Take Two for Trilly (DONE)

[Amneiger]

Cookies are totally worth bleeding to death for =D

[Trilly (18426 words)]

Oh, certainly. XD

[Trilly (18426 words)]

For the record, I don't like this chapter all that much. The next one is much better, smoother and less choppy and annoying. The chapter after that is better yet.

Suffice it to say that this chapter was not really fun to write.

So I'll post Chapter 7 as well, and feel a little bit better.

SPOILER: Click to show

CHAPTER 6 The Monster in the Cookie Jar


Felix thought it was too risky.

“Look, Baxter. Are you sure you want to let that thing out? Are you forgetting that it almost killed you?” The guild bard asked skeptically.

“No on both points,” Baxter replied as he worked. “But this thing--whatever it is-- knows who took Chesse, and why. I’m sure of it. It’s worth the risk.”

“Well....” Felix said, knowing that the other man was correct. Providing they handled the situation carefully, it could be a calculated risk that may yet yield positive results. “I guess it’s okay, so long as you’re careful.”

“Really?” Baxter was surprised; he’d actually been expecting a lot more protest out of Felix.

“I want Chesse back, too.”

Baxter smiled and held up the object he had been crafting away on for the last several hours. He blew some residual flakes of metal out of the cuts he had made in it, admiring his handiwork. It was as finished as it was going to get.

“That looks a bit like a metal collar,” Felix said in a confused voice.

“It does.” Baxter agreed. “Wanna try it out?”

Felix was taken aback. “You want me to--”

“No, not you,” Baxter dismissed with a laugh. “The Thing. I need your help getting it out of the jar and into the collar.”

Felix eyed the cookie jar, which sat harmlessly on the table in front of them. It had rattled and rocked around occasionally, but had been worryingly quiet for awhile now. Which kind of made Felix wonder if it would really be a great idea to let whatever was in there out....

But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Okay,” Baxter said, “I’m going to release the sticking spell I put on the container, and the thing will probably burst out. All I need you to do is open up the lid and let it get out. Meanwhile, I’ll be standing right here,” he walked to a position a few paces away, “waiting with the collar to catch the Thing when it comes out. Hopefully, we should be able to take it by surprise before it can change shape or hit or something--it hits hard.”

Felix grimaced. “Wonderful. Just one problem, genius. How are you supposed to get the collar on this thing when you can only use one arm?”

Baxter looked down at his left arm, which was still in a sling, as if only just remembering this fact. “Oh, um... well....”

With a sigh, Felix stood and switched places with Baxter. “I’ll collar it, you open the jar,” he said drily as he took the collar from his friend.

Baxter positioned himself with the jar balanced between his bad arm and his body, with his uninjured arm on the lid, ready to open it. “You ready?” he asked.

Felix nodded, holding the collar open.

Baxter muttered, “Removere,” under his breath and slowly opened the jar.

He was totally unprepared for a jet of silver liquid to rocket out of the opening with enough force to knock him off balance. He was about to shout a warning to Felix when the liquid began changing shape once again, growing and bulking out, silver gradually changing to light brown--

Felix froze in surprise when the Thing once again took on Chesse’s shape and leapt at him with a vicious and altogether feral snarl. He must’ve known it wasn’t really Chesse, but Baxter realized belatedly that that didn’t necessarily mean that the other bard would be able to attack or subdue anyone who even looked like his student of many years. This was one possibility they hadn’t accounted for.

The Chesse-thing ran into Felix, knocking both of them to the floor, but Baxter was there within seconds, picking up the collar from where it had been dropped by his friend and snapping it closed triumphantly about the shapeshifter’s neck. The Thing screamed and immediately let Felix go, but spun and instead attempted to sink her teeth into Baxter’s arm. The right one this time.

Baxter swiftly pulled his limbs out of the danger zone and snapped, “Constringere!” while making a circle-shape with his fingers.

His assailant snarled and made as if to come at him again, but before she got the chance, she collapsed to the floor, gasping as the collar tightened around her neck. The metal cutting into her skin, she unsuccessfully clawed at the offending article in attempt to rip it off.

“I recommend you listen to me now, if you don’t want to die at just this moment,” Baxter said, as Felix stood and exited the room wordlessly. The sitar player was unable to watch Chesse being hurt, even if it wasn’t really Chesse, and Baxter understood that without even having to be told.

The Chesse impostor looked up at Baxter with silver eyes full of hate. She choked as she attempted to say something scathing.

Baxter continued, “I can make that collar tighten whenever I want as long as you’re wearing it. You won’t be able to take it off by yourself, ever, and I won’t hesitate to kill you if you don’t cooperate with us. Nod if you understand and are willing to have a nice, peaceful talk with us.”

Truthfully, Baxter felt more than a little bit sick to be using his magic to hurt someone or something. He wondered if he’d even be able to kill the shapeshifter if she refused to cooperate with him, or if he’d call it all off before she died. He hadn’t been taught cruelty or raised for violence, and really, he felt entirely out of his place. He was a bard, not a killer-- he lived to make people laugh and smile, not to threaten them until they spoke.

Just as Baxter was really starting to worry, she gave a nod. It wasn’t much of a nod; more of a convulsive jerk of the neck, but that was excusable due to the current circumstances. And Baxter would take what he could get and was relieved to finally whisper the counterspell.

The impostor slumped, greedily sucking in breath.

Baxter waited until her breathing evened out before beginning his questioning. “Okay, now that that’s taken care of--”

“You groundcrawling, mudsucking, solid,” she spat in utter fury, her voice rough and raw-sounding. “What the hell did you do to me? How dare you keep me in this body?”

“That’s another thing that the collar does; sorry I didn’t mention it before,” Baxter said by way of answering her, but there was a hardness on his face as he spoke. “I put runes on that collar you’re wearing. As long as you wear it, you can only shapeshift if I give you express permission.”

“Filthy human! Just wait until I get out of here--I’ll kill you!”

“Furthermore, if you kill me, the collar is set to tighten by itself. And this time, there won’t be anyone around to speak the counterspell and keep it from killing you. So if you want to kill me, by all means, try. The same thing will happen if you get too far away from me, as well, so don’t even think about trying to get away.” There was a challenge in his voice.

She shot him a look laced with pure, venomous hatred before looking away in defeat. Her hair fell in her face, hiding her expression.

“Okay, let’s continue, then,” Baxter began again. “What are you? I’ve never heard of a mage with the ability to shapeshift before-- in the past, they’ve all been frauds who used illusions to give the appearance of changing shapes. Are you some kind of demon? Or a weapon?”

“Hnn... the second, I think,” the shapeshifter said, a mocking quirk in the corner of her mouth. “I was created by a man of your species, as high above the rest of his kind as you are above an ant. He protects us and teaches us, and we obey his every command.”

“Created... how?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know the secrets the Master has penetrated,” she dismissed. “Suffice it too say that the Mirrorlings were born from the water of the Glass Lake and the prodigious skills of the Master working in harmony. We were created to serve him, and do so willingly.”

“What is your name?” The Solitary Bard asked.

“At the moment...” she bared her teeth in a feral grin, “I am a human female known as either Chesse or Dianne Peregrine. That is subject to change, however.”

Now he felt he was finally getting somewhere. “Mirrorlings, huh,” Baxter said aloud, testing the unfamiliar term on his tongue. “So you’re a completely magical creation, and you don’t even have a real form...or a gender or even an identity past whatever you you’re pretending to be at the moment.”

The shapeshifter nodded, and Baxter saw something like pride in those odd eyes. She seemed to enjoy talking about her creation, her kind and her Master despite the fact that some of the things she revealed sounded as if they were intended to remain secrets. In a way, Baxter was reminded of a particularly petulant child when he looked at Chesse’s impostor--selfish and egotistical, eager to have secrets and every bit as eager to give them away just to see the faces people make when they hear them. This bothered him more than he would like to admit, the fact that he actually felt a brief surge of pity for the childish and immature thing. He shook it off quickly. He couldn’t forget that this thing had helped to abduct Chesse and had nearly killed him.

That she would try to kill him again without hesitating if she ever saw an opening.

“I am the ninth Mirrorling. There is no need for further identity,” she said with a superior shrug.

“Is your Master the one who has Chesse now?” Baxter asked.

She smiled. “Of course. The Master has plans for the Duke’s daughter, and what the Master wants, he gets.”

“Who is your Master? What plans?”

She clicked her tongue and examined her--or rather Chesse’s--fingernails in an infuriating manner. “Impatient, aren’t we, mudcrawler?”

“Answer me!” Baxter snapped. Just seeing her, so full of herself and her darn Master, while wearing Chesse’s body as if it was her own made him angrier than he could ever recall being in his life. And that look on Felix’s face was all her fault, too....

He was a naturally amiable person, so it was somewhat extraordinary that he’d finally found someone he had the ability to hate.

“Having the Duke’s daughter in his care is the only way the Master can be sure the Duke will be willing to listen to him as he outlines his wishes. The Duke will do anything if his daughter’s life is at stake. He’d be positively clamoring to provide his Falcons, fully armed and ready to fight in exchange for his little girl’s safety. Then the Master would have the military force required to mount an attack on Lucianus and get rid of him at last,” she finished triumphantly. “Still feeling like you have what it takes to challenge the Master?”

Baxter went positively cold, and not just because of his new knowledge of the obvious danger Chesse was in, although that was a contributing factor. The thing that scared him the most was that, even though the shapeshifter hadn’t answered him outright, Baxter had figured out on his own who her Master was.

And it wasn’t good.

Truthfully, the idea had probably been creeping at the corners of his mind ever since the shapeshifter had admitted to having been created by a human. There were only so many people with enough power to create a race of shape-changing servants for themselves. Additionally, most magic-users had a certain style, and the person who made the Mirrorlings was not likely to be a small-time spellcaster. The Master was probably someone big and famous, and knew it.

The name “Lucianus” was the final clue, however. Lucianus was the name of one of the infamous and highly dangerous sorcerers who were wreaking havoc on the kingdom under Duke Peregrine’s nose.

