The next morning, Topher awoke alone; Hana's bedroll was empty, and he could dimly see Zanasha standing a ways off in a guard position. Numbly, he began to go through his exercises -- stretches, push-ups, squats, and sit-ups -- out of pure reflex, but eventually he began to notice that his mind was beginning to relax. The structure and focus of his routine anchored him, kept his mind off whatever was coming, and he marveled at what a difference it made. If it wasn't literal constant torture, everybody would be doing this.

He was struggling through his fourth twenty-rep set of pike push-ups when he noticed someone was watching him; he tried to look up, lost his balance, and flopped over onto one side in a gasping, sweaty heap. Scrambling to his feet, he realized that Zanasha had come over to check on him, and blushed -- he was only wearing a pair of shorts. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd notice."

The half-orc cocked her head slightly, then blinked. "Why do you apologize?"

Topher looked away. "Ah, you know. It's embarrassing." For so many reasons. Because I'm fat and ugly and old and wrinkled and hairy and inept and clumsy and you're way out of my league. Pick any number.

"Why would you be embarrassed?" Zanasha gently set down her sword and shield, then moved to exercise alongside him. "You have grown very proficient in many exercises after only a short period of instruction. Your strength has increased greatly; if you can do twenty pike push-ups, you can do handstand push-ups as well." Lifting her feet gracefully up into the air, she demonstrated, pumping her entire bodyweight (with armor!) to full extension several times as if it were effortless.

Topher rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I think that one might be a little beyond me still. I'd fall over."

Abruptly, Zanasha rolled back onto her heels, then stood next to Topher; one gauntleted hand touched his right shin carefully. "May I?"

Topher gulped. "Uh, okay. Just don't act surprised when it goes poorly." Trepidatiously, he let her pull his foot upwards, so he was balanced only on one foot and his hands.

"Can you shift your weight?" He couldn't see her face, but her tone didn't sound mocking or amused; she seemed calm, serious, and legitimately interested in the answer. And so, puffing with exertion, Topher tried; he engaged his core and scissored his legs, pushing down with his right leg while pulling his left leg up and forward. At first, he felt immediately like he was going to fall, but he gritted his teeth and wobbled precariously as his muscles fought for equilibrium; then, slowly, he eased his way into a plank, supported at the ankles by her rock-hard grip. "There. Make an attempt?"

Groaning and straining, Topher tried, and found that he could; his body felt as heavy as a ton of bricks, and every muscle in his arms, legs, and back was twitching and jerking. But, despite everything, he managed first one handstand push-up, then another; then, suddenly, his strength and balance failed, and he fell, his knees and hips buckling as his arms gave out and he collapsed. Gasping for air, he barely had the strength to choke out the runes for Remove Fatigue for several seconds; then, in despair, he rolled back onto his bedroll and began picking leaves and twigs off his bare limbs and torso. "Sorry. I guess it was too early still."

"Not at all. You managed two; eventually it will be three, then five, then six, then eight, then ten." The half-orc recovered her weapons and sat, looking contemplative. "You have become very strong, Friend Topher. Cha'tuk. It is an achievement."

Topher winced. "Thanks. But I don't really feel like it's me; it's just the magic, letting me cheat my way into doing more reps and exercises. I didn't earn it the hard way like you and Hana."

The half-orc produced a whetstone from somewhere, then began to sharpen her sword, not looking in his direction. "Your abilities may allow you to recover more quickly, but you must still endure each and every test of your fortitude and tenacity. Just as we have."

Topher felt awkward and mumbled something; gathering his robe around his sweaty form, he blundered off into the forest for a little privacy before casting Create Water in a bottle and dousing himself in lieu of a real shower. He was just about to don his cloak again when he heard a step behind him, and whirled to face the newcomer; but it was only Hana, dressed in a black cloak and with her hair caught up in a large towel. He blinked. "Did you take a bath, or something?"

"Among other things, Bailey-sama." She unfolded a bundle of sticks from her hip pouch, then assembled them into a stool; she patted it hesitantly. "Please sit. This will take some time."

Bemused, Topher drifted over and did as he was told; as he watched, the young Japanese woman drew her Flux Blade, then began to shape it into a strange array of tools -- scissors, combs, brushes, and even what looked like a paint roller -- before nodding in satisfaction and turning in his direction. "In order to pass as a distinguished mage, we will need to change your appearance. I have had dealings with other court mages in the past; as a result, I believe I may have some small skill that I can use to cut your hair and beard accordingly." Her head dipped slightly. "With your permission, of course."

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Huh?" Topher blinked. "Oh, sure." Anything would be an improvement, he thought to himself with a wince.

"Let me know if you become uncomfortable; it is best if you do not move during the process." She withdrew a small ceramic bottle containing a whitish substance from her pouch -- hey, she had that last night, too -- and began to dip her Flux Blade daintily into it as it morphed into the shape of a spindly brush. "You may wish to close your eyes, as well. This will take some time."

