Sunlight came through the multi-paned window of the parlor, spreading a
rainbow hue onto the wooden floor and lighting the planks with shimmers of
honey; from out on the porch came the high voices of children, who seemed
to be pondering the merits of rocks. Not special rocks - just the plain
stones dug from yard and pasture, but for the youngsters they were of
great fascination. And Emmon came to the conclusion he was at the point he
could find rocks interesting - anything that did not entail sitting on a
couch, with knitted throw over his lap, looking like what he was - an
invalid. And one doomed to ponder the question of his future.

~You're lucky to _have_ a future,~ the private investigator reminded
himself, ~Even if some of your past got scrambled....~ Fragments of the
attack often rose at unexpected times to haunt him, but nothing to reveal
who those attackers were - who murdered William. Did he want those
memories back? Emmon found himself unsure - much of the time he was
furious that his life had been torn asunder (even if it was the life of
two-bit investigator living at an even more two bit inn- it was still
_his_ life), and he wanted a piece of the people who did it; then fear ate
into his gut - to remember meant hunting the people who had nearly killed
him. Which led him back to the questions he had been avoiding nearly as
much as he had been trying to avoid the nightmares.

"Would he stay and take the chance of remembering?"

The young half-elf laid back against his pillows and looked about the
parlor; a tasteful room that bore hints of a feminine touch in Brion
Hillrover's bachelor life. A room that also spoke of comfort and money.
Emmon could count the number of parlors he had visited on seven fingers,
and he had rarely spent more than a half hour in any one of them. Yet, in
the last several days, as he slowly recuperated from a head injury and
other wounds, he had spent many quiet hours in this sunlit room -
sometimes cared for by the frighteningly ethereal Morrighu, and other
times by the oh-so-serious Elektra. He liked it best when Elektra brought
her law books in and studied.

And he had to admit that a tiny hope played a large roll in why he was
considering the Tower Guard's offer of a new face and a new life in
Montfort. Normally he would have been working at healing up and catching
the next barge, wagon, fast mule out of Montfort, but he found it hard to
leave some things behind...more precisely "someone," even though she had
only given him quick smiles. Maybe it would be worth the risk of staying
in hopes of recovering his memory and pointing a finger at William's
murderers.

He also took it as a good sign that Elektra too had offered some thoughts
on what he could do in Montfort - and he took it as a better sign that she
had suggested he work somewhere in the court house.

"I think its a yam root," came Skete's soft voice.

"Could be," Gwion agreed, "Did you see the rabbit nest down in the oak
roots isn't it early in the year for baby rabbits? It might have been an
older nest.."

Emmon looked over and smiled as the children trooped through. "Hiya," he
said.

"Hi Emmon!!" Gwion called out and hurried over, with Skete in tow. "Look
what Skete found - we think its a yam root...We'll ask his Da later... or
maybe Lucc.."

"Its a nice root," Emmon agreed, quickly - while Gwion was taking a
breath. The private investigator knew nothing about forest lore, but
studied the root that Skete held out to him.

Gwion fell silent - a rare occurance in the boy, and cocked his head - as
if listening. "Your song is getting stronger," he announced, "Not all
muddied up and weak like it was."

Emmon looked up - still a little unnerved by Gwion's knack for "hearing"
people's state of being. "Err. thanks..." he said, "I am feeling better."

"Soillar said you should keep resting," Skete said. He gently tugged on
Gwion's hand and towed his friend off to the kitchen.

Leaving the private investigator back to his own questions, which he
really didn't find all that restful.

[Azward]

In all, it was a very pleasant ride from the west tower to Brion
Hillrover's home deep in the woods near Montfort. Or at least, it would
have been for someone else. The sights and sounds of a beautiful Montfort
morning were wasted on Azward, who, as a rule, abhored fresh air and
sunshine. He preferred the closed sanctuary of his lab... Where he was
less likely to bump into anything or embarrass himself... Or frighten the
small children who were straining to catch glimpses of him through the
carriage windows. The mage checked to make sure his sash was still in
place, tied securely around his head, covering his eyes. It was still
there, however the edge of it had slid down, revealing a corner of the
bulging eye-socket and the glistening, multi-faceted orb that occupied it.

Azward sighed and turned away from the window, making a mental note to
request the carriage with curtains next time. The west tower was having
problems enough already without rumors of bug-eyed monsters hidden away in
its halls.

The next few minutes took the carriage beyond the limits of Montfort... past
the shanty-towns filled with the afore-mentioned gawking children, and
finally through the crescent of sparse farmland that acted as a final buffer
between Montfort and the woodlands beyond.

The carriage followed the winding path for a while, and then began to
slow. Azward glanced out of the window to see where they were. The scene
outside was dim and smoky, despite the bright sunlight and clear sky.
Azward's eyes couldn't see the sunlight... Or any light at all, for that
matter. They saw magic quite well, but unfortunately these woods didn't
have much in the way of stray or ambient enchantment. There was some, to
be sure... Perhaps a bit more than there SHOULD have been, But it still
did not amount to much.

As they got continued, Azward began to make out the lone house they were
approaching.... It started as just a shadowy outline in the darkness, soon
joined by an occasional flickering brilliance from some enchantment
working inside. Then it grew brighter. .. And much more interesting. The
house itself, and the land it sat on, glowed slightly from the subtle
magics that had been woven into them. The lock on the door glared like a
beacon from the securing wards... as did the window-latches. The house
contrasted sharply with fading dullness of the trees and other features
of the landscape, which were obscured by the dark haze of Azward's
blindness.

When the carriage stopped, Azward didn't wait for the driver to open the
door and help him out. Eager to be out of the 'outdoors' and safely behind
a proper set of walls, Azward threw the door open and slid out, pausing
only to grab his staff from the seat beside him.

The staff was a large, unwieldy affair, seeming much to large and bulky
for such a small. Its circumference barely fit into his frail hands, yet he
held it in a solid and balanced grasp as he thrust it before him.

"Czel-tzin..." he muttered. The tip of the staff released a mighty flare
of magic that that lit the surroundings like a bonfire. The magic served
no other purpose, and no one but Azward could see its glaring glow...
which he used as a torch to light his way toward the house's front door.
"Sir," the carriage driver called when he saw Azward hobbling toward the
house. "Do you need-"

"I'm fine," Azward replied. "Just wait here. I have no idea how long this
will take."