Chesse had been taken by Morgano the Blood Mage.

SPOILER: Click to show

CHAPTER 7 Everyone Has a Story


“You can’t believe everything she tells you, Bax.”

Baxter didn’t say anything in response to Felix’s careful warning. He was uncharacteristically silent as he stood outside the room in which the shapeshifter was imprisoned. There was a large frown on his face and he held his chin in his hand as he thought.

Thinking wasn’t a common pastime for the mandolin player, either, so it didn’t come easily to him. It took a lot of effort.

“For all we know, she made the entire thing up,” Felix said as he leaned against the wall, facing Baxter. He wasn’t trying to pick a fight, rather he was voicing possibilities that had to be voiced. “And then we have to consider the alternative, which is even worse.”

“What would that be?”

“That she’s not lying. That one of the Blood Mages has Chesse and is prepared to use her to gain compliance from Duke Peregrine,” Felix said.

Baxter shrugged. “At least we’d know exactly what we were up against.”

“Yeah, we’d know. But are you really thinking that going up against a Blood Mage is anything short of suicide?”

“No, but this might be important enough to risk it. What if Duke Peregrine won’t bow to the Blood Mage’s demands?” Baxter asked, finally saying aloud one of their greatest fears. “Chesse--she might die.”

Felix grimaced and gnawed his lip, hooking his fingers into his wide belt as he thought. “So what do you say we do?” he asked.

Baxter shrugged one shoulder helplessly. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before. I could... I dunno. I need to think on this. I’ll come up with something; don’t worry.”

Felix nodded. Being a spellcaster himself, even an extremely minor one, Baxter was far more qualified to make an informed decision in this matter than his guild bard counterpart, even if it might pain Felix to admit it. “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.”

***

Baxter settled down in one of the unused rooms, since the shapeshifter was the unwilling occupant of Baxter’s own room at the moment, and he wanted peace and solitude in a place where he wouldn’t have objects thrown at his head whenever he lowered his guard. Because then there would undoubtedly be more cursing, and Baxter would have to tighten the collar again, and then the shapeshifter would throw more things....

And needless to say, nothing would be accomplished whatsoever.

Although he was initially in what could only be described as a “bad mood”, which was a rarity for him, he found himself beginning to feel much better as he unclipped the shiny brass fastenings on his mandolin case and reverently pulled his mandolin out.

It had been his father’s. He’d received it on his fifteenth birthday, the year after his father’s last performance.

“Here, boy. Maybe you can make something new come out of this old thing. God knows it’ll just gather dust here.”

It had been just like the old man to sound so callous as he roughly shoved the instrument into his son’s waiting arms, as if trying to make it look like he was careless and the action meant nothing. Benjamin Crane had other mandolins, it was true-- spares, in case he broke one and needed another in short order-- but this was his main instrument, the one that had made him famous. A bard’s instrument was like their beating heart, and he was passing it down to his son.

Baxter had seen the glint in his father’s eyes, though he tried to hide it, and had felt his heart swell with youthful pride. He’d felt so grown up to be entrusted with his father’s legendary mandolin.

And now, years later, he wondered just how grown up he really was after all.

He strummed the strings experimentally, his ears easily picking out the slightly-off vibrations of two of the strings, and he adjusted them without even thinking about it until they rang true again. Really, this mandolin was an old friend. Even before it was given to him, he had snuck into his father’s room and looked at it when no one was around, occasionally summing up the courage to pluck a single string with cautious fingers. It had felt forbidden to be touching something so personal, almost as if he had taken ink and painted on his father’s face while he was sleeping, but he’d done it anyways.

He played the mandolin himself now, and it always helped him to think, even if he had something considerably more pressing to think about at the moment then he’d ever had to consider before. Although so much about the world was uncertain, his fingers on the mandolin’s strings were confident and the sounds released were soft and beautiful. He stumbled every once in awhile because of the pain of his injured arm, but he quickly salvaged the melody before it could shatter entirely.

Gradually, his thoughts began to flow, and he came to a decision as the last few notes of his song died away.

***

“Let me guess... that was you playing that darn banjo a few minutes ago. I see that I shouldn’t have ruled you out as the type to use torture on prisoners, huh?”

Baxter froze a smile on his face, determined not to rise to the shapeshifter’s taunts. He didn’t want to give her that power over him, no matter how much he wanted to let loose and just rage for awhile. He would try to be civil, and treat her on the outside as he would anyone.

And anyways, he didn’t want her to distract him from his true purpose, which was to sort some things out and finally do something to get Chesse back. Because the thought of leaving her in such danger was not negotiable in the slightest, and Baxter knew they had to do something about it whether it was dangerous or not.

“Before we start, can you please just...” Felix said, gesturing helplessly at the prisoner as Baxter looked at him in confusion. “Can you let her take a different shape now? Please?”

Baxter’s eyes lit up in sudden comprehension. “Oh! Yeah, okay... you,” he addressed the shapeshifter, who was looking on with a decidedly bored expression on her stolen face. “I’m going to give you permission to change your shape now... actually, I insist upon it. The collar will allow one shape-change per day, providing you behave yourself. But--” he said warningly as her eyes lit up in excitement, “--it has to be a human shape.”

She scowled at the realization that no, she would not be free to give herself a shape that looked like a bear but had bird wings and snake fangs at the same time, but she nodded curtly in compliance. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

That was the most sincere agreement they could have hoped for, and Baxter obligingly loosened the spell just enough for the shapeshifter to sink into her liquid state. Baxter was extremely careful at this stage, because if he didn’t pay enough attention, the prisoner could probably break free from the collar entirely and escape before he could do anything to stop it. He need not have worried, however, as it appeared that the shapeshifter was not yet prepared to push its luck that far, and the silver mass re-solidified a few seconds later.

Surprisingly, its new shape was about as far from the old one as it was possible to be. This person, although obviously human, was whip thin and pale, with a great deal of long red hair that was twisted into many braids. If a shapeshifter could only become people it had seen before, then Baxter would have to say that this was some kind of Northern mercenary.

This form was also, clearly, a male.

She-- now he-- noticed the stares that both Baxter and Felix were now giving giving him. “What? Did you really think I wanted to be a female all the time? I can’t believe you solids can stand not swapping genders once in awhile... I almost feel sorry for you poor beasts.”

It was an odd experience for Baxter to see yet another person look at him with such cold dislike in the same day. Until recently, he had never received a look like that in his life.

“Anyhow, now that your petty little peculiarities are settled and I don’t look like anyone you know, can we please continue this fascinating speech I’m sure you’re eager to grace us all with,” the shapeshifter drawled.

Baxter bit back a retort in favour of continuing. Concentrate... don’t let him get to you....

“I’m going after Chesse,” Baxter announced.

“Wasn’t that the general idea before?” Felix asked.

Baxter nodded. “It was, but now you’re staying here, and I’m going--”

“Hold on a second!” Felix yelped in surprise. “So you just decided that you’re going to leave me here when it’s my student who’s in danger. You’re going

[/i]alone[/i]--”

“Not alone, exactly. The shapeshifter’s going with me, so that we can track the people who took her to the Blood Mage’s tower.”

“That’s even worse! Baxter, you idiot. You need numbers, and you can’t trust her--him not to just kill you. If one of us goes, we both go.”

The shapeshifter snickered, evidently amused.

“Look, I thought about all of this,” Baxter explained, trying to force his friend to listen to his reasoning. “I have to go, because I’m the one that can control the collar and keep our friend under control, right?”

The shapeshifter’s smug look instantly morphed into one of dislike.

Baxter was far past paying attention to every movement the shapeshifter made, and opted to ignore him and focus on Felix. “Also, there’s the fact that it would look really suspicious if every bard in the village disappeared at the same time, and even worse if both you and Chesse left --since you wrote in the guild ledger that you’d be staying in Wheathold for the next several years. The Bard Guild keeps tabs on the movements of their members, as I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

“Yes, but now will you kindly tell me the real reason why you want to take this asinine course of action alone? Don’t spare my pride; just tell me why.”

The Solitary Bard let out a breath of air, running his hands over his scalp and making his hair stick up like a patch of thick lawn. “Come here,” he said eventually, making his way towards the door and gesturing for Felix to follow. Felix made a small noise of exasperation, but followed the other bard out and shut the door tight behind him.

“Listen to me. I know this is dangerous, but you’ll just have to trust me. Because really, I’m not sure about this at all. That’s why I need you to stay here. That shapeshifter is just a tool of its Master, and if it decides that its purpose and Master would be best served by killing us and accepting its own consequent death as a result, then it’ll do just that,” Baxter said, hoping his point got across. He spoke in low tones, hoping that the shapeshifter didn’t hear him and get worrisome ideas. “If we both go at the same time, chances are better that we’ll both be killed by the shapeshifter, and then there’ll be no one left to help Chesse. So you have to stay here, just in case. So that you can still save her if I can’t.”

Felix scowled, twisting a ring on his thumb as he pondered over the plan. Baxter waited patiently, aware that his friend would be picking through every detail Baxter had just relayed to him, trying to find something that he could dismiss as being paranoid or badly reasoned. His frown deepened as he realized that Baxter’s concerns were valid, for the most part, and he couldn’t call him out on anything.

Felix was a practical soul, at least.

“Fine,” the sitar player said finally. “You can go alone. But you’d better send me updates and keep me informed of everything you get up to. I don’t care if messengers are expensive...” he said coldly at Baxter’s distraught look, “I’m expecting one letter a week at the bare minimum. And if anything goes wrong, tell me where to go and I’ll find you.”

Baxter laughed, enjoying the feeling of weight lifted from his shoulders as Felix finally accepted his plan. “Thanks, Felix, but I think I’m going to be just fine. How bad can it be out there?”

“Normally I wouldn’t worry, but you’re planning on seeking out one of the most dangerous people in the known world out there,” Felix warned. “You’ve lived in this village your entire life, and you don’t have the faintest clue what it’s like out there. It’s not all songs and dancing... it’s tougher. And you’ll have to be tougher as well, if you want to survive.”

