[Mkguild] Driven by the Wind (1/2)

[C. Matthias]

Hey look at that!  It's a new Metamor Keep story 
by yours truly.  This one is set in the current 
timeline (708) for those keeping track.

Part 1 of 2

Metamor Keep: Driven by the Wind
by Charles Matthias and Ryx


June 11, 708 CR


Twilight limned the jagged coast of Sathmore to 
their east. Charles eyed the thin sliver of moon 
as his fingers tightened the main stay knots, his 
toes curled through the rigging, and his tail 
dangled in the empty air above the oar locks. The 
familiar scent of sea salt was tinged with the 
murky wash of seaweed and dead fish. After two 
weeks at sea he'd become accustomed to both and 
no longer twitched his whiskers in distaste.

After the first day he'd offered his services to 
Captain Calenti both in the oar locks and to 
watch at night. The Sutthaivasse seaman accepted 
the offer and in only two nights gave him over to 
a stoop-backed man half-deaf in one ear named 
Dandelo. Dandelo had a prodigious and inventive 
mastery of vulgar expressions in at least four 
tongues and demonstrated his talents at length 
when informed he would be teaching a four-foot tall rat how to be a sailor.

The first week out from Menth they rowed with the 
current along the rocky coastline at the northern 
end of the Sea of Stars. Dandelo used his time to 
teach Charles the various knots and where each 
was used; he shouted obscenities and wished for a 
giant cat when the rat made a mistake. It was a 
uniquely humbling experience but after two weeks 
his knots were deemed “good 'nuff for dogs a–”; 
Charles dare not even think the last word.

When they passed into the Great Western Sea they 
turned south and hoisted the sails. During the 
Summer months the prevailing winds blew southeast 
along the coast of Sathmore which meant they 
could use them to make better time than oars 
alone. They were blessed with a few clear nights 
and so as they enjoyed the last of the moon's 
light they risked sailing in the wee hours before 
the morn. Charles had not appreciated the 
strength of the wind and the sail, and endured 
more epithets from Dandelo as he scrambled across 
rigging to tighten his knots when a sudden gale pulled them loose.

If not for his Sondecki strength he doubted he could have managed.

Most of their sailing was done in the day while 
he slept and so he missed seeing the great city 
of Elvquelin though he did enjoy watching the 
forests and small mountain peaks of Magdalain 
island slip past beneath the light of a 
half-moon. For now the shore was too distant to 
make out details. Dandalo told him there was 
little to see, “'cept farms 'n fields.”

Still, with the winds steady, he could watch the 
sunrise from the rigging and enjoy a moment of 
calm. In a few hours he would return to his 
chambers in the aft castle and try to sleep. He 
would kiss his children and wife awake and then 
climb beneath the warm sheets. He always slept 
better regardless of the nightmares when he knew 
his little boy would not see them.

In the beauty of the twilight morning it was easy 
to forget the horrors plaguing his sleep. Visions 
of his journey through the hells were his usual 
fare and while terrifying they did not frighten 
him nearly so much as experiencing anew his 
smoldering transformation into a Shrieker. He 
could still hear the shattering cry, launched 
from his own mouth, echoing within the iron 
chamber of memory. He could endure the hells with 
their elaborate tortures and soul-crushing 
monotony; but the cry of the Shrieker – his cry – 
thrashed him from his bed, gasping, paws slick with sweat.

But it was the new nightmare he feared seeing. 
Ever since the voyage began his mind conjured 
scenario after scenario ending in disaster on his 
return to Sondeshara. His punishments varied from 
confinement in the city which he would accept, to 
public flogging which crippled him, and even to 
having his Sondeck bound so he could no longer 
use it. Last night his family had been forced to 
watch as he was beheaded. Charles pressed his 
eyes shut tight and cursed under his breath.

And then he lifted his gaze to the heavens above 
the slender lune and whispered, “Eli, spare them 
such a fate. Spare me! Let me remember Mother Yanlin...”

