FSE

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Hornswoggled

by SummonTheElectorCounts

*****

Chapter 1: Dead End

The Dead End was the seediest tavern in the most wretched slums of Divinity's Reach, buried deep in the sprawling chaos of the Eastern Commons. This city was the last bastion of the last Human nation in Tyria: Kryta. It was also overcrowded, filthy, and plague-ridden, and no amount of taxpayer-funded carnivals, confetti, and brass band polka music was going to change that. Anton even had to step over three confetti-dusted bodies on his way down the narrow street, the corpse cart having not yet made its evening rounds. It wasn't worth bending down and checking them for valuables. In this city, you couldn't even hit the ground before the highly trained and organized street criminals cleaned you out.

The Dead End was avoided by most, including him. It wasn't the reek of sewage or the unbearable bleakness of its location that turned people away, although those didn't help. It was well known to be a hangout for necromancers and their backroom deals. People were routinely murdered in the back alleys here, and salacious rumors swirled about that the victims were selected and harvested by the denizens of the Dead End. Whether or not that was true, it gave Anton the creeps.

He wore a ragged traveling cloak, the asymmetrical shape and tattered ends methodically maintained to break up his silhouette and disguise his ability, as well as... something else that happened more recently. Not a day went by when he didn't regret stealing that artifact, that horn. He paused in the alleyway, putting hands to the sore, itchy nubs that protruded from his temples and the smooth new bone that poked through the skin.

By the time he squeezed his big shoulders through the ramshackle doorway of the Dead End, he was just grateful to get off the streets. His tall, imposing form caught the gathered smoke from the patrons' pipes, the dim, stinking oil lanterns, and the cooking fire, and he waved the wisps away with a big hand as he approached the sleazy looking bartender.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember why you're here, big guy. He's waiting for you upstairs, first room on the left."

Anton grunted. He didn't speak as much these days, not because he had an embarrassing voice but because it no longer sounded like his own. He walked up the stairs, his eyes no longer having trouble adjusting to the particularly dim lighting here. Waiting in the grim room and its bone adornments was his fence, Gabe. The skinny, balding, wide-eyed man looked unhappy, but not at anything that Anton did. He'd been worrying well before his arrival. Anton already knew that it was bad news.

"Well?" Anton asked.

"No sale."

"Didn't you tell him that we know about the appraisal problem and are willing to sell it at cost?"

"Yes, I made it abundantly clear to him, but... He was able to appraise it somehow, and now he says he wouldn't take it even if it were free."

Anton felt his blood rising, a red haze that never used to cloud his thoughts. He dispelled it by pounding a fist on the table, nearly breaking one of its legs, and barely got his temper under control.

"Tell me that's not all you accomplished in the last week, Gabe."

"I-I-I lined up a buyer of sorts! A woman, a necromancer. She's the one who appraised it based on my sketches and your description. She knows what the horn is and is still interested in it. She's agreed to meet with us tomorrow night, right here."

"Did you talk price?"

"150 gold, but she also mentioned that if you agree to part with it for free, she'll be able to pay you back with a favor."

"I seriously doubt she has a favor worth 150 gold."

Anton thought about the bid. 150 gold fell far short of what he'd originally wished to sell it for. It was even short of the cost of the heist itself. This wasn't some smash and grab operation at a merchant's shop. It took him months of planning, carefully placed bribes, and special equipment custom made for this one job. He'd even had to join the Durmand Priory to see it through. That he'd gotten away with it without setting off a single alarm was the most thrilling crime in his life, but the cost...

"She seemed pretty confident that you'd be interested. Is the Priory throwing that much heat at you?"

"Yeah, the Priory," Anton said, distracted. He'd involuntarily reached into the pouch containing the horn and was fondling it again.

"Well, you may want to take her up on that bid. I've done a lot of legwork trying to line up buyers for you, and I'm not holding onto something that hot, not with the Priory and the Seraph working together to find it, find us, and lock up the whole lot. This could very well be your last chance to sell without writing the whole thing off as a total loss."

Gabe stood up, as if to end the meeting then and there. "She'll be in this room tomorrow, same time. Name's Tomiria. I suggest you hear her out. I'm at the end of my resources."

Gabe left the room, leaving Anton smoldering. That fence acted like he was doing him some big favor when his job, his chosen profession, only involved lining up the right items for the right buyers. Anton had spotted the opportunity, developed the means to steal the artifact, and taken all the risks. He'd done it for the 700 gold Gabe promised. When the original buyer bailed, he panicked and made it obvious that he had something he wanted to unload. As new buyers held out and waited for the price to tumble further and further, Gabe just got more desperate while Anton was stuck holding onto this artifact.

Well, it hadn't entirely been Gabe's fault. He'd been the only fence willing to deal with such a hot piece of contraband. Plus, Anton had simply failed to show up to some of the buyers' meetings at all, and when he had he didn't exactly fill them with confidence in the sale. Something about the horn had a hold on him. It started by putting little ideas in his head. Now, though, he couldn't even be sure who he was anymore. He managed to draw his hand away from the garish artifact before returning to his hideout in Salma District.

Salma was the red-light district of Divinity's Reach, a walled off cantonment with a single heavy door, inside which there was an unceasing stream of pillow talking, giggling, and orgasmic exhortation. What made this area useful was that bands of thieves could quietly plot in confidence, the constant moaning and keening camouflaging the dark conspiracies. Additionally, it wasn't patrolled by the Seraph, Kryta's incompetent but irritatingly persistent militia. Otherwise, he'd have settled into the Ascalonian Quarter to be closer to his kin.

"Again, you bring me to this place, this teeming, filthy nest full of breeding mice. Why are we still here? Is it to suffer? You hate it too. I know you."

The voice was always his but rumbled, domineering in tone. His voice got a little deeper by the day as if to catch up, but he, it, whatever it was, always pitched lower.

"So this is the life of a thief. Always hiding, always on the run. The thrill of the crime, of the hunt... it all becomes empty if you cannot live on your own terms."

He set down the horn, leaving it in the pouch to avoid looking at it. If it came out he'd try to resist, but in the end his eyes were always drawn to it. They had been as soon as he'd broken the ideogram seals using a bomb made of water and the artifact settled in his palms.

"Yes, the water. Inspired. You used an understanding of the elements to free me, to ignore the stupid glyphs set in place by those old fools. You didn't use water to defeat flame. You used flame inside water to defeat flame. Very clever, for a mouse."