"Aye, sir."

Azward left the carriage behind and went quickly to the door. He knocked
gently with the end of his staff, and waited for a reply.

[Morrighu/Emmon]

The sound of light knocking brought Emmon out of his uneasy reverie, and
he eased himself up on the couch as the white-haired elven woman,
Morrighu, drifted by to answer the door. "Is it that time already?" he
asked.

Morrighu stopped and looked at the young man with her ancient gaze. "Are
you still willing?" she asked.

"About as near to it as I can get," he answered, "And anyway I've never
considered it healthy to ask a mage to come out of their way - then send
them home."

"Possibly not," she answered and went to answer the door.

"Hello," she said, holding the door open the frail-looking mage, with the
blind-folded face. "Please come in...."

[Batista Dyer]

On the edge of the Hillrover ranch a petite dark-haired woman appeared;
garbed more for a stroll along the boulevard than a walk in the woods in
her hunter green velvet skirt and jacket, and silken blue cloak. Batista
Dyer paused and "listened" to the land around her, despite the fact she
knew the land had spirit protection. Wariness had always been in her
nature, but she had had a firm reminder with the wyrm attack from the
dream plane.

She didn't really hold out much hope for this enterprise. Witness
protection programs only had a marginal success if the witness was put
_far_ away from their old lifes, and even then they tended to get
nostalgic and get themselves offed. And this Emmon Filgers was going to be
sitting right in the middle of "home" territory. ~Best the Guard and Mayce
can hope,~ she decided, ~Is he remembers something useful before he runs
out of luck.~

She had a good idea of the players in this game - dangerous all, but she
had completed her true involvement in the Menagrem case when she saw the
Royal Envoy safely off home. As to why she had agreed to help come up with
false memories for the investigator - part stemmed from wanting to learn
more about the West Tower. But, a good portion of it stemmed from both

Elektra and Yals asking her help.

And that rankled.

Batista smoothed her black hair and set out at an easy stroll towards the
house.

[Azward]

"Good day," said Azward as he crossed the threshold. He saw
the outline of the woman before him... or rather, he saw a high-contrast
shape bathed in magic from his staff and the various enchantments
around the room. Even if the outline wasn't enough... Which
it was... Then her aura would have easily distinguished her
as Morrighu... Someone Azward knew professionally, but had never
been properly introduced to. Remembering his manners, he extended
his frail hand toward her.

"Azward," he said awkwardly, as if not quite sure if he were
doing it right. He got so LITTLE practice introducing himself
that he constantly risked embarrassment every time he tried.

"Ummm.... Pleasure to meet you?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Azward realized he'd screwed
it up. He'd left out his full name and title... which were vitally
important in profesional matters. Just because he knew who this woman
was, it didn't automatically follow that she remembered him or realized
why he was there.

[Morrighu]

"Greetings to you Mister Azward," Morrighu said, lightly shaking his frail
hand with her slender, chill one. She decided it was fortunate that she
had sent the children back off with Marla and Toby; both had always been
practical youngsters, and now had the first hints of maturity were showing
in them, and would carefully watch the little ones. The wizard obviously
was uncomfortable - maybe shy, and while the youngsters were well-behaved
Gwion had a knack for unnerving people with his tendency to "hear" their
songs. (Or to chatter too much when excited. Though he might, better than
many, understand the wizard's world; for Gwion had spent many weeks
healing from a flamerod near the face, with only his knack for "hearing"
life energy to guide him.

She started to offer to take him to the parlor when she spotted a lone
figure coming up the walk to the house.

[Azward]

Just then, there was a shift in the 'brightness' of the road
behind him. Azward turned, and saw another female shape approaching...
and she was dragging a fair amount of subtle yet powerful magic
along with her. He recognized her (her aura and magic, actually)
as Batista Dyer... Sometime-friend of the Tower Guard, he had
never actually met HER, either.

Azward adjusted the sash around his eyes and tried not to sweat.

All these introductions were making him nervous.

Still, he did maintain enough composure to step back and hold
the door open for Ms. Dyer as she approached.

"Hello, I'm Azward," he blurted... Kicking himself for getting
it wrong yet again...

[Batista]

::Thank you,:: Batista sent, ::Its a true pleasure to have a chance to
meet you.::

She looked over at Morrighu questioningly. Some were protected or immune
to all touch of telepathy, and with the wizard's bandaged eyes she doubted
he could read her lips.

The pale elven woman nodded that she would relay the message if necessary.

[Azward]

Azward tried... and mostly succeeded... Not to jump when Dyer's words
skittered across his mind. He'd forgotten about the woman's odd mode of
communication... As he had also forgotten just why she didn't use her mouth
like everyone else. He would have to ask- No, no, that would be rude...
Wouldn't it? It was so hard to tell what was in poor form and what wasn't...

"P-pleasure to meet you as well," he said.

Would now be a good time to get down the matter at hand... Or was a certain
amount of small-talk in order?

Azward looked around nervously, trying not to sweat...

[Morrighu/Others]

"This way, please," Morrighu said, gracefully gesturing towards a doorway
at the end of the main hall, "Mister Filgers is waiting for both of
you..." Her voice softened and she added, "Nervous enough about the whole
procedure."

She waited to see if Azward would need any aid, though she had noted that
he had manuveured the walk up to the house with no problems.

::Is Mister Filgers having second thoughts?:: Batista asked.

"No," the elven woman answered, "But to have the future a truly blank
slate, with none of his old references available is something unnerving to
ponder."

::The future is always a blank slate,:: Batista answered as she followed
them down the hall.

[Azward]

"I must admit I'm a bit unnerved about the concept myself,"  said Azward,
after a pause.  "I mean't ethical aspects... not the magical ones. Erasing
a man and creating another one in his place... the legal precedents are,
well... sparse.  We're treading new ground here.  There may be...
r-ramifications."

[Batista]

::I wouldn't be surprised to learn that its seen greater use in some of
the more metropolitan cities,:: Batista sent, ::After all I'm sure that
royalty and governments would find such a process quite useful.::

[Azward]

"Mmmm, It's been my experience that they solve such problems by sending
them to places like Montfort.  You'd be surprised how many people here
have problematic histories and secret pasts from elsewhere.  Everybody has
something to hide...  makes getting to the truth of things rather
difficult."