“Haha! It sounds awesome, the way you say it,” Baxter said through a wide grin. “I’ll go pack now--the sooner we get going, the better. All those hunter-folks always say not to let the trail go cold, whatever that means. Anyways, thanks for listening, Felix! You’re a great guy!”

Felix’s frown took on a worried edge as Baxter made his way around the house, babbling on about happy, lighthearted things. His greatest concerns of the moment appeared to hinge on which colour of cloak would produce the most dramatic effect, how his mandolin case would stand up to traveling, and whether or not people outside the village would enjoy listening to the same songs as the people he knew did.

Naive.

Felix wasn’t just worried for Baxter’s life--although he worried for that a lot. It would sort of be more scary, he decided, if silly and innocent Baxter came back tough and angry from his brush with reality, any trace of his carefree, cheerful personality beaten down and broken until it wasn’t there anymore. Baxter was a rare person, and it would be terrible to see him change into someone else. A stranger.

It would be sad if he became just like everyone else.

The sitar player wondered if he wasn’t jaded, since his times in the cities hadn’t always been the best. Honestly, it hadn’t been that much of a sacrifice on his part to leave the crowds for the peace of the country, where he could hide Chesse out of the public eye.

“This,” Felix said aloud, listening to the happy sounds of Baxter getting ready in the next room, “is a wondrously sticky mess we’ve wandered into.”

But he didn’t have a right to complain. It was pretty much all his fault, in the first place.

***

“Hey,” Baxter said, bundled up in his blue woolen cloak (easily the most dramatic he owned).

The wind was cool as they made their way down the streets leading out of Wheathold, and Baxter had quickly made a game of watching as the cobblestones set into the road gradually became more sparse the further the two got away from the main village square. Baxter himself walked in front, followed closely by his brooding companion. They had been silent, for the most part--Baxter thrumming with silent energy while the other simply stomped forward with a sullen expression on his face. Not even the weight of heavy bags and bedrolls seemed to be able to get Baxter down.

The shapeshifter frowned at him, and turned his nose up at the bard’s attempt at civility.

“Wait! Stop here!” Baxter ordered suddenly as he halted. The shapeshifter, not stopping quickly enough, rammed into his back.

“You stupid, clumsy idiot!” the captive snapped. “What the hell are we stopping for?”

Baxter pointed down at the ground, where there was a single cobblestone before the neatly paved road fell away completely, leaving rough-hewn dirt and gravel as far as the eye could see.

“Heh, this is the edge of the village. Well, the main part anyways. I go farther than this when I visit my dad....”

He trailed off, and the shapeshifter hissed as the bard looked back at the way he’d just came. Baxter ignored his unwilling companion as he gazed out at the home he was leaving behind, wondering when the next time he’d see it would be.

“The sentimentality you’re radiating is enough to kill a large horse,” the shapeshifter drawled. “You can still turn and run, if you’re scared.”

Baxter gave a half-smile. “I’m not scared, but it is a little sad, I guess.”

“I don’t need to hear this.”

“Hmm....” Baxter said in reply, unwilling to provoke a fight so early on in his travels. “Do you have a name?”

The snarky redhead did a double-take. “What are you talking about? I already told you that I’m Mirrorling number 9.”

“No, I mean a real name,” Baxter said, thinking very hard about this. “How about... Mooshi?”

“Mooshi.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell kind of name is Mooshi?” he howled, looking for all the world like he wanted to punch Baxter in the face and storm off. He couldn’t, though.

“Well... you’re a liquid in your real form, aren’t you? ‘Mooshi’ is a sloshy, wet kid of sound... it reminds me of you,” Baxter said thoughtfully, considering. “I suppose it could be Mooshi-wooshy if you’d like--”

“Hell no! Get away from me, and stop trying to give me names! I don’t need or want one!”

“All right then,” Baxter said placatingly. “I’ll stop... Mooshi.”

“Argh!”

Baxter found himself feeling a little bit better. It was nice to finally get back at the shapeshifter, even in something as inconsequential as a name.

So the bard chalked this encounter up as a point for him, and decided to keep his eyes out for other such opportunities in the future.
[/spoiler]

[Trilly (18426 words)]

So... in honour of the day that I should be reaching the halfway point in my story, I took two hours today and wrote up in point-form everything that will happen in the rest of the story because so far, the plot has been going next to NOWHERE and I need to know where it will end up. We had success, but I'm afraid that this story may end up being a bit longer than planned unless I really pick up the pace now.

It is a bit of a convoluted mess, but at least I have a few things decided on now.

[Trilly (18426 words)]

I stopped just short of 25000 yesterday, in favour of watching a movie. >> Bad Trilly. Well, it is excusable since I spent so much time writing up the plot of the story, so I actually know how it'll end.

Anyways, this chapter is one that I actually like quite a bit.

SPOILER: Click to show

CHAPTER 8 The Prodigal Son Returns


Their first stop was at the large stone house in the country, the home of one Benjamin Crane. The building was enclosed with a high brick wall that was completely covered by numerous strands of crawling ivy, and plaster was peeling off the sides of the walls in places. It gave the (rather correct) impression of former greatness gone to seed.

So really, it matched its owner rather well, all-in-all.

“What are we doing here?” Mooshi grumbled. “I thought you were interested in finding your little girlfriend.”

“Be quiet. We won’t be here long, I just have to talk to my dad for a few minutes and get something from here, and we’ll be on our way,” Baxter said, trying his hardest to keep calm and collected. “Just-- be polite. Do you want a shape-change before we get there? I’ll give you another if--”

Mooshi gave a genuine smile, wide and genuine.

But devious... always devious.

Baxter had decided to reward Mooshi’s good behaviour on the road by allowing him a chance to change his shape from the redheaded male into something different. Although technically he had already decided to only allow one change per day, the bard was in a fairly good mood and figured that an offer of kindness might motivate Mooshi to be more considerate in the future.

The shapeshifter had been delighted with the offer, but Baxter remained unsure as to whether the change ultimately made traveling with Mooshi easier or harder.

He was a she once again, a tall and very buxom woman of about mid-thirties with brittle, over-dyed blonde hair and very bright red lipstick spread liberally over her lips. She was the sort of person you would expect to find on the streets of the cities, not on a farm in the countryside. She looked by all means disreputable, and Baxter had attracted all manner of odd looks from people they had passed by on their way.

Of course, Mooshi had planned this all for Baxter’s benefit. She had been positively ecstatic when Baxter had flushed red to the tops of his ears, cheerful demeanor and loud laughs completely forgotten.

She’d finally found the only edge she currently had over her captor.

“No, I think I’m fine for the time being,” she smiled, red mouth curving upwards in a wide arc. “What, you don’t like older ladies?”

Baxter swallowed and looked away as Mooshi let out a bark of laughter. “You are too innocent by a half, you bardic idiot. See, I’m okay with this plan of yours-- if you want to meet the Master, that’s fine. He’ll chew you up and spit out your clean bones, and that’ll save me the trouble of having to kill you, so I think its great. All because you’re such a simple-minded fool.”

“Look, has it crossed your mind that maybe I’m a threat to your precious Master?” Baxter snapped, his patience finally worn thin. He knew he shouldn’t encourage the assumption that he was dangerous and should be disposed of, but he was sick of just letting the shapeshifter mock his strength. “You may be underestimating me.”

“Feh, you? Don’t make me laugh.”

Baxter would have tried for a comeback, but they had already reached the heavy oaken door of Benjamin Crane’s house, so he held his tongue. For the time being, anyways.

Baxter knocked on the door three times with the gryphon’s head knocker, a practiced ease about his motions that suggested that he had done so many times in the past. “Dad!” he shouted. “I know you’re in there, so don’t bother pretending you’re out--or dead, or whatever it is you’ve been doing to keep the neighbors away lately!”

Nothing happened for several seconds, but eventually the door opened a crack and one steel blue eye glared out at them suspiciously. “Is that you, boy? Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t lend you money past your sixteenth birthday--”

“Dad!” Baxter exclaimed, relieved. “I need your help with something.”

The door opened wider, and a tall, lanky older man appeared in the dimness inside the house. His clothes were rumpled as if he’d slept in them, his eyes were red and dry-looking, and the hand on his crutch trembled slightly, but despite this, he squinted and continued eying his son and his companion. His face suddenly opened in comprehension.

“Good lord, boy. Why would you get married without telling me?” he asked his bemused son in a betrayed and thoroughly angry voice.

Benjamin Crane, regrettably, was an old hand at misunderstanding situations.

“Uh, no. There’s no way I’d marry this... thing,” Baxter said quickly. “I can’t stand her.”

Benjamin just thwacked his son across the back of his head. “I can’t believe this. I did teach you to be respectful to any and all women, didn’t I? At what point exactly did you forget everything I told you?”

“Dad, she’s not even a woman. And if you had to live with her for one day, you’d know just how--”

“I’m very happy to meet you, Mr. Crane,” Mooshi put in smoothly, offering a coy curtsy to the former bard. “I think it’s wonderful that there are some gentlemen around here. Pardon me for saying this, but your son can be such a brute and I feared you’d be the same. I’m glad I was wrong.”

Benjamin gave a bow in return. “Well I’ll be! A real lady. I apologize for my rude son--he’s always been a bit rough around the edges. Why don’t you come in and sit down?”

Mooshi blushingly smiled and accepted the arm he offered her, despite the fact that she had to share his hand with a half-empty rum bottle. She glanced back at Baxter and smirked, sticking her tongue out impudently.

“Hey, I did come here to ask about something!”

Benjamin looked back at his son with the air of someone who was very put-upon. “Well, you can come in if you must, I suppose. Just make sure to close the door and don’t touch any of my things.”

And so, feeling very welcome, Baxter entered his Father’s house.

***

Benjamin led them (or rather, led Mooshi with Baxter following) into a sitting room that thankfully appeared to be better taken care of than the house’s exterior, but there were heaps of refuse and junk, spare instrument parts, and other assorted items strewn across the floor.

