<div dir="ltr"><div>Here's the next part of the Round Robin. Thanks for your patience!<br></div><div><br></div><div>---</div><div><br></div><div>
<div>It had now been four days since Jerrod had come to the Barnhardt
chapel. Every day was the same slow steady rhythm. At morning Jerrod and
Bruin would share breakfast. Then they would head to the forge to make
the day's portion of cement. At first, Jerrod only watched Bruin mix the
cement, but today, Jerrod was permitted to mix the day's batch himself,
though Bruin had to remind him of the particulars. Bruin would then
pour in the next batch of cement for tomorrow's section of floor. Bruin
would then prepare the mortar while Jerrod sorted the loose floor tiles
for size, shape, and color. Then, for the next few hours, Bruin would
pour in a bit of mortar, and Jerrod would place the tiles on yesterday's
solidified portion. Each day, another thousand tiles were laid, about
three feet by ten feet. Then Jerrod would sit with Bruin as he prayed
the vespers, and then they would have dinner before resting for
tomorrow.<br><br>Jerrod and Bruin weren't the only workers here. Ramesh
and Elizier, a leopard morph and a fossa morph, were often out
bricklaying the adjoining cloister. Two child morphs, Migel and Sal,
could be heard on the opposite side of the chapel, hammering tiles into
the chapel roof. The other workers seemed weary of the changing
porcupine they had heard rumors about, but after a couple days, all six
of them sit together for dinner. Malvin sometimes visited as well,
though Jerrod was given to understand that he would have joined them for
dinner more often were it not for his regular priestly duties and his
absent-minded studies.<br><br>The regular pattern helped Jerrod focus on
something beside his changes. Throughout the day, Jerrod ignored his
padded hands, his claws, and his muzzles. What he couldn't ignore was
his teeth. Bruin brought him a chewstick after the first day, when he
complained about his teeth. Jerrod had been repulsed, but by the day's
end had chewed and eaten the whole stick. Jerrod still found it hard to
admit he was a porcupine. Bruin took him to the mirror every evening,
insisting that Jerrod not avert his eyes for at least two minutes. It
was hard, especially the day his nose and muzzle grew in. Jerrod
couldn't see the image as anything but a monster; he still couldn't
believe he was anything but a monster.<br><br>And yet... Jerrod also
felt ashamed at thinking of his fellow morphs as monsters. Bruin had
been nothing but kind to him. Ramesh could tell many yarns of Barnhardt,
while Elizier knew several hymns and psalms by heart. Jerrod couldn't
ignore their ear-twitching and purring, the marks of inhumanity. Yet it
hardly made them monstrous to show amusement or contentment. Even
Jerrod's own stick-chewing brought him relief and happiness.<br><br>Jerrod solved this dilemma by just not thinking about it.<br><br>It
was really the quiet that most unsettled him. For the past year,
Rodrick had been a constant companion, and a good friend for two years
before. Often Jerrod found himself wondering what Rodrick would say
about him. Rarely was it anything positive. Usually he thought of
Rodrick telling him to escape while Bruin was distracted.<br><br>But
there was nowhere he could even escape to. Not unless he became a circus
animal or lived in the wild, and he wasn't ready for either. To be
honest, there wasn't much left in the world that he did feel ready for.<br><br>Bruin knocked on the stone wall beside him. "Jerrod? You have visitors."<br><br>Jerrod flicked his head up. "Who---" He recognized the frog immediately. The child he knew by association. "You!"<br><br>Franklin
and Drewbert stared at him in amazement. Of course, they had been told
of Jerrod's changes, but there was a difference between knowing and
seeing. Memory of Jerrod's offhand insults of morphs was still strong,
and Drewbert had to hold his tongue to not comment on the irony.<br><br>Jerrod glanced between the two. "Well, what do you two want to take from me now?"<br><br>Drewbert
frowned and opened his mouth to object, but Franklin croaked his
throat. "We came to return your belongings to you. And to give
confession."<br><br>Jerrod slowly got to his feet. He wore an apron that
he delicately tied around his quills, and a pair of shorts that stopped
just below his tail, held up by a heavy rope he wedged between his
quills. Everything he wore was decided by how they fit over his quills.<br><br>"What confession?"<br><br>Drewbert
shot Franklin a look of concern, but Franklin nodded back. "You are
right. We should admit to our wrongs." Franklin looked back up. "We knew
you were cheating, that time at the Jolly Collie. We knew it was wrong.
