Iron Will

Morgan lay at the bottom of a ravine, marinating in a pool of bodily fluids.  Gods, apparently, do not adhere to the subtle approach to inference.  Morgan had had the audacity to say no to their recruitment.  They'd been gentle.  The ravine was only two hundred feet deep.  As he lay there naked and broken, they asked again.  He again refused.  A boulder came pitching down and landed on his chest.  He heard the ribs on his right side crack in unison.  Another fell immediately after, pulverizing his shoulder.

Morgan coughed out blood through his mouth and nose.  His consciousness did not haze from the pain.  Nor was he spared the agony of vultures and vermin picking at the wounds.  He mentally went far from where he was, remembering the feel of his father's arms about him as he carried him away from the mortal world.  The powers that had thrust him there watched aghast as he fell asleep with a serene smile on his face.

He awoke from sleep with ants and beetles crawling on his suppurating wounds.  Pain washed over his body freshly as the sunlight slanted over him.  He sensed other sentient beings, but felt no movements and smelled no trace of bodies.  “Surely, you cannot think that mortal pain will bend me to your will,” he croaked, dehydrated from blood loss.

“Would you not want it to end?” a perfect voice asked, gentle and calm.

“I can continue to say no, and you can continue to pummel me until I die again.  Or you could give up, and I will die of exposure.”

As could be expected, they registered indignation.  Morgan spat out a clot and drummed the fingers of his left hand on the ground.  “Impasses end when negotiations begin,” Morgan quoted.

“Why would we deign to negotiate?”

“Because it is obvious,” Morgan whispered to the ground, “that you want me for something; you should try to be more appealing.  Neither god nor demon will buy my soul cheaply and your sales pitch, frankly... it sucks..  Give me a good reason death is not preferable to serving you.”

5-foot Adjustment

She lounged across the divan, long and sensuous.  Her eyelids drooped lazily as the incense burned away any cares.  A servant came in and informed her that her assassin was at her disposal.  “Wonderful,” she purred, “send him in.”

Morgan walked in unhesitently.  Few crossed her threshold with such self-assurance.  He stopped five feet from her chaise and seemed to be observing her, even though his eyes were unnaturally still.  “Come closer,” she said.

He obeyed her word, but not her intent, stopping two feet short.  His expression changed to mild amusement.  He knew what she wanted.  “What you desire,” he stated plainly, “is not my intention to give.”

She pouted teasingly.  “I'm bored,” she remarked, “as always.  There must be something else to do here, but mostly there's not.”

“Ah, boredom is something I can ease.  I just prefer a different means to that end.  Perhaps, a change of scenery would alleviate your boredom?”

“Take me away from here?  Do so!  They say the chambers are warded against portation magic.”

“Your rooms, yes.  Come to my cabinet and we can step away unimpeded.”

“They're really that dense, eh?”

Morgan smirked.

For Sara G.

Khael’s eyes flew wide as Morgan appeared out of the ether, a bundle of cloth under one arm. Morgan cursed loudly in an odd language. He gently placed the bundle on a worktable and collapsed to one knee. “I won. Did not get coup. Too dangerous.”

Morgan silently cursed Magir’s lack of vocabulary while hoping Khael did not want details. “No coup? This?” Khael poked the cloth bundle.

Morgan hissed in response. Khael smartly decided to leave the bundle be and left a purse of coins next to it.

Morgan left for his cabinet. Sitting on his narrow bed, he peeled away layers until a small person was revealed in his lap. In the desperate and sudden need to end the recent battle, he killed his opponent, grabbed for his brother, and jaunted to Hysperia without giving much mental time to what exactly had happened to Michael. Michael hadn’t said a thing, not that he had the time to comment in Morgan’s expeditious finale. He was indignant, understandably, but was still uncharacteristically quiet. “How old are you?” Morgan probed.

“Ninety-six, of course!” Michael blurted out, his voice squeaky and thin.

Well, his mind was still cognizant of who and what he was. So, it wasn’t true chronomancy, probably just a tweaked form of transmutation. In an odd moment of levity, Morgan squeezed Michael in a hug, cloyingly gushing, “Aww, aren’t you so cute!”

Michael went to punch him, but his strength was that of a seven-year-old along with his proportions. He failed to even leave a red mark. “So, I’m guessing you have the sexual development of a youngling, too?” Morgan said a bit more soberly.

Michael looked down to realize that, rather than the short undeveloped stem of a human child, he had nothing. “I’m missing something down there.”

“Missing or inverted?” Morgan queried.

Michael felt around. “No, missing, I don’t have anything.”

“So, he turned you into….” Morgan started laughing. “I must stop ascribing intelligence to those who so sorely lack it. He probably forgot children can have genitalia.”

“Is undoing this going to be a problem?”

“Only if you want to be intact once I’m done attempting it. I honestly don’t know how to undo it, so this may take some research, but for now, you are a Scafir youth. I can try ageing you a bit, but no guarantee that puberty will happen since we are hoping that Zwigif was aiming for was a Scafir child."
"What do you think he was aiming for?"
"He was aiming to make me helpless... or less effective." 
"..."
"He would have failed on both counts. I'm more concerned that you were gravid before he hit you with the transmute, but you aren't now."