Anton knew that 'flame inside water' meant the explosive charge he'd fed into a hole he'd drilled into the cist, a hole he'd spent hours pouring water into. The explosive charge was small but the confined water cracked open the entire container without destroying the artifact within, completely bypassing its magical seals.

He tried not to speak back to the voice. It never helped, but there was his pride, and more importantly there was his identity. He had to hold on to his identity.

"Don't tempt me, beast. Your kind and your caste can't be trusted. The way my kind live, the hardship we face, it's your doing. You pushed us to the brink of extinction, pushed us so we had our backs against the wall, and yet you did not defeat us, nor will you defeat me."

"My hero, my liberator, what makes you think my goal is to defeat you? I simply want you to explore the possibilities all around you, to take command of the elements. Water. Air. Earth. Oh, and fire. Wondrous, passionate fire. Here you struggle to find candles when a pillar of light is at your very fingertips, eagerly awaiting your command."

"Silence, Charr! I cannot change what the world made me. I cannot change my class!"

"But my dear mouse, you already are changing. This body, your body... So inadequate, so weak, but you're improving it all the time. You want this strength, my strength. The full measure."

He wanted to deny it, but he couldn't. He was bigger than before, stronger, with a voice so low now that most of his old friends didn't recognize it as his. He relished in his newfound strength, the ease with which he could intimidate, but there were troubling signs as well. His fingers and toes itched constantly, and a steady, building pressure in his temples had produced a pair of tiny horns, the bone sprouting through the skin. He felt a similar pressure building in his cheekbones.

He had to have faith. Tomiria. He held onto her name. He would be there on time, he'd bring this cursed horn, and he'd sell it to her and be done with this whole imbroglio. If she was a necromancer and had the knowledge base to identify the artifact, she might even have the means to reverse the growth of the horns, return him to normal, wipe away this curse.

There was a whole day until the meeting, a day he'd have to spend in hiding with the artifact and its voice. He'd found one way to quiet his mind: Reading. He'd never gone to school but had trained himself over the years and did some additional cramming before joining the Priory. A modern history book he'd lifted from the Priory that covered the events of the last 300 years held his attention. He couldn't recall why he'd fixated on this book instead of any of the others, and it had been an additional burden to carry it out of the priory, but it was densely, clearly written and insightful. He'd been making slow progress through it and he found it helpful if he read each line aloud.

Chapters about the Charr especially held his attention, with the Searing, the rebel Pyre Fierceshot, and Kalla Scorchrazor's revolt, but no history is complete without some subject that bores the reader. As night fell and his cheap candles struggled to illuminate the text, he yawned while going over the unlikely ascendancy of Queen Salma, her consolidation of power, her long-lasting reforms of Kryta, her decision to naturalize Ascalonian, Canthan, and Elonian refugees into a multiethnic human nation, and her establishment of a new dynasty. Boring! What good story has all the explosions in the first act and ends with old people and family trees? How stupid.

Anton drifted to sleep on a makeshift futon he'd set up in the hideout, pinching out the candle he'd been trying to read by.

When he woke up, sunlight streaked in through the holes in the roof, meaning that it was after noon. He'd overslept again. A big glob of spit was on his pillow, but beneath that he felt something familiar at his fingertips, its presence humming in his bones and a ringing in his ears.

Clutched in his hand was the Horn, removed from his pouch and staring him in the face in its garish glory, pink coral with enchanted gold tracery. He could feel that voice rising in his head.

"Can't keep your hands off me, can you? Hierophant Burntsoul intended it as a humiliation, a prison for my soul in a shape that made clear the nature of my transgression. You, though, seem to enjoy it."

Anton let go of the artifact in horror, letting it roll onto the floor. His hands wandered to his temples. The horns, mere nubs when he'd gone to sleep, were now each as long as a thumb and had a distinct curve. He felt his cheekbones as well. A smaller pair of bony protrusions rose from the sensitive skin.

"No... No, not again!" Anton said, fumbling for the carry bag and throwing the Horn inside.

"Hmph, that's gratitude for you. Carefully make some changes while a man's sleeping, being ever so quiet about it, and he wakes up moping about what he lost. You thieves are tiresome. Your complaints are tiresome. 'Oh, society was cruel to me and I took matters into my own hands!' 'Oh, my parents never loved me!' 'Oh, no one understands me but the shadows!'"

As Anton got to his feet the 'changes' the artifact had made became clear to him. He was even more glandular and muscular than before. More hirsute, too, his body hair feeling distinctly disgusting and thick, like some Norn brute. The hand he'd clutched the object with as he slept was bigger than the other, more muscular, and redder. It was as if his whole arm had been crushed in a door, only instead of being engorged with blood it bristled with muscle.

"I've seen you with your friends, your colleagues. They talk as though the circumstances of society or the accident of birth are the only explanations for who they've become. They resent power. They resent you, your cunning, what you were able to do. To preserve their pathetic fantasies they'll kill you or sell you out rather than let you obtain real power."

"You can't possibly know that about my friends," Anton again found himself speaking directly to the voice.

"Why not? I had friends just like them once and look what became of me. You need someone dependable, someone honest, someone who won't leave you, who can't leave you. You need me."

Anton couldn't stand it a moment longer.

"Shut up! Shut! Up!"

With a fading, growling rumble, the voice blessedly went silent. Anton slipped on his cloak, noting how it barely managed to cover his shoulders now. So long as it covered his horns, though, the worst that would happen is that someone might mistake him for a Norn.

He decided to return to the Dead End early and wait there for Tomiria. He brought the history book with him too to help quiet his mind. While walking the streets, he felt the imbalance caused by his massive right arm dissipate and even out, a warmth spreading across his shoulders and upper body.

The warmth eventually became a tickle, then the tickle became an itch. He wouldn't have been much of a thief if he lost his composure due to a bit of itchiness, so he tamped down the impulse to start scratching himself all over. This early in the day, the Dead End was virtually empty. The bartender again referred to him as 'big guy', then let him go upstairs.

To pass the time he continued reading the history book. He found himself fascinated by events that transpired in Ascalon. He'd been raised in Ebonhawke, taught to hate the Charr for what they'd done. This history spoke of great rebellions within their ranks, sea changes in their society, each one drawing their might away from the Humans to fight each other, each one resulting in them consolidating power under a fresh new regime and returning with greater force. Why hadn't his people taken these opportunities to reassert themselves, to take back their lands? Why hadn't they adapted like Gwen Thackeray had, like the Charr had? Instead, after she'd died, the leaders of Ebonhawke had frittered away chance after chance and told their children that fault lay with the Charr, the other, the outsider.