As he was told, Topher closed his eyes; he was too tired and stunned by all the recent events to even think about their next course of action. Instead, he let his mind drift, half-dozing as he felt her slender hands push and snip and brush and comb at his hair and beard. It seemed to go on and on; at least an hour, probably longer, and his stomach began to rumble. Can't mess it up. Everything might depend on our disguises being perfect.

Then, finally, it stopped; Hana cleared her throat. "I have finished, Bailey-sama. Please open your eyes."

Obediently, Topher did so; he blinked in surprise. A face was there before him, looking dour and startled; it took him a moment to realize it was his own face. She turned her Flux Blade into a hand mirror. His brain, finally making sense out of what he was seeing, resolved the image into clarity.

The hair on his head had been almost completely cut away; only a small, dapper thatch on each side remained, cut short and trimmed expertly to form a sort of wreath that encircled his brow. The hair continued down the sides of his face, merging with his sideburns, then faded into a tawny gold -- she bleached me?! -- that shaded into white as it expanded into a long, elegantly styled beard and mustache. His mouth dropped open, awed. "Holy crap, lady. You're the real wizard here."

A small, self-satisfied smile flickered across Hana's lips before disappearing almost instantly. "It was nothing, Bailey-sama. I am grateful to be of service." Hanging the mirror from a fork in a tree branch, she deftly extracted another small bottle -- brown this time -- out of her hip pouch and began to paint thick, precise lines of what looked like pigment on her face as she carefully watched herself in the mirror. "I have had trouble deciding on an alias; have you any suggestions?"

"Hmm." Topher rubbed his chin, marveling at the smooth, fluffy beard that had abruptly replaced his usual filthy rat's nest. "What about 'Vanna'? Close enough to your real name that people won't necessarily notice if we slip up?"

"Vanna." The other woman nodded. "It would seem exotic, to the people of this world, while still being familiar enough to their normal names that it would not seem otherworldly. A wise choice." As Topher watched, she applied other sorts of makeup to her face, then began to blend everything together with a small brush; when she was done, she turned around, removing the towel from her hair and the cloak from her shoulders in a single motion with a flourish.

Topher gasped.

The woman before him was totally unrecognizable as Hana Shirakane; her hair was now long, straight, and bone-white, and styled in a much more windswept fashion than the tousled, languid coiffure to which he was accustomed. Her clothing, too, had changed; she wore high boots and stockings with leather padding, a corset and low-cut white blouse, and a sturdy-looking black coat which came to her knees. Most striking of all, however, was her face; the lines and contours of her bone structure had been shaped, shaded, and lifted into a totally new arrangement. Her heart-shaped, soft-cheeked countenance had been replaced by a narrow, severe beauty that screamed competent and dangerous to the observer; Topher whistled in appreciation. "There's no way you're telling me that's not illusion magic."

"Only the sorts of illusion magic women always use," the young woman retorted, a plucked and bleached eyebrow quirking upward in slight disdain. "But, attired thusly, I can undertake the next stage of preparation."

"What's that?" Topher couldn't imagine what else could be needed for this.

Smirking grimly, the young woman retrieved her Flux Blade and flourished it; in a moment, it had become a handle bearing a spool upon which cloth tape was wound, marked in precise intervals. "Your measurements."

----------------------------------------

That evening, just as the sun was setting, a strange procession arrived at the main gate of Strathmore.

In the lead was a white-haired woman, toting a rugged leather bag and striding with purpose; those members of the Adventurer's Guild who spotted her recognized at once the bearing and mannerisms of a trained scout. Behind her marched an armor-clad figure bearing shield and sword at ceremonial guard; and, bringing up the rear of the party, strode a bearded man.

His chest was broad, and swathed in purple silk; a voluminous robe of blue and gold, cut to enhance the broad sweep of his shoulders and arms while tapering flatteringly down to his hips, swayed majestically as he walked. In his right hand, he bore a huge staff of twisted pine -- easily six feet long -- but he carried it as though it weighed nothing (which it did, because it was almost entirely dead wood painted with lacquer). Anyone who looked upon him could see that he was not only a mage, but one of great stature and power -- an impression enhanced by subtly coached poses, carefully-corrected posture, and deft little cinches of fabric beneath his clothes to enhance and suggest a more trim and courtly physique than perhaps was actually there. But such are the trappings of society.

The gate guards were confused -- no official visitors were expected today, let alone on this, the most prominent of dozens of routes into the city -- but the explanation provided by Vanna Dandere, Herald to Master Copperfield, was more than convincing enough. The mage himself said very little, merely nodding imperiously, as his party were admitted and directed to a luxurious inn.

As they approached the entrance, Topher's back was already covered in sweat; this is insane. I'm insane to go along with this. But there was no way out now.