But we... I wanted revenge for what you said when you entered town.
What you called us animal morphs. So... I cheated back, and I helped
Drewbert cheat through me."<br><br>Jerrod clicked his teeth together,
yet another bad habit he'd picked up as a porcupine. Franklin and
Drewbert braced against the door, while Bruin watched them all closely.<br><br>Jerrod finally nodded. "I knew you two were cheats."<br><br>"I
am not!" Drewbert could hold his tongue no longer. "After what happened
to my father, I have sworn I would never live like that again!"<br><br>Jerrod turned away. "No, I'm... I'm sorry. Ulford told me your story. I shouldn't have called you that."<br><br>Drewbert
blinked. A few days ago, this man had sneered at them and mistrusted
them, and nearly attacked him personally with a knife. Drewbert always
believed in forgiveness, but even this was hard to believe.<br><br>It was too hard not to point out the obvious, though. "I see you've changed since we last met."<br><br>Jerrod flinched, and whipped his head back around. "If that's all, you two can go now."<br><br>"Aren't you curious how we cheated?" Franklin leaned in.<br><br>"Not
really. What does it matter now?" Jerrod threw up his hands. "I
appreciate you two coming all this way to apologize, but I don't need
your help. I don't need anyone right now. I just need..." His eyes
turned towards Bruin. "I need to make amends. For what I did."<br><br>There was a long pause. Bruin patiently stared at Jerrod. Both knew what Jerrod had to do.</div><div><br></div><div>Jerrod sighed and turned back around. "So. What did you want me to do for you?"<br><br>Drewbert
nodded to Franklin, who headed back outside. "As Franklin said, we
wanted to give back your stuff. We took it wrongfully from you, and you
should have it back."<br><br>"Or do with it as you desire," Franklin
added as he led the pony into the courtyard, from which hung Jerrod's
sack of gold, armor, spear, and two knives. One knife was his; the other
was the dagger Jerrod took from Nathan's belongings. Technically, since
Nathan had mutinied, it was now Gwayn's dagger, but it wasn't as if
Gwayn carefully inventoried their belongings.<br><br>Jerrod stepped closer. He fingered the shaft of his spear, the ropes tied against his knife.<br><br>The voice of Rodrick was in his head. Throw the knife at the frog. Spear the bear. Take the pony and flee.<br><br>No, that's what Rodrick would have done. Jerrod was tired of running from murder.<br><br>"You
know how I got this spear?" Jerrod said. "I was still on the run from
the soldiers, and I was too afraid to buy one from the smithy or armory.
So Rodrick got it for me. Whether he stole it or owned it, I'll never
know. But it was never mine to begin with."<br><br>Drewbert tilted his head. "And if he had stolen it, would you have returned it?"<br><br>"Forgive
me. I'm still relearning how to think clearly." He picked up the knife
that was his. "This knife, I did buy for myself. It's a useful tool. But
it is a weapon. I'm not if I'm allowed to have it while I'm here."<br><br>Bruin nodded. "Knives can have many uses, but there are better tools available for most uses."<br><br>Jerrod
picked up the pouch of gold. "I wish the same were true for this." He
opened the pouch and dumped the coins into his hand to count them.
"These should all go to my father in Bruckin. It's a small town about 20
miles west of Marigund. I have no idea how to get it to him, though."<br><br>"You
want to send a parcel to around Marigund?" Franklin brought a webbed
finger to his chin. "I know someone who could help with that."<br><br>"Wait.