Azward shrugged, and realized he was babbling.

[Batista]

Batista tilted her head in acknowledgement. ::Montfort is indeed an
intriguing town,:: she sent, ::That calls riddles to its streets.::

[Morrighu/Others]

In the sunlight parlor Emmon inched himself further up on the couch, and
nervously smoothed back his muddy blond hair. He had listened to the door
opening and closing - twice, and the soft murmur of voices in the hall.

And the tap of wood on wood - to mark the time when his future would
change radically.

[Azward]

Azward waited patiently, watching the shape of the door flicker in the
non-light of his magic.  The door was mundane, and, if he changed the
spectrum of his staff just so... he could almost see through it.  He saw a
man-shaped blur sitting on a chair-shaped blob.

Realizing that he was intruding, he re-adjusted his magic and waited for the
door to open.

[Morrighu/Emmon/Batista]

"Master Azward, and Miss Dyer are here to see you," Morrighu said,
swinging the door open and holding it for the mage and Batista Dyer.

"Hello," Emmon said, uncertainly, and wished he hadn't already drank all
of the water in the nearby pitcher. His mouth felt like a desert at noon
day. He knew where his true nervousness lay - not so much in a new
physical appearance (he had thought hard about that, and if given a
chance he decided that full elf...maybe with black hair or red would be
a form he could live with, and might not be hard for Elektra to look
at), but what disturbed him was the idea of Batista Dyer rattling about
in his mind. The black haired merchant disturbed him - more so than most
handsome women because she had about as much warmth as obsidian.
Morrighu, the strange white haired elf, was warmer by comparison.

"Can I get anyone anything before you start?" Morrighu asked, waiting by
the door.

::Not for me, thank you,:: Batista sent.

"I ...could use with more water," the private investigator admitted.

[Azward]

"I don't believe we've met, Mr. Filgers-"   Azward hobbled toward the man
and  tripped over a wrinkle in the carpet.   Such tiny details were
sometimes hard to catch with his specialized vision.    Of course, he
remembered tripping over carpets and loose stones quite a bit even
when he had normal vision...

Stumbling, Azward swept his free hand out to counter-balance himself, and
came very close to smacking Emmon Filgers in the face.

[Emmon/Batista]

Emmon jerked back against the pillows, and flinched as he jarred his
healing wounds.

"A pleasure...,:: He managed.

Batista had begun to raise a protective matrix, but when she saw that the
mage had caught himself she let the warding dissipate.

[Azward]

"Oh, how pretty!"  Azward remarked as he regained his balance.  He was
looking at Batista, and the fading remnants of the spell she was about to
cast. Of course, no one else in the room saw it except him, and it would
almost appear that he had been talking to Batista herself.

[Batista/Morrighu]

After a moment's pause Batista sent a gracious, ::Thank you,:: though she
wasn't sure what had prompted the mage's sudden appreciation, which was
even more confusing since he seemed relatively blind.

"Would you like a chair near Mr. Filger's coach?" Morrighu offered, hoping
to ease Azward's nerviousnes.

[Azward]

"Yes, please... I've found that its rather difficult to trip over things
when I'm already sitting down.  Difficult, but not impossible!"

Azward smiled at his own little joke.

[Emmon/Others]

"We all have days like that," Emmon said, while Morrighu brought over a
chair, and set it down next to the couch.

Batista had already settled herself in a chair on the other side of the
room - out of the way, but with a clear view of the proceedings.

[Azward]

The mage seated himself and turned his attention to the subject... one Mr.
Emmon Filgers. All of the nervous awkwardness of the past few minutes
drained away as his focus shifted from something he knew little about:
people... to the one thing he new better than perhaps anyone in Montfort:
magic.

At the merest touch of effort, dozens of relevant spells and incantations
welled up from his memory.  He flipped through his mental encyclopedia,
selecting what was best suited for the task.  And while he did this,
another part of his mind sought out the last barrier that needed to fall
before proceeding.

"...Mister Filgers,"  he said quietly.  Azward did not sound distracted,
even though his mind was in a dozen different places at the same time.
"You are aware of purpose we are gathered her to carry out?  I assume you
are, however my own code of ethics views this entire affair as... a
distinct grey area.  So before we proceed, I would need to hear from your
own lips that you understand what is to happen...that you can state in
your OWN words what is to happen... and that you fully agree to it."

[Emmon]

Emmon barely licked already hopelessly dry lips, but there was no
hesitation as he answered, "In hopes that I will regain my memory...and
see those murderous bastards accused....better yet hung, my
appearance will be altered, and a protective layering of false memories
added in case one of the villans has the ability to read minds. And
_yes_...." his own anger, which had brewed beneath his injuries and
weakness, spewed forth and shocked him, "And _yes_ I agree to it."

[To be continued.]









[Azward]

Azward was studying Emmon while he spoke...searching for any traces,
however faint, of magical coersion or influence.   He found none.    As
far as he could tell, Emmon was speaking of from his own mind and of his
own free will.

The mage was still uneasy about the ethics of the procedure, but he was
satisfied that the subject was informed and willing.     That was as much
assurance as he was likely to get.

"Very well,"  said Azward.  "I will be handling the outer
transformation... which may be a bit more involved than you realize.  Not
only must your face be disguised, but your body structure... your scent...
your aura... everything about you. Were I not the one performing the
procedure, then not even I would be able to recognize you.  And then,
after Ms. Dyer has finished her work on your mind, I will remove the
traces of the magic that was used.  No one short of a grand-master mage of
the highest order will be able to tell any magic was performed. And even
THEY would be unable to reverse it... or tell exactly what was done. The
truth is... it is very unlikely that the work could ever be undone.  I
suppose the false memories could be removed... I don't know, Ms. Dyer
would have to speak upon that... but the physical transformation is quite
permanent and irreversible. Do you understand that?

[Batista/Emmon]

::Mr. Filgers should have nothing to fear on the mental working,:: Batista
sent, with no false pride, ::My days as a Refuser forced me to become
quite adept at creating overlaying memories for myself, which needed to
withstand close scrutiny. Fortunately, psionics also doesn't have the
residue of some mental magics, though I will also be augmenting this
with some magic (no need to add that part had been given her by
Corvin - no explanation beyond what needed to be done) ....As for removing
it...I'm afraid that will be close to impossible.::

~A fast mule would have been easier,~ Emmon told himself, trying to gulp
down what little spit he had left. He knew it would be permanent...he just
didn't know how _permanent_. And yet beneath his fear lay that anger -
that anger whose depths had not truly fathomed, because he had not ever
been _that_ angered.