Even as he traced the Yew across snout and chest, 
he felt a small touch of peace pierce the gloom 
of nightmare. It was as a grain of sand too small 
to see compared to the glimpse of a single ray of 
light from Yahshua's mother in her glory. But it was enough.

Charles smiled and murmured his thanks before 
climbing higher in the rigging. It was time to return to his duties.

----------

Quoddy woke as the sky brightened but waited 
until the first rays of sunlight illumined the 
eastern shore before stretching his wings and 
nudging his brothers. On the second day of the 
voyage Sir Charles and one of the crew helped 
build a smaller nest on the main mast above the 
crow's nest suitable for them to watch and sleep. 
The same crewman, Vasco, half-dozed beneath them 
for a minute more before grunting and rubbing his eyes.

Lubec and Machias yawned their beaks and 
stretched their wings, easing up and giving each 
other what little space they could. They slept 
nestled together as true birds did, but once awake the habits of men returned.

“Good morning,” Quoddy squawked as he stood and 
wiggled his webbed feet beneath him. The wood 
they'd used stunk of tar and he was convinced it 
would stick his feet fast one day. “Sleep well?”

“We're at sea, of course I did!” Machias replied. 
He turned and dug his bright orange beak into his 
wing feathers to straighten them. “And there was 
a pretty lady puffin...” Lubec nudged him with 
his wing; Machias squawked in surprise as he 
hopped a step to keep upright. “Hey! She was pretty.”

“And you've been dreaming of her how many nights 
now?” Lubec asked as he looked over his black feathers.

The puffin scuffed his webbed feet. “Four or five.”

“Ten or twelve,” Quoddy corrected with a laugh. 
“Maybe we'll meet some when we return to Metamor.”

“In a year,” Lubec noted. He turned his head 
toward the sunrise and then to the sea. “A good year.”

“Aye, a good year!”

“I've never been this far south before,” Machias 
noted, his composure restored. He hopped closer 
to his brothers to peer toward the shore-line and 
gentle sea ahead of them. “You've been here before. How's the fishing?”

“Good,” Quoddy admitted as his stomach grumbled. 
“But don't try fishing at sea; you should always 
just see what's close to shore. All the fish 
you'll see out this far are too big to snatch. 
And the sharks... they might jump out and snatch you!”

Machias pecked him then fluffed up his white 
chest feathers. “I'm not stupid; I know you're teasing.”

Lubec shook his head, eyes darkening. “He's not. 
I've seen it.” His voice lowered, and for a 
moment Quoddy remembered his brother cormorant in 
the weeks after Gmork was killed. “A lone bird 
swooping low over the waters, beak jabbing into 
the waves to snatch a bit of mackerel, only to 
have a terror of the deep, a gray monstrosity 
whose jaw has teeth like knives, leap out of the 
water, bite down through his back, and disappear 
beneath the waves with only scattered feathers to mark the spot he perished.”

The cormorant shuddered, head drawn close to his 
chest. “What a frightful thing to see! I'll never 
fly close to the surface of the sea again.”

Machias gaped, blinking several times before he 
fluffed himself up taller and pecked both of them 
in the back as they laughed. “You two are 
terrible! Sharks don't jump out of the water to eat birds!”

“Nay, nay,” Quoddy admitted as he stopped 
laughing. “But the fish this far out are usually 
too big to grab. Stay close to shore and you'll 
be fine. There's even some crab and mussels 
hiding in the rocks if you want to give your wings a rest.”

Machias huffed one last time and cast his gaze 
toward the shore. “It's not as if we'd have time 
anyway. The ship's moving too fast to fish.”

“But there's plenty in the hold. I think I smell 
some cooking already.” Quoddy leaned his head out 
over their nest. It was the meager-est of scents 
overwhelmed by the tang of the salt in the sea, 
but the thin strand of sizzling fish was there. 
“Let's go see what Mogaf is making!” He spread 
his wings and jumped, spiraling around the rigging toward the deck.

