[Mkguild] Dragged around (1/2)

[Prof]

Hello, dear
Keepers!

 

Wow, I
finally did it; the 3rd instalment of Mark’s story is ready to be posted. For
something that was originally supposed to act as a wrap up of “Nothing to
compare with”, it took awfully long. 

 

I got a
couple ideas on the way and had to throw some of them out in the end, because it
became too stuffed. It still may be, I’m really interested in your opinions in
that matter. 

 

Sincerely

 

Prof

 

 

 

*****




October 4th, 707
CR

 

 

Dragged around

 

 

The variable layout of the Keep guarantees, that you always never reach
your designation using the same way twice. Sometimes a short walk or minor
errand turns into quite an odyssey. You walking through corridors and corridors
and halls and more corridors, on and on for miles and miles, without any sign
of your designation. 

 

This is one of those occasions. 

 

I don’t know how long I wander through the ever changing labyrinth of
the Keep’s innards. To me it seems like hours. My feet are tired and heavy as
lead. I have to stop and bend over to prop my hands on knees. Now it’s easier
to take a deep breath, giving my hammering heart the opportunity to slow down. 

 

A bench to slump down for a moment would be nice. I raise my weary head
and look around. 

 

What a pity, no bench, only a bare hallway. And I mean bare. No rug on the tiles, no tapestries adorning the walls,
no doors. Turning around I see there’s no door in either direction and behind
me also no lights, the way I’d come vanishing into blackness. 

 

“Lady Kyia”, I whisper, calling out the name of the Keep’s guardian
spirit “what are you up to?” Suddenly I’m feeling very nervous. After a while I
answer my own question: “Leading me to who-knows-where.”

 

So I gather what little strength is left in me and head along, following
the lights like a moth. 

 

The ordeal isn’t of long continuance. After hardly 100 paces and a bend
the way ends on a single, undecorated wooden door. 

 

In the stories situations like the current one never end well.
Anxiousness already left me for good, now I’m afraid, more than I should. My heart’s
pounding with deafening intensity. 

 

Weeks are going by until I’m able to raise my hand, months until I open
the latch. 

 

Somehow I expect a loud, dramatic creak. Alas, the door leaf swings
inside in eerie quietness.

 

Darkness greets me, an un-illuminated room of unknown dimensions. And a
mirror three paces from the entrance, facing me. 

 

Silhouetted against the doorway I look at my reflection. With the light source
behind me there isn’t much more to see, though. What stands out most are my
polished black boots and the equally shiny bald head. 

 

Wait a minute, that’s not right…

 

I lower my head and glance down at me. The only article of clothing I
wear is a linen kilt. No tunic, no breeches or boots and especially not bald.
Of course not, I’m covered in fur! How could I forget? 

 

Then what’s…

 

With a start I switch focus back to the mirror. My “reflection” is still
there, with arms now crossed, while mine are on my sides. The face is too much
covered in shadows to make out even the slightest details, but I’m certain the
other one is smiling. 

 

Then it is speaking:

 

“Wake up, dreamer!”

 

*****

 

A key is turning, opening the lock on my cell door. 

 

I shake my head, trying to drive off the drowsiness of my uneasy sleep.
What a bizarre dream. Reality isn’t much better though. The dungeons of Metamor
Keep aren’t as bad as some of the rumors I heard about (this Roscoe guy is
actually a decent one), but a dark, moist and gloomy place nevertheless. You’re
far too alone with your thoughts here. 

 

The well-oiled hinges making surprisingly little noise as the massive
oaken door opens, revealing the chief gaoler himself, Roscoe and a well-known
small, skinny shape. 

 

“Hey, Spotty, how are you?”

 

The worry in his voice stings. Dustin obtained some roles in the time
since we met: Of a friend and confidant, guide, part-time mentor, even of a
little brother here and there. And now the big brother. That is all right, I
strongly suspect I’m younger than him.

 

He doesn’t have to be that worried, though. I’m feeling better already,
seeing him. “Don’t make such a sour face, Dustin. I’m not in the infirmary.”

 

“You’re on a heap of straw in a moldy hole and in terrible need of a
good groom, spotty. You look bad enough.”

 

Not to mention my bad mood, but it’s a good move of him to only mention
the obvious. Maybe I should ask for a brush, at least it would give me
something to do for a while. 

 

“It’s nice of you to drop by. How went patrol?” 

 

His smile brightens a notch, seems like he expected me to say something
like that. “I’m not visiting. I’m here to pick you up.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Get up and drag your carcass out of here”, Roscoe says, not as
unfriendly as his words might indicate. “Looks like you have at least one very
good friend here.”

