This was written together with Nitrinoxus and Thronezwei. It uses the Dreaming setting
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Part 1
The mid-October air was crisp and bracing, which was a polite way of saying it was frigging cold. The streets of Bridgeport, Ontario, were largely empty as people hid in cars and coffee shops to avoid the temperature. For a pair of friends, this sudden drop in temperature had caught them unawares as they shared a walk home from their respective jobs. Seeking shelter, the two took cover in the closest store that wasn't jam packed with fellow refugees. The end result was the two wandering through an antique store under the watchful eye of its wizened owner. The first man calmly inspected each piece with forethought and appreciation for history. The second had to restrain himself from fiddling with the displays.
The former of the two stopped near one of the walls, stooping down to get a closer look at the shop's collection of clockwork gizmos and doodads. Among these was what had caught his eye as he passed: a small, crystal-walled box with brass and bronze inlay. He lifted the lid, admiring the mechanisms it held as the gears and wheels plucked out a soothing melody on a shining steel comb. "You are one beautiful piece of craftsmanship," he murmured, a few strands of his dark hair drifting out of place and casting shadows over his pale face.
His friend peeked over his shoulder, rust-red hair bouncing at his movements as he hummed along to the tune, waving a hand like a conductor's baton. An overly eager swoop nearly knocked over a vase. He smiled sheepishly at the stern look of the shopkeeper.
"It sounds nice, Zane." He said awkwardly.
Zane nodded, crystal-blue eyes looking across the rest of the collection. "Sure does, Sparky," he said, the melody fading away as he shut the lid of the box.
Sam 'Sparky' grinned. He loved the nickname Zane had picked for him. It was always odd to others that someone like Sam could be friends with one as dour as Zane, but he knew better. He could tell that there was something fun nestled under his friend's shell, and he was determined to stick around until he saw it out. "All this stuff is nice to look at, but not something I'd want to buy - too fragile, you know? Anything piquing your interest or should we see if we can survive the run to Tim Horton's?"
"This music box has, actually," the Zane said, lifting the elegant device off its resting place. "It doesn't seem right that such artistry should be collecting dust in a shop."
"Awesome!" Chimed Sam. "Oi! How much is the music box?" he hollered to the storekeeper.
"$75 for you. And would you mind not shouting in my store? This isn't a mall."
"$75! That's overkill!" Sam marched up to the counter. "Your box is nice but not that nice. $40 even, definitely."
"You've gotten on my bad side. 75 dollars is my offer - take it or leave it." The shopkeeper didn't look like he was going to budge off of that price.
"You can't do that! Jacking up the price for my friend just 'cause you got a problem with me!"
He turned to Zane, "Tell him!"
"Well, I'll agree it doesn't seem fair, but..."
Sam rubbed his forehead. "Seriously, man. You need to get some conviction in your bones. Show some anger for once!"
The little bell above the door range as a third young man entered. He removed a wool cap, revealing a hat head of dark blonde hair and some glasses. He'd seen the argument from outside, and his friends seemed to be at the root of it. "Something wrong, guys?"
Sam beamed at the newcomer. "Ian! Awesome timing! Come straighten this guy out! He's trying to gouge Zane!"
The shopkeeper frowned. "It's my store and I can charge what I like for why I like. You're lucky I haven't thrown you out yet."
"Seems to me that it's not Zane you're mad at, though." Ian looked over his friends. "I know Sam and Zane, and I'm willing to bet it's the former you're upset with."
The old man inclined his head. Ian continued, "I mean sure, he came in here with Sam, but it's not quite fair to punish one person for someone else annoying you." Ian sighed heavily as he stuffed his cap into his coat pocket and took his gloves off. His eyes glanced to the nameplate on the back of the register. "It's Mr. Reyn, right? Is there a price in the middle that you two can agree on?"
Sam grumbled. He looked at Zane. "$50 good for you?
"50 is fine."
"Will 50 be acceptable, sir? It's reasonable enough to be fair to you and him."
A sigh. "Yes, $50 is all right. Thank you."
A nod as the sandy-haired youth smiled. "Awesome. Thank you for this."
Zane pulled his wallet from his coat pocket and setting two twenties and a ten on the counter. "Sorry for the trouble, sir."
The three stepped outside, huddling under their coats as they waited for the bus. Sam slapped his friend on the back."That was awesome, thanks a bunch!" Sam beamed. "No idea how you're always able to do that, Ian. People just... listen to you."
Ian smiled a little at Sam's words - he really didn't like seeing people he knew fighting, and ever since he'd been a kid, had developed a habit of trying to step. It didn't always work, but more often than not, it seemed to. "I've had a lot of practice - probably helps that the owner's more bark than bite."
Zane nodded, the padded box protecting his purchase secure in the inner pockets of his heavy coat. "So... you guys wanna hang out at my place, or something?"
"I'm game!" Sam chimed
"I could go for that, man. Got plenty of time on my hands."
The bus took ten frigid minutes to arrive, but soon the three were en route to Zane's house. The ride was a little bumpy, but worth it once they arrived at their friend's centrally-heated abode.