His brothers, all scuffling forgotten, were quick to follow him down.

----------

“It has been many years since I had so favorable 
a wind at my back,” Captain Calenti admitted. He 
bore the countenance of a boy who'd found a 
heroic knight's banner. One hand curled about a 
goblet of wine and the other trailed across a map 
of the coast as if they were the very wind he 
welcomed. “We will make your city, your grace, a week earlier than expected.”

Malger dae ross Sutt, once wandering minstrel and 
now Archduke of the ancient city of Sutthaivasse 
of Pyralis, tapped his chin with an appraising 
claw. The marten did not share the sailor's 
delight; he appeared a boy who'd bitten an apple 
only to find a worm within. “My messengers may 
not have even arrived by then. Nothing will be ready!”

“I suppose we could drop anchor for a day or 
two.” Calenti frowned and tapped the map. “There 
are coves we can shelter in if your need is great.”

Malger twitched his snout and peered past the 
sailor at the window. The sea rose and fell with 
the rocking of the ship. His sinuous body almost 
danced as it kept pace. “Nae, nae, Jerome's need 
is greater. Haste is for the best, but...”

Calenti eyed him for a moment; instead of asking 
he merely sipped his wine. Overhead they could 
hear the shouting of his men and the squeaking 
voices of the Matthias children. He thought of 
the Dreamer boy and a smile touched the edges of 
his muzzle. He turned his head so the Captain 
would not see. “It is merely an inconvenience. To 
enter my own city unannounced without 
preparations made for my arrival? It is not done.”

“Send one of the birds. Or Kurgael. Or one of the dragons!”

Malger chuffed. “The birds would struggle to 
reach the city ere your vessel does. You retained 
Kurgael, not I, I cannot trust him with such a 
mission. And Pharcellus... I fear my people would 
shower him with arrows before the message was 
delivered. Although, if I must arrive 
unannounced, he would make a mighty herald!”

And there would be little time for any assassins 
hired by the many schemers in the city to prepare 
their own welcome for him. But no time for his 
few trusted men either. He chittered a curse 
beneath his breath and turned back to the 
Captain. “There is nothing to be done for it. 
Very well, Captain, continue your course and let the wind guide you.”

Calenti's delight returned. “Thank you, your 
grace! You will not be disappointed.”

He wasn't. Minutes later he stretched in his 
hammock with flute to his snout. He whistled a 
wandering tune and stared at the tar-black wood 
above him. Dragons, birds, a dreaming rat, a wolf 
struggling to be a man, and intrigue beyond count 
in the city of his birth. What a splendid adventure this was turning out to be!

----------

Garigan no more finished a meal of fresh-caught 
fish then he raced up the deck to start his shift 
for the day. Like his master he had volunteered 
to serve on the Venture Swift after their first 
day at sea. He already won grudging admiration 
from the seasoned men for the way he slithered 
through the rigging and pranced over the narrow 
cross-beams; it seemed little different to him 
than cavorting amongst the treetops of the Glen, 
and any reminder of home was a pleasant one.

He was impressed with how much there was for a 
sailor to do and he did all he was bid without 
complaint. But with the wind behind them and the 
sails full and steady, he had a few minutes to 
relax. A young sailor – younger even than the 
ferret – stood next to him in the rigging, 
checking and tightening the knots, all while 
smiling and sighing in relief for their respite. “So, Garigan, what's it like?”

“Hmm?” He flicked his tail and stretched his 
toes, careful not to nick the ropes with his claws. “What's what like, Marco?”

The youth appraised him with an anxious glance. “Well... fur... you know.”