“Housekeeper only comes once a week,” Benjamin said gruffly by way of explanation, grabbing handfuls of unused items from a chair and gesturing for Mooshi to sit down. “I don’t entertain much.”

Mooshi took the seat with a ridiculously charming smile that made Baxter want to grind his teeth together angrily. “It’s no problem, Mr. Crane,” she said sweetly.

“Call me Benjamin,” he replied. “Do you want a drink?”

“Oh, certainly.”

Benjamin reached into a pile by the empty hearth and pulled out a fresh bottle of something-- Baxter thought it might be ale-- and offered it to Mooshi. “How big of a glass would you like?”

“The bottle’s fine,” the shapeshifter replied, and Benjamin let out a hoarse bark of laughter.

“Quite a woman you’ve got here, Baxter,” the former bard said as he obligingly handed her the entire bottle.

Baxter winced. “She is not my woman.”

“So you say, so you say.”

Mooshi cracked open the bottle of ale expertly and took a deep gulp of the brown liquid. “Whatever. Bardic fool, just ask the nice man what you wanted and let’s get back on our way.”

“Where are the two of you going, anyways?” Benjamin asked, taking a drink from his own bottle. Baxter was slightly worried that he’d be the only sober one among them in short order.

“We’re going on a honeymoon,” Mooshi said, straight faced. “We got hitched last week after a whirlwind affair. The wedding was beautiful.”

“What?”

Baxter didn’t know whether it was his father or him who voiced that loud protest, but he was certain that they were both thinking it. Before anything else could be said along those lines, Baxter put in quickly, “I need to borrow Mask.”

“The hell you’re going to borrow Mask. How can I trust you when you kept your own wedding hidden from me?” Benjamin asked, downing another remarkably large quantity of rum in one motion. Baxter suspected that this sudden increase in alcohol consumption was related very directly to the fact that his father now thought his only son was married to a thirty-something year-old streetwalker.

Baxter inwardly groaned. “Dad, this is important. I’m going on a trip for awhile, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. I have a lot of bags and stuff, and I know that Mask is just getting fat around here with no one exercising him. If I don’t have a good way of transporting your old mandolin, either, it may even get damaged on the road--”

That struck a chord with Benjamin Crane, if nothing else did.

“Well... if you must, I suppose,” the older man decided eventually. “Can’t have you damaging my possessions, now,” he decided, conveniently forgetting that his mandolin was not technically his possession anymore.

“Thanks,” Baxter replied, relieved. “Is he in the back yard?”

“Yes, yes. You go get him yourself, though. I’m too old to be chasing horses around,” Benjamin waved offhandedly, his words vaguely echoey from being spoken into a bottle.

Baxter nodded his thanks and left the room. It had been a while since he’d visited his father in this house, but he knew the way to the back yard well enough. It was kind of sad that the wide, ornate hallways were dark and uncared-for, and that his father never had reason to have the majority of the house cleaned. No one visited him except for the housekeeper, and she only cleaned a few of the more-used rooms and left.

Gwenna Jay would certainly visit if Baxter told her where his father actually lived, but Benjamin had specifically stated that he didn’t want anyone to know the exact location of his whereabouts. Baxter suspected that this was because it was easier to wallow in misery when one was alone.

He exited the house via the back door, leaving the gloomy atmosphere of the house in favour of the outdoors, every bit as messy as the inside but far fresher and better looking overall. The back yard was fenced in with a low stone wall, crumbling in places but still more than enough to keep in the only occupant: a fairly small paint gelding that was happily munching away on the rather large quantity of overgrown grass that flourished in the yard.

“Mask,” Baxter said happily. The horse wasn’t extremely old, but he wasn’t particularly young, either. Mask had been a close companion of his father’s during his later days as a roaming bard, and Baxter had known the sturdy little horse for a large portion of his life.

Mask looked at him closely, then, deciding that Baxter hadn’t come bearing treats, lowered his head and continued cropping up grass.

“Now, now-- none of that,” Baxter laughed. “I have to get a pack saddle on you, and if you get much fatter it’ll never fit.”

The horse looked at him dolefully.

“Don’t give me that look,” Baxter said, slipping a hand into the horse’s halter and leading him away to the tack shed. “This isn’t exactly a pleasure trip for me, either.”

***

“So this is a vacation?” Benjamin asked, finally finishing his last swig of rum with a sigh and putting his bottle aside. He grabbed another off the table for himself. “You need another, yet?”

“Yeah, it’s for fun. A bit of a joke, really,” Mooshi said thoughtfully. “Sure, I’ll gladly take another. I finished mine a few minutes back.”

Benjamin threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, it’s great to find a fellow bottle-appreciator. Here,” he offered her another ale.

“Thanks,” she took it, glancing discreetly at the man. Truthfully, she didn’t really need to be all that subtle about it, since Benjamin was probably tipsy enough that he wouldn’t notice Duke Peregrine’s Falcons doing drill practice in his living room, but long years of habit had taught her to be careful.

Benjamin Crane interested her. He was the only human she had met in this simple pastoral setting so far who didn’t make her want to rip her hair out in frustration. Okay, so she didn’t necessarily hate the slim blonde-haired musician back in the village, but it had obviously pained him to see her in the body of his friend, and he had steered clear of her. This fact had probably been the major factor in her not loathing him-- the fact that she didn’t have to spend any amount of time with him.

Baxter Crane, on the other hand....

She frowned into her bottle. There was a person she couldn’t stand the sight of, much less his company. He had derailed her plans in the beginning (no one had ever seen through one of her disguises so quickly before), and people had been aware of the abduction of the one called Chesse within the day, rather than the weeks that Mooshi had hoped to be able to fool them for.

And she just couldn’t stand that smile-- the easygoing personality, the haste at which he jumped to defend his friends despite the fact that he was too naive and hopelessly weak to do any good and didn’t even realize it. He also seemed to be so used to everybody loving him, and, having served under an ambitious Master for her entire existence, Mooshi found herself unable to stand such complacency.

Mostly, though, she hated him because he hated her. It was simply too darned easy to hate the stupid mudcrawler.

So it was strange to spend time with Baxter Crane’s father and find his company not altogether unbearable. She saw a shadow of his son in his eyes and the brown in his greying hair, but she felt no hatred whatsoever. Maybe even a bit of genuine liking. Go figure.

“Hey,” she asked suddenly, for the sake of conversation. “Are you a bard?”

Benjamin shrugged. “Was. I think I was pretty good-- played for the Duke a couple of times, made plenty of money, had loads of fans. Then I quit.”

“Why?”

He took a drink. “The music wouldn’t come anymore,” he said quietly. “Woke up one day and it wasn’t where it had always been. It was just gone.”

Mooshi frowned, twirling a strand of her ugly hair around a finger. “So you had talent. That isn’t just something that leaves you at random. If you learn to do something, doesn’t it stick with you forever?”

Mooshi knew that anything she learned would always be with her. She only needed to see a person once before she could perfectly duplicate their appearance, and, while she knew humans were unable to change their appearance, she had at least suspected that humans were similar in other ways. Certainly, if they learned to read or sing or fight and worked to maintain that knowledge, they’d never lose that skill.

Benjamin set down his drink, looking decidedly shaky in that way that humans looked when they’d had too much alcohol, but his reddened eyes were surprisingly clear as he looked at her. “Wasn’t anything left to sing about. I didn’t want to, either... still don’t. I saw pretty much everything there was to see out in the world, and it finally sunk in that none of it really deserved a song.”

Mooshi wondered if Benjamin had been more like Baxter once, so full of enthusiasm, innocently believing in the good of mankind and the beauty of the world.

Then life happened, and maybe he learned it wasn’t all dewdrops and roses.

She wondered if this would happen to Baxter Crane-- he’d turn all jaded and shut off, seeking solitude from the world. Well, at least if that happened, he’d be more like his father, and therefore, more bearable to be around.

Still... even if she hated Baxter, it was a little sad....

Baxter chose that moment to enter the room, dusty and smelling strongly of horse. “We’re leaving. I’ll take good care of Mask, and he’ll be back before you know it. You--” he pointed at Mooshi, “had better still be sober enough to walk, because the horse is far too loaded with packs to carry you.”

To Hell with it, she wasn’t sorry for him at all. If he grew up in the next two minutes it wouldn’t be soon enough.

“Yeah, whatever,” she sighed, wondering when this would finally be over, and she could return to her master and get away from this mudcrawling solid. “Thanks for the drinks, Benjamin,” she said in a friendly voice, relishing the look Baxter made at their familiarity, and the way he immediately moved away.

“No problem,” Benjamin replied with a lethargic salute. “Feel free to come over whenever you want.”

“Oh, I will.”

“And... take care of my boy, will you?”

“What?” Mooshi asked, surprised.

“Well, if you’re his wife now, and all.”

Realization dawned on Mooshi. “Oh! Oh... yeah, I’ll do that. You can count on me.”

She felt vaguely ridiculous to make such a promise, since if she was given a decent opportunity and no chance of repercussion she wouldn’t hesitate to do away Baxter herself, but... she liked Benjamin. She wouldn’t tell him that.

Whatever happened would happen, and he would never have to know.

[Rikku]

Finally caught up! =D And still enjoying it!

She scowled at the realization that no, she would not be free to give herself a shape that looked like a bear but had bird wings and snake fangs at the same time, but she nodded curtly in compliance.

That part really amused me for some reason. ^_^ I like Mooshi. And I'm starting to love Baxter, too. He's just so adorable and sweet. <3 And I was pretty much cracking up during quite a bit of Chapter 8. xD

[Kathleen]

I finally got to reading chapter one! =D And loved every second of it, despite the fact that my eyes are clearly playing tricks on me (might have something to do with these cold medicines) and trying to convince me Chesse's name is really Cheese. >.>;

I very much sympathize with the plot going nowhere thing. D= I did that plot-point writeup thingy this year.

[Trilly (18426 words)]

Rikku-I'm glad you like Baxter and Mooshi so far, Rikku. ^^ And the rest of the story so far, weird as it is.