Perhaps the voice in his head, that cursed thing, had a point. It hadn't nudged him to this conclusion. He'd arrived at it on his own. If power is not exercised or spent, it simply transfers to the hands of another.

As he let that pearl of wisdom sink in, he noticed an uptick in the usual smoke, followed by the telltale aroma of burnt paper. He followed the smoke down to its source, the history book, which was now on fire. The next thing he noticed was that the book was on fire because his hands were on fire.

In a panic he threw the book to the ground, stomping it while trying to extinguish the flame. In the process, tongues of flame leapt out to his ragged-edged cloak and set that on fire too. He tore that off, setting more parts of it ablaze with his flaming hands, and stamped out the flames on that as well after most of it had been consumed.

Finally, he ran around looking for a wash basin, a tub, a garderobe, anything with which he could extinguish his hands. He made it all the way downstairs, where he found the barkeep washing some glasses, and thrust his hands into the wash water. The resulting steam threw suds everywhere.

"What in Balthazar's name was that, son?"

"Er, old parlor trick that went a bit wrong."

"Well can you please refrain from burning down my establishment? It tends to drive up the cost of business. And what's with the horns?"

Anton became keenly aware of the fact that removing his cloak had revealed just about everything.

"They're... a costume! For a masquerade ball! It's treaty-themed."

"Uh huh. Look, big guy. If you don't want to explain, you don't have to. Just don't piss in my ear and tell me it's raining."

His hands had been on fire and they hurt intensely, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out how it happened. He almost didn't want to look at the condition of his skin, but he couldn't spend the rest of the night with his hands in the wash water. As he withdrew them, he was surprised to see no flushed skin, no blisters, no signs of burns at all. Instead, they'd swollen in size and sported fingernails that had become sharp inch-long claws.

He pushed them back underwater before anyone could see them, quickly trying to think of a way to hide his panic and this grotesque development. He ended up clutching his hands into fists, concealing his fingertips as he drew his hands out.

"Forgive me, I'm a bit rusty. It's been almost three centuries, after all," The voice returned.

Anton managed to get himself under control. This just underscored the urgency of meeting Tomiria, that's all. He thanked the barkeep and returned up the stairs, picking through the remains of his cloak before writing it off. Ironically, the book had only suffered superficial damage, losing a few pages and getting singed, but that was it.

Anton found himself sitting on his hands in a vain effort to arrest... whatever was happening to them. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long as he heard small footsteps padding up the stairs. As she rounded the bend he was immediately struck by her green skin, pale eyes, and hair that was made of succulent leaves. So, Tomiria was a Sylvari.

She walked up to the table alone. She was dressed in a typical human garment and a riding cape, perhaps out of sensitivity toward the locals or to better blend in. It was probably the latter, if she was willing to deal in forbidden antiquities in shady places like this. She smiled and extended a hand.

"Tomiria. I'm a necromancer, but my passion is historical artifacts. You must be Anton. I believe we have a certain shared interest."

Anton tried to think of a reason not to take her hand, given his current situation.

"Sorry, I'd rather not shake. I get poisoned that way more often than I'd like to admit."

Her friendly, casual demeanor suddenly darkened, becoming much more commanding, nearby light bending and collapsing into her, swallowing her in shadow.

"I must insist. Show me your hand or I'll remove it by force."

It had only lasted a moment, but somehow both he and... the other he were in agreement for once. He stood up, revealing and extending an arm. In the open like this, the huge, bestial hand looked comical on his small human arm, even with the extra muscle. She gently took him by the wrist and closely examined his fingers, then ran her hand along his hairy forearm.

"Absolutely fascinating... Well, it's a good thing we met. Whatever you've got has a real kick to it, but I think it's still reversible."

She let go of his arm and he quickly retracted it.

"Reversible? How would you know about reversing ancient curses? You're a Sylvari, you can't be more than 7 years old."

"We pick up a great deal of knowledge in The Dream even before we're born, and I've been around a lot considering my age. Also, despite all appearances I suspect that you are not actually cursed, so... hooray!"

"So this is normal behavior for Charr antiquities?"

"Of course not. Just because it's not a curse doesn't mean it's safe. I strongly suspect that what you have is a fetish."

"Those people in Salma District have fetishes too, and none of them have claws and horns."

Tomiria paused for a second, then laughed with effortless haughtiness, like she didn't even intend to.

"Oh! That was a joke! I'm terribly sorry, the intricacies of human comedy are very rich and still quite beyond me. I am, of course, referring to a tribal fetish, an ornamental object imbued with symbolism and power, in this case an imprisoned soul. Fortunately for you, I'm fascinated by such items and know how to safely handle them. May I see this horn you referred to?"

Anton carefully pulled the pouch from his waist, then unfurled the horn, laying it on the table. Tomiria reflexively put a hand to her breasts, eyes wide and face blushing. She cleared her throat.

"Pardon. I was expecting a Charr horn."

"That's what this is, right?"

"Clearly, you're not acquainted with Charr male anatomy. Well, let's have a look at this- with a little protection, of course."

She drew a circle on the table with a piece of charcoal in her pocket, then scribbled some words in Old Tyrian around the inner edges of the circle. A small black wall of mist rose around the perimeter, inside which she laid the horn. As soon as she did so, it felt like something had been torn out of Anton, enough to make him stagger.

"Alright, it's contained for now. Let's have a look. Be a dear and turn up that lantern."

Anton extended the wick of a nearby oil lantern and the light quickly intensified in response. She held up the artifact, keeping it within the boundaries of the ritual circle and carefully examining it in the light.

"Polished red coral. Interesting choice of material, but understandable. Strong flame symbolism, but easier to shape than ruby. The gold tracery seems to have been shaped without any hands at all, but with flame magic. Pre-Searing Charr did not have precision tools, but clearly they appreciated precision work."

"What accounts for the shape?"

Tomiria squinted, "I cannot be certain, except for one thing. Hierophant Burntsoul was renowned for his cruelty and diabolical symbolism. His punishments were not limited to Ascalonians, and he often carried out macabre, grotesque sacrifices of rebels and heretics among his own kin. This level of craftsmanship and the... chosen shape suggests that the imprisoned soul was a powerful individual in the Flame Legion hierarchy that violated sexual norms."

"Sexual norms?"

