Chameleon

An Introduction

Born through necessity, came the blackest night ever known to Planet Yarn.

Neither cloud nor aurora dare mask the sky on this night for, in its clarity; a manifestation at the constellation Draco.

From that manifestation, a single fellow they’d call The Chameleon; fell upon the ground.

His objective: To find a few insolent (but valiant) morons to resolve the guide dragon crisis for him.

 

THE FIDDLER AND THE MOUSE

It was around 7pm when he arrived at the ground with a hefty ‘thud!’ He disturbed the chalky ground which entered his mouth and eyes rendering him senseless for a short time.

It had been donkey’s years since he’d left the company of the stars above him, which we know; is an accurate measurement of a long time.

He familiarised himself with the air as he took shallow breaths, allowing his lungs to expand eventually and fill with oxygen. Interstellar gas circulated much easier he thought.

His attire was foreign too, but the long black trench coat was thick and would keep him warm if it even mattered.

To his surprise, he remembered how to walk. Left foot, Right foot.

He cocked his battered old hat and tightened his heavy scarf before he set off alone down the chalky hill. He liked the dark. All he had to do is close his eyes to become invisible to the world. He’d spent countless hours wondering why people were so afraid of the dark, watching them be afraid. Nothing can hurt you if it cannot find you. Fear is born from poor education thus uncertainty.

The distant mild glow from a town called Gheywood was beckoning and would be the first of 3 towns to which he would travel to find his village idiot. Unfortunately, it would be unlikely to find such a person loitering about wearing a sandwich-board with ‘village idiot’ in capitalisation.

He was treading downhill for which he was grateful as it required only shallow breaths and he still resented the density of the atmosphere.

When he arrived at Gheywood, he was utterly under-whelmed. It was a plain and featureless little town which, had it not been for the faint glow; would simply had ceased to exist in the growing darkness.

Winter was almost over and Mother Nature had started her spring clean early, dusting off the snow and promising to polish each individual leaf to reflect her perfect beauty.

The residents of Gheywood were far too busy to notice or appreciate this though as they bustled about their business. There it was, plain before his own eyes; a collection of fools swaggering to and fro with their guide dragons on a piece of rope just long enough to hang themselves.

The dragons looked ferocious though their internal fires had been extinguished. The warmth had faded from their eyes which were now glazed over with silver filigree.

His concentration was snatched as a group of screaming little brats charged past him with an angry woman in hot pursuit, she flailed a rolling pin wildly in the air and was shouting the kind of words the children would be repeating in the playground the next day. The satisfying ‘Thunk!’ of a clipped ear confirmed that she’d successfully caught up with one of them.

From the corner of his peripheral, he noticed a donkey wandering freely on the dusty cobbles; it looked sad and lowly as donkeys often do. He stared for a short while and considered its practicalities. He pursued the animal for a short time before it kicked up the dust and picked up speed.

Too tired to give chase, he stumbled upon the alleyway where a fat cat was taking a twilight nap. He shoed it out of the way.

“Fickle feline” he sneered baring his teeth, though, upon closer inspection; the cat was not all it seemed and hardly fickle at all.

A squeaky sign creaked and screeched in the gentle wind and he took notice. ‘Milo’s Bakery’ it promised quality and service; though humans often break their promises.

He was rather peckish so decided to step inside.

The heat hit him like an electric blanket at the door and the warmth met his bitter cold breath which soon became uncomfortable underneath his heavy scarf.

Eyeing rows upon rows of pastries and rolls of indeterminate freshness, he was interrupted.

“Fresh!?” The voice which was not particularly assertive was that of an unhappy customer who decided that aggression was the way forward and an excellent substitute for intelligence.

He slammed the ‘fresh’ loaf onto the glass counter which almost cracked but decided to shake instead. A few depressed looking cherries rolled across the floor. They didn’t quite make the exit and it became apparent that they were doomed to be consumed.

“I paid 2 shrabn’l for this loaf and on return; my old lady found it to be stale and housing a small mouse. Where do you stand?”

Milo, the proprietor of the raggedy establishment who was apparently also a baker, fondled his greasy beard and the loaf with the other hand.

“I have no idea how the rodent became embreaded (he sniggered) but it isn’t of this establishment and there shall be no reimbursements and that is my final word on the matter.”

The customer did protest, for it was his last 2 shrabn’l. The Chameleon, sensing distress; purchased a similar loaf for which he traded for the mouse infested loaf Milo had actually baked.

“What an extraordinary display of human compassion” he scoffed. “Move along now before I fetch up me dinner.”

Well, The Chameleon was deeply insulted. He’d never met such an audaciously rude individual before.

The customer moved quickly across the shop floor sensing the approaching storm.

“Thanks mista” He paused and looked up at The Chameleon before siding his way quickly past and across the shop floor. He stuffed the loaf into his tatty overcoat as it was beginning to drizzle outside.

The rain pitter pattered at the window pane in small bursts and the bustle outside moved on to warmer dryer places mostly.

“Home time” Milo pointed to the door interrupting The Chameleons thought process. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“Well yes Milo, yes I do” He smiled. “Mind if I call you Milo?”

