Grey couldn’t believe what was happening. He should have complete control. He shouldn’t have slipped so suddenly into Thraveon in the first place. He shouldn’t have arrived somewhere that he hadn’t planned to visit. He certainly shouldn’t have arrived half-dressed. He glanced once more at his clothing and equipment.

“Do I look different to you in any way?” he asked the dwarf.

“Blessedly so I would say,” answered Stonefist, “now that ye have clothes on.” Stonefist chuckled at his own joke.

“No. Seriously. Is there anything unusual about me?” Grey asked.

“No. Nothing unusual about ye at all. Ye take me away from fighting and adventuring - the only things I’ve ever really enjoyed or known aught about, ye bring me to an empty field and cause this inn to appear out of thin air, then ye set me up as proprietor where suddenly I know everything there is to know about running a business. Ye pop in from time to time out of nowhere and on the rare occasion when you are under-dressed, why you wriggle your nose, or wave your hand, or I don’t know what…and you’re fully dressed and fat with gold to boot. Oh you’re a normal one alright. Nothing unusual at all.”

“You finished?” Grey asked with a tone reserved for displeased parents.

“Yes,” Stonefist replied, unremorseful. “You had that coming, however.”

“Fine. You’re right. I had it coming. Now look again please. I’m serious. Is there anything about me that is different than the last time you saw me? I think there is something terribly wrong, though I cannot fathom what.”

Stonefist stared at Grey’s face, his posture, his clothing. He walked around him in a slow deliberate circle. Once behind Grey he inhaled deeply, as if surprised. “Ahhhhh.”

“What?!” Grey asked. “What is it? Do you see something?”

“You’ve put on some weight haven’t ye?” Stonefist asked. Grey turned and glared at the dwarf. Stonefist chuckled again. “Look lad, I don’t mean to be difficult, but the only thing that seems different to me is that ye’ve let me crack several jokes without shutting me up. Even folks that don’t have the ability to conjure often…”

Grey cut him off. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re putting on weight.”

“No, after that. About not shutting you up,” Grey replied.

“Lad. I always crack jokes and you always let me get away with one, maybe two, but then ye do that thing where I can’t talk any more and I…”

“I can’t control you?” Grey asked. “I didn’t even realize I did that to you. Keep talking.”

“About what?” Stonefist asked.

“I don’t care. Tell me about your business. Anything,” Grey responded.

Stonefist began to talk about the recent shipment of Dirlonian white wine that had turned sour in the casks on the way to the Spilled Chalice. While he spoke, Grey concentrated on him and tried to make him stop. It should only take a glance. Stonefist kept talking. “I could’ve killed that merchant, but he was a fast talker. He sold me the wine at half price as vinegar. Said I’d get my shipment of wine next week at a reduced price.” Stonefist stopped talking. “I guess it’s not working, eh lad?”

Grey sighed, “no it’s not. I don’t know what’s wrong. I can conjure gold, and clothes. He willed himself a longsword in a dark green leather scabbard. It appeared in his outstretched hands. “With gold fittings,” Grey said. The scabbard instantly became more elaborate. “And a golden belt to hang it from.” He felt it wrap snugly around his waist.

“That’s still a handy trick if ye ask me,” Stonefist said, tugging at the loose grey whiskers of his beard. “Personally, I’d be conjuring wenches, but…” he trailed off, realizing his joke wasn’t really amusing his friend.

Grey considered the facts. He couldn’t affect Stonefist for some reason, but he could still conjure items. He looked around the inn and then at Stonefist. “What do you think about the layout of the Chalice?”

“Honestly?” Stonefist asked.

“I can’t seem to have it otherwise,” Grey remarked blandly.

“Well, I’ve often thought that whoever designed this place, no offense mind you, but whoever designed this place had no mind for the proper running of an inn. The hearth is too narrow and too short to be of great use to the cooks, and doesn’t put off much heat in winter.”

Grey looked at the east wall of the inn where the fireplace stood and had to admit it seemed undersized for the scale of the inn. It began to stretch to the left and right and the mantle began to raise until it almost filled the entire wall. Above the inn, the chimney grew appropriately to vent the volume of smoke that would now be produced. Grey looked back at Stonefist who stood nodding in satisfaction.

