The Gnarly Tree
Climbing halfway to the top of Witches' Rock, the Gnarly Tree dwarfs even the oversized trees used by Kadies. The tree trunk-thick roots are twisted and knotted, and the multiple trunks bulge out oddly in places – some of the bulges even sporting windows. Beneath the shade of its canopy, an oddly shaped log cabin sits, its angles skewed to conform to the wandering roots it hugs. A clearing surrounds the tree and Rock, with several fenced off herb and vegetable gardens filling most of the open space. To the east, the bulk of the Gnarly Woods looms darkly, contrasting with the calm tinkling of the numerous wind-chimes hanging from the twisted limbs of the tree.

Evening has begun to creep and spread from the shadows of the trees, heralded by a cool breeze from the north. As usual, Isolde is seated outside on the wandering porch to take her tea. A kettle, cups and a plate of biscuits sit out on the table while the elder witch relaxes in her rocker and breathes in the spirit of the air.

Morgan, on the other hand, lurks behind a tree. He takes a deep breath, going over in his head just how to approach the matter. He's gone over what to tell his mother a hundred times by now, and each time it makes his head hurt. I'll be subtle. I'll hint. Maybe she already knows. Yes, she probably already knows. I can't see how the Great Spirit could miss this, he assures himself, quite without success.

The breeze stirs the wind-chimes directly over Morgan's head, and some trick of the air (or the imagination) makes them sound like Creens laughing. Not that Creens ever actually laugh.

Oooo, if those Creens made this all up to trick me, I am going to run them out myself, Morgan promises the imagined laughter. He takes one more deep breath, straightens out, and walks forward. "Hell. O. M-mother. I m-m-mean, heh-hello? Mother," he greets his mom. he tries to keep his voice steady, and resists the urge to grab his ears and flee, laughing or crying, into the forest.

Isolde glances at Morgan over the edge of her teacup, then sets it down and says, "You look guilty about something, Morgan. Tell me it isn't about that vampire girlfriend of yours?"

"Oooh, no, not that," the Kadie insists. He hasn't even considered what to tell Liliana yet. "Um, well, it is, you see," he wiggles his fingers as he tries to grasp the words, "um, well … you see … I … he … you … um?"

"Sit down and have some tea," Isolde says, and pours Morgan a cup. "You look like you need it."

Morgan takes up the cup, wondering why the water keeps jostling around. He also takes a seat, trying to sip as his shaking hand refuses to make the action easy. "Tea. Nice, uncomplicated, tea," he breathes between difficult sips.

Isolde folds her hands in her lap and waits patiently. "Isn't it a lovely day today?" she comments. "You went off with the snake and Natasha and Olivia this morning to look into that Necromancer's lair. Find anything to worry about?"

The male Kadie resists the urge to laugh, finding the question wryly amusing. He just bites his lip, instead, and stares into his tea. After seconds of silence, he answers, "It is a lovely day." More pausing, and he adds, "We found his laboratory, his possessions, and his victims. We seized what we could for the town, dispelled his necromantic weavings, and buried the … the remains." Morgan finds it a strange day, indeed, when burials are the less stressful of available topics.

"Good," Isolde says, nodding. She picks up her cup again and has a sip. "So what has you so agitated then?"

I'll just take this in steps. Nice, easy, steps. "We found an entrapped spirit," Morgan replies. His tail flickers. Nice, easy, steps.

"Oh? What sort of spirit?" Isolde asks, still looking off into the yard.

Morgan looks up, following his mother's gaze. "A … a Creen spirit," he manages with only a slight stammer.

"Oh, one of the bog faeries?" Isolde asks. "I never did teach you how to charm one. They're very useful for certain rituals. And also make dandy night-lights for little Kadies who cry in the dark," she adds, with a little smirk.

Morgan suddenly coughs on his tea, holding the cup aside as he wheezes and sputters.

"Really Morgan, you have to learn how to handle a cup of tea better," Isolde chides, then reaches over to slap her son on the back a few times to help clear his throat.

The slapping helps clear Morgan's throat and his mind. Once he's regained his composure, he nods slightly. "Yes," he wheezes, "a … a bog faerie. Do … d-do you know a lot about the bog faeries, m-mother?"