 

I hurry to do as the scorpion-morph ordered me. It’s a quiet getaway out
of the jail, I’m still unbelieving what’s happening and Dustin too occupied to
grin like the proverbial cat that ate the bird. 

 

Just now I take notice of his condition. His clothes look fresh; the
rest of him not. I don’t have to ask, it’s clear he came back from patrol not
long ago. A sleepless event I gather, looking in his eyes. I feel a sudden pang
of guilt, keeping him away from his well-deserved rest. 

 

Although daylight is a welcome sight (must be late morning), I can’t
enjoy it properly. With my friend and me finally alone it is time to discuss
the state of affairs. 

 

“I don’t know how to begin… or where.”

 

“Suits me”, Dustin breaks in. “Then I will start. You can think about your
benediction-speech later. And don’t be so awfully troubled about my look. I’m a child, remember? The
occasional sleepless night can’t harm me.” 

 

Who could argue with that? Besides, he looks like he will blow if he can’t
tell me all and everything right now. 

 

“First of all, the woman you hit will press no charges against you. She
suffered a bruise and a bad case of injured pride. I imagine her make-up took
the majority of the punch. I’m afraid that’s it for the good news. The bail-out
wasn’t exactly for free. I had to call in two or three favors. It’s possible
you have to work off one of those.

 

“Besides, you have the sympathy of our patrol master. The Sensates are a
constant pain, in particular for the more rare animal cursed and the guard.
They caused quite a number of incidents in the last few years, results reaching
from embarrassing to traumatic for their ‘clients’.”

 

Oh dear, the boy surely loves hearing himself talking, I tend to forget
that. Before he proceeds to throw the latest gossip on my head I need to guide
him back: “Sen-what?”

 

“Patience, spotty. The Sensates are a bunch of hedonists, constantly
hungry for all sorts of pleasure. Tumbling in the hays is not only the way how
they earn they keep, bedding exotic or very cute keepers is almost a sport for
them. You’re a priced trophy, spotty.”

 

“I cannot say I’m feeling flattered”, I grunt. In reality I can’t tell
what I’m feeling now, there’s too much thrown into the blend. I can taste
embarrassment, a grain of fear and… all right I admit it: I’m a little
flattered!

 

“No reason to be. Most Sensates are annoying at best and some are
downright creepy. I almost changed shape the first time one of them tried to
get into my pants. Instead I grabbed a piece of wood and hit her. And I did it
better than you, I broke her frigging
nose! Oh, the irony: They gave you my old cell.”

 

At last, the tension is leaving me as I share a hearty laugh with my
friend. 

 

“The days around full moon must be a real pain for you”, I say, ears
perked up to signal a smile (I’m still re-learning how to smile with a muzzle).
We stroll through a courtyard currently devoid of other people, so talking
about sensible topics like Dustin’s… special situation is a manageable risk.

 

“No more than for everyone else”, the boy asserts. “I’m prone to
accidental changes – the more if I do not regularly change on my own – but
thank the gods the moon has no saying in that matter.”

 

“They make them not the old ways today, hm?”

 

“You mean, like in the legends?” Dustin asked. “Dunno. You know, I once
met a real, an ‘old school’ werewolf. I’d been an adult that time, able to
uproot a tree in my wolfen shape. But this… thing scared the living hell out of
me. I’m sooo not like these monsters.”

 

“Yes, the bite-incident comes to my mind.”  This makes us laugh again. Now we’re able to,
the very opposite to that certain day.

 

*****

 

I had buried myself in the library, researching facts about werewolves
and lycanthropy. O course I could have done it the easy (and smarter) way by
simply asking a particular werewolf I already knew. Alas, I decided against this approach, the events at our
first meeting made it clear in my eyes that he doesn’t liked to talk about it. 

 

The naivety of my undertaking started to dawn on me relatively late,
around the third or fourth book. Let’s say, the writers of the various
treatises weren’t totally agreeing about a number of details. 

 

Were creatures are servants of the daedras, spawned by them, made by a
curse, by a disease, a crossing of ley-lines, unlucky stellar constellations.
They change under full moon, when angered, when drunk, on free will, using a
fetish, using a potion, at given stellar constellations. They’re vulnerable to
silver, to lodestone, sanctified weapons, wood from lightning-struck oaks, on
given stellar constellations. And so on, you get my drift.

 

Well, after five wasted hours (no, make it four. To be fair, some of the
stories were rather good to read) there remained one (in numbers: 1) common
point in my notes: Lycanthropy is contagious! You could get it if you drink
blood of a lycanthrope or eat his flesh (one resource even mentioned
intercourse)… or if you get bitten by one.