Although I noticed I screwed up on posting this part, and did something wrong with the italics tags. It took something away from it, I think. ^^; I should fix it.

Kath- S'okay, Tamia thinks it says 'cheese' as well. Since it's a made-up name even in the story, I'm not going to worry about it that much. ^^

Glad you like it, though!

[Trilly (18426 words)]

I forgot! D= I drew this in my spare class today.

SPOILER: Click to show

Mooshi is bossy.

[Trilly (18426 words)]

Things are picking up here. ^^ To tell you the truth, I'm actually surprised anyone is reading this still.

Oh, yeah. And beware the italics abuse in this story (particularly this part, actually). Mooshi likes italics.

SPOILER: Click to show

CHAPTER 9 We Are Not in Wheathold Anymore

After leaving Benjamin’s house, the going was almost ridiculously easy. The vast majority of their luggage had been packed securely onto Mask’s back, leaving Baxter and Mooshi with nothing more to carry than the clothes on their back. It was a nice break, but without having to concentrate on hauling loads that were too heavy to carry with ease because of his still-injured arm, Baxter found his mind wandering away from the present and Mooshi’s grumbling.

Baxter was naturally wondering if, since he was going on an adventure, his experiences would make a decent song.

It was an idea he had been toying with since the beginning. He had grown up hearing his father sing stories of dashing deeds and courageous journeys into the unknown, and wondered if his story would make a suitably epic ballad when it was completed. It would certainly be a ballad, Baxter decided, since it was an adventure.

There were some minor flaws to the story so far that made it not fit quite perfectly with the typical idea of a heroic fantasy, however. In all rights, Baxter himself should be a young farmboy with a taste for the sword and a deep and yearning desire to follow after his father in his quest for adventure. He should also secretly be the son of displaced royalty, and he would be in love with a princess whom he would save from being eaten by a dragon, and would in time be rewarded with True Love’s Kiss.

Not only was he not plucky and sword-wielding, but he was not pulled out of his home by a sense of adventure so much as a desperate need for action... which wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly traditional, either. His father was certainly no missing king, and the kidnapped princess was just the daughter of a Duke, not royalty. Baxter was not even in love with her-- nor was Felix, as it turned out. So there would be no kiss for Baxter.

That put a damper on things in the dramatic romance portion of the story.

But above all else, Mooshi would not be in one of the great ballads. Baxter actually lamented over the fact that she was in his story more than he lamented over his lack of a sword.

But still, Baxter thought that his experiences may yet yield a story worthy of making a heroic ballad about. Maybe when it was finished, he’d write it up and they’d perform it in the next festival together--him and Felix and Chesse. He’d make sure he cut a part out for a mandolin, a sitar, and a flute.

It would be epic.

“I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking about right now,” Mooshi announced, breaking Baxter out of his thoughts. “I just know that you’re grinning like a loon and it is seriously bothersome. Stop it.”

Baxter sighed, realizing that this probably meant that Mooshi did actually want to know what he was thinking about. “I’m thinking about music,” he said truthfully.

“Gods, you’re weird,” she said. “I really can’t stand you.”

Baxter smiled to himself, forgetting all about his unwanted companion as he continued shaping his idea for a new song. First there would be just a flute--Chesse would like that-- then the stringed instruments would join in after one melody....

***

They set up camp a ways off the road not long after, as the sun was just beginning to set. He had figured that it was important to set up earlier than you thought you’d need to, so that there would be sufficient time to build a fire, fetch water, and do any and all the outdoorsy-things that needed doing. Not that Baxter had ever really roughed it in the wilderness, but all the reliable sources said that this was the correct method of doing things.

After everything was set up-- two bedrolls around a small fire and a pile of tinder nearby, with the horse tied up at a grassy spot-- Baxter sat down with a sigh, reaching for his mandolin and perching it on his lap. He leaned against a fallen log, at peace with the world and satisfied with their progress so far.

“Hey. Hey, Mooshi,” he said. “Are you sure that this is the direction the people who took Chesse went?”

Mooshi snorted as she dug her fingers into her hair and tried to comb through it. “I have no need to lie. As I’ve said before, chances are very good that you’ll perish in some pointless way before you even set eyes on the Master, and even if you do by some miracle come face-to-face with him, he’ll just kill you and I’ll never have to put up with seeing your ugly face ever again.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that tirade before,” Baxter affirmed, too sleepy to rise to the bait. “I mean, how good are your tracking skills?”

“I have a very good sense of smell in every form I take, even as a stupid human,” Mooshi said huffily. “Once I take the form of a person once, I become very attuned to their scent. I can usually follow that for days.”

“How far are we behind Chesse?”

“Three days, give or take.”

Baxter gnawed his lower lip. That wasn’t particularly good--they weren’t making fantastic time, so the chances of being able to take Chesse back on the road before she reached Morgano the Blood Mage were dubious at best.

“About the people she’s traveling with now-- who exactly are they?” Baxter asked, the thought striking him out of the blue. He’d spent a great deal of time musing on what do do about the Blood Mage, but had never really thought about his much closer adversaries.

Mooshi shrugged. “Apprentices. The Blood Mages don’t often leave their hidden towers-- they’re invisible, you know-- so they have a bunch of apprentices that they send out to do errands. They’re nowhere near the Master’s level, but they’re all accomplished sorcerers. You don’t stand a sliver of a chance against them, either.”

Baxter grimaced. ‘You don’t stand a chance’ was a phrase he was getting sick of hearing, but even he had to agree that, from a logical point of view, it was quite correct.

But what kind of a story would it be if he had an easy time with everything?

He strummed the mandolin thoughtfully, thankful that there seemed to be no permanent damage to his arm from Mooshi’s snake attack. It barely even hurt to play his instrument, now.

“Hold on a second! Isn’t it bad enough to put me through this Hell without subjecting me to that horrible banjo?” Mooshi spluttered. “I’m stuck in this form, I have branches in my hair, this body is starting to reek--”

“Take a bath, then.”

“A... bath?” she stared at him blankly. “How would one go about doing that?”

“Haven’t you had a bath before?”

She shook her head angrily. “No, why would I need to? If one body gets dirty, I’d just switch to a new, clean one. Unfortunately... hey,” she looked thoughtful. “Can you let me change shape now? You offered me a chance to earlier, and I didn’t take it. You owe me--”

“No way,” Baxter said firmly. “I gave you the chance earlier, and you decided to stay in that shape so that you could humiliate me in front of my father. If you don’t want to stink anymore,” he continued, “you have to learn to take care of your body as if it’s the only one you’ve got. In other words: go to the stream where we got water and take a bath. I’m sure it will be an excellent learning experience for you.”

“I hate you,” she snarled. “I hope the Master kills you slowly.”

“Don’t be gone too long,” Baxter directed, glancing up at the sky. “It’ll be really dark soon. You shouldn’t have any trouble with the collar as long as you remain within a kilometer of me, so unless you try to run away, you should be fine.”

Mooshi stormed away into the forest, muttering something about meddlesome bards and how they all deserved to be drowned.

After a few minutes, the birds began singing again, and Baxter breathed a sigh of relief at the peace. A chance to sit quietly was such a rare thing with Mooshi around.

He was glad to just sit there and play on his mandolin, pretending for a short while that everything was fine and his future wasn’t full of uncertainty. He knew, even if he didn’t show it, that he was in a huge mess that would take nothing short of a miracle to get out of, but it wasn’t really his nature to let ifs and maybes gnaw away at him. Maybe it was a bad way of doing things, but life was naturally full of uncertainty and Baxter intended to enjoy whatever length of time he had.

So it was really unfortunate when, a good ten minutes later, his music was interrupted by a knife held to his upper back and a hoarse voice demanding that he hand over all of his valuables.

***

“Stand up slowly, and keep your hands in sight,” the voice ordered.

Baxter did as he was told and stood, keeping his hands curled around his mandolin but at the same time making sure they were perfectly visible. He cursed the inattentiveness that had allowed him to be crept up on, angry that he had just assumed he’d be as safe out here as he’d been in Wheathold. Felix had warned him to be careful, hadn’t he? This place was like nothing he was used to.

He turned, mindful of the blade at his back as he faced his attacker. He was somewhat disappointed, initially, as he had been hoping that if he had to be mugged, it would be by someone tall and dashing who wore a half-mask and had a long, elegant cloak. The person who was currently threatening him was admittedly rather strong and weathered-looking with forearms that resembled hams, but was actually shorter than Baxter and lacked the refined highwayman quality of robbers in the songs.

But the knife was real, and sharp. And he wasn’t alone, either-- there were two more men flanking him who looked every bit as ready for business as their leader.

“Looks like we got ourselves a bard, then,” the stocky robber said as he took in Baxter’s mandolin, sounding slightly disappointed. “Pity. I was hoping it was a stupid noble out on a hunting excursion, not a peasant bard. How much do you figure he has on him, Gerard? Ten, fifteen pieces at the most?”

Another robber (who had a very fine hat), spoke up. “Well, he was just sitting there, so it’s no real loss to us. I doubt he’s armed, and there’s always the horse. The banjo looks pretty expensive too....”

“Eh, it’s a mandolin, actually,” Baxter couldn’t help himself.

The man with the knife shrugged. “Banjo, mando-whatsit... it’s all the same to me. Just put the instrument down, hand over your money, and tell us about any more nice little tidbits you may be hiding. Because if you try to pull the wool over our eyes, we’ll know, and just look through your possessions when you’re dead.”

Baxter saw that this was no joke, and these were not anything like the comical, honorable rogues from his father’s stories. They were hardened criminals who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

Baxter swallowed, his mouth and throat suddenly dry as ash. “Just hold still for a second--I’ll get the money. It’s in my pouch right here.”

He slowly unclipped the pouch and pulled out a small drawstring bag made of a thin cloth and held it up, showing it to the three robbers.

“Drop it,” the lead robber ordered. “Then kick it over here.”

Baxter complied, and the robber with the knife nodded at his followers. A robber who had tattoos of thorns on his face immediately lunged forward and scooped up the small bag, glancing warily at Baxter as he backed away and began examining its contents.

