Two moments, one composed of total peace and one composed of raucous violence, neighbored the other. Cyril never had the chance to warn his initiates before the bedlam visited their little campground. He could only receive its first overture instead of the younger wardens.

A violet arm, stretched to a formidable length, aimed to wrap itself around Wakahn. Cyril snatched the hand attached to the long arm and pulled on it like a rope, hand over hand. From the dark brush, a woman followed the arm, pulling back against Cyril’s strength to no avail. Her heels dug into the wild earth.

“Get to the others!” Cyril instructed his protegé. Wakahn obeyed him quickly, joining Piper and Soraya. More attackers encroached on their little campfire.

The woman snarled as she pulled on her extended arm. She carried a denizen in her body, a gwyll that transformed her arms into these elastic appendages. Her form was ragged and utilitarian. The attacker drew a dagger from her belt. She suddenly reversed her pull away from Cyril and rushed towards the warden. Cyril transformed and drew a dozen slashes against her skin with his gray claws.

Her company drew close to the kids. The most bold among them puffed up his cheeks into rosy pouches. The middle-aged man released his held breath and orange flames came with it.

“Here!” Piper pushed against Soraya and pulled Wakahn with her other arm. The trio rotated around the campfire. Piper quickly transformed and crossed her two newly grown arms. The red flesh resisted the strange man’s cloud of fire.

Another from the ambush made their attack. From his back grew brown spines like branches, that in turn grew pointed green leaves. His spellcraft commanded the leaves to fly from his back and towards the kids. The volley of pointed leaves cut through the empty space like arrows.

“Back, back!” Wakahn pushed his way against Piper’s rotation and brought himself before the leaves. He transformed as well and cut the soft green leaves to ribbons with his elbow blades. The green shrapnel harmlessly joined the undergrowth.

Their third attacker didn’t waste time waiting for a turn. He seemed to be spurred on by the sight of blades. The young man had long limbs and curly hair that disappeared with his transformation. His skin became a sickly green-yellow. A long, sharp road of bone escaped his wrist, a sword born from under the attacker’s flesh.

“Switch!” Soraya shouted. Wakahn and Piper followed this new rotation before realizing it was the youngest of them that had called for it. Soraya had tested her new transformation a few times, but never before brought it out in a real fight.

Wakahn broke from their little ring outside the fire to jump to intercept the yellow-green swordsman. Soraya transformed, back to the fire and faced with a killer. Black, metal armor wreathed the girl’s arms and head. The metal leaked from the girl’s skin like blood. It hardened into a protective covering instead of transforming Soraya’s body like most transformations. The helm over her head was a regal model, with a silver headpiece in three points. It completely disguised her face, but through the covered eyepieces, Soraya could see the world clearly.

Even outside the light of the campfire and under the growing darkness of the evening, Soraya never lost sight of her attacker’s bone sword. She crossed her arms over her head and the black armor deflected the blade.

Soraya remembered her training like a reflex. She stepped through the young man facing off against her and pushed her fist forward. Her punch, wreathed in the black armor, forced the air out of the man’s gut. He dropped his sword and gasped for air.

“Miss Hadessian!” Wakahn cried.

The attackers stopped striking out randomly. The fire breather gathered up the bone swordsman. Piper counted eight enemies including the stretchy girl that their master had already dispatched. The group wore a uniform of sorts. They were all bound by a leather belt strung across their chests. Every one of them seemed filthy, like they had been sleeping in the woods for days. Apart from that, few similarities could be drawn between the whole of the group, except they all seemed to have denizens and they all seemed intent on killing Piper and her friends.

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“Well done, Soraya,” Cyril said. He sauntered up to the young trio and mimicked Soraya’s punch. “But, remember, your plant foot needs to be more firm. All the power comes from there,” he acted out her punch in slow motion, reteaching the motion. “See?”

“Right,” Soraya nodded. Her voice was a little muffled by the helmet on her head, but her joy could be heard when it wasn’t seen. “But, he still went flying!”

“We should always strive for better,” Cyril wagged his finger. “‘Good enough’ doesn’t exist for us.”

