—this always happened first—and he fell forward onto his
hands, watching his thumbs disappear. 
His legs shortened until they matched the length of his arms, and his
elbows twisted until they were hinged the opposite way. 

                William’s
body shrunk until he was finally at eye level with Mikey, who stood on four
legs waiting somewhat impatiently for him. 
He was tapping one of his hind feet and shaking his head.

                William
let out a long breath of air as the last remnants of magical energy left his
body.  He was now indistinguishable from
a wild fox, though all his mental faculties remained.  He stuck his tongue out at his brother, tail
wagging.  Though they could not speak
while in their full animal forms, they could get an idea across to the other
pretty easily.

                After
stretching his limbs, he held up a front paw, then brought it down quickly to
the ground.  Mikey watched out of the
corner of his eye, though his gaze was fixed ahead.  William repeated the action, and on the third
time, as soon as his paw touched the ground, he leaped forward and started
tearing through the underbrush.

                Though
the change was still a challenge for him, running with four legs had come
all-too naturally.  Mikey, as a full
otter, had no hope to match his speed on the ground.

                He hardly
felt his paws hit the earth, keeping his eyes fixed forward and tracking every
stone, root, and branch ahead.  A spray
of leaves and dust followed him as he ducked, weaved, dodged, and jumped his
way through the thick underbrush.

                In no
time, he had left the woods and crossed a long open meadow, running flat-out as
fast as he could force his legs to move, and ducked back into the forest.  Soon, the old fir with the protruding roots
loomed over head, and he slowed considerably, rounding the wide trunk,
carefully stepping over the giant roots and taking a sharp left turn.

                The
ground suddenly sloped sharply downward; the undergrowth thinned out
considerably and the eroded earth exposed many sharp rocks that pricked his
paws.  He half-slid, half-hopped down
into the bottom of the ravine, breaking into a run down the gentle slope as he
followed it along its twisting path. 
Suddenly, the ground disappeared out from under him, and he leaped into
the air, landing with a splash in a wide creek several feet below.  

                The
water was cold, causing his heart to pound and his breath to catch in his chest.  This was the part of the race where he would
have to work doubly hard.  The current
was slight, though steady, and he had a couple hundred yards to swim
upstream.  

                William
pushed with all four legs for all he was worth, head barely above water,
accelerating against the current. 
Progress was painfully slow, but he needed to cover some distance
quick!  Once Mikey, an otter, made it to
the water, William’s lead would quickly vanish.

                After
what seemed like agonizing ages, he reached the headwaters of the creek: a deep
lake nestled amongst some rocky cliffs. 
A sandbar on the opposite shore was his goal.

                He
could see it!  A renewed effort surged
through his sore muscles, pushing him faster across the still water.  A disturbance in the water behind him caused
his ears to turn back.

                Oh
no!  Mikey was close!  William dug against the water, paddling even
faster toward the opposite shore.  Closer
and closer it came.  Any second now, his
paws would touch the lake bottom and he could run up out of the water and win.

                But
suddenly, the water exploded from underneath him, tossing the fox backwards
head over tail.  Mikey burst from deep
under the lake’s surface, scrambling up onto the beach and turning, his fur
slick and gleaming from the swim.

                William
yipped, sinking below the surface, then coming up and blowing water out his
nostrils.  He lazily paddled the last few
feet and crawled out of the water, collapsing onto the sand.

                His
heart was pounding, and his breath could not be slowed.  William didn’t even bother shaking the water
from his fur, as every muscle in his body was exhausted.  Mikey seemed no worse for wear, and he paced
around the sprawled-out fox, looking quite proud of himself.  After a minute or so, the otter started to
grow, quickly returning to his half-human form.

                “Oh so
close, little brother!” he said, patting the fox’s flank.  “You almost had me that time.”

                William,
unable to speak, yawned in response and rolled over.

 

*             *             *

 

                A warm
meal at the Deaf Mule was most welcome after three days of food on the road,
though the atmosphere in the tavern on a Saturday night was probably not the
best exposure for his precocious daughter, Emily.  There was no shortage of strange creatures
for her to marvel at, and she did her best to take it all in, hardly touching
her meal.

                Douglas,
by now, had lost his fascination with the strange hybrid inhabitants of Metamor
Keep.  His thoughts were on renting a
booth in the market, selling his crop, and getting out of the valley as soon as
possible.  A young boy, giant mug of ale
in hand, sitting across from a wild boar at the table next to them and cursing
like a corsair had him unsettled.  

                If the
curse took him or his daughter, it’s possible they would be forced to stay in
Metamor.  No man like the wild board, or
the horse they had seen on the road, or any one of the unimaginable creatures
drinking, singing, and dancing in the Deaf Mule could be welcome outside this
place.  

                At
best, the Curse would shift his gender, or his daughter would cease to age,
remaining a child forever.  Even this
scenario frightened him.  How would his
wife react if he came home as a woman?