Garigan chuffed and picked at the gray fur of his 
arm. “This? Well, I have been this way since my 
thirteenth year. After so long I cannot imagine 
not having fur, claws, fangs, a tail. I suppose I 
remember I could see better before I changed, and 
my nose was not as strong. Winter's were colder 
before I had fur. I need to eat meat or fish as 
often as I can. In Metamor it is just how things 
are. Here... it was awkward at first, and I heard 
some speaking behind our backs when they thought 
I couldn't hear them.” Marco's eyes widened. “Now 
I am glad I can be of help and being like a ferret makes it easier.”

“And your claws? And fangs? They look sharp...”

He laughed and waved those claws in front of 
Marco's startled face. For a moment he was 
reminded of the incorrigible pine marten Marcus 
and the way he would stare in awe and fright 
whenever Garigan made a threat in his serious 
voice. “They are. I need to be careful I do not 
cut the ropes as I climb. But I am used to them 
and very good with them. I remember one time 
while fighting Lutins I lost my sword and learned 
how strong and sharp these really were. All the blood...”

Marco's eyes were bigger than his head and knuckles white as plaster.

Garigan patted him on the back and laughed, 
squirming between a square in the ropes to climb 
a little higher. “Oh, don't worry Marco. We of 
Metamor are very careful about matters of fang 
and claw. I like you and look forward to sailing 
this voyage with you. Now come; it looks like the wind is shifting.”

Marco blinked and offered a nervous laugh. “Oh 
aye, aye, it is. Of course!” Together they 
climbed up the rigging to ready for the next gust of air.

----------

Pharcellus remembered well the twists and turns 
he'd made in his efforts to fight off a dozen or 
so Lutins when they'd freed Fjellvidden a little 
over two months ago. As a dragon, even while in 
human guise, he contorted and snatched at 
anything near regardless where his attacker 
struck. A blow or two might land upon him with so 
many against him, but it would take many more such blows to fell a dragon.

Yet to the four Matthias children he lost each 
battle with ever-increasing delight. Under the 
watchful eyes of their mother and Kimberly and 
the vixen Misanthe, the little rats cavorted 
about the poop deck and scampered under, up, and 
over Pharcellus. For his part he would stomp 
around and make menacing dragonish sounds, waving 
his arms at times like forepaws and others like 
wings as he sought each one. Those he caught in 
his arms he would nibble upon their necks or 
tummies before they squirmed free of his grasp. 
The rest of the time he let them slip through his 
fingers only to have them jump on his legs and 
back, clinging with sharp little claws, and from 
time to time biting with strong incisors.

Their mother would reprimand them each time they 
bit the dragon, but even though their teeth could 
injure his soft human flesh, he paid it no mind. 
It was no different than the play of hatchlings 
deep within the great caverns of the wyrms. These 
four had the incisors, claws, fur, and tails of 
rats for a reason; through play they would learn how to use them.

And while their energy did seem boundless, 
Pharcellus knew it was only a matter of time 
before he could corral them into the lady's laps 
and then regale them with a dragon's tale of 
adventure and mischief. The two boys were 
particularly eager for each story, especially 
when their was fighting involved. The girls were 
more apt to hide their faces at the scary parts, 
but their ears were always perked to hear what 
came next. But they always squeaked a laugh when 
the dragon lunged forward startling the boys deeper into motherly arms.

And when the tale was done the chorus of earnest 
squeaks would commence, all of them asking the same thing.

“Can you fly us, Master Phar! Can you, can you! 
Please1 Please! Fly us! We wanna fly! Fly! We 
wanna fly! Mommy, please tell him to take us flying! Please Mommy!”

The answer from Kimberly was always some 
variation of, “If you want to fly you had best 
eat your lunch and take your nap like good rats first!”

Pharcellus loved his new daily routine.

----------

“Ah, there's nothing quite like flying, eh Lindsey?”

The young dragon turned his serpentine neck to 
offer the gryphon a toothy grin. They glided 
through the air, the winds as a gentle hand 
lifting them higher and higher until the Venture 
Swift was no larger than a pebble. Kurgael's 
golden beak was cracked in what long years at 
Metamor taught him was an avian's smile. “In sooth! And with this wind... Ah!”

