In the doctor's office...
Martingold continues to generously inform the doctor in greater detail.
"Well, first of all, this is a fake voice. This is my real one. I won't tell you my name because I've heard of many spells that specifically target names and although I do trust you doc, anyone can read the official medical report that you will have to file after this session," he says, preparing to discreetly pull away a scalpel at a more engaging point in his tale.
"I can turn water into wine and I sometimes begin to rhyme... like just now for example. I'm not bound to do it by some specific curse, I just enjoy rhyming. As for Viri, well... I wouldn't really call him a friend. Sure it's true that I do know him, but we traveled incredibly distant from each other. We foxes are solitary creatures. The only thing that brings us together is when we perform religious ceremonies for the Fox God. Viri was not actually part of my original infiltration plan. He (or was it she?) just saw me disguising and tried to ride on my one-man bandwagon. As for who she is, Viri is a doctor with healing magic. I remember her once bragging about how she was so good at shape shifting and anatomy that if one were to cut open one of her forms, they would find the internal organs in their proper places. In a way Doc, you were lucky that we foxes are solitary creatures. If Viri and I had coordinated this plan, she would have made a perfect duplicate and then when you dissected her, you would have found a perfectly normal dwarf," says he, at the same time nabbing the sharp implement he's had his tendril wrapped around for a while now, sucking it into his body discreetly.
"Now as for the nature of the plague. I've been told so far that it is parasites. Symptoms are thickening of the blood and reduced shapeshifting. Another symptom is higher infant mortality rates. More specifically, no young fox ever reaches the age of 50 anymore. Now before you decide that you'd rather just have these annoying fox bastards to go extinct, I want to give you some important information. It is ONLY the holy lands that are being ravaged by this plague! The heretics that you actually hate are still f***ing and spreading and developing magical powers that they then use to cause mayhem! Apologies for the language but we, the good foxes who would want nothing more than to just leave you guys alone are the ones being punished here! It's so unfair! We were the ones who still followed the Fox God and all of His Holy teachings and yet look at us now!" he tells the doctor, who looks fairly intrigued, pausing before the rant gets out of hand.
"Ahem... OK, sorry about that, rant over. As for why I didn't come in through the front gates. Well, the simple reason is because of the stigma associated with foxes and I thought you guys worked on a "decapitate first, ask questions later" sort of motto. My original plan was to have my corpse discovered, get buried, dig out, then shapeshift into a more inconspicuous creature, like a cat for example. The rest of the plan I hadn't thought about," he finishes with, and the doctor looks at him with what might be mild pity, leaning against a nearby wall as he considers what to say.
"Hmm," he grumbles as he thinks, standing pretty far off. "All right, I think your story checks out. What little I know of foxes is certainly in accord with what you just said. And no, we have no such policy. This is a city of exiles, we all bear a stigma here," he says and gives off a long sigh before looking seriously at Martingold again. "Still, I couldn't help but notice my doctor's bag stir. You realize that you trying any funny business isn't going to help your cause, right? Please refrain from doing anything idiotic and you can continue with giving me two final answers. What do you want from us? And, this one is a bit trickier, what makes you the good foxes and the ones who left your holy land bad?"
In Crawlinghome's wonderful jail...
Rev picks up on his marvelous cue to leave, squirming out of Tom's grasp with some difficulty and landing on the floor, escaping through the bars with little effort.
"Hey!" Tom calls out. "Not you too, kitty!"
However, by this point Rev has already started running down the hall, past the growing flesh horror and over into the hallway, hanging a hard left into the armory, where its guard dwarf still sits, entirely asleep and unsuspecting of the danger brewing nearby.
Meanwhile, Viri refuses to give up on the entirely nifty and useful form of magic that is an all-purpose repulsion shield. It sounds simple in theory - speedy thing goes toward her, gets double the wallop right back. Concentrating as hard as she can upon the process as she imagines it, she considers the mechanics of the process as well as she is able, trying to force the very same rush of power that her mind seems to generate her healing ability into a whole new direction. Restoration becomes change, flesh twists into force, and with a blinding wave of Newtonian truth her magic seems to completely reorient itself, having reached some form of intellectual threshold. As her mind rides the thrilling downhill slope of difficulty suddenly overcome, a shield of incredible repulsive nature forms an invisible, but very much palpable barrier around the contours of her body, tingling mildly in the process, pushing back the encroaching flesh of the guard as she concentrates upon it.
This is, of course, very fine and good, but fails to solve the immediate problem, which is the sadly progressively mutilated guard currently holding on to her. Probably should do something to help her. She's growing a bit too large for her own good. Shifting her mind back into the familiar tracks of healing (disappointingly this does dissipate the shield she just formed), she turns her power on the guard, trying to restore her former shape, which proves surprisingly simple, given her healing's nigh-universal applicability. Syb, now looking much more like her old self and not at all growing anymore, lies on the ground, shaking for a moment from the intense experience. Getting up and freeing herself from the guard's grasp, Viri, now with basic mechanics as well as physiology bending to her whim, finds ample time to be deservedly smug as she stands over the prone dwarf.
"You were warned, Child of the Mountain. Be glad I am not currently of the mind to root around your insides. The mutations there must be fascinating, however this was not intended and I would rather you not die due to your fool of a captain's inability to do her job properly."
Syb, considerably confused, does not reply at first. Rolling on her back, she looks up at the ceiling blankly, then at Viri.
"How about... we go talk to the captain again?" she asks weakly. The jailor, meanwhile, starts to discreetly step toward the hallway.
In the wilds near Crawlinghome...
Faer, after making sure for the third time already that he isn't leaving this valuable map behind, follows its directions to the northern logging camp, since north is probably his favorite direction. Or would that be south? Regardless, northward he heads through woods and small gullies, following at the side of a clearly visible trail until he comes along a considerably larger logging camp than the previous one - there have to be at least forty dwarves working here for sure, and they have done quite a bit of work, too, having cleared a pretty large swath of the woods, with an actual lumber mill as well as what looks like a warehouse constructed at the very edge of the forest - Faer's not clear on how the mill is powered, but it's definitely currently operating, turning felled trees into more easily transported and workable lumber.
The warehouse catches Faer's attention most of all, since at the front of it he sees creatures that he hasn't quite seen before - small, thin, vaguely sinister-looking and brownish-green with red and blue paints slathered on in places, Faer suspects they may be goblins - three of them, in fact, chatting out front and occasionally punching each other by the building next to what seems like a set of sizable wagons, a host of tall (almost as tall as the goblins themselves, in fact), muscular, hairless dogs harnessed at its front.
In the streets of Crawlinghome...
Whiskers fails to mask his increasing exasperation with this watchman.
"Yes! Now, will you please tell me what I need to know, or direct me to someone who can?!"
The watchman considers this proposal with a look of intrigue.
"Tell you what. I'll take you to the mayor. His house is right over there, I'll let you in" he says, pointing at a smallish pyramid out by the puffball. "This is really past my competence as a watchman, you see."
He walks over to the pyramid, beckoning Whiskers to follow, and knocks on the door. A few moments pass, and the door opens, revealing a dwarf of venerable age, prodigious beard and dignified bearing.
"Yes? What is it, Peter?" the presumable mayor asks.
"A talking cat's here to see you, sir," the watchman replies, scratching at his beard.
"A what?" the mayor asks incredulously.
"A talking cat. Says he wants to know all about the sporetime puffball and that his friend likes to pop them," the watchman explains with slight embarrassment. "Maybe I ought to let him tell you," he says, freeing up a bit of space in front of the door for Whiskers to approach and speak.