<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> <html> <head> <meta content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" http-equiv="Content-Type"> </head> <body text="#000000" bgcolor="#ffffff"> Here we go again!  We get back up with Lois, and remeet one of our earlier short-term acquaintances. -LurkingWolf ________________________________              Due to the relative safety of the patrol, Lois had taken one of the watches, although he had seen the firelight in Alex's eyes several times during the night.  The feline had the same glowing eyes as he had seen in wild animals in the past, and it was disconcerting at times, knowing that the man that was watching him had the body of a large cat that could kill him easily in either of his forms.               He had lived through it, however, and Alex relieved him at the end of the shift, bearing himself nothing like the predator Lois had been considering moments before.  Instead, he looked as calm and collected as any human Lois had ever worked with, as well as significantly more alert.               As the final watch, Alex had the responsibility of waking the rest of the patrol.  The sun had just barely peaked up far enough to light the sky, but they all started moving.  Lucy was already awake, and seemed to be steadying herself magically just away from the camp.  She began to move just as the others finished breaking camp, but she had already prepared and so joined them as they began to move.               As they were in the forest, silence was prized above speed, and they continued as a unit, quietly moving through the underbrush at a comfortable speed.  Lois found himself close to Lucy at this point, and decided to ask a few questions while they were still relatively safe.               "Why did you get up so early?" he asked quietly.               Lucy chuckled quietly.  "These short legs don't last as long as your long ones.  I made it yesterday, but to keep up today I need to recharge myself magically.  Drains my magic a bit more than I'd like, but it also keeps the patrol together without giving up too much speed."               Lois nodded, and stayed silent for a while longer.  In that time, the patrol made good ground through the forest.  They moved along together, keeping up with Alex as he set the pace.  Several times they saw signs of creatures in the area.  Even though they were moving quickly, sometimes they would manage to sneak up on something without them knowing.  It was nice to know that they were succeeding in stealth, and it was also good to know that nothing else had disturbed the wildlife earlier.               They ate on the move; Alex took some food from his pack and passed it around.  It took them less than a minute to get ready to continue again, but they took it slower while they ate, just in case anyone got careless.  The food wasn't too much, but it gave them the strength to keep moving until they could get something more substantial.               Alex said that they would be reaching Outpost a good while before sundown.  Lois hoped that this was true; he didn't want to keep going too much longer.  Although he would never admit it, the pace was beginning to get to him.  He wouldn't stop as long as the others moved, but he certainly wouldn't mind an excuse to rest.  He watched the sun with anticipation.  It couldn't be much longer now.  He just needed to keep moving.   *          *          *               Paul had never lived a particularly easy life.  His father was a craftsman.  This meant that they were always low on money, but it also meant that Paul was always expected to pull his own weight around the house.  Even when DeMule had begun to train him, Paul found that his father's eyes were on him.  Every failure was criticized to no end, and all successes were accepted as some sort of payment owed from him to his father, and never given any praise.               This translated to him getting a lot of punishment from his father.  He was strong; years of work at his father's bench had given him good strength and hard hands.  When he left the workbench and took up a sword, however, he lacked coordination enough to defeat his opponents.  If one was foolish enough to challenge his strength, he would easily succeed.  Anyone who noted his relatively ponderous style, however, could destroy him with repeated application of quick, precise strikes.               If it wasn't for his father's reaction, Paul would have been fine with losing.  In fact, he had always been fascinated by the quick strikes used by his opponents.  Once he had tried to adopt such a style, taking training from another student, but his father had intervened.  Dancing about the ring was for women and fops, his father had said.  He would not see his son doing any such thing.  If he was to be quick, it would only be to the extent of being able to block such opponents.  Otherwise, strength was to be his main skill.               At fifteen years old, Paul was also the oldest person he knew who had not been Cursed yet.  His case was such that mages had been consulted on the subject to study what was happening.  Such people had told him that it was most definitely going to affect him; the lines of the Curse's magic had started clinging to his form already, but had yet to form its inescapable death grip on him.  