“Feh, seventeen pieces. What did we tell you?”

“What? That’s still seventeen pieces we didn’t have before,” the man with the hat argued. “Better than nothing.”

The ham-armed leader growled low in his throat. “Shut up. You--” he directed Baxter, “kick that banjolin or whatever it is over here as well. We have to walk away from here with at least a bit of a profit.”

Baxter inwardly flinched. Feeling incredibly stupid, but nonetheless assured that he was at least going to go out with a little bit of flair, he announced, “Absolutely not. I refuse.”

The robber looked at him with disbelief. “What?”

“Take my money... it’s fine. I don’t care. But you are not taking my mandolin.” Baxter stated stubbornly.

“What... is he serious?” the man with the hat asked.

“Hand over the darn instrument or I’ll gut you, you foppish bard!” the robber who still held the knife against Baxter snarled.

“Okay. Do it then,” Baxter said, wondering if all the heroes had had as much trouble calming their pounding hearts as he was having then. It wasn’t particularly brave of him to be dreading the knife this much, was it?

“darn right I’ll do it, you fool,” the man hissed, preparing to make a slashing blow that would slice open Baxter’s throat.

The bard closed his eyes. It had only just sunk in that he was about to die, never to sing another song, never to rescue Chesse. He wouldn’t ever eat Tabitha’s breakfasts again, or chuckle when Felix fell asleep at the table with his face in a dish of porridge. There was nothing he could do now to prevent his death, but at the very least, he didn’t want to have to see it.

But the blow didn’t come.

There was a thud as something large struck the ground, and small noises of surprise and even.. fear?

But the pain never came, either.

“Gods, I leave for twenty minutes and I come back to find this? Just when I think I can’t hate stupid mudcrawlers more than I already do, you always outshine even my expectations.”

Baxter, wondering when this dying thing was actually going to happen and thinking very strongly that he should recognize that voice, opened his eye a crack.

The robber leader was down, flat on his face in the grass at the feet of a livid looking thirty-something woman with ugly yellow hair that stuck up at all angles with water. The other two highwaymen were looking on, both clutching knives and looking terrified, wondering whether to risk attacking or not.

In all honesty, Baxter would be scared when faced with a sight like that, too.

The two men came at her, but Mooshi wasn’t even started.

“I’ve been having an absolutely foul week,” she snarled, grabbing the tattooed man’s hair as he stabbed at her and smashing her knee into his face, “Do you have any idea how detestable it is to have to be one of you filthy humans all the time, and actually be forced to follow around a stupid, smiley bard just so that you don’t end up strangled by a fashion accessory? Huh, do you?” she asked the hat-wearing robber.

“Uh... I don’t know?” he confessed weakly.

“See? Of course you don’t,” she snapped, laying him out with an inhumanly strong punch. He hit a tree on the far side of the clearing, and Baxter winced in sympathy at the crunching sound. “And you,” she continued, her fury unabated as she rounded on the bard, “are the stupidest, most pathetic, most detestably smug solid I have ever had the misfortune to breathe the same air as. You’re just plain dumb to try and get yourself killed before handing over a glorified piece of wood that would only end up stolen anyways!”

Baxter opened his moth to say something, but Mooshi was not finished.

“Was this about dying with honour? Well, I’ll tell you something: you’re nowhere near smart, interesting, brave, or handsome enough to die with honour! You’d just be dead like the hopeless simpleton you are!”

Baxter was bracing himself to be physically assaulted by Mooshi as well, but when she finally finished her furious rant, she just turned away and began rifling through the unconscious robbers’ pockets.

Really, he thought he should be seriously angry at the things the shapeshifter had said to him, but he couldn’t really find it in him. He was too stunned by how close he’d come to death, and just how narrowly it had been averted.

Instead of fighting back, he decided to try something new:

Sincerity.

“Thanks for saving my life,” he said, simply. And he was surprised to find that he actually meant it.

Mooshi stiffened and stopped her searching in the act of dropping a coin into her steadily-growing pile. It fell with a ‘clink’ that seemed to fill the dead silence that had fallen in the clearing. Eventually, however, her shoulders relaxed.

“It wasn’t for you, mudcrawler,” she snarled. “You must have forgotten that you still hold my life in those thoroughly incapable hands of yours. If you die, I do as well because of this darned collar.”

“Oh, yeah,” Baxter admitted, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably. “But I still mean it, you know. Whatever your reasons, you did save me, so... thank you.”

Mooshi snorted, turning to look at him with her customary expression of quiet loathing. “Just shut up and leave me alone.”

Baxter did just that. He figured, just for tonight, he’d do what she asked him to without question. She did sort of deserve a pat on the head.

I also fixed up the last part I posted, so the italics tags aren't broken to the point that they're worth crying over anymore. =D

[Trilly (18426 words)]

It's about time I put up the next one.

Just so you know... this one will make more sense if you read the prologue.

SPOILER: Click to show

CHAPTER 10 Losing Face

Baxter quickly decided that Mooshi by all means did not deserve a pat on the head.

It was true that it was currently in the shapeshifter’s best interest to keep him alive, but she apparently had no intention of keeping him sane and happy at the same time. She had gone back to her old tricks almost immediately after Baxter had made a conscious decision to try to get along better with her. Almost as if it was a reaction to Baxter’s increased attempts at friendliness.

A cheerful Baxter had offered her the chance to change her appearance the next day before they entered a small village along the main road that was approximately the same size as Wheathold. He figured that, since she’d been through a lot and had been subjected to her first ever bath, yet had still been willing to save him from an untimely demise, she deserved a chance to shape-shift.

She had taken the offer gladly, and Baxter had felt warm and fulfilled at having reached a relative peace with the feisty Mirrorling.

Up until Mooshi had taken the opportunity to turn into a bearded man in a pink tunic and make-up and had then spent the entire day clinging to Baxter’s arm and calling him pet names, to the great consternation of many people in the village market that day. Mooshi had never been what Baxter would call “giggly”, and this sudden change in behavior would be alarming even without the informed choice of gender.

The next day was every bit as bad, as it turned out. Only this time, Mooshi decided to humiliate Baxter further by taking the shape of a beautiful young girl with curly golden hair and an open, innocent face. The pretty girl also sported a number of rather serious-looking bruises on her face and wrists, and had teary eyes, which ensured that Baxter was met with looks of barely concealed loathing from other travelers instead of the previous day’s looks of simple discomfort.

The final straw was when Mooshi decided to try sporting an entirely different form than anything she had tried so far.

She turned herself into a perfect copy of Baxter, right down to the clothes he was wearing.

That got him some odd looks. It wasn’t every day a bard was seen passing by on the road, accompanied by someone who looked and dressed exactly the same as him. But this situation had a slightly different flavour than the others, with Mooshi not going out of her (his, at the moment) way to make it look like Baxter had a particular oddity or fault, but rather letting peoples’ imaginations do their own work and coming to their own conclusions. Although it bothered him a bit to admit it, he was starting to be able to read Mooshi’s little quirks more accurately the longer he spent in his company, and this method of biting back seemed far more indirect than any of his ideas had been in the past. Which led Baxter to conclude that maybe Mooshi had some other motivation for taking his shape.

It seemed ridiculous to consider it, but Baxter almost thought that Mooshi might just be curious about him. Like maybe the shapeshifter wanted to find out what made him tick.

Or he wanted to get into Baxter’s head and eventually find a way to take back control of the situation.

It seemed that the second possibility was by far the more likely of the two, and Baxter was surprised to find that this made him a little bit sad. He wasn’t used to being hated so passionately by someone, that they would wish for his death. It felt bad to know that everything he did would be looked on with spite from his only companion.

It was really... lonely.

To try and knock himself out of his blue mood, Baxter sat down with a quill and parchment after they had once again set up camp for the night and fed Mask. Mooshi, having decided that baths were quite passable and even a bit nice had left for the nearest water source, which was a small creek a short distance away from the campsite, leaving Baxter alone once again.

This time, however, Baxter made sure to carry the knife he had bought from a thoroughly disturbed smith in the village they had passed, while Mooshi had clung to him and chattered away. It wasn’t very big as far as knives went, and Baxter knew that he’d never actually be able to use it in a fight, but it was good for show and would come in handy whenever he felt the pressing need to slice bread.

He hadn’t played his mandolin since the incident with the highwaymen, however. He had learned that playing music was one luxury he would save for safer places than the side of a road.

Baxter was writing a letter to Felix.

My good friend Felix Featherfinger,

Greetings. How are you?

I have no idea when you’ll be getting this letter, since it is likely I will not find a messenger to take it to you until we reach the city two days from now. Which reminds me: we have been following the people who took Chesse diligently, and it seems that we’re only a few days behind them. They are heading for the city (but have probably reached it by now), presumably to resupply, since apparently the Blood Mages live in invisible towers and I think they would have been noticed already if they were built in the middle of a city, invisible or not.

But that’s not important right now. I’ll try to get back on topic.

Mooshi (oh, that’s the shapeshifter. I gave it a name) has been quite a bit nicer in terms of not attacking me, and we sometimes even hold almost-civil conversations before things kind of get out of control. She’s been bothersome in other ways, but there’s no real harm done, I suppose. I’m not going to complain about Mooshi all that much, since I think I’m kind of getting used to him/her being around, and he/she can, in some cases, even be useful to have around. We had a run-in with robbers a few days back, and I’d be dead if it weren’t for Mooshi. So I’m okay with that, I guess.

I miss Wheathold, though. It’s really different around here, and I haven’t been able to decide whether I like it or not yet.

I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I do finally confront Morgano the Blood Mage. I think I’m just going to have to tell the truth to him and explain the situation, then hope for the best. It’s too bad that, even though I’m not on really bad terms with Mooshi, I don’t think I can count on him/her to back me up.

Anyways, this was your weekly update. I hope you’re really glad that I remembered!

Yours truly,

Baxter Crane, Solitary Bard

P.S. I think we should come up with a code to write any future letters in. It would be fun and ensure that prying eyes will never read our mail.

