<html> <head> <style> .hmmessage P { margin:0px; padding:0px } body.hmmessage { FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY:Tahoma } </style> </head> <body class='hmmessage'><div style="text-align: left;">*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 <o:p>  </o:p>August, 704 CR<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p>                 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. <o:p> </o:p>                 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.” <o:p> </o:p> *             *             * <o:p> </o:p> <o:p> </o:p>                 “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. <o:p> </o:p> *             *             * <o:p> </o:p>                 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.” <o:p> </o:p> <o:p> </o:p>                 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. <o:p> </o:p> *             *             * <o:p> </o:p>                 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.                 *             *             * <o:p> </o:p>                 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….” </div> <hr />Connect to the next generation of MSN Messenger <a href='http://imagine-msn.com/messenger/launch80/default.aspx?locale=en-us&source=wlmailtagline' target='_new'>Get it now! </a></body> </html>