So, he continued to live; no sign of fur grew on his skin, even as he continued to age, and he remained very definitely male, just as he had been from birth.  With no cues to play off of, he had always just lived as though he would never change.  He knew it would change some time, but he saw no sense in worrying over it until the inevitable happened.               The sun was just going down, and Paul was in his room.  He had returned early from the shop after feeling slightly sick during the day, an allowance made only because he had worked well up until that point.  He had felt better now for a good half hour, but he was in no hurry to return to the shop.  Any time left for him to think in quiet was a luxury he rarely had.               On this particular day, as he had a few times in the past week, he was thinking about the man he had watched at the training grounds a few days before.  He had been there to get some independent practice, but had seen the man who called himself Vincent Lois.  His fellows could manage quick attacks, even more when their forms aided reflex, but that man was the quickest he had ever seen.  Fighting against the lynx swordsman, he had shown such a stunning combination of speed and poise that it had left Paul breathless.  His father's sudden arrival had forced him to leave before the two men could truly begin to fight, but Paul secretly hoped he would see the man again.  Even if his father forbade him from using such a style, he felt no guilt for admiring it.               He mimicked the motions as closely as he could as he paced restlessly around his room.  In his hands he held two carvings he had done himself, caring more for his fantasy than for the safety of his creations.  He knew his crude imitations fell far short of the originals' grace, but he didn't care.  He would never be allowed to learn the correct method as it currently stood.               Paul's thoughts were anywhere but on the feeling of sickness he had experienced earlier at this point.  He was too focused on trying to make his movements fluid to think of anything less important.  As he continued to move, however, the sickness returned.  He ignored it as much as possible, but a sudden, severe pang caused him to double over suddenly.  He gasped, even as his stomach seemed to wrench within him.  He reached one spasming hand for his bed, dropping his carvings to the floor loudly.  He never saw if his desperate grasp reached its destination.  He blacked out as the pain overwhelmed him, and let the darkness hold back the tide of pain.               When Paul again became aware of his surroundings, he straightened as though to catch a fall, except he had already been laying on the ground for several minutes.  So many things felt wrong that he had to take a moment to let his mind try to cope with the changes.  He knew what had happened; the Curse had claimed him.  By the violence of his change, he expected that he was either a woman or an animal, and a quick inspection of his body yielded the answer to his question.               His jerkin was taut around his chest now, and he could feel what had happened beneath without aid from his hands.  His, now her, breasts were still extremely sensitive, and she whimpered as she resisted the urge to check the more intimate changes.  Reaching a much more slender hand to her bed, she hefted herself back to her feet with some effort.  Everything was so wrong.  Her legs were longer now, yet she had lost at least half a head of her height.  She stumbled towards the hallway, looking for the one mirror in the house, left untouched since her mother had passed two years ago.  With hands shaking from shock and desperation, she wiped the dirty glass as clean as possible, leaving her to stare into her own, extremely frightened face.               Her face was a young woman's almost as though the change had also advanced her age a year.  No more freckles remained from his male face.  Instead smooth, beautiful skin had replaced her original scarred and pimpled visage.  Long black hair hung uncut around her shoulders, showing clearly that its entire growth had taken place in less than an hour.  Her breasts, although small, were still clearly visible beneath her shirt.  Other changes made her female body unmistakable for what it now was.  She was a woman, and there was no cure yet found for the Curse that now held sway over her.  She would live out the rest of her life in this form.               She was a reasonable young person, and would generally have accepted her change with little resistance.  As she stood there, however, one thought brought her nearly to the point of panic.  Ever since her mother had died, Paul's father had been set on raising his son to be a true man, free from whatever flaws he had seen in his wife in the late days of their union.  He had always claimed that it was because she had somehow caused her own death by those flaws.  Paul had been old enough to realize what his father had always feared.  It wasn't his wife's flaws he sought to quash.  It was her memory.               And there, standing across from Paul in the mirror, stood a person that neither he nor his father had seen in two years.  Younger, taller, but still recognizable beneath the smudges on the glass, stood Paul's mother.  For Paul, it was a haunting nightmare come true.  Not only had he failed his father's expectations, he had become the object of his fears. !DSPAM:4de9b9e8195061804284693! </body> </html>