Then a memory, a very recent memory of Elektra looking up from her law
books and gazing at him with oh so serious brown eyes, and saying, "New
lifes and second chances are always terrifying in the beginning...." Then
a child had called to her and he had not the chance since to ask her how
_she_ would know.

"I understand," he croaked out. Let's go for it."

[Azward]

Azward reached up and began to untie the sash that covered his eyes.

"Do not to let my appearance disturb you,"  he said as he pulled the cloth
away. Underneath it were a pair of the most inhuman eyes ever to peer out
of a human skull.  The swollen orbs were more insectile than mammalian:
multi-faceted spheres that glistened in the light.  They almost seemed to
glow as they took in the various traces of magic in the room and fed them
into Azward's brain, forming a vision-like sense that saw magic instead of
light.

[Batista]

Batista looked on with interest, and wondered what race the mage might be
from? Or if this was a result of a birth accident....or just an accident?

[Azward]

Azward paused... and when he didn't hear anyone faint or hit the floor, he
knew it was safe to begin.

He raised his arms and made several passes in front of Emmon's face.
Magic began to flow from his fingertips, leaving brightly glowing trails
in the paths traced by his hands.

"Try not to move,"  Azward said as he rose from his chair.  His hands
drifted away from Emmon's face and began to weave patterns around the
man's entire body. Soon, Emmon was completely covered in a glowing haze.

Azward stepped back and pointed at Emmon, gesturing slowly as first... and
then more rapidly.  The magical haze... originally white in color...
darkened to a soft pink.

[Emmon]

The private investigator held himself quite still, and was taking small
breaths - though the tingle of magic so near made him want to itch.

[Azward]

Azward's gestures changed from flowing sweeps of his arms to sudden,
powerful jerks.  His fingers twisted into odd shapes that sent tendrils of
magic rolling through the air... whipping the now-pink haze into a
whirlwind... and then slowing it down... reshaping it...

Several long minutes later, the haze began to take on a recognizable
shape. Or rather, a NON-recognizable one.  It was a human figure.
Azward's magic had sculpted the haze into a naked human figure that hung
in the air around Emmon like a set of clothes.  The figure was vague and
indistinct at first, but Azward's rapidly-twirling hands began to carve
more and more details into it:  muscular structure, skin facial
features...

The magical figure rapidly accumulated detail after detail.... until finally
it was done.

A complete human figure hovered around Emmon, mimicing his pose exactly.
Azward inspected his work... which he could see quite easily due to its
nature. He made a few adjustments... then turned to the others.

"This is what he'll look like,"  said Azward.  "Unless there are any
objections.  If anyone has any suggestions, now is the time to make them."

The mage thought for a moment, then turned to Ms. Dyer.

"Emmon can't see it, because he is... well... inside it.  If you could...
if you are able, that is... could you lend him your view?  He has more
say-so in this than any of us, I think."

[Batista/Emmon]

::If Mr. Filgers will allow...I can..?::

"Yes, ....please...," Emmon said nerviosly.

~Just as well get used to this,~ he told himself, knowing Batista would be
handling the next stage.

But before he could get overly worried about the touch of her thoughts he
became fascinated with the image she was showing him. And he closed his
eyes so he could concentrate on his new "look."

More slender... definitely more elven, though he'd say more likely of one
of the woodland tribes than a High elf; with long blond hair and sky blue
eyes. And considering how many elves there were in Montfort......who in
the world would notice one more?

"I can live with it..him..me," he said, still trying to comprehend he was
now looking at "himself." "...Will I see myself like that in a mirror...?"

[Azward]

"Yes, that will be your new appearance; if it pleases you.  If you want
something changed, speak up now.  Just so long as it doesn't make you look
any more like your old... errr... current self."

[Emmon/Batista]

Emmon made himself think more like an investigator - to study details; the
ears were more graceful than his, and fitted the long, lean face.
..Definitely a handsome face.., but...

::Maybe it needs to be a little more 'lived in,':: Batista offered.

He gave a tiny jerk of surprise at her sending, but tried not to loose his
focus on the image. ~Lived in....?~ He pondered the idea, and realized
that while elves were notoriously long lived, and he would like to look in
his prime, that the image looked too "new."

::Any suggestions?::

::If you are still going with the idea of working at the courthouse I
wouldn't look like I was a swordsman by occupation, so no major
scars....::

::Makes sense,:: he sent and opened his eyes (though he now saw the
nebulous form before him and the image Batista was still sending), and
said, "Maybe a little scar of something along the ear...it ..I ...probably
should looked a little more lived in...."

[Azward]

The mage nodded in agreement.  He raised his hands... lowered them and
thought for a moment... then raised them again and began casting.  More
lines of energy flowed from his fingers... and where those lines touched
the phantom figure, the figure was changed.  The changes were small... a
tiny scar above the ear, deeper frown lines along the cheeks, the faintest
hints of bags under the eyes.  But the mage's work was by no means
confined to the face... what good would it be to have a 'lived-in' face
sitting atop a perfect body?  He scattered a few scars... ancient remnants
that could have resulted from an active childhood... as well as a few
other details to make the body complete.

Then he lowered his hands and once again inspected his work.

"Hmmm?"  he said, nodding at the others.

[Emmon/Batista]

"Yes....," was all Emmon could manage, with awe in his tone, as he peered
at the figure from inside and out.

::An exquisitely done creation,:: Batista sent with honest appreciation
while studying the form.

[Azward]

"Then we will proceed,"  said the mage.  "Emmon.... there will be some
pain, I'm afraid.  Do what you must... just try not to panic.  Flailing
about or getting up out of that chair are both particularly bad ideas.
Now, young man... brace yourself..."

After only a slight pause to gather his strength, Azward began the second
phase of the transformation.  He launched into a series of incantations,
casting one spell with the motions of his hands while simultaneously
casting another with the arcane words flowing from his mouth.  The
ephemeral shape around Emmon began to shimmer....