"Enough to keep them out of the house," Isolde notes. "Faeries exist because people believe in them, and generally have some exaggerated version of mortal behavior. Bog faeries are pranksters, like the Akwavi that they depend upon. Normal spirits have their own, understandable goals at least. Faeries are generally just annoying, if occasionally useful - so long as you keep a good watch on them. Did you bring the faerie back with you?"

"Um, no. I … I let him go. He suffered enough," the son replies. He returns his gaze to his keep, looking at his reflection in the tea water. "Does … does the name … L-lord … " 'Xochi' is what Morgan wants to say, unfortunately all he can spit out is unintelligible gibberish.

"Did you burn your tongue?" Isolde asks, looking at Morgan with concern.

"Just my brain," Morgan whispers to myself. He takes a deep breath, letting his head go back so he can look at the sky, and breathes, "Xochi. Lord Xochi."

"Sounds like some sort of candy treat," Isolde comments. "Chocolate Xochies with Nuts. Is that one of Valicross' victims then?"

Morgan blinks at his mother's response, then shakes his head. "He is … was? … a bog faerie. A, a lord bog faerie. A king. T-that's what I was told. He, he … liked you." He licks his lips nervously, letting his head drop back down so he can stare in his tea again. "A great deal, in fact."

"Ah, so that is who the faerie claimed to be then?" Isolde asks, before sipping her tea again. "If you feed them, they tend to hang about, just like real Creens. I don't recall ever feeding one though."

"Oh, no, Lord Xochi is … a different faerie." It strikes Morgan that his mother feeds him, and he sticks around, but he swears to himself he's more complicated than that. "I think he was … was Lord Xochi's follower. L-lord Xochi d-disappeared, many y-years ago. He liked writing … p-poetry."

"Don't recall any paper or ink going missing," Isolde notes. "What sort of poetry?"

"Errrrmmm." I'mnotreadyforthis. I need another way to say it. Unable to quite say it, he just sticks out a pinky and sort of points vaguely in his mother's direction without looking at her.

Isolde immediately looks down to see if she's gotten any crumbs on her shirt. "What? Do I have a missing button?" she asks.

"N-no," Morgan coughs. He turns to look at his mother, but his gaze slides off and his ears redden. "Y-you," he stammers. "It. You. Poetry!"

"The faerie wrote poetry about me?" the witch finally asks. "What kind of poetry? It had better have been flattering."

"I have no doubt that it was," the Kadie says easily enough. He shifts in his seat, frowning now. "D-do you remember when I asked about my … my f-f-f-f-" He coughs. Hard. "Father, m-mother?"

"Mmm-hmm," Isolde says, rocking slowly in her chair. "I was surprised you'd asked after so much time."

"I never really thought about it until I saw Amelia with her father, and spoke with Lili about hers," the male Kadie replies. He lets his tea cup rest in his lap, glad for the warmth. "I … Well, I … found … f-found out. Something." He nods slightly, urging himself on. "About f-father."

Isolde actually turns to look at Morgan now, although her expression is neutral. "Oh? What is it?"

"A-a name," Morgan answers, looking away to avoid his mother's gaze.

"Spit out out, Morgan," Isolde says, her expression beginning to turn peeved.

"Lord Xochi," Morgan spits out, turning back around to look at his mother with a strained expression. "His name was Lord Xochi!"

"Still doesn't ring a bell, as they say in Chronotopia, I believe," Isolde comments.

"Then he never spoke to you? He must have kept it … a secret." Inhaling deeply, Morgan closes his eyes. Now that he has the name out, the rest comes out a bit more easily. "One of the Creens. He was one of the Creens. Together, they came together … in to a ball … of many colors … " He rocks his head back and forth, working his muzzle. "And I was born."

"So says the faerie you found?" Isolde asks for clarification.

"So says he," Morgan confirms. "But there's more than that. I wouldn't have believed him if I hadn't heard your story, first. Maybe not even then. It's … hard to swallow. But … but there's more." Morgan swallows hard, then opens his eyes. "Lord Xochi, he's here."

"In the kettle?" Isolde asks, before refilling her cup from said ceramic object.

"That would uncomplicate matters," Morgan says quietly. "Can I have one last cup of tea?" This may be the last one we ever have, in peace. Morgan holds his cup out.

