The two siblings warily approached their unfamiliar savior. The Islander with the colorful, expensive looking clothes, heavy accent, and orange flower tattoo on his head offered a hand to Marisol. After a barely perceptible nod from Racqein that she saw out of the corner of her eye, Marisol put her hand in his and let him hoist her onto his horse. She sat side saddle in front of him, leaning forward as much as possible, not wanting to dirty his fine clothes with her dusty and grass stained dress.

“Issa!” the rich Islander called to one of his men, “let the boy on your horse until we reach Engroch!”

The man named Issa threw his head back and groaned, spurring his horse to take a few steps towards Racqein. He was a burly man and definitely one of the oldest amongst them. He had dark, weathered skin, a bald head, a long curly beard streaked with gray, and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that hinted at a jovial nature.

Racqein retrieved his sword from the soldier and tried to casually swing onto the back of the man’s horse, but his foot got caught underneath him and he almost tumbled over the side. Issa’s thick arm caught him around his scrawny waist and, laughing heartily, righted him, “your legs getting too long for you, boy? Can’t even move right!” Many of the other men joined him in laughing as Racqein’s cheeks burned.

The fancy Islander bowed to the soldiers with a smile from atop his horse, “a pleasure meeting you gentlemen, thank you for returning my servants. Perhaps we will meet again in Engroch!” With that he snapped the reins and began galloping away, his entourage close behind.

In his mind, Racqein asked Cruxion, “I thought the city was called Engleroch...?”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Well it used to be,” Cruxion answered with a pout in his voice.

*

The Priestess of the Temple of Vasara sat in her office in the back of the temple making notes on her sermon for the next day by candlelight. She was already wearing her dressing gown, her hair loose, falling in graying waves around her face. Suddenly a frantic knock came at her door, “Priestess! Please open up! It’s an emergency!”

The voice on the other side of the door belonged to Elle, a young acolyte of the temple not even 8 years old. As an acolyte, she was one of the few people who could see the Priestess with her hair down and uncovered.

And she sounded panicked, on the verge of tears. The Priestess, Marsa, left her pen on the table and made her way to the door. On the other side of the door stood Elle, in her arms was a bleeding mass of fur. “This cat was hiding under one of the pews. I think he’ll die if we don’t do anything,” she spoke hurriedly, eyes filling with tears.

Marsa gently took the poor thing from Elle. Once it was out of Elle’s hands, Marsa could see the blood soaking the entire front of her dress.

The poor creature now in Marsa’s arms was so dirty and bloody that she couldn’t tell what its original fur color was. Under her hands its heart beat so weakly she could hardly feel it. “I’m sorry, Elle. There’s nothing I can do.”

Elle let out a wail. Bursting into tears. Marsa reached out and pat the young girl on the head, wincing when she realized she smeared some of the cat’s blood in her pale blonde hair. “The best I can do for it is give it something to help it pass quickly and painlessly. How about that?”

Elle’s tears slowed down and she sniffed loudly, “ok.”

Marsa laid the cat down on the floor and went to retrieve some herbs from her cabinet. When she turned around and stepped away, Elle screamed. Marsa whipped back around and saw in place of the dying housecat, a hissing werecat.