Before you do, I want to write him a message. I want this all sent
anonymously when you send it. I don't want my family involved with any
enemies I made down there." He looked back at the pony. "The armor's
also mine, but it won't fit me now, and it won't help my family any.
Sell it, and give my family the money. And as for this..." he patted the
remaining dagger. "Give this to Misha Brightleaf. Tell him it's
Nathan's, if he still thinks him worthy of it."<br><br>"So... you're not keeping anything?"<br><br>"That's
right," Jerrod sighed. "I lost my old life a while ago, and I've been
searching for a new one ever since. The best way is with a clean break."<br><br>Bruin
rumbled. "I want you to warn you that a clean break isn't always
possible. Those enemies of yours, for example. You are still responsible
for your past."<br><br>"I know," Jerrod said. "I hope I know." He
looked at Bruin first, then the frog and child. He swallowed. "The first
big mistake I made was keeping secrets from my family. Would you give
me an hour to make amends for that? I'll need some paper, a quill and
ink, and sealing wax."<br><br>Bruin smiled, and looked to Franklin and
Drewbert. "Would you care for some lunch while you're here? We've almost
finished off our plum marmalade."<br></div><div><br></div><div>----</div><div><br></div><div>The
snow lashed at him like a thousand whips, buffeting his cloak and his
hole-torn boots, themselves laden with ice and sticking to the icy
glacier on which he fumbled. On his back he carried the last of his
provisions. He remembered he had a horse when he entered these
mountains, but it was long dead now from starvation. Rodrick had done
his best to dry and cure the meat the way his master did, but there was
too much meat, and too much blood, and not enough wood to smoke the
meat, and too little experience to guide him.<br><br>How long had he
been crossing these mountains? And for what? In part, he knew he was
searching for an artifact his master had long sought here in these
mountains. But it would also not be a bad place to die. He'd lost his
home, his master, all sense of purpose. What use did the world have for
someone like him? What good was a thief who did nothing but take from
humanity, who had nothing to give back but a blade to the throat and a
chase in the night?<br><br>Rodrick knew the best course of action was to
dig out a shelter and wait for the storm to pass. It was pitch black
here. One false step, and he'd plunge to his death. Rodrick knew if he
stopped, though, he might not have the strength to start up again. Nor
would he have the strength to build a shelter, for that matter. Even if
he could build one, this storm was far stronger than he, and would
likely bury him.<br><br>Perhaps it would be best to die here. Perhaps it would be best. Perhaps.<br><br>Rodrick
kept walking, even as he lost all sensation in his lower legs. It
seemed as if it was only his imagination carrying him forward, and his
will to see this through to the end. Did the story have to end like
this? Was there not something ahead he could be fighting for?<br><br>Rodrick
suddenly felt his foot get caught on some crack in the ice. He tried to
push his foot free, but the snow had already wedged itself into the
crack behind him. His fingers were too numb inside his gloves to prod
the boot free. He tried to draw his dagger, but it too had been sealed
shut in its sheathe. The sack on his back shifted on his shoulders,
sending a jolt of pain on his neck. It was the only thing Rodrick could
feel, beyond his growing despair.<br><br>No, not just despair. If it
were only despair, then he would have no reason not to sink into the
snow, and let the cold ice soothe his hot blood. But he couldn't let it.
This ice was trying to kill him as surely as any guard or soldier would
do. This was fear. If he were to let go now, then everything,
everything, would have been pointless. Unmourned. Futile. Weak.<br><br>Rodrick
summoned his willpower again, pushing aside his thoughts. He alone
would find a way to survive. On the advice of his master, he never
sought the aids of the gods, light or dark. Piety only led to slavery.
Slavery was another form of death. One needed to be one's own master,
use one's own resources, and depend on others only when they also
depended on you.<br><br>Rodrick leaned the sack down on the snowy
ground. The wind seemed to snap even more harshly at his exposed back.