“The keg rack is smaller than it ought to be considering the number of tables that we have in here.” Stonefist smiled and rubbed his hands together.

Grey looked behind the bar at the four kegs. He stretched the inn wall, added four oaken kegs of the same size and one of linden in gargantuan proportions.

“Giantish Ale!! However did ye…” Stonefist looked back at Grey. “You’ve still got it laddie. You’ve still got it.”

“Some of it, it seems,” Grey agreed. He looked around at the empty inn. He needed to test the limits of his control, and he needed to figure out how to get back through the nexus. Who knew what was going on with his body in the real world. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he really was sick and had passed out. Perhaps he was sleeping at his desk in the embassy and this was all a dream. Hopefully the Ambassador hadn’t wandered in to find him unconscious. He would have to find someway to wake up.

“Can you close the inn for a few hours Stonefist? I need some help. ”

“Close the inn?” The dwarf looked dumbfounded. “It hasn’t been closed since ye put me here. What if a customer comes?

“Put up a sign. Say you are on vacation.” The dwarf looked at Grey with uncertainty. “I can’t force you it seems. But I really do need your help old friend. I think the nexus is broken.”

Stonefist gaped. “The way ye bring the out-worlders in? It’s broken?”

“It could be. I think so. I’m not sure really. I just don’t know. Will you help me?”

“Of course. But if you think I’m heading off in the world in an apron, you’ve got another thing coming…” Stonefist ventured.

Grey took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He imagined Stonefist as he had once appeared to so many groups of adventurers; well muscled and middle-aged for a dwarf, armored head to toe in dwarven chain, and wielding an oversize double-bladed battle-axe. Grey opened his eyes and Stonefist stood before him grinning from ear to middle-aged ear in full battle regalia. Stonefist hefted the massive axe in one hand while pulling deliberately at one of several dark brown braids that composed his beard with the other.

“If all my equipment is this new again,” he said, “I’ll go wherever ye need, for as long as ye need. Lookout world, here I come!” He began to swing the axe around his head in mighty arcs as he sang a Dwarven war song about Oakheart the Unforgettable. Grey backed to the edge of the room, pondering out loud.

“I can change my physical situation but I can’t will myself home. I can change your physical situation and even your attributes, but I can’t get you to shut up…” he considered.

Stonefist kept swinging the axe as he moved about the inn, careful not to hit any furniture. “Ye could ask politely. I might shut up.” Grey looked up and met his gaze. “Then again,” the dwarf said mischievously, “I might not.”

Grey shook his head. It was hard to get mad at his friend, regardless of the severity of his situation. Better to keep his sense of humor anyway. He’d need it if he woke up with the Ambassador standing over him.

“Pack us some food and drink while I put up a sign,” Grey said, placing several packs and bags on the tables.

“You can conjure food whenever we need it,” Stonefist argued, “Why carry the weight? And where are we going, anyway?”

“I don’t want to waste what little control I may have on conjuring food if we can carry it with us,” Grey replied. “And I don’t know where we are going. We’ll have to play it by ear.” He thought signs onto the outer doors of the inn that were written in a rough hand: “Closed for an unforeseeable incident. Be back as soon as possible. Trespassers will be tracked down and roughed up severely.” Grey then mentally nailed all but one of the doors shut.

“Ready,” Stonefist said, loaded down with several bulging packs.

“I can carry one of those,” Grey offered.

“And waste this energy and stamina?” Stonefist laughed, “not on your life! You worry about your problem and let me do the carrying.”

Grey allowed the dwarf his gesture. They departed the inn and as they stood in the street before it, Grey barred the door from within. Stonefist sighed as he took in the fresh late-morning air. “Just like old times,” he said wistfully.

The sun was approaching mid-day as they turned from the inn to head south towards the coast. It was still autumn in Dirlon, so the air was cool without being cold. Leaves had begun to change from bright green and dark green to yellow and amber. A lone greyhound crossed the road about thirty meters in front of them. Grey stopped.

“What was that?” he asked.

Stonefist looked at him querulously. “A dog perhaps?” He glanced sideways at Grey, waiting for the rest of the joke.

“What kind of dog?” Grey said, moving more quickly down the road.

“How should I know what kind of dog?” Stonefist replied, moving quickly to keep up with Grey. The packs began to jostle and bounce as he endeavored to keep up with Grey’s increasing pace. “When I offered to carry the packs I didn’t know we’d be in a race,” he said.