 

Oh. By. The. Merciful. Gods.

 

After the lutin dagger poisoned me, Dustin had to bite me to keep me
awake, twice or thrice. 

 

Call me a drama queen, but the prospect of enduring another curse, one
that could make me an outcast even at a place like MK, drove my calm demeanor
out of the window in screaming terror. 

 

I had developed a pretty dark mood the time I arrived at Dustin’s door.
Without knocking I stormed in and spotted him on the living room floor, playing
with his kids. Pointing a finger with unsheathed claw at him, I snarled: “You!”

 

His oldest, Andrei, a boy of 10 years, immediately jumped to his feet.
Waving his arms dramatically in the direction of his father, he jelled: “Him!”

 

And Dustin joined in the “fun”. Kneeling, he threw his hands in the air
and screamed: “Me”!

 

Everyone broke down in a giggling fit, but me. If possible, my expression
darkened even more. 

 

Eventual one by one grew silent, as they realized something was amiss. Tamara,
Dustin’s wife, an AR cursed like her partner, was the first to rise to speak:
“Mark, dear, what’s wrong?”

 

“Sorry, Mara, I need to talk with your husband, in private.” I pulled
myself together and gathered what’s been left of my self-control. You do not raise your voice in anger as long as
Tamara and the kids are around.

 

“Of course, Mark. Give me a second”, Dustin muttered, snatching his
boots. 

 

I nodded and left without a word. Waiting outside was the preferred
alternative to bear their bewildered gapes.

 

Bewilderment was the least of emotions I could read in Dustin’s face,
after I cornered him in a seldom used storeroom, hissing: “What have you done
to me?”

 

“Mark, what’re you talking about? What’s up?”

 

Honest Dustin, he really had no hunch. However, his clueless look only
poured oil into the fire of my rage. Within a heartbeat I had him by the
shoulders, lifting him to my eye level. “Your disease, your curse. Call it like
you want! And you told me nothing, not a single word!”

 

I might’ve just smacked him instead; the outcome would have been the
same. With the realization dawning what’s going on came a rush of expressions
in short succession: anger, hurt, shame and determination. 

 

“Mark, before we continue, two thinks need to go down a bit: Your temper
and me, preferably on my feet.”

 

What was I about to do? I don’t know, but Dustin’s soft spoken words
helped me to come back to me. – That and the faint growl underlining
everything. I put him back to the floor and made a step back, letting him sit
down on a case. He gave me a resigned, tired look and pointed to a row of crates.
“Please, take a seat. This will take some time.”

 

It was probably the best to approach things a tad slower. Swallowing my
anger I did as he wanted and let him do the talking. After all, wasn’t that the
plan?

 

“You’re not infected”, he began. “You were never in danger becoming a
lycanthrope. In fact I can’t inflict others with my curse. With me there are
many levels of different, remember your own words?”

 

Did I mention something about smacking the boy? If he snatched a random
heavy object and smashed my skull with it, well, that’s a good comparison to
how I felt then. Oh, if he would just do it. I bedded my face in my paws,
absolutely impossible for me to look into his eyes – ever again.

 

I heard him sigh. “I should’ve seen that coming. Being secretive about
me is more than a habit. It is a way to protect myself and my family. But at
least with you I should’ve made an exception. I will not do this mistake again.
- Oh, wait a second.”

 

Sniffing noises were audible, then the groan of wood and nails thrown
out of it, after that the rustle of wood wool. Something smooth and cool was
tapped on my head to get attention. I looked up. A brown furred hand held a
bottle of wine, already opened.

 

Dustin had wasted no time. He had changed shape to open one of the
crates. Obviously with nothing but his bare hands, a reminder of the strength hidden
within his small frame. 

 

“Here, try to drown some of these guilty feelings, but don’t forget to
pass it back. Revealing ancient family affairs isn’t only embarrassing, it also
makes thirsty.”

 

The bottle switched places three or four times between us (good stuff, I
must add and much too expensive for any of us) until the boy-now-were-puppy
decided for a more direct approach and broke the seal of another one. 

 

“The best point to start from is most likely my great grandfather. Sir Samuel
Elias, knight of Longrift. You see, we weren’t always farmers.”

 

“You surely don’t talk like a peasant.”

 

“Why thank you.”

 

Then Dustin told me the story of this Samuel of Longrift. A complicated
tale, mainly because of the narrator, though. My friend is gifted with many
talents, telling a story in a straight line isn’t one of them; I had to
constantly query him about details.