He opened the sack. A rush of warmth immediately escaped from within. So
blissful was that sensation of warmth that Rodrick considered climbing
in and sleeping. But there was barely room for his hand, much less his
body. Besides, the warmth was temporary. The more he exposed the sack's
contents, the colder it would get.<br><br>Rodrick gently tugged a glove
off one hand, and reached in. His clammy hand prickled as it thawed,
which made it all the more painful to rummage with. It was near
impossible to feel his target by texture or give alone. His food
reserves, his iron tools, his master's instruments, the old keepsakes of
his youth; all felt like vague uncertain shapes. Rodrick couldn't
afford to lose himself in this search. The cold was seeping into his
foot by the second. In a fit of desperation, he felt forward to the
bag's edge and scraped along out. The thing he sought would have been
folded up, logically, and pressed against the sides for insulation...<br><br>Rodrick
pulled out an empty canvas bag, a rope cinched around its neck. It
reminded him of the sacks of potatoes sold at the Silvassa market. What
he wouldn't give for a warm baked potato right now...<br><br>The wind
suddenly howled and inflated the bag, knocking it loose from his grip.
Rodrick reached for it, but it had already sailed silently away into the
darkness. The sack beside him tipped over, its creaking contents barely
noticed in the wind.<br><br>Rodrick seized the neck of the sack and
closed it before anything could fall out. The jerking movement popped
his foot free of the boot and into the snow. He yelped as if an icy
dagger had stabbed his foot, but his exposed hand clenched tightly the
bag. Where was his glove? He reached around for it, and felt only a thin
trail in the snow, as if it had sailed off along the snow.<br><br>Rodrick
felt a sudden pang of anguish at him. It was only a glove, but his
master had taught always to watch his possessions, and leave nothing out
of sight. But how could he keep an eye in them in this total darkness?
If only he could summon a witchlight like his master could. If only his
master had taught him even a little magic.<br><br>No, he would not cry. He had to stay strong. That was his role.<br><br>It
was only a few seconds, but his foot was dangerously exposed. Taking a
breath, he reached in again and pulled out a long piece of cloth. It was
the oiling rag he used to clean his master's sword. Rodrick remembered
the many nights he spent as his master watched him like a hawk, eying
his movements for any slips.<br><br>The wind nearly snatched the prize
yet again, but Rodrick pressed it against the sack, closing his glove
around them both. For a brief moment, he had actually seen the campfire
and smelled his master's breath. This blizzard was making him delirious.
He needed to work quickly.<br><br>He set the rag down and put his foot
on it, bringing immediate sensation back to it. Thus secured, he reached
back in and searched for a ribbon to tie the rag around his foot. The
items were getting clearer to make out, even in total darkness. He found
it -- one of the sashes that Jenny wore on her dress. One of Rodrick's
first memories was of tying up her dress.<br><br>Why was Rodrick
carrying it, after all this time? For that matter, how long had it been?
Rodrick didn't know his birth year, though he estimated he'd seen six
summers by the time he'd been dressed up as a lord. It was around eight
summers when he'd met his master, and about twelve when he'd lost his
master.<br><br>Wait... Rodrick knew the value of horses. He knew how
expensive they were to procure and to upkeep. His master bought horses
on occasion, particularly for long overland journeys. At least once he
and his master had gone into these mountains, carrying a house in tow.<br><br>But... the last time Rodrick had taken a horse, he had been in Metamor.<br><br>The
ground suddenly shifted beneath him. Rodrick fell backwards, while the
bag slipped another way. Completely forgetting about his foot or his
makeshift shoe, Rodrick lept after the bag, kicking and chasing the
sound of fabric sliding against ice. The wind threatened to knock him
aside. He snapped off his cloak and pushed it against the ground,
forming a sled to chase after the sack.<br><br>The cold lashed at him
almost as much as his master's and Jenny's whips combined, but he kept
after it. The ground seemed to be on a slope, leading further down into
the darkness. But this was also to his advantage; the snow did not
impede his progress, and with a couple kicks, Rodrick easily reached the
sack.<br><br>No sooner did he grab it, once again by its neck, the
ground suddenly disappeared beneath them. The cloak sailed into inky
blackness as Rodrick fell back and grabbed, desperately, for the
vanished ground. Snow and rocky ice sliced open his exposed blistered
fingers as he grasped the cliff's surface. It took all his strength to
stay upright when Rodrick finally shoved his hand into a crack. His
shoulder snapped. Rodrick's chest slammed into the rock wall, but his
gloved hand held firm to the sack, which threatened to pull his other
arm from his shoulder.<br><br>There was a brief solace from the winds
that howled above him -- or perhaps he was dazed from the rush of panic
and his newfound predicament -- and then the winds shifted, and howled
against the sides of the cliff. The thread-bare shirt Rodrick wore
fluttered like a flag, sapping his last reserves of strength. Rodrick
could feel his fingers bleeding, slowly weakening his numb grip.