Isolde pours out the last of the tea, and then checks the kettle for faeries just in case.

Morgan takes a sip. He savors the tea, thinking about his childhood, and how much he loves his mother. Several sips later, he lets out a sigh, and nods. "Best get to it then," he says, mostly for himself. "You see, mother, he … he is here." He untwines an unsteady hand, and points a wavering finger at his chest. "H-here."

"In your pocket then?" Isolde asks as she sets the kettle back on the table, and adds a squeeze of nectar to her cup of tea.

"Did you know, mother? Does … the Great Spirit know?" The male Kadie reaches over to stop his mother's hand, trying to get her full attention. "Does Amelia know?"

Isolde blinks at Morgan as he stays her hand. "Did I know what, Morgan? What exactly did this faerie say to you that has you so upset?"

"He said Lord Xochi wanted a soul! I think he loved you, and, and … he interfered. The ritual, the dream of Creens – that was him! Lord Xochi! He wanted to be mortal, he wanted you, mother!" He grips on to her hand, afraid to let go, and just as afraid to hold on. "Lord Xochi's plan … was me! I have Lord Xochi's spirit." Letting it all out at once takes a great deal of Morgan's energy. He lets go, then reaches up to rub the bridge of his muzzle, eyes closed.

Isolde just blinks and twitches her whiskers for a moment, while staring at her son. "I see. And you believed this story because?" she asks, leadingly.

"T-three reasons," Morgan replies. "One," he holds a finger up, "was your story. Two," he adds another finger, "is the words of the mages. They have seen my spirit – it is a rainbow Creen. And, three," he adds the final finger, "is that the faerie saw the spirit, too. He addressed me as Lord Xochi, and Mage Qing confirmed the affinity between us. He also k-knew your dream, without prompting. Without prior knowledge, as far as I know."

"Mmm, quite a bit of circumstantial evidence there," Isolde admits, and sits back in her chair to sip her tea. "I'd almost be half convinced, if it weren't for one minor detail."

"Please tell me you have some vital information that makes this entire matter nonsense," Morgan breathes.

"Clearly, I've been neglecting your training lately, Morgan," Isolde says with a sigh. "I had hoped you'd find your confidence on your own, but the necromancer and your association with these mages seems to have set you back, and muddled your thinking. Tell me again, Morgan - what manner of creature spun this tale for you?"

"A faerie, I know. I know they might be lying to confound me. But the evidence is there, and the story matches … so I had to know. I can't just dismiss it. Where else would I have gotten a spirit such as mine? Why would I even be the next witch, and not Amelia? It was my early birth, he said. They wanted you to have a child by Mister Blacktail, Amelia, to … to … get this 'energy', this spirit, the Great Spirit was preparing. But they made a mistake, and Amelia came about too early," Morgan explains.

"Yes, that all fits in perfectly well, doesn't it?" Isolde notes. "It justifies all of your perceived failings as a witch, all of your fears that choosing you was a mistake, that this isn't the life you're supposed to be leading. All coming from a faerie, the kind of creature that can see all of these things as if they were written across your forehead, because dreams and hopes and fears are what feed them. Look at the evidence as a witch, Morgan. Look beyond what you want to be true to what you know is real. There is a reason they're called faerie tales, and why they have such power."

"I just … don't know," Morgan admits. "Maybe … maybe I did want to believe the story, just to have an answer. I had no idea they could read our thoughts and dreams, and if he lied … I am going to find him. Code of the fereies, indeed!" The Kadie shakes his head, ears canting back as he opens his eyes. "We released him, and he swore. Well, he will pay us back – and I actually sort of liked him!"

"I nearly died trying to rescue him! We all did! Oooohh, if this is a lie, I'm going to sell him to Dr. Pike after I bind him to something eternally embarrassing," Morgan adds.

"Do not blame the faerie for being a faerie, nor curse the rain for getting you wet," Isolde notes. "Like all good faerie tales, there is just enough truth in it to make it stick together – but there is also a reason faerie tales are for children, Morgan: they explain the world from a child's perspective, where simple answers can be found for complicated situations, and where every event has a purpose, a design. As a witch, you know the real world is far messier than that, that there are no simple, complete answers or grand designs. It is true that Amelia would have been the next witch, but she was not linked properly. The Spirit is not all knowing or infallible. It doesn't really think ahead as far as a person would – that's why it needs witches. We do most of the thinking for it."