Lindsey swung his head back and in his delight 
belched a tongue of flame. He could do no more 
yet and suffered a dragon's indignation at so 
minor a fire, but his brother assured him it 
would grow as he did. At least he felt confidant 
enough in flight to serve as both scout and defense for his friends.

Kurgael beat his wings until he flew beside 
Lindsey. His avian forearms gripped a wrapped 
bundle tight to his chest. Even as he spoke his 
piercing eyes scanned the waters below. “I heard 
it said you are not a natural dragon but a Keeper 
cursed like me; yet you call Pharcellus brother 
and are also said to be a young dragon. How is this so?”

His nostrils tightened; they'd only ever told 
Calenti and the crew he and Pharcellus were 
brothers and friends of Sir Matthias. Perhaps 
Kurgael overheard the birds discussing it. After 
what they endured together, he could never hold 
anything against those three. “I am Pharcellus's 
half-brother. We share the same dragon mother, 
though I have a human father.” He banked his 
wings and began a slow turn toward the empty 
expanse of sea. “It's a long story with a 
terrible villain, but in the end the villain died 
a fitting death and I became a dragon. Perhaps 
Phar can tell it some evening when the seas are calm.”

He wondered how his father Alfwig and his human 
mother Elizabaeg were faring. Had the men of 
Fjellvidden reclaimed the southern coasts yet? 
And what of Yajgaj the Lutin? Was he really his 
brother Andrig or was it a ruse of the Blood 
Harrow? One day he and Pharcellus would return to 
Arabarb and learn. And afterward he would need to 
meet his true mother and his dragon kin; it would 
be many years before he ventured back into the 
world of men. Pharcellus had never said so but the dragon in Lindsey knew.

Kurgael offered a whistling screech and clacked 
his beak together as he followed the 
crimson-touched gray-scale in his turn. “Do I get 
nothing more until then? This sounds a fantastic tale!”

Lindsey closed his eyes for a moment and shook 
his head. “It is a fantastic tale, but a painful 
one too. And for Jerome and the birds Lubec 
especially. I don't know if they are ready to hear it told.”

The gryphon bobbed his head and then scanned the 
sea below. “Then I shan't pry. But, ah, to fly... 
even if I had the chance to become human again I 
would not take it. I do not even like taking the 
more man-like shape Sir Matthias and the Archduke 
use. This is what I like to be, and in the air is best of all!”

Lindsey's turn brought them around north so they 
could see the ship in the distance. The sails 
were full of the wind and even after only a few 
seconds it appeared larger. “I do wish I could 
walk on two legs again. But I'll never give up 
flying either!” His eyes scanned the sea between 
them and the ship, settling on a darker patch of 
water on their right. “Look there, what do you 
think?” He gestured with his head at the spot and Kurgael followed his gaze.

“A school. No doubt.” One avian claw unfurled the 
netting he carried. The lead lines snapped in the 
wind, trailing behind him threatening to tangle 
in his legs. Lindsey backed his wings and fell 
behind the gryphon, snatching the ropes with his 
forepaws. Once he had a grip he dove forward, 
drawing the net taut between them. Together they 
circled down through the layers of wind closer 
and closer to the rippling ocean. The net tugged 
and burned his fingers but he held it tight.

The dark patch proved to be a school of snappers. 
Most were too far below the surface to reach, but 
the pair dropped the net, holding only the guide 
lines as they flapped their wings hard, sluicing 
through the water and scooping the net through 
the surprised fish. When they lifted back into 
the air away from the sea more fish than Lindsey 
could count bounced and flopped within the net.

“Hah!” Kurgael squawked in triumph. “This should 
keep the crew for a week! At least until we reach Sutthaivasse.”

Lindsey grunted under the strain but kept beating his wings. “Indeed!”

“I think we're getting good at fishing.”