Struggle as he might, Rodrick couldn't lift either of his arms. Death
above was possible, but death below was certain. There was no escape for
him.<br><br>"Hey! Up here!"<br><br>Rodrick looked up. There was a woman
standing on the ledge, wearing a heavy fur coat that covered all but
her face and hands. She seemed to glow with some natural inner beauty...
no, magic. It was the first bit of light that Rodrick had seen in these
mountains, and it made his eyes water with her beauty.<br><br>"Are you alright? Take my hand! I can help you!"<br><br>Help.
Rodrick stared at her again, searching for a motive. Her mouth was free
of any sneers, and her gray eyes, deeper than any pool of water, bore
no malice. But what was she doing in these mountains? Was she the cause
of this snowstorm? Had she laid this trap for him to take?<br><br>"I can
do nothing for this storm," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "But I
can help you. Please. Let go of the bag and take my hand."<br><br>"L-let
go?" Rodrick's voice was rough, and his tongue felt foreign to him,
almost like he'd forgotten what words were. It had been so long, and so
rare, that he'd had someone to talk to, to be vulnerable too...<br><br>The wind lashed at him again, and reminded him of his master's words. "Who are you?" he demanded.<br><br>"Please. I can bring you somewhere safe and warm. I can give you your life back. Just let go and reach for me."<br><br>"If..."
Rodrick choked back some air, and shouted against the wind. "If you
have magic, then lift me up. Make a foothold for me so I can climb up.<br><br>She shook her head. "I cannot interfere that way. Only you can reach out for me. Please, Rodrick."<br><br>Rodrick
looked again at her, and saw a look of fear, quite unlike his own.
Whereas he feared losing his own life, hers was a fear of watching
someone else lose theirs. A look of genuine concern. No hatred, no
disgust. Rodrick had never seen such a face, at least not directed
towards him. Always he had been a disappointment his guardians, who
expected the impossible from him, always challenging him to be better.<br><br>Here
was a simple thing she asked. And sometimes, as his master said,
survival was more important than pride. Yet his glove remained firmly on
the sack. How could he let it go? Everything he had was there. And what
would he be without it?<br><br>His bare hand slipped from the wet
stone, and Rodrick watched as the woman, sad and defeated, faded into
the distance. The wind began to sing. Rodrick held the sack to his head
and closed his eyes as the icy rocks below approached. For a moment,
from inside the bag, Rodrick could hear Jenny sing a lullaby.<br><br>----<br><br>----<br><br>----<br><br>Rodrick
awoke. He could tell because it was light out. Whether it was morning
or evening, he couldn't tell right away. He listened. There was too much
noise for morning. It must have been evening then. But was it June 6th,
or the 7th? Or even longer? How long was he out?<br><br>Rodrick quickly
took stock of his surroundings. It was a solid room with stone walls
and a solid stone floor, but it wasn't his dungeon cell. He sat in a cot
with a blanket covering him. The cot, the blanket, and even the room
were bigger than he expected them to be.<br><br>His eyes widened as he
pulled off the blanket. He was completely naked underneath; even his
body hair was gone. Furthermore, his legs and arms had become thin and
weak.<br><br>Rodrick fell back against the pillow. The curse. So that
was what happened. This must be the sickbay within the Keep. He had
become a child morph.<br><br>Was that how the Keep had judged his inner
heart? Not some proud fearsome beast of legend, or even a tough brutish
beast of burden, but a simple ordinary child?<br><br>Well, Rodrick smirked, at least he wasn't a woman.<br><br>His
mind then turned towards escape. As a child morph, he still had the
option to leave Metamor. It would have to be as a stowaway. Once
outside, he could pass as a freshly-minted teenage recruit. Though it
would mean he'd have to keep traveling between towns, never settling.