"Well, don't I feel stupid," Morgan sighs, slapping a hand over his face. "I am so naive. It just seemed so, so … reasonable. And, I went right along with it!" The Kadie's tail whips around, agitatedly. "So, the Spirit just … just … randomly chose me? And my father is, who, not Mr. Blacktail? Why can I turn into a Creen, and where did I get my spirit from?"

"Your spirit is your own, Morgan, and while it may look like a Creen, and you can change into one, in what other ways are you like a Creen?" Isolde asks. "Or like a faerie, for that matter? You aren't particularly selfish or gluttonous, like every Creen that has ever been created. You don't burst into song, or collect shiny things, or poop all over the place. Although perhaps you do get easily distracted at times."

"Well, I suppose not." The Kadie lets his hand fall, then drops back in his chair heavily. "No meaning. It all lacks a meaning, but I wanted to find one. I wanted to find my father so badly, I nearly killed myself and others doing it."

Isolde sighs, and sips her tea. She rocks a bit, and then says, "If it is any consolation, there is a simple answer as to why you find magery attractive and why you have not advanced to become a full witch yet, if you want to hear it."

"It's because I fall for stupid faerie tricks, isn't it. I wouldn't promote me, either. My own father. Pha!" Morgan lifts his head just far enough to drop it back with a thump. "I may die of embarrassment."

"Oh, hardly that!" Isolde says, nearly chuckling. "It is just that you are a young man! It is difficult for men to become witches – much harder than for women. Men are less willing to surrender control or power. To become a witch, you have to accept that the only thing you have actual control over is your mind, and that to work witchcraft you have to become a part of the greater world around you. Mages overtly control the world around them, and wield great power at first glance – something very attractive to a young man. They are the bolts of lightning, while we are the wind and the rain. They get immediate results, but we carve the landscape over time."

"Oh," Morgan says, soberly. He opens his eyes and nods slightly. "I … think I can see it." He reaches up and rubs his forehead, frowning. "I saw Valicross, and I thought, "how powerful he is, and how little we can do to stop him." So, I want to be stronger than he. The mages, they fought him directly – twice! – and I could do nothing against him. Amelia, that man Axel, others … Only combined did we prevail, and he was one man! Then against his spirit, Mage Qing and I nearly faltered. I can't stand that I can't win out. If we hadn't weathered his lightning, there'd be naught left of us, don't you think?"

"You've already spoken the key, Morgan. You, Amelia, Axel and others together beat him. Stonebarrow beat him. And it will always be that way, as it should," Isolde explains. "You are a part of the community – a very important part. A witch knows how to use the strength of the community. We don't have to depend on just ourselves, like a mage would."

"I think I said the same thing, earlier. How easily I forget," Morgan admits. "It must be me," he adds, "I just lack the confidence, so I try to fix the problem: myself. And in doing so, I get suckered into this nonsense. But, at least I have the community, to bring me back." He gives his mother a smiles. "And, you know, I was really dreading talking to you about this."

"I almost went off to find a way to make Amelia the witch, out of a sense that I had stolen her future from her." Morgan chuckles. "At least I remained a witch in that: I'd have paid my debt to a woman."

"I can imagine," Isolde says, sipping her tea. "Oh my… Amelia could never be a witch now. She has become too confrontational, and… well, she wants to protect the community more than be a part of it: something you both share. I must not have raised you right."

"You can blame my 'father,'" Morgan insists, pointing at himself.

"Or," the male Kadie tilts his head, "Amelia is a bad influence. I've always suspected … "

"Hmmm," is all Isolde says to that. "It is best not to let the past cloud the present. There is also the possibility that I was spinning you a tale of my own, to cover up a less attractive truth. We witches have to see the world with clear eyes, but that doesn't mean we have to share that clarity with the others in our care."

"You, too? I am surrounded by lies," Morgan laments. "Just, please tell me if Amelia is my sister. I've had an eye for her forever, and I'd rather not go through another … relative issue." The Kadie's ear's redden slightly. "So, do you want to know what else I've been up to?"

