From: "Micky Gunn" Subject: [PORC] Breaking the ice The chill had pierced his very soul. Creeping up his small body from feet already frozen to the floor....unable to move or prevent the inevitable icy fate that awaited him and all the while that nasty wizard had gloated. What a shame that his ugly face - with its warty nose - had been the last thing Skeetr would ever see. A pang of regret before being fully entombed in magical ice....his family would likely wonder what had become of him. Poor mother would fret terribly as mothers do, and no doubt his older brother would set out in search of him as he had done many a time before, but this time he would be powerless to rescue his trouble-prone sibling. Evil wizards were in an entirely different league to rival cutpurses, pickpockets, street urchins, oafish town guards, and the occasional mark with unexpectedly fast reflexes. 'Ah well, a valuable lesson learned too late for this curious lad,' he thought ruefully. Of course he'd had plenty of time to think whilst in his frozen prison. Think and dream - that much he could still do. So he thought of his friends, his family, of misadventures past and dreamed of places he would never have the opportunity to discover and people he would never meet, of locks left unpicked and shopkeepers resting peacefully in their beds, knowing their valuable merchandise was safe from his once-deft hands. He wondered why he never felt hungry or thirsty but supposed it was something to do with the spell - not that he wouldn't have liked to sink his teeth into a nice juicy apple, or a sticky-sweet bun..... His reverie was interrupted by a "whump" and a surge of heat. Something was happening in the outside world...something exciting! The ice casket that had cocooned him melted with such surprising speed his body crumpled to the ground like some child's discarded rag doll. He could hear muffled voices nearby, but weak and blinded as he was Skeetr couldn't see a thing so he lay there and listened to the sounds of mayhem around him. Judging by the crackle of magicka in the air and the surprised shouts it seemed that the nasty wizard had an unwelcome visitor - and one who couldn't easily be dispatched with a spell or two. Good! It served the old coot right. Then, before he quite knew what had happened Skeetr experienced a most unusual sensation. A sudden jolt and then his limbs began to move of their own volition and he sensed a presence around...no...*within* him, forcing him to stand and face the mage and another, younger man - similarly clad in spellcaster's robes. An apprentice perhaps? 'Maybe I've become one of those zombie things' thought Skeetr as he tried without success to regain control of his body. Though he could now see with perfect clarity his vision was strange....everything around him was devoid of colour. The younger mage began drawing a dagger from his belt - obviously not intending to clean his nails with it - and without warning Skeetr's right hand balled into a fist then slammed with incredible force into the side of the mage's head, felling him in an instant - quite a feat considering the young Khajit's wiry frame was all of four feet nothing in height. Had Skeetr been able to do so he would have punched the air and whooped with boyish exuberance, but instead his disobedient body turned to face the mean old mage (who appeared to be casting a powerful spell) and his reedy voice invoked ancient, unknown - to him - words of power. Just in time too...the warty-nosed wizard loosed a fireball of immense proportions in his direction, only to have it dissipate harmlessly against the shield "Skeetr" had just raised. The Khajit noted with some amusement that the backlash had singed the mage's whiskers and eyebrows. Before his opponent could ready another spell he retaliated with one of "his own"...and a glittering ball of ice now rooted his foe's slippered feet to the flagstones, rapidly freezing his body from the ground up. An interesting medley of emotions flickered across the mage's ugly face: surprise, indignation, fury, and eventually fear and desperation as he realised he was undone. Skeetr noted with some satisfaction that the horrid man was about to meet with an ironically similar - and well-deserved - demise to that which he had suffered. A few seconds later Al'ali, self proclaimed Grand High Archmage of the Guardian Citadel (and completely encased in an icy sheath) was just another statue in the bizarre gallery. A visitor inspecting it closely would have marveled at the fine detail - right down to the warts on its nose.... Skeetr was basking in a self satisfied glow when suddenly everything went black. He came to, unsure of how much time had elapsed, covered in a woolen blanket and surrounded by strange people. Adventurer types, garbed in armour and bristling with weapons. Two of the strangers - a statuesque Nord woman and a strangely familiar Dark Elf man were standing over him, conversing in quiet, urgent tones, while the others - three Elven women - appeared to be gawking at the curios on display. The young Khajit observed them awhile, then deciding they meant him no immediate harm coughed politely (though he felt weak as a kit his body was once again his own to command!) to attract their attention. "Ahem." Immediately all attention was focused on him and he waited to see what would happen next….