P.P.S. I’m writing a new song. It’s a heroic ballad and it’s going to be a surprise for when I get back.

P.P.P.S. Tell Tabitha I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.


Baxter sealed the letter with a bit of soft wax from his belt pouch and tucked it away, planning to send it as soon as he had the opportunity.

He spun around upon hearing a twig snap behind him, drawing the knife and holding it threateningly in front of him as he came face-to-face with... himself. He sighed and lowered the weapon.

His twin smirked at him, in a not-entirely unfriendly way. “You’re learning. Good.”

Baxter just shook his head, putting the knife away and delving into his haversack, looking for their store of bread, dried meat and cheese. He pulled out enough for two portions, then split it apart and wordlessly handed Mooshi his half. He had been surprised to learn that, despite the fact that the shapeshifter’s natural state was that of a puddle of animated silver slime, he did actually have to eat to survive as long as he occupied a living body. Thankfully, although it was unexpected, there was no strain on their rations because of Mooshi’s sensible thievery from the robbers they had met outside of Wheathold. They had considerably more money than they had started out with even after buying as much food as Mask could possibly carry at the last village.

Mooshi dug in enthusiastically, and Baxter wondered if he ever had that feral look on his face as he ripped into a hunk of jerky. It was downright bothersome to watch himself eat.

Which got him to thinking... Mooshi had just taken a bath. In his body. The Mirrorling would have seen him naked.

His felt his face heat up, and was sure his ears were red.

Mooshi must have had a sixth sense that told him exactly when Baxter was uncomfortable and open to be exploited in some manner, because he immediately stopped eating and looked up, half a slice of bread still sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “What?” he mumbled through a full mouth. “If you don’t like my manners, groundling, look the other way. I’m not changing my ways for you.”

“Uh, okay,” Baxter said, hoping to continue pretending that it was Mooshi’s eating habits that were bothering him.

They continued to sit in silence for several minutes, with Mooshi digging away at his food and Baxter picking at his, until the shapeshifter finally had enough and slammed a fist down, making Baxter jump.

“Look,” he said. “just say whatever it is that you think needs saying, you darned bard.”

There was no way Baxter would say exactly what he had been thinking earlier, but it did, in a way, relate to something he had been curious about for awhile now.

“Are all the forms you’ve shown me people you’ve really seen before?” Baxter asked, deciding it was definitely weirder to be talking to himself and expecting a reply than it was to watch himself eat.

Mooshi shrugged. “Yeah. I made a few changes here and there, though... like the bruises on that blonde girl a few days ago. And the face-paint on the man.”

“So you can probably change into someone you’ve never seen before, or invent your own shapes.”

Mooshi looked at him, mouth twisted into a condescending look. “Probably. But why, pray tell, would I ever feel the need to?”

Baxter thought he knew why, but it was kind of difficult to voice aloud. “I don’t know, it’s just... isn’t it confusing to always be something different? Haven’t you ever wanted to be identified as something or someone other than whoever you’re pretending to be?”

Mooshi snorted. “You, poor solid, are completely missing the point of being a Mirrorling. To you, the thought of the only identity you have being one you steal from someone else must be terrifying, but really, having a single shape and gender and name that you’re stuck with forever, whether you like it or not can’t really be that great, can it? The brilliance of it is that I have no identity. I am no one. So I can foreseeably be everyone.”

“Is being no one really that great?” Baxter asked, trying to imagine a life where he wasn’t Baxter of Wheathold, living in a place he’d been his entire life, around people who’d known him for his entire life and watched him grow from a tiny baby into who he was now.

Well, supposedly a Mirrorling would get a bit of that, recognition every now and then for the body they were currently in, but Baxter was sure that that could be nothing when compared to really being someone. By having to work hard to live and grow, by struggling and failing half the time before finally succeeding and finding that you’re stronger because of it.

Really, he couldn’t imagine not having an identity.

“I’m fine with it,” Mooshi said, breaking Baxter from his thoughts. “An identity brings all sorts of not-nice things, like repercussions for things you’ve done wrong, people who think they know you, even if they don’t... oh, and judgement. You can’t try telling me that humans don’t always make assumptions about people based on how they look.”

Baxter couldn’t deny it. “You make some pretty good points, I guess. But is it really worth it?”

“Absolutely,” the shapeshifter said, although there was a controlled curiosity in his silver eyes. “And anyways, what may be better for you isn’t necessarily better for Mirrorlings. We weren’t created to have a sense of self, we were created to help the Master and do whatever he requires of us. It’s like this... did you know that I remember the day of my creation?”

“Wow,” Baxter said, impressed. “How long ago was that?”

“Only six years ago, about. I was the ninth out of ten identical Mirrorlings to be created, and I remember being so scared--we all were, since none of us knew what was going on. Anyways, we were all just sitting there, and then the Master came.” Mooshi’s eyes were wide with adoration, now. “He introduced himself as our Master, and told us that he knew we were scared and that it was okay, because he would give us a purpose and protect us and everything, and we started to feel better. Then he gave us all numbers, and....” the shapeshifter trailed off suddenly, his eyes darkening and the look of eagerness fading from his eyes to be replaced with something deeper that couldn’t be read.

Baxter, not noticing Mooshi’s troubled thoughtfulness, asked, “Yes? What then?”

Mooshi whipped around, eyes suddenly filled with an abject rage. “You don’t know anything about it, you thrice-darned groundkisser! I don’t care a whit if you think it’s great to be different than everyone else or whatever it is you always blabber on about, but the last thing I need or want to do is talk about my life with you!”

Baxter, taken aback by Mooshi’s sudden attitude change and the reappearance of that absolutely loathing look in his eyes, backed away slightly.

“Just shut up and leave me alone,” Mooshi snapped. “I hate you, and I can hardly wait until the Master kills you and I can go back to the way things were before.”

He turned away from Baxter pointedly, and was silent.

Baxter had known that interacting with Mooshi was was like walking on a slippery slope-- it was only so long before his feet would slip out from under him and he’d fall flat on his face then slide the rest of the way down the hill. He was prepared for this possibility at all times because--he had to face it--Mooshi really and truly hated him. So why in the world was he so shocked and actually a little bit hurt by her outburst?

Baxter couldn’t for the life of him tell why he felt like such a failure.

[Trilly (18426 words)]

Don't look at my title line to figure out how many words I have at the moment... I'm at about 39,000 now, and I'm going to try to pull double time and get this thing finished in THREE DAYS.

Can I do it?

Probably not. But I'll try. It would be really nice, and I was completely finished by the 25th last year, and it'd be a shame to end up taking way longer this year. Mind, I think put more conscious thought into the plot of this story than the one last year, although which one is better is still up in the air.

And writing has been quicker lately. Which is upsetting, because everything I've written in the last two days has been like kicking a puppy. I feel so sad when I write not-nice things, and make my characters sad.

Anyhow, on to the next part!

SPOILER: Click to show

CHAPTER 11 It’s Impossible to Hire Decent Help These Days

By the time they woke up the next morning, Mooshi still hadn’t uttered a sound. Only a few days ago, Baxter would have taken this as a blessing, but now it just bothered him that the shapeshifter was so quiet.

As much as he would’ve liked to chatter to fill the silence, be couldn’t help but feel that such a thing would be a bad move on his part. Mooshi’s expression had been odd as he had handed him the bread, not furious as he thought it would be, but rather darkly thoughtful. Baxter wondered if it hadn’t said the wrong thing after all, and was actually something the shapeshifter himself was undecided on. It would probably be safer to just leave it be.

“So, you going to loosen the spell so I can shapeshift now?” Mooshi asked, surprisingly the first of the two to break the silence.

“You want me to?” Baxter asked. “Figured out a new shape to torment me with yet?”

He snorted, a tiny quirk to the corner of his mouth that might actually have been a smile. “Sort of.”

Baxter had to admit, whatever Mooshi became next, he wouldn’t be sorry to no longer have a duplicate accompany him everywhere. It looked and felt darn creepy.

So he was pretty eager to let Mooshi shapeshift, actually.

He obligingly lowered the spell slightly, and Mooshi dissolved into the silver liquid that Baxter was growing accustomed to seeing. There was something different about this time, however, he quickly came to realize as it took Mooshi a far greater time to re-solidify as it normally would. He was slightly alarmed, and unsure of what to do. If it was finally going to try to break free of the spell, Baxter had not the first idea of how he was going to stop the escape attempt.

Just as he was starting to get really worried, Mooshi began taking a corporeal form again, building up its body bit by bit. The shapeshifter seemed to have decided on a female form again, not particularly tall and very skinny yet nondescript, like she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. The skin and hair tones followed next-- pale and paler still, and she finished off with youthful facial features and some plain clothes, much like the girls in Wheathold and the travelers on the road had worn.

Baxter instantly realized that Mooshi had completely made this shape up--because really, he was quite sure that silver was not a natural hair colour for someone of the age Mooshi was pretending to be. The face looked a little bit unlikely as well... it was nice enough looking and even a bit pretty, but had a bit of an androgynous quality to it that Baxter hadn’t ever seen on anyone else. But that was all okay, and Baxter was actually happy that she had tried something new. He was especially glad that, yes this shape might attract a bit more attention than he would really like, but at least it wouldn’t direct discomfort or open hostility towards him, as some of her other experiments had.

He decided not to comment on it. He just grinned and asked, “Ready to go?”

Mooshi nodded, then turned away and began folding her bedroll.

So they were still playing the silent game, the bard realized. He didn’t feel as bad about it as he had before, however, and was actually content to just continue taking down camp in silence.

***

Neither of them spoke again until around midday, when Mooshi suddenly bristled and began sniffing around in confusion. It looked kind of funny, but Baxter forced himself not to laugh. Partially because he was trying to keep quiet and Mooshi seemed to want it that way, and partially so he wouldn’t spook the horse he was leading.

“What is it?” he asked.