"Amelia is not your sister," Isolde says, "and her idea of bearing your child to ensure it will become a witch is merely wishful thinking on her part. And I am not admitting to any deception, merely reminding you not to take things at face value or for granted. And there is more that you've gotten into?"

"I suppose leading her on would be very unwitchlike of me, then," Morgan says with mock disappointment. He grins a little, then, and explains. "I've met Buffy. She's rather nice, I've promised to visit her." He holds up a hand, adding, "I know, I know. I'm easily addled by striking, dangerous women. I am well aware of that, BUT, I see Buffy as part of the town, a woman we may have failed. She deserves something."

"Ah, so you didn't try to destroy her then, good," Isolde says, sipping her tea. "I'm curious as to how you managed to meet her, but I think it's best if you don't tell me just yet. If you go to her, go with open ears. There are insights that only she can give you into the world of spirits, life and death."

"Just remember to never go alone – take a Lapi with you," the witch adds.

"Well, I did almost try. She was getting out of hand with her theatrics, and I wasn't about to risk harm to Miranda or the others," the younger witch admits. He raises an eyebrow, and asks, "Is it dangerous, then? Or are the Chalks the danger? I mean, I know she's dangerous, she bleeds power like Gunther just … bleeds."

"She is a bound guardian spirit," Isolde explains. "While powerful, she must follow certain rules. One of these is that she will not seek to free herself from her geas. The other is that she will act with hostility towards any intruder not under the protection of a Chalk family member."

"I see. So, she would be free to try and harm me, if she wished. I'll bring Miranda, or another of the more agreeable Chalks." Tapping his chair, Morgan asks, "Did we fail her? Or, did she deserve her fate?"

"She chose it out of love, if the stories are to be believed," Isolde notes. "I tend to believe, since she is so much more powerful than the one who gave her her unlife."

"How is that possible?" Morgan asks, blinking.

"Because she was innocent," Isolde says. "Her love was not coerced, and she was transformed while still a virgin – uncorrupted by the longings that turn vampires into monsters."

"Innocence matters? If that is true, the necromancer would have made for the weakest of undead," Morgan comments. He nods a little, though, as if seeing some truth to it. Then, he suddenly shakes his head. "Wait, no. Virginity and love equate to strength in undeath? Are you yanking my tail again, mother?"

"Really Morgan, why do you think we use virgins to purify the rivers and in other important appeasement rituals?" Isolde notes. "Speaking of which, we will need a new Shrine Maiden to replace Amelia for the upcoming cleansings. If you're going to be spending time with her anyway, evaluate Miranda for the position."

"Oh, um. Miranda, you say." Morgan clears his throat. "We may wish to look … elsewhere." He tries not to grin too badly, forcing himself to look elsewhere. "I still don't quite understand why virginity and love matter. Well, love I can understand. The strong will and undiluted emotion would be a powerful focus to change the weave … But virginity?"

"Before you fell in with that gypsy girl, did you know what you were missing, Morgan?" Isolde asks bluntly.

"I see your point," Morgan agrees. "It's the longing, that weakens us? And that creates a monster from the dead, that need. Desire. It does rather fit in with all of what you say, about surrendering to the world. A needless body can more easily surrender, while one that needs would be too consumed by the wanting – the taking and desiring. That requires some control."

"Self control comes from understanding the consequences of being out of control," Isolde says. "Now, if you were undead – what consequences would matter to you? What could hold you in check?"

"Beyond chasing faeries? Well, I would be lonely, so I would want company. I don't think I could suffer being trapped in a crypt for a hundred years. Which leads to two: I'd miss Liliana and, um, all that she offers. Three, I'd miss magic – although from the feel of her, Buffy has magical power in spades. I'd miss flying about, I think – and food. And, clothes. The smell of the air. The rush of my blood. I'd miss being alive," Morgan answers.

"Buffy no doubt misses all of that – well, most of that – but has a purpose to her existence which balances things somewhat," Isolde remarks, and then looks pointedly at Morgan. "Just as witches have a purpose."

"All of this is supposed to balance my desires, then," Morgan says with mock-disbelief. "Why did the great spirit pick me again? DID he pick me at all? You did say Amelia was too old to link, but what of me?" He raises an eyebrow.

