By the time Altan sauntered out of the bathhouse, buzzed on wines and high on dopamine, the sun had long since set and the daylight disappeared, along with any recollection he had of where he was supposed to meet Dagger. And yet, for the first time since coming to this crazy world, he felt clean. He felt loose. He felt content. Didn't Dagger say something about... a blue door, further along? Altan pondered, turning, in fact, the wrong way. Not that he minded much in the moment, too busy replaying delicious memories of all sorts in his minds eye as he strolled leisurely along torch-lit streets. The night was quiet, peaceful, save for the consistent dark noise of the Kingsmeny Run, burbling a handful of blocks away. Altan yawned, stretching out his loose muscles delightedly. He'd find it eventually... Kav.. Kore... Karvosh's. Yes. He remembered, the urge to sleep in an actual bed for the first time in well over two weeks pulling him from his fantasies.
"Well," he sighed to himself, lacing his fingers behind his head, "all good things must come to and end, right?"
He stopped then with a lengthy yawn, hands resting on his hips as he scanned the area. Several square buildings sat packed tightly along the street, signs advertising various goods and services. Unlike Wilders Edge, many of the shops and homes here were two stories, some higher, and constructed mostly of cobblestone or dark woods. Small lanterns illuminated several curtain-filled windows, casting warm glows into the street. In one building somewhere off to the left, he heard the wailing of a baby. It sent a spark of annoyance up his spine so he continued forward, where the street opened up into a small plaza.
     Encircled by flickering torches, the plaza was surrounded with different street carts. Many were smashed, there were blood stained mats, and many other signs of conflict. Altan shuddered at the resemblance to the aftermath at Crags Fort. He could imagine this little pocket of Guthram used to bustle with nightlife, but it was vacant now. His eyes were drawn to the centrepiece of the plaza, a long dried fountain carved of four statues. With idle curiosity, he approached.
      Each statue was constructed of simple grey stone, but boasted incredible detail, down to singular hairs. Two of them were human, or Arcanian, Altan supposed. Depicted in regal clothing and jewelled crowns, standing proudly side by side, one was a man and the other a woman. He noted, however, that both statues had been desecrated by what he assumed were the current occupants of this village. The woman's stoic features had been seemingly slashed into with blades, carving ugly scars through her face to the point where very little of her expression remained visible. Blood had been smeared intentionally in lewd locations, long dried streaks dripping down the motionless folds of her gown to cake over a small metal plaque at the base. The words were coated in a dirt and bloody grime that Altan had little intention of scuffing off despite his curiosity, so he turned to the male figure.  Built heavier, the man's strong face was not so defiled, and his blank stare bore into Altan. However, his right arm had been completely broken off, scattered several feet away in several large crumbling pieces. A long, bloody sword had been forcefully jammed into a crack in his sternum. Altan knelt down by the plaque at his feet, and brushed off the light layer of dust that had settled on it. King Aasim. Logic dictated that the woman beside him must have been the Queen. The Prince's late parents, killed during Centurions invasion. Altan grew uncomfortable suddenly, and decided to shift around to examine the other two statues.
      The other two statues resembled dragons. He came to the one opposite the King first, which was depicted rearing on its hind legs, wings outstretched in an impressive display of power. Altan guessed if it still had a head, it's jaws would be agape in a ferocious roar, but the extremity was nowhere to be seen. Snapped clean off. The dragon had etched into it many, many scars, running through its pointed scales, though these appeared intentional in its design. An ugly chunk of missing wing membrane less-so. Altan glanced at the plate. Nydred, Lord of "The Skies" had been scratched out and replaced with "Nothing". Altan struggled for several moments as he recalled The Prince's summary of recent history: Nydred had been the Dragon King. The most powerful living entity in this strange magical world. That is, until Xorvad, a big evil black dragon with an army of monsters, killed him. Xorvad, the Dark One, then crushed the dragon Queen's only clutch of eggs, before she was able to banish him and his evil creatures to some strange realm between life and death. The Whisperglade, where he now resides, and from where Centurion wishes to free him for whatever insane reason). The name of the dragon Queen, Altan remembered as he stepped to the last remaining statue, was Ozir. Ozir the Eternal.