                “Emily,
please hurry and finish your supper. 
We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

 

 

                Douglas
and Emily had bushels of potatoes stacked high around their wagon long before
the first rays of the morning sun warmed their faces.  Other merchants, many of them from out-of-town
as well, were selling every ware imaginable. 
Soon, the street filled with patrons from Metamor, eager to purchase or
trade.

                Bushel
after bushel disappeared as the day wore on, and Douglas thought they may get
out a day earlier than planned.  A young
fox bought one bushel, paying with a bronze crescent and hurrying off with his
heavy load.  Douglas searched for a
silver piece for change, but when he looked up, the boy was gone.

                He
handed the silver piece to Emily.  “Run
and catch that boy, will you?  He forgot
his change.”

                “Sure,
papa!” she said, happy to get out away from their wagon.  She took the coin and dashed off after the
fox.

                She
made it out into the street just in time to see him turn a corner.  She ran in his direction, trying to weave her
way through the thick crowd.  Around the
corner she came, just catching a glimpse of his tail disappearing through an
open doorway.

                It was
a carpentry shop, with a counter open to the street.  The counter was split, with half of it being
much lower than normal, about waist-height on Emily.  She figured it was made this way for all the
Keepers changed into children by the Curse.

                A human
boy, perhaps a year or two older than her, approached the counter from inside
after she had waited a couple moments.  She looked past him into the shop, but saw no
one.

                “Was
there a boy, a…er…fox that came here just a moment ago?” she asked.

                “Quite
possible,” the boy said.  His eyes were a
striking blue and he sported long blond hair. 
He smiled at her, then turned and disappeared into the shop, calling the
name ‘William’.

                Soon
enough, the fox appeared, breathing heavy after carrying the bushel of potatoes
home.  He immediately recognized her,
giving her a toothy smile as he came close.

                He
wasn’t very tall; Emily guessed he was probably in his mid-teens like the human she had first seen.  His fur was a rusty red color over most of
his head and face, though the bottom half of his muzzle and his neck were a
bright white.  The long whiskers on the
end of his muzzle twitched comically, and she giggled.

                The fox
laughed as well, reaching up to the longer red fur between his ears.  “Is my hair sticking straight up?” he asked,
fluffing it out even more.  Emily laughed
and blushed, saying no more and holding out the silver piece to him.

                “You
forgot your change.”

                “Oh!  Why, thank you so much!  My father wouldn’t have been too happy with
me paying too much for potatoes.  What’s
your name?”

                “Emily.  Emily Marie Blackham.”

                He
smiled, extending his hand over the counter to her.  “Well, Emily Marie Blackham, I’m Shazer
William Hall, but you can just call me William.”

                “Pleasure
to meet you, William,” Emily replied, curtsying a little.

                William
pulled a regal bow, eliciting another giggle from the girl.  

                “Well,
my father will start to worry.  I’d
better get back.”  She quickly turned,
still red in the face, and hurried off down the street.

                William
watched her go until she was out of site. 
A small human hand landed on his shoulder.  “What are you doing, little brother?” the boy
who had first met Emily asked the fox. 
William turned, ears perking up, revealing the silver piece.  He was now eye-level with Marcus, his eldest
brother, though he had more than six years on him.  His twenty-first birthday was coming up, and
by his twenty-second, William would probably be looking down on him.

                Marcus
was cursed with age-regression.  Once
reaching the age of fourteen, he had simply stopped growing.  His two brothers, Mikey and William, both
became animal-morphs upon reaching a similar age, though they would continue to
grow into adulthood, leaving Marcus, the eldest, frozen in time, physically.

                There
were things good and bad about being age-regressed.  Marcus did his best to concentrate on the
good and forget the bad, though seeing how big William was getting in
comparison caused him a bit of resentment.

                Marcus
nodded, taking the silver piece from William. 
“It was nice of her to bring that to you.”

                “Aye,”
was all he could say.  Something about
her had strangely captured his attention. 
Her long dark hair, bright brown eyes, freckled complexion, and flowing
white dress were all burned into his memory. 
He wanted to see her again, to at least thank her for her kindness. 

 

*             *             *

 

                Marcus,
having never much enjoyed or found success with woodwork, had disappeared back
into the house to help their “mother”, Frank, with the cooking.  Marcus was a natural-born chef, and though it
had been years since Frank—a carpenter, swordsman and father to the three boys—had
been cursed as a woman, supper always ended up either burnt, raw, or
bland.  So, glad to be away from the
woodshop, Marcus spent most his time in the kitchen helping the person they
still struggled to call “mother”.  

                Their “father”,
Lucy, also cursed with a change of gender, was doing what he did best: roaming
the woods with the middle son, Mikey, looking for fine or unusual wood to use
in the shop.

                And
while Frank, Lucy, and Mikey were all masters in the art of crafting fine
furniture, it was William alone who found his niche in sculpting.  He had started when he was very young, and his
skill had grown quickly.  He’d taken a
break from work for the past few weeks as the Curse had its way with him, but
now that things were settled down, he was trying to get back into it.