"You are the next witch, Morgan, and that is that," Isolde says sternly. "Male witches can become very powerful, once they've conquered their natural limitations. The greatest Mage of these lands, the legendary Fyodr who created the holding boxes, began as a witch before becoming a spirit mage. You will become a full witch, it will just take a little more time and effort is all."

Morgan nods, and smiles a little. He reaches over and tries to pinch his mother's cheek. "I really do appreciate your faith in me," he says, honestly. You are the best mother in all of Stonebarrow."

Isolde winces at the cheek pinch, and rubs the spot while glaring at Morgan. "Of course I am, but that's no reason to try and bruise me."

"It's only because I love you, and because I can treat the bruise," Morgan insists. Leaning back, he inquires, "So Fyodr was a witch? Was he one of our witches? And, you say he became a Spirit Mage?"

"He wasn't from Stonebarrow, no," Isolde says. "He was from some village closer to the capital. And he defeated necromancers during the great war."

"Well, I've helped defeat a necromancer, so I guess I'm on track," Morgan says. "Then, you're not against my following Mage Qing around? You two actually have a lot in common."

Isolde seems to take a bit of umbrage at the comparison. "Learn what you can from him, but do not forget where your true strength comes from, or why you are better than a mere mage who works for coin instead of purpose."

Morgan squeezes his mother's arm. "Oh, don't take it that way. I mean in personality. Mage Qing, he is very dedicated. I think his art is all he has left, and even that he had to claw at to gain when others would say he could not do it. I highly doubt it is the coin that drives him. With his strength, I don't think he would need to be here at all. I think he chose to come. He's looking for something, but what, I can't rightly say," he explains.

"The snakes only need a warm rock and wiggly food to be content, so I doubt he is here seeking community," Isolde mutters. "But he is perhaps not as troublesome as that foreign Khatta woman, with her gifts and talks of trade."

"Oh, I agree there. The gypsy leader's sister is, in a way, more alluring than a secluded mage ever can be," Morgan remarks. He reaches up and rubs his chin, adding, "Mage Qing lost his family some time ago. You wouldn't think it, but he has great compassion for children. He had a daughter, you see, and whatever we may say about the scaled folk … he loved her. You can see it in his eyes."

"A shame," Isolde says, without bitterness. "Such events may drive men to extremes. You may invite him over for tea if you like."

"It will take some convincing, but I think he could do with some socialization. It would be good if he knew the town leaders, that he might form attachments," the male Kadie explains.

"It sounds more that he should form attachments to the town's children," the witch remarks. "Although he may share certain proclivities with Achilles and Jonas, such as sitting in silence and looking out at the world with a gruff expression."

Morgan nods to that. "He does that very well, in fact," the Kadie confirms. "He is also good at lectures, no-nonsense attitudes, and snapping me out of a fit of angst now and then. Also," the son leans forward, "I believe he is what they call a 'master' of Spirit. Why such an august individual has come here, I know not."

"Then we should find out," Isolde remarks. "Sylvania often calls to men of power, for good or ill. Perhaps it has called to him as well."

"I will investigate, and at the same time, learn. He is very wise, in his own way. I dislike how he considers the spirit world, however." Morgan leans back, then gestures to the world around him. "He considers spirits to be as the wind or rain, just another faceless, empty force. I say the wind and the rain are more alive that he knows, as are spirits, and that the world deserves its due."

"He's new here, he'll learn in time if his mind is open," Isolde notes, rocking gently. "Sylvania is not like the rest of the world where spirits are concerned."

"His mind … Well, open is not what I would call it. He shares the close-mindedness of old men – perhaps more so than most old men." Morgan nudges himself to rock, too, staring up at the sky. "I wonder if the Bog Faeries will continue their game with me. I may be able to use that, if they think I still buy in to it.They may do much for me, to further my thinking that I am their king." He shrugs. "Or they may read my mind and fool me again. Hard to say."

"You would need to go out with the Oggtons to find another one," Isolde says. "I doubt they will come to you here."

"He said he would visit me. I asked him to bring gifts and news of cute girls. They seem very inclined towards cute Akwavi girls, for some reason," Morgan explains.

"The are simple gods for a simple people," the elder witch opines. "The Akwavi know what they want from life."

"In that, I envy them. Complexity is not always a boon," the younger squirrel remarks.