"Goodness, you're not making this easy for me... The fetish is a Charr phallus. A rather large Charr phallus. It uses expensive, exotic materials from the far corners of what was once Flame Legion territory and is made with the methods of expert magic users. That means this is likely no ordinary prisoner, but one of high rank who was punished as a warning to others. I suppose you'll have to ask him why he deserved it."

Anton had trouble thinking, of bringing images together in his head. It felt like whatever Tomiria had done just shut off half his brain. He had trouble wrapping his mind around what she was saying. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were still clawed, still grotesquely large.

"Wh... Why haven't the claws gone away?"

"Well, that's the unfortunate part, and where my earlier proposal comes into play. I can permanently contain the power of this fetish, then buy it from you for 150 gold..."

"Or?"

"Or, I can take the artifact off your hands for free, then take you to a friend who can reverse the physical effects through flesh sculpting. It's unpleasant and not cheap, which is why if you choose to do that, I can't pay you because I'll be paying her instead."

"Wi... Will that restore my brain? My brain, feels so woozy, something's missing..."

Tomiria sighed, placing the artifact back on the table and looking at Anton with sincere pity.

"I'm afraid that's not her specialty. Well, chin up! Maybe it'll grow back!" Even as she said it, she didn't sound like she believed it.

"I want... I want my mind... back..."

Anton had trouble holding onto any coherent thoughts or statements, like his mind was caught in a whirlwind and firing in all directions. He could hardly move, and it took every ounce of effort just to speak in childlike sentences. Tomiria looked genuinely sad at this.

"I wish I'd known about this weeks ago before more damage was done. From what I can see of what remains, you've given up much in the name of your craft."

She paused, hesitating as she looked at the artifact. She didn't regard it with the same infatuation and need, but she looked torn about something. She smiled warmly, as if she'd arrived at a decision.

"Of course. How silly of me. There's always the third option."

"Whuz that?"

"I could simply give it back to you and walk away. If I do that, though, the changes will continue, maybe even blend what's left of you into him."

"Please..." A skein of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth, "Can't live with my mind... like this..."

She nodded, placed the horn in its pouch, and slid it across the ritual circle, out of its boundary. As soon as it did so, Anton's awareness seemed to flood back all at once. He snatched the bag from the table and held it to his chest.

"So that's it, then? No deal? The only thing I can do is let this filthy Charr take over my body piece by piece?"

She shook her head, "Astonishing. It seems there really is karma in this world, to force a Human-hating zealot and a Charr-hating fanatic to share the same body. I wish you two the best. I truly do."

With that, Tomiria stood up and left, wiping away the ritual circle on her way out, the circular barrier dispersing into fine, smoky wisps. Anton sat quietly at the table for what felt like a long time, thinking.

"Human," the voice in his head said. "Thank you. For a moment there, I thought I would be trapped again, unable to move, unable to scream for eternity. Now that I've returned, I'm never letting myself get so easily captured again. I will not rest until my will is done and your body is mine."

Horror spread across Anton's face. He shouted after Tomiria.

"Wait! Tomiria! Just kill me. Kill both of us. This thing, this criminal, this... beast! It can't be allowed to go free, not in my human body! It's not right!"

Tomiria didn't return. Instead, a different, smaller pair of feet labored up the staircase. The diminutive gray-skinned figure stood at the other side of the table where Tomiria had been, only his pointed ears peeking over the surface.

"A-ahem... krewe, if you please."

The Asura could have just climbed on top of the stool that was right there. Instead, a pair of attendants climbed the staircase, fitted a device to each of the mysterious individual's feet, then stepped back as he levitated into the air and came to rest on the table. He looked to be an older Asura, clearly some kind of bigwig, and both he and his krewe were dressed in red trim.

"Mr. Anton? It is such a pleasure to meet the subject in person. I know you just spoke with that Sylvari and that she went away empty handed, which means I am delighted to have the opportunity to offer you a very handsome sum for the artifact in question: 1,000 gold!"

"It's too much," Anton muttered, face down.

"E-excuse me? Too much? Are you quite insane?"

"The artifact was never worth 1,000. You never intended to pay me. You didn't even give me your name. Just kill me and take the damn thing, be done with it."

"Well... I guess there's no need for social skills in this situation. Saves me some time. You know, your old friends gave up your location for a very low price on the condition that I eliminate you. Unfortunately, killing you would be counterintuitive as you, plural, are the subjects of our forthcoming experiment. Please remain still to reduce tissue damage while we immobilize you for transport."

Anton had a dim view of the Asura, especially the Inquest, but he knew one thing for certain: They knew how to collect test subjects. The Krewe leader was very prompt to bring out a large gold-colored staff with a circular head that was wreathed in crackling energy. Anton couldn't be bothered to move as the Asura jabbed it into his hip. As electricity coursed through his body, he overheard his captor before falling unconscious.

"I'm going to make C-Level for this!"

*****

Chapter 2: A Way Out

Anton dredged up dreams from his subconscious from a life he'd never lived. The dreams weren't much different than being awake now, day and night blending together, time holding no meaning. He'd move his legs and his body would stay in place, just as if he were awake. He rarely had vivid dreams that he could remember, the out of context images and ideas never quite connecting into a narrative, but tonight he finally got a glimpse.

There were muscular bodies under firelight, twisting and intertwined, bathed in warm colors and covered in fur. It was difficult in the dream to tell where one body ended and another began. Both were male Charr, light dimly flickering from their horns as the fire undulated. The darker of the pair climbed over the lighter one, pulling him close, grooming him with his tongue, then entering him. He could feel their warmth, their shared pleasure. The sensation abruptly vanished as figures appeared in the doorway of the hut, eyes glowing intensely from orbs of blue flame they held above scorched Charr hands. The two males hurled themselves toward the attackers, the shadowy figures swallowing them up like the midnight sea.

"I served them loyally, but like so many others I was slain on the orders of the new Imperator, and of the Hierophant. First they cast down the females once they had served their purpose. Then they brought the warriors to heel, sacrificing those that resisted to power their war machines. Then they purified the ranks of the Shaman Caste itself, especially targeting males who took other males instead of siring children to fight in the coming war. As heretics our deaths were especially humiliating. We were used as examples to all Charr. I failed to exercise the power I had, so it was torn from me."

Anton awoke to see that he was facing the fetish, as always, its garish coral and gold drawing his gaze. It now sat in the center of the test chamber, affixed to a pedestal in such a way where there was no escaping its bestial lure. He'd let an opportunity to break its power slip through his fingers. Now the artifact's voice, once relegated to his head, passed through his lips as if it were his own.

