The Mephit's Tales

It was a lonely stretch of road, and Tamarra never expected to encounter anyone there. Usually that was fine; she wasn’t the sort who needed company at all times, and she was never too far from a city, so it wasn’t a great burden when she did have such a craving.

At any rate, she was caught off guard when Saldarin came to a halt, the worg lifting his head and looking to the left, upwind. By the set of his ears – and the very fact that he’d stopped at all instead of just sniffing and listening as he trotted along – it was either a person, or an animal that didn’t belong around here – which would probably mean people again.

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The autumn winds were rushing in from the north, and bringing with them a heavy tumble of clouds. Rain was coming, a heavy, chill rain that would sweep this scrubland without mercy.

It was as Brennan was considering his all-too-scanty options for cover that he felt a familiar prickle between his shoulders.

That was the only way he knew the change was coming. It had no rhythm that he’d been able to glean; it could strike at any time of day or night, hungry or fed, alert or drowsy. Sometimes weeks or even a full turn of the moon would go by without one; other times one would come less than a day after the prior had waned. But when his skin started to itch and feel ill-fitting upon him, he knew the change would come, welcome or not, within the day; in a matter of hours it would be too uncomfortable to conceal entirely.

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