"Alas, some of us have to be adults," Isolde says, with the back of her paw to her forehead in exaggerated drama. "Such is the fate of the town witch. Woe is us!"

Morgan gapes, turning to regard his mother in real surprise. "Is that … Is that comedy, mother?! Spirits alive, I see something new every day!"

"I was a girl once too, you know," Isolde snaps. "And I had a lovely singing voice."

"I don't believe it. I think you were always this old," Morgan insists.

"And I'm not old yet!" the woman growls. "I'm still the Mother, not the Crone after all."

"The Crone is rather scary. I didn't know Humans could grow that large. If personality equaled height, that should be Amelia, too," Morgan says. He glances off, trying to hide his grin at his mother's outrage. "And, you would think I'd be able to sing, what with being a Creen and all. I didn't even get to be the Frog Princess."

"Well, neither did I," Isolde notes. "And when you're older, I might teach you some of my more popular songs."

"I'm quite old as it is, why can't I … " Morgan blinks, glancing at his mother. "Wait, what sort of songs are these? Are these … tavern songs? Gypsy songs?"

"Tavern songs," Isolde admits. "As I said, I was young once."

"I don't even know tavern songs. Mayhaps I was never young. Perhaps I am just a poor, unfortunate, Creen dragged into this life of madness." Morgan puts his own hand to his head, leaning back. "With terrible women all about to tempt and trick me!"

"Stop being such a man," Isolde chides while grinning. "Always crying and getting emotional. You don't see Amelia doing that, now do you? She's no mope. She'd be off chopping heads, she would."

"I can't help these fragile male emotions," Morgan insists. He mock-clears his eyes of nonexistent tears, then sniffs exaggeratedly. "Sometimes," he admits, "I think Amelia and I ended up with the wrong bodies. And, you know I have never been much for chopping off heads, mother."

"Nor for chopping wood either," Isolde notes. "In any case, enough of the frolics. We have serious things to deal with, aside from visiting Mages and such. You have to go find a virgin who isn't afraid of monsters and is at least as resilient against otters as Amelia was."

"No small task," Morgan admits. "I guess, then, Amelia has … ? With Zahnrad, I suspect. I didn't know they had gone so far. Hmmm." He tries to think of virgins; resilient virgins. "This will take some looking. A shame Buffy is bound as she is."

"And by virgin, do you mean not with anyone?" Morgan adds in a considering voice.

"Amelia is too old now, regardless," Isolde says. "Besides, she's more likely to scare the river dragons than mollify them, even with her… charms. I thought Miranda would do, if she could charm a vampire with her music. But you make it sound as if she hasn't gotten the last of the gypsy spirit out of her system. And by virgin I mean… well, we can be technical about it. If she hasn't lain with a boy, she still counts as one."

"Then, perhaps. And, I was, well … No matter, sacrifice for the town, and all." Morgan's tail sinks. "I'll broach the subject to her, as I take her to see Buffy. That should be a good test, I think. Buffy can be rather insinuating, after all."

"So, the river dragons prefer the focus of the virgin?" Morgan asks.

"As long as she smells like a virgin, that's all that matters," Isolde says. "They're river dragons, it's not like they're all that imaginative, what with fish swimming through them and otters doing Spirit knows what in them as well."

"You'd think with otters around them, their imagination would be quite expansive," Morgan remarks. "I know Emmett has expanded mine on several occasions."

"I told you not to wear a dress around him if he's been drinking," Isolde chides.

"I wasn't paying attention, and he, well … Nevermind." Morgan's ears redden. "ANYWAY, let me see. Bravil seems to be recovering, Natasha is doing well, now. Mmm. I think that's about it."

"Those two could use a bit of good luck for a change," Isolde notes. "And if that's all, then you can refill the kettle so we can have some fresh tea."

"I think I'll do just that." Morgan puts his cup down, then takes up the kettle. "Thanks for talking with me, mother. I've been rather stressed out, as you can imagine, and this helps a lot. I do still intent to try and find father, though."

"If you really feel you need to," Isolde says with a sigh. "And you can rest assured that it is not Mage Qing, at least."

"I certainly hope not," Morgan says with relief. "And yes, I must. I'll be right back." And with that, Morgan is off in to the house, a much relived squirrel. At least, until another disaster comes his way, anyway.