“A paying customer can call me anything he would like” Milo replied.

“And the customer would always be right? Right?” Smiled The Chameleon.

“Well… Erm…”

“You’re obviously an intelligent individual Milo” The Chameleon paused with a half-smile. “You make a good living from your vocation and sharp tongue. Do you not?”

“I suppose I do…” Milo unfurled which left him standing tall and proud.

“Good, good for you. I was hoping that perhaps you would share some of your wisdom with me by teaching me how to bake a simple loaf. As payment, I offer this golden sovereign ring.” He thrust his hand forwards dramatically and it glistened with a cheeky wink.

A golden sovereign eh? He thought and he almost laughed out loud. Could barely believe his luck. The fellow stood before him was clearly a twit of the highest order and knew no gain of money. Of course he’d teach him how to make the simplest of simple loaves. He’d use his cheapest ingredients and over complicate the entire process. The Chameleon would look up to him afterwards he fantasizes. He did say he was an intelligent fellow after all didn’t he?

Milo savoured that thought for a short while until he became conscious that his daydreaming had left an uncomfortable silence.

“Erm yes sir, of course I’d be only too glad to teach you the tricks of the trade sir. Do me a favour though please sir and pull the bolt across; we need not be disturbed if I’m to give you my undivided attention sir.”

He shot a greasy look at The Chameleon and rubbed his greedy little mitts together.

“Through the back, this way sir” Milo skipped gleefully leading the way.”

“”This way sir, mind your head and your step sir. I do say, what a tall and handsome fellow you are sir.”

Nausea flooded The Chameleons stomach, he despised grovelers. They were a waste of foot space on land and they leached off the air.

The back room was muggy, both damp and warm. So much that the wall was beginning to come away and puddles were forming between the valley of cobblestone flooring. The floor almost glistened under the oil lantern fixed upon the wall, giving the illusion of cleanliness. This was just an illusion though.

The small kitchen was grubby and tired.

A clatter of tins from a pile on the floor sent a small mouse running for its life. It scuttled to a large crack within the wall where it had made its home almost certainly.

The Chameleon remembered the mouse loaf and he shuddered.

He was handed what appeared to be an apron or rather a bit of cloth as the strings had been cut in hasty removal.

“Are you a family man?” Probed The Chameleon.

Milos face scrunched a little and he turned up his nose as if he’d trodden in something unpleasant.

“Used to be sir” He confirmed.

“A wife and a drip of a son, used to work here not too long ago. Not terribly hard mind you. They’re squatting 2 towns along, Norwood I believe or so I was told. Pretty sad really, people have said they seem happier than ever but how can they be with nothing? I know deep down they’re miserable, but I doubt they’ll return anytime soon. That’s what pride does to you, leaves you out in the gold-I mean cold” All the time, Milo was eyeing the gold sovereign ring.

“So let us get started” said Milo, “There are 5 vital ingredients to a loaf. The first is flour. I get this flour from the old mill; have a loyal friend who works there if you know what I mean?” He winked and nudged The Chameleon.

“The second is yeast, a controversial ingredient. There are some who believe it has magical properties, contains knowledge no less and swells the bread like a brain absorbing said knowledge. Ironically, these people have no brains whatsoever.”

“Oh?” Said The Chameleon.

“It’s caused by a chemical reaction, Carbon Dioxide to be precise. Those little Co2 bubbles rise causing the dough to rise, none of that hocus pocus I mentioned aforehand. You’ll find no pyrotechnics here I’m afraid”

“We also need butter, salt and tepid water.” He continued “You can check the temperature of the water agen your wrist, it should be neither hot nor gold”

“So, we add the flour, and the yeast, mix in the water. It sounds easy enough sir, but you can never be too certain of yourself. This is the secret of good bread which I only share on a knead to know basis”

The Chameleon scoffed at the terrible bun.

“Now we use a wooden spoon to mix it all together, you’re familiar with the concept of mixing aren’t you sir?”

The Chameleon raised his eyebrows and nodded. He could mix exceptionally well; in fact, he was mixing up a hideously delicious spell alongside these 5 vital ingredients.

A little spell he’d been saving up for some time and for such a person as Milo. Kneading the dough had never been more pleasurable for The Chameleon. He thrusted his palms and into the concoction and with every twist and turn of the dough the spell had imprinted itself into the mixture.

“Lastly we seal the dough with water” added Milo.

An excellent way to bind this spell The Chameleon smiled to himself.

Milo handed him a small pot and watched him transfer the dough.

Both pots sat alongside each other in the clay oven and Milo produced a pipe from his pocket and was chuffing along hazily for some time.

“They may double in size sir, though yours is unlikely to do so as I explained earlier, baking is tricky. Very easy to get wrong sir, very easy.”

When it was time to retrieve the bread, The Chameleon looked pleased. Not only had his bread risen, it looked more appetizing than Milos’.

Of course, Milo was having none of this. “That’s my loaf!” He said shiftily.

“I specifically remember potting my loaf in that exact pot” The Chameleon did protest.

“The proof will be in the taste” said Milo. “When things look too good to be true, it is usually because they are” With that, he tore into The Chameleons bread. He simply could not take his greedy mitts off it.