"Do you expect my sympathy?"

"No, I expect you to use the power at your command and escape."

"The test chamber is sealed. There are no locks and no cracks in the masonry. There's only a tiny hatch through which they pass us food and a vent in the ceiling that's even smaller. I have no picks, no tools of any kind... not even clothes."

Remembering his nudity just made him more ashamed of the earlier changes to his body, the increased muscle, the horns sprouting from his temples, the bestial, clawed hands... Each one was a reminder of his failure of will, his giving in to the animal.

"Fool. Don't delude yourself. You know a way out of here, but you're not willing to take the next step. What are you so afraid of?"

"When Tomiria cut off your influence from my mind, I realized just how much of it you'd stolen. You said it yourself, you won't stop until you have full control of my mind and body, and I can't accept that."

"The Inquest won't wait on us forever. You know they're only driven by results. We have to give them results to buy time or we'll die in here, and I'm tired of doing all the work keeping this still inadequate body alive, feeding you, bathing you, keeping you entertained."

Anton thought about the proposal. Earlier, he'd been ready to die, but the Inquest didn't want him dead. He'd overheard their interest in tissue transmutation, as well as their displeasure at the lack of results. Soon they would take more direct experimental action, and he knew that whatever the Inquest cooked up would be worse than death.

"Leave me 20 percent."

This quieted the other voice for a moment.

"You wish to keep 20 percent of your identity, your mind, your human form? Why? You've only used it to think mopey suicidal thoughts."

"It's a good deal and you know it. It's considerably more than you have now."

"Grr... That's still a lot of leftover human. Then again... Yeah, that could work. That could work nicely. It's not like anyone else is lining up to take me."

"So, it's a deal?"

"Fine. Deal. Now take the fetish and stick it up your ass."

"No need to get testy..."

"Testy? I'm being serious. Ever since you held it in your hand you've wanted it. Whenever it's touched your skin you've absorbed a bit more of my power. Try it my way and the power will flood into you like never before. You want this over with quickly? You want to escape? That's how you do it."

"The thing is the size of my forearm!"

"We just agreed to a partnership, mouse, and you're the junior partner. Make it work."

Anton turned to the fetish. This pact, this proposal, it was the height of indignity. Half of him was nauseous, the other half was revolted at how eager and lustful he became at the thrill of putting that thing inside of him. He would become the oppressor, the invader, the archenemy of mankind, a filthy, bestial Charr, and he'd do it by giving in to this sick, slimy thing that had wormed its way into his mind. Worse, he'd do it all while somewhere out there the Inquest watched in silence.

He edged closer to the phallic fetish, repulsively and suggestively affixed to its pedestal. His instincts told him to hide, to be ashamed, but there was no hiding anymore and whatever shame stuck to his name for doing this would be better than the prolonged agony of Inquest trial and error. He didn't need to be aroused or happy, just to do the dirty deed and be done with it.

He straddled the object, then very slowly inched down onto it. He felt the cold stone tip against his warm skin, felt his sphincter resisting fiercely. He forced himself to unclench as much as he could, and still it wouldn't slide in. As he did so, bolts of a sensation somewhere between pain, nausea, and pleasure radiated from the point of contact. Whatever magic imbued the object was making contact, tingling, crackling, but the damn thing still would not go in. He'd never even considered anal intercourse before, and he had to go from that to sticking this thing whose tip was the size of a woman's clenched fist inside of him.

A sharp spike of pain shot up his spine, rebounded, and settled in his groin. He felt the muscles around his waist and hips twitching, and as he looked down he saw them swell, engorged with blood. Hot torrents of pain emanated from his pelvis as he watched the bone widen before his eyes. The muscles of his thighs, rump, and abdomen followed suit, growing in all dimensions and vastly increasing in tone.

Finally, mercifully, something seemed to pop and the fetish slid inside, the spurt of growth and transformation opening the way. As it touched the flesh inside his body strange, ancient, and extraordinarily pent up magic filled him like a torrent of ice water. The cool sensation didn't last, spreading quickly over every last inch of his body until his nerves reawakened and told the brain that something was very wrong. He arched his back as cool relief turned to sharp, cramping pain, then started mixing with pleasure. He leaned forward and began to stand up, feeling the ridges pull against his anus and his muscles clench around the object, trying to hold it in, but his legs proved strong enough to go free.

"Really? Just the tip? Eh, I guess it's a start, and-- Oh. Oh, my."

That interloper! That feline cheat! Had this all been another trick? His whole body trembled and flexed to the point where his skin felt constrained against his body. The popping and shifting of his pelvis started a chain reaction, working its way up his spine and down his legs in rippling spasms. His shoulders and arms seemed to explode, swelling rapidly until they became easily twice as wide as what had already been a formidable wingspan, his scapulae becoming vastly bigger and thicker. His ribcage grew in all directions, and it was beyond strange to feel the vital organs strain to grow into the new space, starting with his heart, which raced and swelled to keep up with the intense new demand. The greatly increased surface area meant room for huge new slabs of muscle across his back, chest, and neck. His neck grew so engorged that it almost overwhelmed his lower jaw, then shot a burst of growth to his putative horns, which now grew out of both his temples and the backs of his cheekbones. They became black, smooth, gently curving additions to his changing form, further proof of his age, masculinity, and acquired power.

As his arms rapidly swelled so too did his thighs, becoming positively massive. He collapsed to his knees not long after, lances of pain shooting down his calves and especially his feet. He shifted to a seated position and watched in horror as the arches of his feet lengthened. Worse, each of his big toes started creeping up his feet, the shifting bone dragging muscles, tendons, and nerves all the way, sending exquisitely sharp bursts of agony straight up his body. It was especially ironic that after his torso had doubled in size, what brought him the most pain was two little toes. With diabolical slowness what had once been his big toes crawled up the insides of his feet and latched themselves to his heels, sticking out of them like spurs. The pain had been so intense that he felt the blood drain from his head, knocking him unconscious in a last-ditch effort to stop the agony.

When he woke up again, he couldn't tell if he had been out for seconds or hours. Even without looking at himself, he could tell from the weight of his body and the sound of his own breaths that he had left behind a huge part of his humanity. Even though he'd done it himself he felt ashamed, violated. He turned an arm in front of his face, looking at the thick tawny hair sprouting all over it, the forearm muscles as big as his thighs used to be, the upper arms bulging this way and that. This garish, hypertrophic body made a mockery of human strength, making it seem completely inadequate by comparison. Perhaps that's what he'd been afraid of, the transformation not just wiping away his identity but his desire to be human.