Mooshi frowned. “A complication. I just lost your friend’s scent. But before you start panicking--” she growled, cutting Baxter off before he even had the chance to begin, “just listen to me. This isn’t entirely unexpected.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re following mages, bardic idiot,” she said as she cast him a withering look. “If they think they’re being followed, they’ll try to hide the fact that they’re carrying a captive. There are charms you can put a person if you want to mask their essence.”

That made a certain amount of sense, Baxter supposed, but now they had another thing to worry about. “So did we lose the trail?”

“Thankfully, no. The only scent I lost was the girl’s, so I can still follow the the Master’s apprentices,” Mooshi replied. “But it is odd that they’d only think to mask one of them... well, apprentices are lazy, I guess. That must be it.”

She continued moving again, and Baxter followed close behind.

***

They reached the city of Falcon’s Peak the next day.

Baxter’s eyes were popping out of his head at all the sights and sounds around him-- it was like market day in Wheathold multiplied by a thousand. Buildings were so tightly packed that they had to build them upwards, rather than outwards if they wanted to add space on, and they towered imposingly over Baxter’s head and blocked out far more of the blue sky than he was used to seeing blocked out. There were so many people on the street (more than Baxter had thought existed, previously), buying up ordinary things like fish, vegetables, and cloth, but some entered shops that sold magic paraphernalia and others were exploring buildings filled with shelves upon shelves of strange, imported goods from far away places. The air smelled strongly of spices and brine from the ocean, with the underlying scent of sweat and horse dung.

He felt that he could never have enough time to see everything there was to see in this incredible new place. For the first time in his life, standing in the middle of a cobblestone street that was far wider than any in his village while leading a decent-sized packhorse and still somehow feeling tiny, Baxter actually realized just how terrifyingly big everything was.

It was quite overwhelming, especially for someone who had always spoken lightly of things that weren’t necessarily small matters-- like trying to hunt down and steal back one of his friends from one of the deadliest sorcerers ever to exist.

“Hey, if you just stand there you’re going to get run over, stupid solid,” Mooshi reprimanded as she grabbed his wrist and dragged the dazed bard out of the way of a carriage that passed by, flanked by men-at-arms. “This isn’t the country anymore. You’ve got to keep your eyes open.”

“But there’s so much here!” Baxter exclaimed, obediently following Mooshi where she led him. “It’s like-- well, I’ve heard of these things from my dad before, and Felix sometimes talks about the city, but this the first time I’ve ever seen it for myself. It’s--”

“Yeah. yeah. It’s great,” Mooshi finished. “Now pay attention. This is your friend we’re looking for, remember?”

Realization dawned on the bard’s honest face. “Oh yeah!”

“Sheesh, idiot,” Mooshi muttered. “Take in the sights on your own time.”

Baxter found himself growing steadily more distracted the longer they spent walking on the city streets, despite the fact that he knew it was important to remain focussed. Mooshi was his prisoner, for crying out loud, and she was leading him around. She could lead him off a bridge for all he knew.

He would pull himself together, and then he would by chance glimpse something that sparked his interest-- a street bard playing panpipes for a cluster of laughing children, a glimpse of the ocean through a gap between two buildings, a type of food he had never seen before-- and he’d lose his focus all over again.

The trail finally ended at a run-down little inn not far away from the shipyard, so it was popular with sailors and the like. Baxter had mixed feelings at seeing it; he was kind of sad his precursory tour through the city was over for the time being, but he was also comforted because, as ridiculous as it sounded, the sight of the dingy little establishment reminded him of home. He was familiar with pubs, having done some good business in them in the past.

The entered, stopping only to tie Mask up outside. The inside of the bar was small and cramped, and despite the fact that it was only the afternoon, there were already a considerable number of patrons gracing the bar with their presence. Most were burly and wore heavily worn and patched seagoers’ fare, but Mooshi quickly picked out a pair that sat up at the front, whom most of the regular visitors seemed to be going out of their way to avoid.

Baxter didn’t know much about the dynamics of the city, but he suspected that anyone who commanded that much fear and respect from men who looked like they could snap a neck as easily as one would a toothpick were considerably dangerous people.

Mooshi invited herself into a seat next two the two men, who, now that they could be seen up close, appeared to be wearing very high quality tunics with heavy embroidery and dark, jewel-toned cloaks that Baxter thoroughly approved of. One was older and had a small, neat beard, looking far too old to still be considered an apprentice, while the other was an apprentice in every meaning of the word, teenaged with acne and wispy light hair.

“Ahem. Excuse me miss, but are you and your friend looking for something?” the older of the two asked politely, in a tone that was condescending and not[i/] polite in the slightest. “This table is occupied, so unless you want something from us, I’d suggest you vacate it immediately.”

Mooshi matched him in in rudeness, and leveled the derisive smirk at the man that Baxter had been on the receiving end of so often in the past. “I’m just wondering why you’re sitting around in a pub instead of doing your duty to Lord Morgano. Last I was told, he didn’t tolerate laziness.”

They stiffened at the mention of Morgano’s name. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, miss,” he said stiffly, and with an effort to appear casual.

“Oh, you don’t?” Mooshi sneered, gathering up her mass of silver hair in one hand and showing the back of her neck to the two apprentices. A large black ‘9’ marking was starkly visible on the pale skin. “I’d suggest you tell me where you’ve stowed the prisoner you were bringing this way.”

The marking obviously meant something to the two apprentices, because their faces immediately drained of colour. “W-we didn’t mean any disrespect, ma’am--sir?” the younger man stuttered, looking positively terrified. “There’s no need to be telling tales to the master, now....”

“Where’s Chesse?” Baxter asked, not wanting the conversation to turn away from what he wanted to know. He finally felt that he was so close to finding his friend.

He was met with blank stares from the apprentices, and Mooshi shot him an exasperated look.

“The girl you were bringing to the Master,” Mooshi told them. “Where is she now?”

They appeared very reluctant to answer. Baxter could see blatant fear in the way their hands shook slightly on their ale mugs and the tightness at the corners of their mouths. Suddenly, the bard instinctively knew that something had gone very wrong, and if Mooshi’s expression was anything to go by, she did too.

“It wasn’t our fault!” the younger one blurted out, the first to break under the pressure of Mooshi’s silver glare. “We were just walking along the road like we had done for days, and the prisoner was bound and walking in front of us. We entered a cloud of smoke, and we thought it was just a really thick fog bank, but when it dissipated, the rope we’d been holding had been cut and there was no sign of the girl.”

Disappointment flooded Baxter’s entire being. After all this time, and coming all this way, he was at square one all over again. It was worse tan square one, actually, because he no longer had any idea of where to go from where he was. No hints, no clues.

“So you lost her,” Mooshi said flatly. “And instead of searching for her or informing the Master, you decided that the best course of action was to head to the nearest tavern and get drunk.”

“What could we have done differently?” the elder mage asked desperately. “Whoever took her is probably acting under orders from Lucianus, and that is one battle I don’t want to get caught up in--”

“It’s your job to get caught up in it,” Mooshi snapped. “By aligning yourself with Morgano, you automatically made Lucianus your enemy. You can’t have one or the other.”

“Please, forgive us....”

Mooshi slammed her fist down on the table, cracking the wooden surface and drawing looks of alarm from all over the bar. “It’s not me you have to be worrying about, fools,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t want to be you when the Master finds out you delayed in telling him this.”

Grabbing Baxter’s wrist again, Mooshi harshly ordered, “Come on, dumb bard. Let’s get out of here,” and dragged him back onto the open street.

They made their way back the way they came, Mooshi muttering some particularly colourful expletives about dishonorable, cowardly lowlifes in between many other creative adjectives as she continued to lead both Baxter and their packhorse. “I can’t believe they’d be so useless... I mean, they’re working directly under the Master, so I always assumed they’d be loyal and, well... mildly competent, at the very least. But they were just baggage, useless solids.”

She seemed quite put off, but that was nothing compared to how Baxter was feeling.

“So... this was all for nothing. All of it,” Baxter said expressionlessly. “We lost her... she could be anywhere now.”

Mooshi whipped around and looked at him, mouth already open to say something scathing, but she closed it upon seeing his expression. No, that wasn’t right, because Baxter was supposed to be the unfailingly optimistic one, the person who didn’t bat an eye even when he suggested the most ridiculous things in the world. Baxter was not supposed to be miserable.

The shapeshifter grimaced, running her hand through her new silver hair. “Hey, it’s not all that bad. Maybe... just take it easy for awhile, huh? We’ll rethink the plan, and take a bit of time to keep our eyes open and just see if we can’t find anything.”

“Is it just me, or are you even referring to us as ‘we’, now?” Baxter asked with a tiny grin, despite his somewhat sad bearing. “Don’t stop-- just noticing it, is all.”

Mooshi snorted. “Lucianus is my enemy. It is in my best interest to try to recover the captive and fix the mistake the Master’s pathetic human servants made.”

“What’ll you do if we do even find her after this watching and waiting you’re suggesting?” Baxter asked cautiously. He kept on forgetting that no, Mooshi was not trustworthy in the slightest. That she was likely to fight back and try to bring Chesse to Morgano rather than let Baxter bring her back to Wheathold.

“Well... we’ll deal with that issue when we come to it, idiot,” Mooshi said, quirking an eyebrow at him quizzically. “Can you handle a conditional alliance or not?”

Baxter allowed an honest smile to spread across his face.

It seemed like they wouldn’t be playing the hatred game for the time being, at least. Which was good, because it was tiresome and it had always given the bard a sick feeling in his stomach to put so much effort into disliking something. It felt unnatural.

“Sure,” he said, feeling a bit better.

Maybe this could work.

[Amneiger]

Well...even if it makes you feel sad, at least it's interesting to read? =D

[Rikku]

Uh-huh, I'll second Amnei on this one. =D It's fun when your characters are being all light-hearted and eating-pie-ish, but somewhat darker material is fun too. *wants to find out what happens next!*

[Trilly (18426 words)]

Ummmm.... I'm done.

Yay?

I haven't verified yet, because the story is on my laptop now, but I finally finished! ^^ I'll post more parts soon, but I just got back from a no-internet zone and I still have an essay to write for tomorrow.