Suddenly, it changed shape, deepening from pink to a dark and sinister
blackish-green. Emmon himself was almost totally obscured by the shadow
form.  The form shrank around Emmon as if settling into place... then it
began to twist and warp out of shape, with portions of it shrinking
against Emmon's skin while other parts expanded and ballooned outward...
pulling Emmon's flesh out of shape along with it.

[Emmon]

Emmon's hands (what could be seen of them seemed to be boiling) grasped
hard onto the couch. His cry was caught mid-sound as his vocal chords
began to change.

[Azward]

Azward's castings increased in tempo, and his magic continued to push and
pull at Emmon's body, which had somehow become pliable beneath the phantom
haze.

Eventually, a pattern began to emerge.  What little could be seen of
Emmon's body was being pulled into a shape that matched the ephemeral
sculpture.  The process was chaotic and painful at first, but as the
process continued... as the differences between the two forms faded... the
changes became slower and more subtle, until finally it appeared that the
magic had come to a halt.  But it hadn't... the changes it was making were
merely too small to be seen with the human eye.  The magic continued to
re-work Emmon at a microscopic level for several minutes... and then for
several MORE minutes at an even smaller level... changing the elementary
particles that made up the cells... and then changing the particles that
made up THOSE particles...

[Emmon]

The young investigator lay gasping, though his gasps no longer sounded
like the came from Emmon's voice.

[Azward]

The rush of words from Award's lips abruptly switched to a different
language.  The ephemeral image around Emmon became bright white, and the
body beneath it was revealed to be an exact copy of the image that Azward
had constructed out of magic. The mage made several sweeping gestures with
his hands.  Streams of light began to criss-cross the presumably empty
space between Emmon's skin and the white haze surrounding him.  Another
process had begun, this one changing the subtle energies of Emmon's
body.... his aura... warping it into something similar yet distinctly
different.

When this portion of the change was done, Azward gave a series of loud
shouts while making forceful gestures toward Emmon.  The white haze
darkened once more... this time turning brownish-black... as it began to
dissolve.  A rapidly-dissipating sludge descended from the air like a
falling curtain... and behind it sat a man who looked nothing at all like
Emmon Filgers.

The elven figure still glowed slightly from Azward's magic, which
continued to hum around him.

"....well..."  Azward sighed as he hobbled toward his chair.  The mage
seemed on the verge of passing out.  "...THAT was easier than I'd
expected..."

Azward plopped down in his chair and tried to keep his gasping breaths to
a dull wheeze...

[Emmon/Others]

Emmon sank back into his pillows and appeared a little dazed.

"Is there anything I can get either of you?" Morrighu asked. She had been
sitting at the back of the room with Batista; neither woman
making a sound during the casting. "Perhaps a light lunch would be a
restorative."

::An excellent suggestion,:: Batista sent, following Morrighu to the front
of the parlor, ::Mr. Filgers will need time to recuperate his strength
before we begin working on his new "memories."::

The investigator gave a small sound, perhaps a moan, but it was hard to
tell if it was a reaction to the casting, or the idea of next phase.

[Azward]

"Just water for me, please,"  said the mage, not wanting to be further
enervated by the digestion of lunch... even a light one.    "Lots of water.
And Mr... uhhh..."

Azward smiled at the man who used to be Emmon Filgers.

"...our patient might appreciate a mirror."

[Emmon/Others]

"I'll be right back," Morrighu said and headed for the door.

Meanwhile Emmon stared at Azward. Struck with the sudden awareness that it
would be his name that was the hardest to give up; not "Filgers" really -
that had been his only inheritance (besides a shorter lifespan) from his
father - a human sailor, who had gone down before his son had turned one.
But "Emmon"......in the murky early days of his memory he could hear
someone crooning "Emmmoonn" in a lilting voice; it was the name that had
signaled him back to the safety of his mother's flat; it was a name that
he had heard used in all its nuances: a lover's charm, a curse, a
statement. His name had marked all the phases of his life .....until this
moment.

Not that Elektra and Morrighu hadn't tried to prepare him for the
moment, and had offered many suggestions.

He had tried them all and none seemed to fit his tongue.

The man who had been Emmon Filgers worked his lips, trying to force an
answer from them.

Morrighu paused at the door; studying him with a thoughtful look on her
pale features. Finally she said, "I have a suggestion....there is one in
the house that can name truly. My son, Gwion."

The young investigator looked bemused and a little worried, and
hesitantly said, "Please, no offense....,but he's a talkative youngster..."

"And has kept even greater secrets," Morrighu said, sadly, "For one word
from his young lips could have condemned both myself or his father to
the pyre....or worse....during the days of the Redeemer."

He looked helplessly over at Azward and then Miss Dyer. "Its hard....,"
was all he managed.

Batista looked as unruffled as always. She knew that even now the
occupants of this house kept grave secrets - of the spirit realm, and of
her employer, the Company (since the Politi and their allies were often
in Montfort she had been told to make sure they stayed safe). ::All the
children here are mature for their ages, and Morrighu is not one for
poorly conceived statements,:: she sent, ::This is a traumatic situation
and if Gwion can help ease it then perhaps its worth considering.::

[Azward]

"Hmmm, I'm afraid I don't know this Gwion... so I can't advise you one
way or another.    However, secrecy is of the utmost importance, the fewer
people we involve, the greater your long-term safety."

Azward sighed and left the patient to make up his own mind.  The mage
would rather not involve another person... in fact, he would rather not be
involved in this ordeal himself.  But he was, out of necessity.  The same
may be true of this new person.

[Emmon/Others]

"All right...," the investigator said.

"I'll return shortly," Morrighu promised, though she knew none in the room
were reassured by the statement.

After she had closed the door Batista sent, ::Mage Azward, so you're not
caught off guard....Morrighu's son is but a child. However, she was not
overstating the fact that the children of this house are maturer than
most.::

[Azward]

Azward nodded, and kept his reservations to himself.    A child.

The mage's fingers wandered unconsciously up to his face.  Should he
cover his eyes?    Ordinarlly, he would... but perhaps his inhuman
appearance might help to determine just how 'mature' this child was.