                For his
skill depended not so much on the finesse of his hands, but rather the power of
his mind and the energy of his soul.

                William
opened his toolbox to get started.  He
had an idea.

                First,
he went over to the scrap pile in the back corner of the shop.  He sifted through the hundreds of scrap
pieces, looking for something in particular. 
Some were long and of simple pine, but others were smaller and of rarer
and more beautiful woods.  Their various
sizes and shapes often were the source of his inspiration for a piece.  

                “Perfect!”
he suddenly said out-loud, reaching under a wide beam to pull out a block of striking
red wood.  It was called bloodwood, for
obvious reasons, and could be found in some of the higher elevations above Metamor
Valley.  The block was about the size of
a loaf of bread, and would do nicely for what he had in mind.

                Returning
to his toolbox, he removed the only item he needed for sculpting: a white
rag.  Though it was now stained and
discolored, the fabric showed no signs of wear or age.  He took the rag and gently brushed it over
the block of wood, feeling something akin to tension or anxiety enter the wood fibers.  Within a few seconds, it was also slightly
warm.

                After
only a few brushes, he returned the enchanted rag to the toolbox.   He took a seat near the front window in the
sunlight, crossing his legs and curling his tail around the stool.  Now he could begin.

                With a
claw, he traced an outline along each face of the block, his dull claw cutting
a thin line into the wood as if it were sharp steel.  Next, using only the paw pads on his
fingertips, he began to whittle at the hard wood, shavings falling to the
floor.  Slowly, a form began to appear
out of the block of bloodwood, and William leaned in closer, beginning his more
detailed work.

                Despite
the magic, the art of sculpting came purely from his own talent.  But there were things he could do that no
common tool would allow.  Thinking the
figure was too short, he grasped both ends and gently pulled.  The wood stretched like it was putty, and he
continued on, until he had a very recognizable fox frozen in a running leap.

                Now
came the fun part.  With eyes closed, he
carefully ran his fingers over the smooth body of the figurine.  He could see it perfectly in his mind.  Details too fine to ever be carved by hand
appeared, like fur on the fox’s back, or tiny whiskers no larger than a hair
from his head.  He made several pairs on
the figurine’s muzzle, stretching them out long, remembering Emily’s reaction
upon seeing his own whiskers.  Though the
wooden whiskers appeared extremely delicate and fine, even almost too small to
see, they would never break.

                William
continued on, adding a tongue and teeth to the fox’s mouth, stray hairs inside
its large ears, and a fine texture to all four paw pads.  Next, he concentrated on the eyes, swirling
his fingers over each one.  Tiny lashes
grew out from the wood, and fiery irises appeared on what would otherwise have remained
smooth eyeballs.  Three hours after
beginning, he was finished.  He set the
fox figurine on the counter.  It balanced
perfectly on its outstretched limbs.

                The sun
was lowering in the sky, but he knew he had time, still, before the market
closed.  Folding his arms behind his
head, he leaned back against the wall and quickly slipped into a quiet
slumber.  The energy drain from sculpting
was almost debilitating sometimes, and he needed a rest.

                When he
awoke an hour later, refreshed from his nap, he grabbed the figurine and headed
down the street, looking for the father and daughter selling potatoes.

                

*             *             *

 

                The sun
was high in the sky, and Douglas and Emily Blackham were packing their things
to leave.  Though they were only halfway
through their third day at Metamor, all the potatoes were sold, and Douglas
cared not to stay a moment longer.

                Emily
had mixed feelings about going home as she packed her clothes into the
wagon.  Metamor was a lively and exciting
place, a stark contrast to her family’s quiet farm.  She opened the box that William had given her
after that first day, admiring the wooden fox and remembering his cute face and
sweet smile.

                She tried
hard not to admit to herself that she had found her first childhood sweetheart.

                Her
father returned from retrieving the horses from the public stables, and she
quickly tucked the box away.  Though her
father had hardly disapproved of the gift, he always cast a wary eye toward the
young fox when he came to visit his daughter.

                They
were harmless chats, he admitted, mostly about their homes and families.  But he hated to see his daughter make a new
friend that she could not return to visit. 
Thankfully, it seemed she understood this, and made no complaints about
leaving the Keep.

                The
three-day journey home was uneventful. 
They were received with hugs and kisses from Tamera, Douglas’ wife, and
Bobby, Emily’s younger brother.  Tamera
was well pleased with the money their crop of potatoes had earned.

                That
night, Emily rushed off to bed earlier than usual, sneaking a sheet of paper
and pen and ink from her father’s writing desk. 
She sat on her bed in her dark room, a single candle lit, wondering what
to put down on the blank paper.

                The fox
figurine given to her by William had earned a prominent spot on top of her
dresser.

                “Dearest
William,” she said aloud as she wrote.  “Our
journey ended without much excitement….”



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