He could only nod once. Why couldn't he have been 
a full grown dragon like his brother?

----------

Gmork's Prodigal reclined against the gunwale 
near the prow and stared at the small clouds 
drifting across the sky. He sat upon his haunches 
and rested his snout on the oiled wood, black 
nose sniffing the briny air, sweaty sailors, and 
the pungent catch dragon and gryphon had 
deposited on the main deck an hour past. He kept 
his hands as human as he could make them, but his black Sondeckis

robe had disappeared into the silvery-black pelt of the wolf beast he'd become.

The wolf-beast his father had made him.

Gmork's Prodigal licked his nose and breathed in 
the same scents, golden eyes moving without haste 
to another cloud. There was nothing for him to do 
on the ship – the sailors kept their distance 
from him and even his friends were uncertain how 
to act around him, more often than not treating 
him as if he were an invalid at best and an 
untamed hound at worst. Charles and Lindsey 
always spoke to him as a man and dear friend and 
it was only in their company he found any 
comfort. The rest of the time he yearned to slink 
away and hunt the feral rats infesting the hold. 
He'd already eaten three – he spat the carcasses 
over the gunwale rather than let any see what 
he'd done – but it was not the same as hunting 
game with his father and brothers.

He turned his snout toward the sea; even thinking 
about loping through the woods felt a torture. 
With nothing else to do he stared at clouds and 
smelled the sea, letting each wash all thoughts 
from his mind. He heard every word uttered by the 
sailors but understood none of it. He would have 
nothing in his mind but sea and sky.

And so it took a few tries for his friend Charles 
to stir Gmork's Prodigal from his contemplation. 
The big rat kept calling him by that name. “Jerome!”

He flicked his ears and lifted his snout. The rat 
waved his chewstick at him and gazed with 
palpable concern in his protruding eyes. 
“Charles,” he garbled with his wolf tongue. He 
shifted on his haunches until he was almost 
sitting on his tail; his snout withdrew halfway 
into his face. “Charles. Forgive me. I wasn't listening.”

“I see,” Charles noted, stepping closer and 
gnawing on the chewstick for a moment. He bore 
baggy pantaloons an a tan vest much like many of 
the other sailors, but no undershirt as if he 
wanted to show off the brown fur covering his 
chest and arms and the muscles beneath. “How many 
clouds have you counted today?”

“I stopped counting hours ago.” He shrugged and 
managed to pull his snout in the rest of the way. 
He could even feel the cleft in his lips closing. “How did you sleep?”

Charles leaned against the gunwale, long tail 
thumping against the side as his eyes followed 
the latest cloud. “Well enough. I should have 
something to eat but I'm not ready for another fillet of fish.”

“There is a fresh catch.”

“I saw.” Charles stuck his tongue far out of his 
snout and wriggled his whiskers and nose in 
distaste. “I think we ate better in the swamps of Marzac.”

“Well, we ate different things.”

“In sooth!” Charles laughed and shook his head.

Gmork's Prodigal wagged his tail once as he tried 
to remember some of the worst things they had to 
scrounge on the last miserable miles of the 
swamp. Even the wolf's nature seemed revolted by 
them. “Are your litter sleeping?”

“For now. They gave us no trouble for once. The 
promise of a ride in Pharcellus's claws seemed 
incentive enough. His wing is looking much better.”

“He still mopes over it.”

The rat shook his head and lifted his free hand 
to brush across the black scar over his right 
eye. “How anyone can grumble about a scar earned 
in battle I will never understand. I keep telling 
him it marks him as a warrior true.”

“Dragons are different.” Gmork's Prodigal felt a 
twinge of disgust as he said the name. Father hated dragons.

“Aye, they are. Even Lindsey seems different 
now.” Charles shrugged and turned his back to the 
gunwale, the root of his tail dangling over the 
edge. “Speaking of scars, how did you come by the ones on your chest and back?”