[Emmon/Others]

Shortly the creak of a door heralded Morrighu's return, and the
investigator looked up to see Gwion holding the door open for his mother,
who was carrying in a tray.  The eight year old, normally boisterous, wore
the innocently grave expression all children acquire when told a matter is
_important_. Gwion did not look to be Morrighu's child; a mass of curling
black, silken hair framed a full, healthy face, with dark brown eyes that
gleamed with curiosity. He also was stouter of body, with no hint of
the prenatural elven grace, though he was sure of foot in his own right.

Gwion closed the door after his mother and waited, with his head tilted
slightly to the side.

A posture the investigator recognized as the boy's way of "listening" to
the essence of a room. Out of boredom he had once asked what the boy was
listening to, and had been told, "the music."

::Hello, Gwion,:: Batista sent.

"Hello, Miss Dyer," the boy answered, his attention obviously torn between
the man who had been Emmon, and Azward, but there was no fear in the
child's expression. Only one of rapt attention and puzzlement.

"Mage Azward," Morrighu said, "May I introduce my son, Gwion?"

The child focused on the mage, with an expression of wonder, and said,
"Hello, sir....Did you change Mr. Filger's song? He really sounds
different now..."

[Azward]

"Indeed I did, young man,"  said the mage, clearly impressed with the
boy's sensitivity. Gwion's aura twinkled with a kind of passive magic
that was exceptionally intricate... it lit up the room in a most beautiful
pattern... a pattern that only Azward could see, and that the boy himself
might recognize only as a 'song'.... if he could sense it at all.

Of course, pretty lights said nothing about the child's trustworthiness.
Azward hoped that Ms. Dyer was right... for Emmon's sake.

[Emmon/Others]

"Your mother said you might be able to help me with a name....?" the young
investigator said, finding himself surprised at the changed timber of his
voice. Slightly more accent, and not quite as deep, yet richer.

"Here is your mirror....and the water," Morrighu said, setting the tray
near the patient and the mage.

Cautiously "Emmon" moved and clumsily reached for the mirror, which the
elven woman handed him before he could drop it. Slowly he lifted the
mirror up and peered at the stranger.......

Full elf, but not of the refined race of High Elves; silken rich golden
hair framed the face of being of middling years. Eyes the blue of the
summer sky. A face not unlike so many of the elves that passed through
Montfort. He tentatively reached up to touch his cheek - and seemed amazed
at his own expression of wonder.

[Azward]

"I take it you are pleased,"  said Azward, taking his multi-faceted eyes
off of the boy for a moment.  "Or at the very least... satisfied?"

[Emmon/Gwion]

"Very....," the investigator said, marveling at the feel of a smile on his
face, "Pleased..." He put the mirror down and turned his full attention to
Azward. "Thank you."

While the two men were talking Gwion had been earnestly looking at the
investigator. Never, ever, had _he_ been asked to do something this
important. Well....naming his baby sister, Sol'as, had been important, but
that had been easy.....she had been singing her name long before she had
come out of Mama's tummy.

Usually people already had names when he met them - that everyone already
knew. It was only with babies (of any kind) that adults couldn't hear
their true names.

The music was loud around not-Emmon....

Gwion's eyes were filled with amazement. The song was so _new_....or maybe
Marla would call it "fresh."

The boy's forehead puckered in concentration. "Emmon" didn't fit the man
anymore, but with the song so new..fresh....it hadn't really settled on a
naming. "Fion..."

"Fion?" Morrighu asked.

"Uh uh....." her son mumbled. "'Fionnar' ..." He frowned even more and
added, 'Sithiche'."

"Fionnar Sithiche?" the investigator tried.

::What tongue is it?:: Batista asked.

"A very ancient form of elvish," Morrighu said, "He's learned it
quickly.."

"What does it mean?" the investigator asked, rather hesitantly.

Morrighu chuckled, "Roughly translated, 'fresh elf.'"

"_That_ could be taken many ways," the patient said, with his fresh, tiny,
laugh.

"Did I do all right?" Gwion asked worriedly.

'Fionnar' reached over and rested his hand on Gwion's shoulder. "You did
fine," the investigator said, "I like it...thank you."

[Azward]

Azward liked the name as well, even though it wasn't his place to like OR
dislike it.  He smiled at the boy, who still had shown no sign of
discomfort at the mages most unusual eyes.  An unusual child indeed...

[Gwion/Morrighu]

Now that the Gwion was free of the "important" thing he was supposed to do
he turned his attention back to Azward. No fear shown in the child's
expression, though a large dose of twinkling curiosity shown in the boy's
brown eyes.

Yet he did not ask about the mage's outward appearance - the music had
always been the whole for Gwion, and much to dismay of the adults around
him he tended to follow the rhythm fearlessly. And just as fearlessly he
had looked beyond the scars and wounds and differences (much to his own
adopted father's heartfelt relief).

"Your music is all different rhythms,"  the boy said, with great wonder,
to Azward, "Its like......a band ..an orch..?"

"Orchestra?" Fionnar offered helpfully.

"Yeah...," Gwion answered.

Morrighu didn't interrupt, though she kept a sharp eye on her son; knowing
the boy could soon launch into a whole array of none-stop questions, which
would be a good time to point him back towards Marla and Toby, and the
rest.

[Azward]

"Oh?"  Azward smiled.  "Well, when a human lives as long... and has been
through as many changes as I have, I suppose the experiences leave their
share of marks upon the soul.  Your own aura is quite the lovely spectrum.
I don't think I've seen your particular confluence of colors before."



[Azward]

Azward liked the name as well, even though it wasn't his place to like OR
dislike it.  He smiled at the boy, who still had shown no sign of
discomfort at the mages most unusual eyes.  An unusual child indeed...

[Gwion/Morrighu]

Now that the Gwion was free of the "important" thing he was supposed to do
he turned his attention back to Azward. No fear shown in the child's
expression, though a large dose of twinkling curiosity shown in the boy's
brown eyes.

Yet he did not ask about the mage's outward appearance - the music had
always been the whole for Gwion, and much to dismay of the adults around
him he tended to follow the rhythm fearlessly. And just as fearlessly he
had looked beyond the scars and wounds and differences (much to his own
adopted father's heartfelt relief).

"Your music is all different rhythms,"  the boy said, with great wonder,
to Azward, "Its like......a band ..an orch..?"

"Orchestra?" Fionnar offered helpfully.

"Yeah...," Gwion answered.

Morrighu didn't interrupt, though she kept a sharp eye on her son; knowing
the boy could soon launch into a whole array of none-stop questions, which
would be a good time to point him back towards Marla and Toby, and the
rest.