His name. What was his name? He couldn't remember his name!

"You said you'd let me keep 20% of my identity! You lied to me!"

His voice was so low now that it was indistinguishable from that of a Charr. It sickened him to hear those animal rumbles and growls coming from his own throat.

"You never specified which 20% of your body or identity to keep. I appreciate the latitude you provided me. It showed surprising trust. Anyway, we're one of a kind now. You can't remember your name, I can't remember my name... We can make up a new one together. It'll be fun!"

"You've hornswoggled me, beast! This wasn't part of the deal!"

"Hornswoggled? Hm, that's not bad. Folksy, but fun. That could grow on me."

The voice chuckled in his head. Even now he could feel it pacing around in the expanded space he'd given it, stretching and making itself at home.

"Now, before you call me a cheat for the hundredth time, go ahead and look between your legs."

He turned down, suddenly aware of a certain heft and pull in the area. Spreading his legs apart revealed a parody of human anatomy. He had no sense of scale in this place, few objects to compare with, yet his uncut schlong was now nearly two thirds as long as the fetish, and about as thick. His testicles were covered in a fine dusting of hair, but each was now the size of a plum. In a technical sense this qualified as human anatomy, but the sheer size and girth of it even overmatched the changes in the rest of his body in terms of scale.

"All those nights you subjected me to those incessant, mewling, needy human orgasms in Salma District taught me that you humans really know how to have a good time. This isn't 20 percent of your body, of course, but we're already a good part of the way towards fulfilling the terms of the bargain."

He wanted to argue the point, but again he was pinned down on the technicalities. This was human anatomy. It wasn't the bright candy apple red of what he somehow now knew a Charr supposed to look like, and it wasn't sheathed when flaccid. He reached down to touch it with his overdeveloped hands, which had taken on an even more bestial shape with rough pads under his fingertips and along his palms, but again there was a bit more humanity to them than a Charr's hand, with much shorter claws and no hair on his fingers, palms, or wrists. His girth settled nicely into his hand, the naked skin retaining its sensitivity, already starting to swell.

"See? I didn't go too crazy with the hands. Those nimble, tactile fingers could come in handy. Mmm. It's like I'd hoped. Oh, that does feel good... You've been holding out on me, human."

He looked at his growing erection, equally fascinated and disgusted. As usual, the artifact had overdone it. If he tried to stick this in a woman it would break her in half. He could barely encircle it with the thumb and forefinger of his bestial hands, and it was long enough that he could grab onto it with both. His mind was filled with images of Charr. Male Charr. He inhaled deeply and, through sheer force of will, pulled his hands away, planting them on the ground at his sides. Again, his eyes wandered to the fetish. A disappointed sigh emerged from his chest, belonging to the other voice.

"Human, I must admit that in our time together I held onto a memory that your mind conveniently chose to discard. You didn't come across me because you wanted to make a lot of money, nor did you do it to embellish your reputation as a thief. You did it out of revenge, to get back at us."

He thought about it for a moment. He'd done it for the money, hadn't he? But then, why was this heist so atypical compared to all the others, and of all the things he could have stolen from the Priory, why choose a singularly rare, but not very valuable Charr artifact? The voice continued.

"You learned of a Pre-Searing artifact in the possession of the Priory, and you knew they would study it and publish findings on it. It didn't matter what the findings were. You wanted to remove the artifact simply to erase the history of the people you hate, to spite us. That is what you Ascalonians did when you first drove out the Charr to found your kingdom, and that is what you Ascalonians continue to do. Well, that history exists. I exist. I am a part of you, and that is a fact whether or not you accept it."

"You sought to erase me, still do."

"I've been stewing in that artifact for nearly three centuries. The fact that I was recovered by a human horrified me, but it was a possibility I'd long thought about and prepared for. I used to hate your people for what you stole from us long ago, how you built an enormous wall rather than interact with us, how you casually hunted down and slaughtered us like vermin. I poured my every effort into destroying that vile kingdom."

"So how does it feel to know that your life's work was for nothing, that in the end the Flame Legion was so eviscerated that it had to crawl and grovel before Bangar Ruinbringer to beg for clemency, that they had to give up their own children to save their skins?"

"It feels good."

The answer took him aback, but the voice continued.

"My legion was hijacked by fanatics who thought they could bathe and purify the world in fire. They either murdered or crushed the spirits of everyone who gave them trust and power. They exploited their allies and disrespected their enemies until the fate of all fanatics finally caught up with them. When their power imploded and the debts came due, they fell apart. As a people the Charr learned from the ordeal and emerged stronger, wiser, better. What astonishes me is that you Humans obviously haven't."

"So... are you saying that this isn't really an 80/20 split?"

"No. This was never about drawing a line and staying on either side of it. You're going to become a Charr, or something very close to it. That's just the way it is. As for me, I've already become more human, I can feel it. I accept the cost. I'm just waiting for you to accept yours."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"Finish it."

He turned back to the fetish. Damn it, if the Charr wasn't making sense. He'd spent so long nurturing his hatred of their kind that he'd forgotten to develop a personality of his own. That disgust he had with the Charr form, didn't it just stem from his prejudices? He'd rarely considered the benefits of that raw power on its own terms, always comparing it against a human ideal. What if, instead of keeping it at arm's length, he could make it work?

For the first time in weeks he simply sat, closed his eyes, and let his anger and anxiety slip away, clearing his mind. He was so tired now. He no longer had the strength to hold up the shield of old Ascalon. As soon as he relaxed his grip he felt the beast shift inside his mind, but rather than pounce on him and gobble him up as he feared, it relaxed as well. He felt the two entities conjoin in his mind, fusing together to create something that was neither Charr nor Human.

The moment immediately opened something up inside his body. Command of the elements and their destructive power came to him in an epiphany. Ancient, timeless evocations surfaced in his mind, and he spoke the binding phrases as they flooded into him.

"Behold, the ocean's power!"

He imagined crashing waves in a hurricane. Moments later, water pooled on the floor of the test chamber, swirling around him in a vortex.

"The wind obeys me!"

He imagined a wind so powerful that it tore down a stone keep piece by piece. The water dissipated, and he could feel a whirlwind rustling through his hair, spinning inside the test chamber.

"I summon the power of our lands!"

He imagined the mute, steady power of earth, great slabs of stone jutting from below in puffs of steam and fire. He felt the seamless stone floor of the chamber undulate and warp beneath him.

