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High in the towers of the Æshundoon citadel, surrounded by sharp spires and leering gargoyles, she sat. Deona had a power that nature endowed unto few. She could summon forth fire from the earth and heal any wound. With only a bowl of water she could peer in to past, present and future, often uttering dire premonitions, foretelling of danger. Her fearsome arts had earned her a terrible renown throughout her land. Some even said that she had earned her power through some faustian pact, bartering her very soul for the devil's magic.
Shær knew better though. How could he not. His position as her apprentice had shown him many of her secrets. He knew fend of the assaults of imps and pixies and the spells needed to speak to a dragon with impunity. He could summon forth fireflies and and conjure doves from thin air. Such whimsical tricks did not satisfy him though. He hungered for more. He was an apt pupil. Every thing that Deona taught him, was quickly learned and stored away by his dexterous mind. Many a night he could be found sitting in the library, engrossed in some dusty tome.
Still the slow pace at which he was taught chafed at Shær. He longed to know more. Yet, every time he begged his teacher to increase the speed of his lessons she would scoff at him, Insisting that magic was dangerous and that there were many ways in which a spell could go awry.
"Patience is a virtue. You're not yet ready."
Her curt replies vexed Shær, and so he devised a plan to further his own education, with out the help of his instructor. Late at night he could be found in the castles extensive libraries, searching by candle light for secrets that might lead him to power.
After weeks of sleepless nights and furtive reading, Shær was considering capitulating his search. Then at last he found something. One of the older volumes mentioned a power by which one might shift into the form of an animal. Further it noted a manuscript detailing the process. Oh, to shed his own form at will. The book warned the reader that to do so was torment, but Shær did not fear pain. This surely was the power that he so craved. Little did he know what such power might entail.
Hunting down the scroll he needed proved to be more of a challenge than Shær had anticipated. There seemed to be no such thing in the entire library. However, Shær was determined to ferret out the reclusive document and devoted long hours to the search. It was not until Shær was dusting his mistresses chamber that he found the scroll. It was in his teachers personal library, hidden beneath a large stack of books on the uses of herbs. Checking to make sure no one was present, Shær took the manuscript and tucked it under his tunic. At last the power would be his.
Late that night Shær sat at his desk puzzling over the scroll. It was in an archaic dialect of old English, but much of it was an excerpt from a Ancient Greek document. It told of an Arcadian king who succeeded in turning into a wolf. It spoke of lycanthropy, the power to be come a wolf. The process seemed to be a mater of drinking a simple potion while standing under the rays of the full moon. All that Shær need do was create this potion. The ingredient where somewhat peculiar: wolfs bane, which is just another name for monkshood, the dew that collects in the footprints of a wolf, the blood of a wolf and the blood of the sorcerer to be enspelled.
After nearly a month Shær was finally ready. He had carefully planned out everything. That night he crept into the forrest and set up. The full moon gazed down on him as he brought forth the decanter of potion. The liquid was a foul red brown color that looked black in the dark. Steeling himself for the pain that he knew would come, Shær downed the whole decanter of liquid. It tasted foul. Shær stood, not knowing what to expect. Then there was pain. Agony, torture. Shær writhed on the ground, screaming. He was skinned alive and every bone in his body was broken. He had white hot knives ripping through him. When he blacked out it was a mercy.
When Shær awoke it was morning. He was in his room. Vague memories floated on the edge of his conscious. Running on four feet, chasing, hunting, killing. The warm blood as he tore out the deer's throat. Suddenly he felt sick. Lurching for the toilet, he collapsed on the floor as his stomach purged itself of the raw meat. Slowly he got up, cleaned up the mess and prepared for his lessons. How he rued his decision to drink that foul potion.
Numbly Shær trudged through the day, finally to collapse in his bed again. Only to feel the pain again. He was going to change. As he felt the transition start he stumbled out of his room, and ran down the hall, keeping away from the moonlit windows. He had to get help. Surely his teacher would know what to do. He burst into Deona's chambers and ran to her study. She had been reading by the fire, but jumped up as soon as Shær ran in. He ran to her and collapsed at her feet, his body spasming.
"Help me."
"What has happened?" She cried trying to hold Shær down as writhed on the floor. "Tell me what is wrong!"
His only answer was to cry out as fur began to spread over his hands and face. Quickly Deona ran from the room, returning moments later with an iron horse shoe and a knife. By this time Shær looked more like a wolf than a human. His hands had vanished, to be replaced be the claws of a wolf. The only thing that remained human like was his face, and that was fast lengthening in to a wolf's snout.
Deona took careful aim an through the horse shoe over Shær's head. It clattered to the floor behind him. "By the power of iron reveal your true form," she cried. All movement ceased for one tense moment. Then Shær let out a small moan. Slowly at first, and then with gathering speed Shær began to change back. Fur rippled back and paws lengthened into fingers. Finally Shær crouched on the floor, once again in his human form.
Deona drew the dagger and slowly walked towards Shær.
"What are you doing?" he cried, "do you mean to kill me?"
"Hold out your arm," was the curt reply. Trembling in trepidation he held the limb out before her. She clasped his wrist in her left hand and brought the knife to his skin. "It's silver," she explained. Quickly she pressed down, drawing a gasp from Shær. Deona tilted his arm until three drops of blood fell, sizzling strangely, to the floor.
"There. The curse is gone," Deona said as she wiped clean her dagger, "Do you wish to explain to me why you chose to dabble in magics beyond your years?" Shær shook his head, dreading the impending punishment. "Well then," she said "I trust you under stand that what you did was foolish and I shall not have to upbraid you further. Please remember, patience is a virtue."