 

In short: Longridge is a
relatively small and insignificant countship in Sathmore. Sir Samuel was the
count’s most trusted troubleshooter of all his few knights. He had helped a
mighty dryad, saving the trees of her grove and thus her very existence. To
thank him for his service she granted him a boon. The knight should whisper a
deep desire of his in her ear and she would do her best to make it real.

 

And from there the opinions
differ. Was the dryad prone to cruel pranks? Were Sir Samuel’s wishing improper
or phrased in a misleading manner? Or was he just a weird sicko? (A variant
adamantly rejected by his descendants!) Most likely no one ever will find out
the truth. Immediately after the nature spirit accepted his request, the knight
turned into an eight foot tall wolf-man-beast.

 

Sir Samuel went insane after
his sudden transformation, mindlessly slaughtering the members of his
entourage. Only his squire survived the bloodbath. He made it back to the town
of Longridge
and informed the count before he succumbed to his heavy injuries. 

 

The count had no other choice
than assembling his men and hunt down one of his former greatest knights. In
the beginning they attempted to get the beast alive, although the catastrophic
outcome of the first encounter with two more men to mourn changed their
intentions. When the knights mounted their horses again, the count gave only
one order: “Kill it.”

 

And so it happened. Although
the chase and the battle were long and bloody, the beast was defeated easier,
if someone could use a word like this, than expected. Contrary to common
beliefs ordinary steel was all what it took to kill it. The silver bolts the
count’s smith made for him were never needed.

 

The story could be over at
this point. Sadly for poor Sir Samuel’s family, the nightmare had only begun. 

 

In the following spring, the
eldest of his five sons, Calvin, already a young knight, went through the same
transformation that’s been his father’s demise. Unlike his sire he retained
most of his sanity, but committed suicide shortly after. 

 

The second son, Tobin, was
the next to suffer the dryad’s witchery. However, he decided to fight for his
humanity. He was the first to reach a certain degree of control over the beast and
accomplished it to change back. 

 

Meanwhile, rumors of the
“curse of Elias Estate” had spread. With every passing day the gossip became
more frightening. Fear grew in Longridge and turned to hate. So, one dark and
cloudy night a big group of men assembled on the outskirts of the town. They
marched to the estate, with spears and swords and torches and burned it to the
ground, killing everyone they could get. Here, even Dustin lost very few words.


 

Only one got out of the
massacre, the youngest of Samuel’s sons, Simon, Dustin’s grandfather. A child
of nine summers by that time.

 

His tale alone is one for
many nights by the hearth. The most part of the years to follow he lived on the
streets, traveling with vagabonds, minstrels and merchants. Almost he forgot
the terrible past, until after his 15th birthday the dark legacy of
his father caught up with him. 

 

Like his brother Tobin he
refused to give in to desperation and the beast, his lifestyle had taught him
to fight. Not only he learned to control the animal, he made it a tool, an
ally. 

 

Later he joined a wandering
group of showmen, married the daughter of the troupe’s chief and had two
children with her. 

 

His son Marcus settled down
and became farmer. 

 

And in every generation the
male offspring changed into a wolfman upon reaching puberty. 

 

Silence surrounded us, heavy with thoughts and wine. Hours had passed,
two empty bottles at our feet, a third one half on the same way. 

 

I cleared my throat. “So, out there, when we fought with the Lutins, why
did you call yourself a werewolf? In principle you’re something else.”

 

He took another deep draught (remarkable what his childlike body could
hold. My eyes were hard on losing focus). “I once asked my dad a similar
question. Mark, I’m able to turn into a menacing – don’t laugh! –
Wolf-man-monstrosity. How would you name it?”

 

“Point taken. Pass the jug, there are some gears still working in my
head.”

 

On other days we would’ve laughed out loud over a line like this. Even
so we shared a smirk. 

 

“Dustin, please accept my apology. I acted like an ass.”

 

“I will accept yours if you accept mine. We are friends. And it almost
ended today, ‘cause I should’ve told you everything the day I picked you up for
the grand tour, but I chickened out.”

 

I was about to say something, even raised my arm toward the ceiling to
underline my words, the hand holding the wine. On the peak of my move the
bottle slipped and flew, describing an elegant arc, to the opposing wall where
it shattered. 

 

What a barbaric waste.

 

I pinched my muzzle bridge and muttered: “You know what: we should sober
up now, preferably before anything else gets the way of all earthly.”

 

Dustin hopped to his feet and helped me up. “Agreed. We better call it a
wrap, Spotty. Let’s go home and think about a way to reassure Mara everything
is all right. She’s surely worried about us.”

 

“And if she sees our condition…” I chimed in. 

 

Dustin groaned. “Another night on the couch.” 

 

*****






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