[Azward]

"Oh?"  Azward smiled.  "Well, when a human lives as long... and has been
through as many changes as I have, I suppose the experiences leave their
share of marks upon the soul.  Your own aura is quite the lovely spectrum.
I don't think I've seen your particular confluence of colors before."

[Gwion/Others]

"Thanks," Gwion said cheerfully; the mage's tone had sounded
complimentary, though the boy still wasn't sure about "confluence."

Morrighu could almost see the herd of questions gathering in her son's
mind. She rested her pale hand on the boy's head and gently said, "Now,
thanks to your help, a new name has been chosen, and now Miss Dyer has her
part to do...and that will take a long time."

Gwion nearly asked if he could stay, but like all in the children in the
house he knew that serious magic should not be interrupted. He still
couldn't believe that _he_ had helped in some of this serious business!

"Go ahead and let Marla know all of you can have cookies out in the
kitchen," the pale elven woman said. She turned her son towards her and
said, "Gwion...I'll talk to all of you later about what happened here..."

The boy could tell his part in the proceedings was quite done, and after
telling Miss Dyer "good bye," he told Mage Azward that it was "really nice
to meet him." Questions lurked in the boy's gaze, but he headed on out,
and his mother closed the door after him.

When she turned back she explained, "If Mr. ...Sithiche was to be sent to
another safe house then no more would need to be said to others in the
household. However, he is still recuperating and the changes would be
impossible to hide. We learned during our days as fugitives from the
Church it was far safer that the children know our cover stories, and
understand the importance of them." What she didn't add was that the
practise was still necessary - there was much about the Politi house in
Jord that was hidden.

[Azward]

The mage made it a point to remember the boy's name... which meant he
would forget it tomorrow as opposed to later today... so that could keep
track of him, and possibly interview him later.  Those with magical talent
were always worth keeping an eye on.

Azward chuckled at his own little joke... the idea of magic worth 'keeping
an eye on'... for someone with HIS peculiar vision was somewhat amusing.
He doubted anyone else would get the humor in it.

"So what sort of memories will Mr. Sithiche be carrying around?"  he asked
Ms. Dyer. "Have you already got his life planned out for him?"

[Batista/Fionnar]

With a rustle of silken skirts Batista stepped forward.

Fionnar offered, "Miss Elektra and Morrighu were kind enough to help me
work on some ideas..."

::And Elektra was very thorough in relaying those to me,:: Batista sent,
::So I would have time to work out a base story.:: She still felt very
dubious about the "Fionnar's" ability to carry out a new life without
slipping into old habits. Or acquaintances. Most protected witnesses were
their own worst enemies.

However, the spirits seemed to think the young investigator was worth the
effort, and he seemed to be the gentleman young Elektra had taken a fancy
too. Batista admired Elektra was a young woman of talent and solid sense -
a survivor and practical; she was willing to give the young woman a
chance at keeping her (potential) beau in one piece.

::We figured a son of a merchant, since Mr. Sithiche said he knows little
of woodcraft....from one of the elven enclaves beyond Claremont. And being
of the merchant class he would have the knowledge of numbers and
record keeping....., but as a younger son he would easily have become a
wanderer. Mr. Hillrover offered to "hire" him till he's healed, and then
he will have a job awaiting him at the Council hall, which will also
allow for a smoother transition.::

"And there's a few of the Guard about....." Fionnar murmured.

[Azward]

The mage mulled the details of the fabricated life, taking a few long
seconds to do so.  There were no glaring irregularities, and the presence
of the Guard would help keep the lad safe.

"Is that sort of life enough to keep Mr. Sithiche's attention... to keep
him from falling back into habits and behaviors that no longer belong to
Mr. Sithiche?"

[Fionnar/Batista/Morrighu]

Batista refrained from stating her doubts on the topic; after all witness
protection programs weren't the usual area of expertise for either an
ex-Refuser, or a cloth merchant.

Fionnar looked thoughtful (a unique sensation in his new "skin"), and he
shifted uneasily beneath Azward's, Miss Dyer's, and Morrighu's questioning
looks. "While its not as 'exciting' as being a private investigator ...but
I think I can do without that kind of excitement for a long while to come,"
he shrugged, and added, "And its a far better opportunity than the
half-breed son of an exotic dancer and a sailor ever would have..."

He trailed off into a self-conscious chuckle, "Though some of my manners
may need a bit of polishing...."

"Not that I've noticed," Morrighu answered, both reassuringly and
honestly.

[Azward]

"...best not to be TOO well-mannered,"  said Azward.  "Tends to draw the
wrong kind of attention in this town.   So I've heard."

[Batista]

Batista Dyer sent, ::A few rough edges never hurt, but I'm sure any
'polishing' can come during your continued recuperation. In the meantime,
do you feel rested enough for the next stage of your metamorphosis?::

The investigator studied the black haired woman, and again had the
impression that all the pain ...and joy....slipped over her like water
over glass, and never, ever, touched the soul that lay within. And he
didn't doubt she could sense his unease. "Yes," he managed, "There's no
half way this afternoon."

::No, there's not,:: she answered, and with a graceful move of her skirts
she settled into the chair near him.

"Are you sure you don't wish anything beside water?: Morrighu softly asked
Azward, and gestured him towards a comfortable chair by her's.

[Azward]

"Oh, quite sure,"  the wizard said... touched that Morrighu would even
think to ask.  "I've got a tad bit more work to do, and it's best that I
keep my mind clear.  Food tends to slow down the reflexes a bit.... even
the mental ones.  I'll be more than happy just to sit here and watch..."

The oddness of his last phrase... coming from a blind man... escaped the
mage completely.

[Morrighu/Batista]

"Perhaps later then," Morrighu said, setting a glass of water on the table
near his chair, and then she resumed her own seat.

While they settled themselves Batista began to settle into a mild trance.
Creating a superficial persona in order to hide oneself was easy enough;
trained in her long years as a Refuser, and polished by the Company, Cari
often used the skill for traveling the less savory parts of Montfort. And
in the Republic, while on a mission for the Company, she had maintained
her cover for several months.

However, her background gave her the discipline to be always conscious of
the vital details.

All things Emmon Filgers, now Fionnar Sithiche, probably lacked.