"Immolate!"

The last of the elements, the specialty of the Flame Legion. He imagined a place consumed, but also transformed by pillars of flame and gouts of magma. He felt the temperature quickly rise, felt flames licking over his hands without harming them. A lifetime of elementalist training flowed into him in the space of a minute, but the full measure of the power he'd need wasn't complete.

He turned back to the artifact. It was still a ridiculous, frighteningly massive thing, but he was now ready to accept the totality of its power and the consequences that came with. He peered through the windows of the test chambers into the impenetrable darkness. He couldn't see or otherwise sense the Inquest, but they were there, scribbling and chattering. He'd give them a show.

He approached and straddled the fetish, thinking about last time, that pleasure mixed with the pain of his shifting body. The sensation had disgusted him before, filled him with nausea and made his skin crawl, but now that he'd committed to this maybe it would be different.

He held a palm to the ground, attuning himself to the earth. The material was some sort of concrete, rigid but very porous, and through it he drew a small amount of mineral oil onto his hand, rubbing it along the surface of the fetish. Once it was slicked in a fine layer of the stuff, he got to his knees, straddled the artifact, and held his breath, carefully descending upon it.

It still hurt, but his size, his preparation, and his lack of hesitation this time helped immensely, the tip sliding in with far greater ease than before. Magical energy poured into him, that ice water sensation coursing from the small of his back all the way out to his fingertips. This time, though, he attuned himself to fire, an aura of radiant heat washing over him and percolating through his muscles. It alleviated the sudden contractions and spasms that had hurt him earlier, and he felt enrobed in comfortable warmth even as his muscles began to tense again and his bones shifted further.

He imagined the masculine Charr form, held it clearly in his mind, and found himself accepting it, no, desiring it. He'd long envied that effortless strength, the ease with which they conveyed power, the resolve that most people took for granted. He felt the rhythm of the changes, with the bone expanding, then the muscle, then the bone again. It hurt, but he found he could block it out and press through it. His heart fluttered and he was thrilled to see his shoulders and chest pump outward to the maximum that his bone structure would allow.

He thrust the artifact even deeper into himself, feeling it rub up against his insides like never before, rising and falling while exploring his shifting body with his clawed hands. That disembodied voice was completely gone now, fused with his own thoughts. He thought about how good an idea it had been to maintain just a smattering of human anatomy, like his unusually articulate hands and his smooth, sensitive genitals.

He attuned to the power of air, a soft breeze swirling through the test chamber as his body hair got denser and thicker, covering his body in a lion-tawny coat of fur that thinned out and became soft and wispy across his chest, belly, groin, and taint. The cool, gentle currents caressed the soft fuzz on his testicles and he felt himself getting aroused, his penis now roughly the size of the fetish, but still human in shape. He brought a clawed hand to it, gently wrapping around it and starting to stroke in long motions, his deep bass voice rumbling in satisfaction.

He became aware of a tightness in his tailbone and heard a pop-pop-popping sound as entirely new vertebrae grew out and lined up, gradually stretching out into a long, luxuriant leonine tail with a tuft at the end. It only took him moments to start swaying it as if it had always been there, the sensation being at once exotic and familiar.

His feet, the source of so much pain earlier, lengthened a little more, his toes forming into enormous paws tipped with large, hook-shaped non-retractable claws. Each paw was the same size as his entire head used to be. He reached his free hand to one of his paws, and even in his enormous grip it still felt big, reassuringly bulky, and adorned with thick, tough, and stealthy pads. These feet were 100% Charr, but they had to be to support his enormous muscle mass on their own.

He'd gotten his stretches in, but there was still just a little more of the fetish to squeeze. This was a floor to ceiling, wall to wall renovation, and he'd accept no shortcuts of any kind. He had to splay his big feet outward just so he could let his body down a couple more inches, letting go of his cock to pull apart his ass cheeks to get just a little bit wider, just a little bit closer to the base.

It was as if everything came together simultaneously. The especially girthy base of the fetish stretched him to the absolute limit, but also brushed up against the soft, sensitive tissue of his prostate, causing a chain reaction of orgasmic pleasure. At the same time, a big gobbet of magical energy shot up his spine and dissipated into his skull. His horns had a massive growth spurt, going from a juvenile hand length to almost twice that, facing backwards and developing a bit of an upward curve toward the tips. The smaller horns affixed to his cheekbones grew as well, becoming as long as his larger horns had been moments ago.

But the most satisfying and exciting change was his face, which had been human up to this point. His teeth grew rapidly, taking on a fierce predatory layout with enormous canines, small, sharp incisors, and fierce, meat shearing premolars and molars. No new teeth grew in, but the existing ones spread apart as a feline snout pushed forward. The pain was intense, with him squeezing his eyes shut and stretching open his mouth as wide as it would go while his whole skull changed shape. Charr teeth could get out of control, with canines and molars protruding out past the lips and enmeshing each other in a big, snaggletoothed mess, but his own teeth never got that far, and while it felt like his mouth was full of deadly weapons, it didn't overflow with them. As he carefully closed his jaws, his lips were able to rest over the entirety of his teeth, forming an even seal over his mouth. He smacked his big, rough feline tongue in his mouth as the changes to his face finalized, tickling his sinuses and causing him to sneeze and chuff.

He felt some residual twitching in his ears. He reached a hand up, expecting to feel four ears just like a Charr, but instead felt only two, but pulled back to points. This seemed to be another holdover from his former humanity, and the result was that his hearing was essentially unaltered.

His hair, though, had grown into a luxurious Rockstar mane. It was darker than the tawny fur on his body and ran down his incredibly thick neck and shoulders. Somehow the tips of each lock had taken on a bright magma orange color.

He'd brushed against his prostate before and felt a spurt of precum come out with enough force to hit the wall of the testing chamber. Now that the changes were just about complete, though, he attuned to water, a cool, soothing sensation sending a wave of icy delight across his feverish body, wisps of water vapor curling from him while he pinched his hard nipples with clawed fingertips. With one last push, one last effort to squeeze power from the fetish, he pressed up against his P-spot.

Now that he was this aroused and suffused with physical and magical power, that single connection triggered an intense, incredibly satisfying orgasm. Any inhibitions he'd had were well and truly gone as he sucked dry the magical marrow of the fetish, greedily drawing the last of it into himself. He took his enormous throbbing cock in both hands and pumped at it, drawing a couple precursory spurts of residual human seed before feeling all the right muscles squeeze.