“Fine…” Soraya said.

“Now…” Cyril turned his attention to the seven remaining bandits. “If you’re looking for valuables, I’m afraid we don’t have any for you. And I’m afraid my courtesy has been stretched thin enough in keeping your friend there from expiring.”

“And we thank you for it,” One of the bandits said. “Am I correct in ascertaining you are Cyril of Gwyllion Abbey?”

Cyril tried to make out the one who had spoken. He hadn’t made any kind of attack yet, but when he spoke, the others turned and listened. The stranger held sway over his pack of thieves. The stranger pulled a wide-brimmed hat off his hairless head. He was tall and well-built, the kind of physique one gets from training, rather than a life of manual labor. His fair skin and light eyes were clear in the night. The stranger was at least as old as Cyril, perhaps already fifty..

“Which would make him Wakahn Degatawa,” the stranger said. He had accepted Cyril’s silence as answer enough. “And you called the girl here, ‘Soraya.’”

“Surely you realize you have no quarrel with names such as these,” Cyril said. “You’ve not yet done anything I can forget.”

“No quarrel,” the stranger said. “‘Fraid they are my quarry, though, if you’re inclined to let everyone go with their lives.”

Cyril spat. Reason was not this man’s champion. “Kidnappers. Thugs.”

The firebreather spoke loudly against that accusation, “Hold your tongue!”

“No, no,” the stranger told his subordinate. “We are what is demanded of us, Eriq. This night indeed finds us blackhearts.”

The stranger appealed to diplomacy once more. He spoke in an even and calm tone. Everyone else stared daggers at someone else. “I’m Hagen,” he said. “Some have called me ‘Howling Hagen.’ We are Bathala Yard. I hope some knowledge of us might convince you to turn over the kids. To let this continue to be a peaceful evening.”

“If I ever knew you, then you’ve already slipped my mind,” Cyril was done entertaining the idea of losing any of his initiates. He would take Hagen down and scatter the man’s forces. Cyril pushed the physical limits of his transformation, rushing the other man. His speed lay inside Hagen’s expectations.

Hagen transformed and protected himself in the time it took Cyril to reach him. Hagen grew to at least ten feet tall. Rust-colored fur grew from his skin. The man’s head stretched into the long, featureless face of a wolf’s skull. Claws and a long tail grew from the man’s body. Moonlight seeped into the eyeless crevices of Hagen’s transformed head to form eyes like pearl mirrors.

Hagen’s new claws overpowered Cyril’s strength. He raised his arms and clobbered Cyril. The thundering blow brought Cyril to his knees and blurred his vision.

“Take our prize!” Hagen ordered. His soldiers followed the words and creeped towards Cyril’s initiates. Hagen raised his canine arms into the air, but Cyril disappeared out from under him. The warden escaped Hagen’s brutality and visited his own upon the man’s soldiers. Cyril zipped across two of the Bathala Yard bandits, scratching open their flesh in innumerable places.

Dizziness felled Cyril. He dropped to one knee, clutching his head for stability.

Wakahn panicked at the sight of his master falling twice. “We must flee!” He said.

“Nobody’s stopping you,” Piper said. Though she herself was inching away from the rest of Hagen’s forces.

“We have to help Cyril!” Soraya argued.

“He’s the one who’s supposed to help us!” Wakahn said.

The firebreather turned his attention from the kids to the prone Cyril. He reared back to spill forth another blaze from his lips. Cyril didn’t completely find his footing, but scored the man’s face by bouncing up from the ground. The fire spellcraft dissipated and its caster yowled in pain. He rolled around in the dead leaves, feeling at his own, scarred face.

“Focus on the kids!” Hagen ordered Bathala Yard. He ran at Cyril. Cyril swerved out of Hagen’s clutches, but fell once again. “I’ll take care of the babysitter.”

“Kids!” Cyril yelled from the forest floor. “Don’t go too far,” he told them. “I’ll be right back.”

“Pieces of you will be,” Hagen said.

Cyril found his feet for the third time. “All of me is right here.”