It was in this moment of greed that the first curse was born. Where there was once a short, fat imbecile baker now stood a lively, lanky, moronic fiddler.

His attire was foreign to him and the green waistcoat with matching long jacket didn’t appeal much. The trousers were obviously very uncomfortable.

The Chameleon looked mighty pleased with his handiwork.

“Now then my rude little baker man. From this day forth, every word to run from your tiny small mind will have rhyme and reason and Oh yes, here is your fiddle.” He picked up a pastry which on contact, immediately warped into the tiny instrument.

He presented it to Milo with a smile.

“If your request is for the curse to be lifted, you must travel into the dragons’ territory and complete a task, the nature of which will become apparent to you soon. On your journey, you are likely to meet others on a similar quest for enlightenment.

They too will be dimwits like yourself so you shall be in constant good company.

He continued...

“I can be of no further assistance for now; you must now help yourself, a skill you have already acquired at the expense of others”

The flabbergasted fiddler did protest as he danced a merry jig and said;

“A journey to the Dragons Cove?

A dangerous and lonely road?

With a band of men, as dumb as hell,

In a bid to unlock and break a spell?”

Well, The Chameleon was delighted and chuckled to himself. He nodded.

This was actually funny as hell; he may well tag alongside the morons for entertainment purposes.

He dismissed this idea immediately of course; the conditions of his own redemption were to rid himself of these intrusive thoughts. He shook it off, turned his back and headed in the direction of the alleyway.

The fat cat had returned and managed a half opened eye as The Chameleon passed. He knelt down and presented the mouse loaf to the feline.

“An easy catch for you today Twain.” He said.

THE CONGREGATION

Roughly 10 miles across the wilderness (as the crow flies) a murder of crows congregated in a clearing outside a well-known tavern ‘The Sad Spider’

They were heckling a lady inside.

“Lady Oktober, Lady Oktober come outside and play with us. Let us peck out your eyes and nest in your hair.”

One particular crow was carrying a large ruby ring in his beak which in fact, belonged to Lady Oktober. It glimmered and glowed faintly as the day was drawing to a close.

Inside the tavern, a log fire roared to drown out the buffoonery. The locals were full of merriment (and indeed ale) however, something was stirring.

From the darkest corner of the room, a darker shade of black shadow emerged. It was Lady Oktober. She had become a permanent fixture at the tavern for several months now, for the crows outside had been threatening to peck out her eyes for some time.

It was evident from their voices that they hadn’t eaten in a while.

Lady Oktober had taken their mother from their nest when they were born - a mere ingredient for a spell which she’d cast upon King Merlot. They had held a grudge ever since.

For it was Lady Oktober that introduced the guide dragons into the towns. Enticing and snaring them as they sipped from her pools within the forest. Everybody knew dragons were unable to resist the Heliotrope waters; these pools were polluted with spells.

Each cooling drop sipped, resulting in ‘brain freeze’ which would freeze the beasts’ brain and extinguish its inner fire.

These dragons were no longer a threat to the people and made very good slaves, they also generated a very good income for Lady Oktober as she operated an establishment over at Gheywood which was the sole source of food for these guide dragons. ‘The Vera Plant’ this plant kept them in check (or so she’d have people believe) Fed on anything else, they would turn and nobody wanted that.

She was a witch in almost every which way; hideously ugly, ratty hair and she had a wart on her big cranky old nose! She slouched against her broomstick. Her cat had recently gained a fair bit of weight and had ran away (or rather slinked off as cats tend to do) One crucial element was missing though; she possessed not one magical power. Not an ounce of hocus pocus.

It hadn’t always been like this, Lady Oktober was once feared by many, inhabiting the woodlands on the outskirts of the town and nobody had dared to enter them except to purchase a dragon from her. Those with money could pass.

It was the ring that gave her power and she was nothing without it.

A short way from the tavern, a unicorn came a galloping, except it was no ordinary unicorn. Where there should have been a single horn, lay 2 rather large, ugly bulls’ horns. Noticeably distressed it trotted into the tavern.

The locals gasped, for they’d never seen a unicorn with sideway horns before. It was a rather odd situation.

“What is your name oh wondrous creature?” begged the locals.

Clearing his throat, he replied “My name is Fyn and I come from Norwood (the next town along) less than an hour ago, a man with a chip on his shoulder passed through our town. I offered to show his fortune in exchange for a ring he wore upon his finger.

His future looked cloudy so I couldn’t give him an accurate reading. He became enraged and accused me of getting smart. He called me a stubborn twitard!

The locals gasped.

“Before I knew it, I was on all fours, growing a tail and these great things” He gestured towards his horns.

He failed to mention the countless people he’d conned that day and how he had actually tried to pilfer The Chameleons gold sovereign ring during a palm reading.

The locals looked baffled but carried on nonetheless, there was ale to be sunk, it was a remarkable story but generally quite accepted in these parts as it was indeed the age of wizardry and witchcraft.

A large pitcher of ale was poured for Fyn and placed onto the bar. “Any chance of a straw?” He asked.