Just as he'd always done for years and years...<br><br>No. Bad. Want to go home. LET ME GO HOME!<br><br>The
inner voice seemed to come from nowhere, and blasted his inner thoughts
like a tempest. Rodrick found himself shrinking suddenly from a child
into an infant. He fumbled for the blanket, and ended up tossing across
the room. For a moment, Rodrick feared that he was going to shrink and
disappear entirely.<br><br>He had to... he had to be strong... for his master...<br><br>"Rodrick? Can you hear me?"<br><br>He
was still in the body of a two-year-old when the bear morph entered.
The bear was dressed as an orderly but lacked a sharp edge in his
bearing. This must have been one of the doctor's assistants, in whatever
sickbay he was in. Rodrick observed all of this from a distance; the
baby was bawling and weeping and curling up in the cot.<br><br>"I
want... I want..." The toddler mumbled. The infant's instincts seemed to
consume his mind like a thick sludge, and while Rodrick himself was
calm and rational, all his body's movements and behaviors were
controlled by the infant. Annoying images of soft beds and plush toys
were drifting through his mind. The damn child wanted softness and
safety! After all Rodrick had been through, this child had the temerity
to think selfishly!<br><br>"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," the bear said as it
wrapped the blanket around him and rocked him gently. "Lothes is here
for you, little one." Little one! Rodrick was stuck trying to think of a
way to recover from this and regain control over his body, but the body
kept whimpering. How he wished he could muffle this annoying child's
mouth.<br><br>This wasn't part of the curse! Rodrick had heard stories
of what it was like for someone to re-enter their youth. There was the
occasional story of someone losing their memory, but usually they just
turned into miniature adults with a few childish mannerisms. Nowhere did
they mention this being a prisoner in their own mind.<br><br>Although,
Rodrick had heard stories of people who suffered from cases where their
body had shut down, but their minds were still active. Usually there was
magic involved, siphoning off their soul's energy, or containing it in
an artificial prison. Now, the Curse was supposedly bound to someone's
soul, so it might have been possible that, with the right incantation, a
similar...<br><br>"There, there. Are you still there?"<br><br>"Shut up, you fat hairy twit," Rodrick said in annoyance, trying to recover his train of thought.<br><br>"What?" Lothes stopped rocking him.<br><br>Rodrick
blinked in shock. No longer was he looking in from a distance. He was
back in his body. The tears were still wet on his cheeks, but there was
no sadness, no blubbering on his lips. Dammit! Rodrick tried to think.
What was he supposed to do here? Cry some more? Maybe flail his arms?
Dammit! Do something!<br><br>"What did you say to me?" Lothes asked again, a bit of concern.<br><br>"N-nothing," Rodrick said.<br><br>Lothes nodded. "Interesting." He set Rodrick down and stood up. "Will you wait here just one second?"<br><br>"No,
no..." Rodrick said weakly. He tried to whimper, but a sharp voice hit
him like a tempest. Weakness! Idiot! How dare he whimper like a useless
fool!<br><br>The bear closed the door behind him. Rodrick cursed
himself. How dare the child chose that exact moment to go into hiding!
If he could have kept up the baby act just a bit longer, he could have
been deemed innocent and been released from prison, maybe even allowed
to leave. Damn it all! Damn this blasted prison of a body he was in!<br><br>Rodrick lay back on the bed, waiting for the child in his head to appear again. But there was only silence.<br><br>As soon as Rodrick closed his eyes, the tears began to flow.</div>
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