“I think that was a Greyhound,” Grey explained.

“Grey, black, brown, what does it matter? A hound is a hound,” Stonefist panted as he fell farther behind.

“Not a Grey hound! A greyhound! Don’t you see?” He spun quickly around once, running backwards while looking back at the dwarf. “I never put any greyhounds in Thraveon! That dog shouldn’t exist!”

“Well…that may be,” Stonefist panted, “but there….it goes…again!” He pointed behind Grey.

Grey spun back around and saw the dog, a sleek greyhound with a glossy coat, it’s muscular head pointed forward and down as it began to pick up speed. “What are you doing here?” Grey whispered to the air as he watched the hound run. “How did you get in my world?” He took deep breath. “My world,” he said. “This is my world. I created every rock and tree and creature in it. The air is mine. The earth is mine. ”

Grey Connor mentally shook off his equipment as he began to run forwards after the dog. Gone were the sword and breastplate and heavy boots. In their place was a loincloth and soft leather boots of the type worn by the Cords, the fastest humans in Thraveon. Grey focused on the hound ahead of him as he picked up speed, his feet hitting the earth lightly and sending him forward. He chanted to himself as he ran, “My world. My path. My speed. My air. ” He began to gain on the hound as the world passed by him in a blur, his feet pounding harder and more rapidly as he ran.

The hound looked back over it’s shoulder once took off suddenly in a burst of energy and speed. Grey knew in the real world he would have no chance of catching the dog. Greyhounds could reach speeds in excess of forty-five miles and hour. No human being could achieve even half that. But here in Thraveon Grey could do anything, almost anything, he corrected himself. He increased his speed effortlessly. So did the hound. He stretched the length of his stride and the greyhound appeared to do the same instinctively, pulling farther and farther ahead of him. Grey was beginning to get discouraged as more distance grew between the two of them.

“My world,” he thought. “In my control.” He continued to run forward as fast as his two legs would carry him. TWO LEGS! Of course!! He leaned forward suddenly and willed himself into the shape of a massive black greyhound, bounding forward in a series of long powerful strides. “My world,” he thought. “In my control.”

Grey raced forward, gaining rapidly on the speeding hound. The surprised dog looked back at Grey and there was a sudden look of slight acknowledgment in it’s eyes, not-quite a surrender, but an understanding. Grey came abreast of the hound and paced it for several strides, locking eyes with the other. There was a message there, but Grey could not fathom it. He tried to sense the creature’s thoughts, but could ascertain nothing.

The two continued to run, side by side across the plains as the sun rose higher in the sky and Grey began to think the hound would never tire. A message? A clue? He looked again at the tag and collar. Tag and collar? There were no dog tags in Thraveon! He lunged at the throat of hound with his human hand as he changed form, grasping the metal tag and wrenching it from the small ring that held it to the collar. Man and beast tumbled over and over on the ground as they slowly came to a stop in a twisted jumble of canine and human limbs. Grey closed his eyes to protect them from the cloud of dust the sudden stop was creating and rubbed his hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat from his brow as he tried to regain his breath. Sweat? He didn’t sweat in Thraveon! And he certainly didn’t get out of breath. This day was getting worse and worse.

He opened his eyes to untangle himself from the dog and found himself wrapped around the bars of the treadmill in the embassy gym. He was panting from exertion and dripping with sweat as he heard the motor of the treadmill winding down beneath him. His legs moved forward methodically, numbly, achingly, sweat pouring down his legs to wet the athletic socks and Nikes he was wearing.

“Never seen anyone put that thing on high before sir,” the marine guard said as he swung his arms and legs back and forth to the rhythm of the elliptical machine. “certainly not for as long as you were on it.”

Grey looked over at the Lance Corporal and smiled vacantly. “Long?” he asked. “How long have I been running?”

“How long?” the marine asked. “Man sir, you are a machine. You got on it just before lunch and you’ve been running the whole hour! Can’t believe you didn’t even time yourself.”

Grey only half heard the answer. He was too busy focusing on the metal tag in his hand. It appeared to be made of solid gold and was neatly stamped with the name “Argus.”

“Wonderful,” Grey thought. “Odysseus’ dog. As if things weren’t confusing enough.”

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