Whether he'd gone without for 300 years or only a few weeks, the effect was the same. Rope after rope of semen emptied his too-heavy Charr balls, the first few splashing against the observation portal with an audible ring. Still going, he pointed the tip towards his face, spraying into his open mouth and tasting himself. Eventually the ejaculations subsided, and as he slowly reopened his eyes and started licking himself he made sure to look through the observation portal with a cheeky wink.

*****

The laboratory shift supervisor scrambled over to Test Chamber 17, whose observer reported a huge surge in arcane activity. He arrived in time to see that the observation portal was obscured by a coating of thick, white... OK, it was semen, but the sheer volume of it took him by surprise.

"Glitches and blue screens! I always use the biological waste evacuator at exactly the wrong time! Vapp, tell me you got that!"

"We got it, sir! The data's still coming in, but the magical transference sensor is working for a change. The artifact no longer contains anything higher than trace levels of magic, and the subject's physique has most definitely changed. We have captured a real, live case of successful magical tissue transubstantiation!"

"Well, thank the Alchemy for small miracles. It's about damned time."

There was a dull pounding coming from the chamber that drew their attention back to it. Subject 781-TF was looking very angry and was hurling fireballs at the walls, scorching them but doing little damage.

"Human or Charr, bookahs are all the same. Any chances he'll be able to blast through the containment?"

"The testing chamber is completely impregnable, sir--if you believe the specs."

"I don't. Let's take a safety precaution. Yes, yes, it's extravagant, I know. Subject 781-TF has just become redundant. We have the data, so let's extinguish him before the shoddy work of whatever krewe built that test chamber comes to light."

"Right, I'll use the fire suppression system," Vapp said with sadistic glee.

"Then I'll get a hold of the boss."

Vapp flipped a switch on his instrument panel and water started to gush in through the ceiling vent. Curiously, Subject 781-TF just stood there, glowering in his general direction through the observation portal. He knew the subject couldn't see him, but it gave him the willies. He seemed awfully composed for a Charr, especially one that was about to drown.

"Ah, well. Brave or not, drowned is drowned."

The chamber filled up with impressive speed, some of the supporting frame groaning and adjusting under the enormous weight of the water. Subject 781-TF paddled along the surface, but soon that surface would touch the ceiling, then a minute or two after that he'd suck in water and become just another dead cat-goat.

The lab shift supervisor got back in time to see the water approaching the ceiling of the test chamber.

"Skritt in a magnetron, Vapp, what do you think you're doing?"

Vapp's smug expression melted from his face.

"I'm extinguishing the subject, like you said!"

"You're extinguishing him using water! You're supposed to use an inert gas!"

"But water's cheaper, and--"

"He's a 300-year old Flame Legion elementalist now filled to the brim with magic. What happens when you try to extinguish an oil fire with water, Vapp? Where are we standing right now, Vapp?"

"Oh. Oh dear."

The realization crept into Vapp's head right as the test chamber filled to the brim with water. Subject 781-TF swam to a point in the middle, then attuned to flame magic. He was able to catch a glimpse of an enormous expanding bubble exploding around Subject 781-TF and the observation portal fracturing as every warning sensor in the facility went off at once, lighting up the instrumentation panel like a Wintersday tree.

The last things that went through his mind were his eyeballs.

*****

Hornswoggled felt pretty damn spry for a Charr his age. There was a certain pep to his step as he strode through the twisted wreckage of the test labs, hopping on one foot, then the other, shaking the water out of his ears. For three centuries he'd been out of the game, but now he was back in a big way, practically oozing with elemental power and libido.

These Asura didn't seem too happy with his antics, though, what with their scurrying around putting out fires and stealing one another's research materials. He was drenched to the skin and didn't much like how his new fur clung to him and dragged him down, so he attuned to fire again and bathed himself in a flaming aura, the water evaporating from him in a matter of seconds, leaving him dry, fluffy, and toasty warm. He collected that residual heat aura at the tip of a clawed finger, then flicked the little molten mote into some ruptured barrels that looked especially flammable. Sure enough, they exploded with satisfying enthusiasm. These Inquest really needed to work on fire safety.

He wasn't wandering around aimlessly and blowing up his captors for fun, although that certainly was satisfying. He was looking for someone, and he found him hiding under a desk, surrounded by the remains of his extra-crispy security detail.

The sneaky Asura brought out that electrified golden staff again and lunged at him, but the Charr just attuned to air magic and grabbed the head of the staff with one hand, the tens of thousands of volts coursing harmlessly around him. He then took a finger from his other hand and pressed it to the Asura's little belly.

"Bzzt!" The Charr said playfully.

The Asura reeled under the impact of his own stun prod, dropping the staff. Hornswoggled picked it up, giving it a once over. It was fancy, over the top, and absolutely his style. Accordingly, he decided to borrow it for a while.

The Asura struggled to his feet, retching and gasping. Hornswoggled easily picked up the little vermin with one hand, holding him up by his shirt. His intense, glowing green eyes cast a sickly pall over the Inquest boss.

"Sorry about your promotion. Just plain bad luck. Definitely not karma or anything."

"Please, that's enough! You've won! I'll tell you anything! I'll tell you everything!"

"Setting the standard for confidentiality, I see," Hornswoggled drew him close, snarling.

"You were willing to destroy me and the artifact once you had your research data. That means you know about the other fetishes. Where are they? There's a few people I'd like to introduce them to..."

"In my left coat pocket there's an old map that survived the time of the Searing, it shows the locations of 23 other artifacts like yours. How those ancient bookahs figured out something as complex as tissue transubstantiation--"

"Easy, there, you're in the presence of one of those 'ancient bookahs'. What use does the Inquest have for this magic?"

"Are you kidding? What uses wouldn't it have? We could regenerate lost tissue for our wounded soldiers, transform rotten food into something edible, turn thick leather into hardened leather... The list goes on! Do you need me to go on?"

Hornswoggled pulled the folded map from the Inquest leader's coat pocket and unfurled it, examining it in the light of the burning facility. He couldn't tell at a glance, but there was a chance this Asura wasn't trying to con him. It was a chance he'd have to take.

"No, that won't be necessary."

"Happy to have been of service! Er... Any chance I can be on my way?"

An evil thought crept into Hornswoggled's mind.

"So... I understand you're fond of collecting test samples. I'd like to make a voluntary contribution."

The Asura looked down at the Charr's groin and immediately understood what he'd meant by it, eyes widening in sheer, unvarnished terror.

They say you can still hear the screams.

*FIN*