Two things immediately struck out to Atlan as he approached her elegant form- sat back on her haunches with her tail curled neatly around her legs. First, of the four statues, hers was the only one left completely untouched. Though largely ignorant to this worlds culture and history, what little he had gleaned told Altan dragons were revered. He supposed desecrating the monument of a very powerful, and very alive creature would threaten all sorts of evil omens and bad luck. Or, simply, no one had the balls to do it. Second, and much more alarmingly, Altan recognized her. He stood frozen for several minutes, gazing at the statue, accompanied only by the distant gurgle of the Kingsmeny Run, the damp night air, and his rampant thoughts. Yes, he was sure of it. The dragon, the one who, after he had been tossed over a waterfall, had appeared in his strange dream, vision, whatever it was... was her. Ozir. The revelation left him with more questions than answers.
      The statue stared back.
      A pebble being kicked across the desolate plaza wrenched Altan from his swirling thoughts, and his heart leapt into his throat as he crouched quickly behind the fountain. As he peered past the vandalized statues, a blonde girl with full lips and a fuller chest emerged from a shadowed alley. Normally, a slightly buzzed Altan would spring at the opportunity to have such a gorgeous person guide him back to Karvosh's Tavern and ideally, through a little bit of deception and charm, have some company for the night. However, your mind spends all of its day watching people acting normally. It knows what normal behaviour is. So, when that gnawing, twisting gut feeling arises for no obvious reason, it's typically a wise decision to listen.
The girl, shouldering a semi-filled burlap sac, continued striding swiftly into the plaza. She stopped then, surveying her surroundings. It was weird, Altan noted, how calm such a youthful, pretty looking thing seemed so comfortable walking around alone at night. In a place occupied by less-than friendly people, no less. The Black Guard certainly did not seem to be the most gentlemen-like. Apparently satisfied, she unceremoniously unloaded her sac onto the ground. And then, to Altan's unfolding horror, she began to change.
       Porcelain white skin burbled and stretched as her body convulsed, writhing horribly as she doubled over. Her golden honey hair turned a mouldy grey before shrivelling up and falling of in ashen pieces. Bones snapped and pressed against their fleshy confines, bulges dancing across her skin as they shifted. The body grew and her clothes ripped across a more muscular form, new hair beginning to sprout from its scalp. Just as suddenly as the transformation had begun, it completed, and in her place stood-
      "DAGGER?!"
       Dagger startled at the noise, springing upright from where he had been fishing out new clothes from his sac. His face twisted into a series of emotions, ranging from guilt to fear as a thoroughly disturbed Altan came pacing from his hiding place.
       Dagger smiled though it did not reach his wide eyes. "Altan! Friend! ...I-I can explain."
        Altan stopped several paces away for good measure. "I hope so, because what the actual-"
        "Do you know what a changeling is?"
        "NO!"
        "Okay, err..." Dagger scratched the back of his head. "Maybe this'll clue you in."
          He stepped back and Altan nearly hurled as Dagger began to change again; bones snapping, flesh bubbling, the whole nine yards. When a few moments later Bridget was standing in front of him, he really did, chunks of vomit splattering onto the ground. Dagger? Bridget? Whatever that thing was grimaced as Altan shook his head, wiping his mouth with the hem of his shirt. The thick taste of bile assaulted his tongue and he felt unpleasantly sober.
         "So you're telling me... I was hitting on a dude? Or wait a chick? Wh-what even are you?!"
        "A changeling." Bridget repeated, smiling sadly with that consistent, milky blind eye of theirs. It seemed so OBVIOUS now. "All of the above; I take the form I wish within reason. I know, I know... it is a rather odd concept for someone not of this world."
        "'Odd' is an understatement..." Atlan muttered.
         "Come, let us make our way back to Karvosh's tavern, we have much to discuss." They insisted, eyeing the puddle of vomit carefully as they ushered Altan away. "Oh, you seem uncomfortable, however... should I go back to being Dag-"
         "NO. No. Please. No more."