Gmork's Prodigal forced the fur to recede into 
flesh. The tatters of his Sondeckis robe spilled 
outward and billowed around his haunches with 
only his tail and paws protruding. He lifted the 
edge of the robe and rubbed his fingers along one 
of the ragged gouges crisscrossing his flesh. One 
claw caught on the pink scar and he yanked his 
hand away. “Ah... these... you should know, 
Charles.” He tried to lick his nose again but his 
tongue was too human. “It was Marzac.”

The rat's countenance darkened and he gnawed on 
his chewstick for several seconds. “The 
corruption scarred us all it seems. I had thought...”

“My Father did this?” He winced at his own words.

“Gmork... aye...” Charles gnawed again, eyes 
staring at nothing. A few seconds more and the 
rat forced himself to turn back to Gmork's Prodigal. “Do you feel him?”

Now it was his turn to look away. His snout grew 
an inch from his face, nose darkening to black 
leather. The cleft in his lips returned as his 
jowls swelled. “Sometimes. Not like Marzac. 
Marzac was pitiless and never relented. My fa... 
Gmork does not always think of me.”

Charles twitched his whiskers and nodded. “Good. 
Perhaps I can help you not think of him too. Care 
to practice with me? I've a little while before 
my children wake and I'm sure we both need a little time with our Sondeck.”

Gmork's Prodigal wagged his tail.

----------

“Mind if I join you up here?” Malger asked as he 
poked his head into the crow's nest.

“Your grace!” Machais cawed, hopping backward on 
his webbed feet and almost off the rim from which 
he watched the sea. Lubec stretched a wing to 
steady him, while Quoddy gestured at their wooden nest in welcome.

“You are most welcome, Malger, but I do not think you will fit.”

“Then this will suit me fine.” The marten was 
used to stretching out in odd positions and so 
with paws propped on the main crow's nest and 
side pressed against the main mast he only needed 
rest his elbows inside the trio's smaller nest to 
be comfortable. “I am sorry you have not been 
able to fly much this last week. Good for the voyage; not so good for you.”

“Oh, it's all right, your gra... Malger.” Machais 
bobbed his colorful beak at the correction. “Even 
in the flocks we stood around for hours on end. 
At least this time we have somebody to talk to.”

The marten blinked and shook his head. “I am 
impressed you could spend so much time living as normal birds.”

“The first year was hard,” Lubec admitted, 
shrugging his wings. “What brings you up so far, Malger?”

“It's my charter and I will go where I please!” 
He laughed and leaned his head back. “I also 
wanted to talk to you some. You've done very well 
delivering my messages so far. When we near 
Sutthaivasse I'll have more for you, but for now 
we have only to enjoy the sea air and the rocking 
of the wind and waves. Have you ever sailed before?”

Quoddy shook his head. “Sailors usually don't 
like flocks of birds pooping on their decks. 
Every time we even neared a vessel they'd chase 
us off or try to catch us in nets. After the 
first time I always kept away.” His brother 
nodded and the gull continued, “It's not a bad 
way to travel, though I do wish we could fly a little more.”

“This wind will not last forever,” Malger assured 
them. “And you are in my employ now. I promise 
you on our return to Metamor you will not lack for occasions to fly!”

“You'd like it if you could do it,” Machais noted 
as he lifted a webbed foot and clawed at his 
belly. “I'm sure Pharcellus or Kurgael could you fly you about.”

Malger laughed again. “I'm sure they could. I'm 
happy standing on my paws for now, but perhaps. So I am told you know Kurgael?”

Th puffin nodded. “We visited him in his home in 
the cliffs south of the valley when we returned 
to Metamor each Winter. There are many Keepers 
who have chosen to live more like the beasts the Curses made us.”

“It can take many years to learn what we can do 
to earn our way,” Lubec added. The cormorant 
groomed one wing for a second and then said, “And 
for many of us we have to earn it by being what the Curses made us.”