Yet, after helping him to settle into a more relaxed frame of mind she
began the painstaking work of grafting his reactions into those of his
new "life." The process was made more difficult because he needed to
retain his real memories, and not have them eradicated, or buried so
deeply, that they negated the reason he was staying in Montfort. He needed
to have the chance to remember the attackers that murdered William and
nearly killed him.

She worked within the molecular structure of his brain: building up layers
upon layers wardings, laying distractions for any who might probe, and
covering those with "memories" of his new life.

Even this she was dissatisfied with - his reactions would not _quite_ mesh
with his history; people would be left with the itchy feel _something_
wasn't quite right. She had been pondering that technical problem and even
now struggled with the nuances of melding his physical and vocal reactions
with his new persona.....Amongst her thoughts, slipping between her own
wardings, came the touch of a familiar mind ...with the softness of wings
brushing against the skin, and within her mind formed a word. Not any
word, but one that resonanted with power; yet a simple word from a tongue
as fluid as the playful waves on an ancient, and older than most
mountains.

Despite having agreed to accepting Corvin's help she still wondered at the
meaning of the word, and again she tried to sense what power emanated
from this mysterious utterance, but all she could tell was that it was
beyond ancient. But she knew the limits of her own abilities she trusted -
and "spoke" the word in the depth of Fionnar's soul.

Cari could feel his sense of self entwining with his new "history," and
"Emmon" became like a hidden twin, who could offer up knowledge, but who
did not rule Fionnar.

Nor had she ever felt so exhausted as she slumped back in the chair -
where she sat having the odd sense of deja vu. She could remember the feel
of that strange sense of "old" and "new" coming into harmony, and realized
that in some way Corvin had created someone new when he had returned her
"patched" soul.

She felt both wonder and unease at thought.

[Azward]

Azward watched the proceedings with rapt attention, unconsciously sliding
forward to the edge of his chair and wrinkling his brow as he studied the
ephemeral... almost invisible, even to him... lines of force connecting
Batista's aura with that of 'Fionnar.' It was impossible for him to tell
exactly what was going on, but he could tell that SOMETHING was
happening... and that that something was quite interesting.

Azward stifled a frown when a slight change rippled through Ms. Dyer's
aura near the end of her contact with the new elf.  For an instant, it was
as if someone else was present... not there in the room, but... somehow...
beside it.  Close enough to interact with them, but choosing only to do so
with Ms. Dyer. Azward quickly... and furtively... cast around for any
signs of intrusion or remote espionage, but there were none.  When the
brief flutter was gone, Ms. Dyer finished her work... apparently having
saved the most difficult and profound parts to the very last (after the
flutter... hmmm...).

"That was interesting,"  Azward said when she appeared to relax.  "At the
end there... very interesting."

[Batista/Morrighu/Fionnar]

::Quite challenging,:: she sent, with a now obvious sense of fatigue to
her thoughts, and the overwhelming desire to add, that "interesting" might
be an understatement.

Cari tried to grasp at the word - to remember it for later study, but she
found that one word had expanded out and fulfilled its purpose this day.
Leaving nothing of itself behind.

"Are you both all right?" Morrighu asked, silently standing, and stepping
over to the couch. She had felt the brief hint of Corvin's presence, but
took no alarm from his help.

::Yes, thank you,:: Batista answered, rallying her strength. She was loath
to admit that her energies were still recuperating, and this had been one
of the fullest tests of her stamina since the wyrm's attack. And her
restoration.

"This is going to take a little used to," Fionnar remarked, looking both
bemused and awestruck.

[Azward]

"Very good,"  Azward said with a slight grunt as he rose.  "Feel free to
eat or talk while I finish... this won't be nearly as exacting as the
previous..."

The mage squinted at Fionnar... an expression that distorted his already
odd face even further out of shape.  The skin around his bulging eyes
collected into odd folds that were far too deep to be called wrinkles.
The eyes themselves glistened and rotated rapidly back and forth in their
sockets as the mage examined the faint traces of magic still clinging to
the elf.

Actually, the traces weren't all that faint.  Any mage worth his spellbook
would be able to tell something had been done.  Azward's remaining task
was to muddle, obscure, and erase those tell-tale tracks.

He waved his hand through the elf's aura, dismissing the outermost layers
of static magical energy.  That was the easy part.

"Hmmmm..."  Azward hummed.  He walked around Fionnar, making a series of
gestures at various places along the circumference of the elf's chair.
When he had gone completely around the elf, Azward muttered a spell that
drove tiny tendrils of anti-magic into Fionnar's aura.  The tendrils
followed the curvature of the magical field that still clung to the elf...
and everywhere they went, they ate away at it like water dissolving a lump
of sugar.

"Hmmhmmm, scrub, scrub, scrub..."  Azward muttered, unaware that he was
speaking aloud.

When the process was done, Azward repeated it, this time using a different
'flavor' of antimagic.  He repeated it a third and a fourth time as
well... with each iteration removing more and more of the increasingly
faint remnants of his previous work.

Finally, there was nothing but a faint cloud of glowing, multicolored
dust... invisible to all but Azward... that the mage simply brushed away
with his hands.

"There,"  said Azward.  "All clean."

The mage wanderered over to his chair and sat down.  He retrieved the
blindfold from his pocket and began tying it over his eyes.

"And that, as they say... is that."

[Batista/Morrighu/Fionnar]

::Quite remarkable,:: Batista sent, with honest respect for Azward's
abilities, ::I have never seen magical traces removed so thoroughly,::
Definitely a mage to stay aware of.

She had first thought that he would be worth investigating as a Company
candidate, but decided that Mr. Azward had more morals than would be
healthy for a Company agent.

Morrighu, much like her adopted son Gwion, followed the rhythms of magic,
and had felt the changing nuances in around Fionnar. He had not yet
completely come under her protection - at least not to the point that she
would sing his soul song at his demise, but she had learned something of
his soul while he had been under her care, and stood a strong chance of
one day becoming "family." She had "heard" the reshaping of the half elf,
and knew that more than simply his form had been changed.

"Welcome to your new life, Fionnar Sithiche," she said.

"Thank you," he answered, still looking bemused, "Thank you...to all of
you."

[END]

copyright 2001 by all the authors: Cathy Mosley, Dark Icon,
Boyd Boedeker, and Becca Ward