Malger nodded, remembering Versyd and the other 
horses he'd hired. He wiggled his clawed fingers. 
“I am blessed to still have these then. I am very 
glad I could help you three. If you wold be so 
kind, tell me a story of one of your adventures. 
I will gladly share one of mine.”

The brothers glanced at each other for a moment 
before Quoddy turned his beady eyes back to the 
marten. “Well, we've only truly had one adventure 
worthy of the name, but we could tell you about 
things we've seen men do when they think we are only birds.”

The marten laid his arms atop one another and 
rested his snout upon his wrists. “Now this is 
precisely what I wish to hear! Continue my friends!”

----------

“Sir Matthias,” Captain Calenti said through 
clenched teeth and purple cheeks, “I must insist 
you keep your children from chewing holes in my ship!”

----------

“Do they ever truly rest?”

Misanthe stretched her legs and arms as she 
leaned against the gunwale on the aft deck. Her 
slender snout lifted, golden eyes fixed upon the 
four little rats climbing through the rigging 
with their father and Garigan. “They are so 
curious, adventurous, and precious. I love them 
dearly already. But do they ever truly rest?”

Lady Kimberly favored the vixen with a knowing 
twitch of the whiskers. “I wondered the same 
thing when they were first born. They kept 
Charles, Baerle or I awake all hours of the night 
for the first few months. They wanted to sleep 
during the day! By Autumn they finally started 
sleeping through the night; I fear it is the only 
time they do rest. But at least we lived at the 
Glen; we have many friends and there were always 
eyes to watch them when care for other things took me away.”

Misanthe watched with steady eyes as elder rat 
and ferret helped them scramble up the ropes. 
Bernadette missed one and dangled for a moment by 
her arms, squeaking in alarm, until her father's 
hands cupped her back and tail, hoisting her up 
to where she could place her feet. The vixen let 
out a little gasp of air. “It still amazes me how old they seem.”

“Lady Avery told me her two boys also matured 
quickly their first few years. It slowed in time, 
and I believe theirs will too. It has something 
to do with being part animal. Still, they are 
beautiful to me and more precious than anything 
else I own.” Her fingers lifted to the stone 
medallion creased with purple lines that rested 
in her bodice. “Before I came to Metamor I never 
thought I would ever call a rat beautiful! Yet they are.”

“It has not always been so kind... the last time 
I was around so many humans I hid myself in the beastly guise.”

“And I heard it said you can talk even as a normal fox?”

Misanthe nodded, looking away from the children 
so as not to watch their father dangle them 
one-by-one from the yard. “Aye. It was not easy, 
but my... former master,” she resisted the urge 
to spit in from of Kimberly, “demanded I master 
it. Whether for his use or amusement...”

“But it is useful! I know of no other Metamorian who can claim such a feat.”

Misanthe favored the noble rat with a flick of 
her tail and lifting of her ears. “If you would 
care to learn, I might be able to teach you.”

Kimberly's whiskers drooped. “I am not sure if 
the voice of a rat could speak so.”

“Perhaps not. I wonder if there is not some magic 
about my skill but I have no way to know. But if 
you should change your mind...”

A chorus of squeaks overhead made both ladies 
lift their snouts. Charles and Garigan were 
bouncing one child at a time in the top of the 
wind-full sails. The girls squeaked their delight 
as their tails and legs flailed in the air. The 
boys squeaked their impatience as they stood 
unaided on the yard. Kimberly gasped and wrapped 
her hand tight around the medallion. “Charles! 
Garigan! What are you doing with my children?”

Her husband waved down to her with one hand as he 
lifted Baerle back up to the yard. He cupped his 
hands around his snout and shouted back down, 
“They're doing great! Don't worry!”

She shook her head and stifled a tremble. “I 
suppose if you are going to teach me, we should 
find somewhere to change without prying eyes.”

Misanthe rolled her eyes at the men and followed Kimberly beneath the deck.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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