"Ok. Zane. I am raiding your pantry." Sam said after taking his coat off. "Hot chocolates all around sound good?"
"No marshmallows for me, but sure." Ian nodded, eager to see the music box his friend had bought. He was no stranger to cold winters, but Ian hated cold weather with a passion regardless.
"No 'mallows and a splash of milk in mine, Spark." Zane said, removing the music box from his jacket and setting it on the kitchen table before hanging his coat and fetching his friends'.
Sam stuck his head out from the kitchen, giving Zane a strange look. "You don't even have marshmallows, man." he chided with a grin before returning. Soon the three were sitting in the living room clutching mugs of hot chocolate and looking at the music box. Sam had added a dollop of whipped cream to his.
Ian admired the item. He opened the lid and let its tune chime through the room. "This is one fancy music box you got, Zane...damn. I'm surprised that Reyn let it go for that little. Looks like it'd be worth triple that much."
Sam, who was in the process of drinking, snorted. "Ack!" he spluttered, "Gah, damn you're right." he said after recovering. "I bet he knew it was defective!"
Without warning he grabbed the box and began turning it over."Yea! See here!" He gestured to a spot next to the dial. "The wood's faded differently. Something's been covered up!"
He began picking at the spot. It was only a small square that had been replaced, so Sam was able to force it out with a bit of finagling. The section slipped out onto the coffee table, where he picked it up curiously.
"Well that's weird." Sam commented. "There's a design on the bottom. Here, take a look."
"Huh...looks like...I dunno..." Ian squinted his eyes at the symbols - they almost looked symmetrical when he did, but it was hard to take everything in. "Try squinting...looks like something."
"Why would you bother carving something like that if you weren't going to show it off?" Sam asked perplexed.
"Maybe they wanted to hide it...perhaps whoever carved it made a mistake."
Even though he was the one who asked, Sam was only half-paying attention. He had picked up the box again and was peering into the hole the panel had been covering.
"I doubt it, Ian," Zane said, examining the carving more closely. "This piece is newer than the rest of the box. Whoever added this must've done so intentionally... question is, why?"
"Hey," Sam interjected. "I think there's a second dial in here. I can't... reach it since the hole's so small. Zane, do you have a flashlight and some tweezers?"
Zane nodded, setting his hot chocolate down. "I think I do. Hang on."
Zane held the flashlight steady while Sam maneuvered the tweezers into grabbing the second dial.
"This reminds me of when I used to pretend I was Indiana Jones as a kid," he giggled as he started turning the dial. "I'd go around prodding all the appliances and pretending hidden doors and switches would open up."
Ian chuckled as he began humming the movie theme. "Ever wind up breaking anything?"
"Nothing I couldn't blame on the cat." Sam said, eyes shifting.
After a few more moments of fiddling, the second dial clicked and began playing its song. This tune was very different from the one the box had played at the shop. While the first had been smooth and soothing, this song's deep chords and serpentine melody could easily be described as demonic. Looking at the small, crystalline box, Zane wondered how its clockwork innards could be producing such a menacing harmonic.
As the three watched, stunned silent by the box's encore performance, a fine black mist began to pour from within the transparent walls of the machine. Higher and higher it swirled, growing thicker and denser, the music box continuing to play oblivious to the ominous cloud above it. As the petrified audience looked on, the cloud began to solidify, forming a black clad body clutching a fine top hat in one hand and a black shoulder bag in the other. With a flourish, the shape placed the hat atop a raven-haired head. The figure turned, looking over its shadowy shoulder at the trio gaping at the gaunt, ebon-garbed man standing on the coffee table. He spun round and tipped his hat to the three as the music box finished its nightmarish symphony.
The man stretched and beamed at the three. "Wonderful! Marvelous! And you weren't bad yourselves, either! Like butterflies in the breeze - or salmon in a hot tub!"
He paused, then bowed. "But I digress. You have freed me, and so bask in the presence of... the Artist!"
"The wha? How'd you end up in that music box?" Ian looked incredibly confused, his mouth slightly agape.
"Very uncomfortably! Ugh, such a nasty thing, getting all scrunched up like that for so long. I've had an itch on my nose for what felt like AEONS but now that I'm out it's poof - gone! Like so much stray crumbs."
The Artist clapped his hands together. "But that is in the past - the horrible, horrible past. Now it's the present, and soon, the future!" His eyes swept the room, taking in every detail. "Oh dear," he tutted, "none of this will do. All so drab and unimaginative. No flair! No fun! Please tell me this is a freak and unrepresentative home which will soon be demolished by rampaging hordes of proper taste?"
Zane blinked, unsure what to make of this unusual man who'd popped out of a music box and started insulting his decor. "...Umm... I don't know if there is any rampaging proper taste around here," he said, still trying to wrap his mind around this.
"Well that's tragic! Clearly I've been away for far too long!" the Artist's eyes gleamed. "Taste! This world needs taste! And smell, but taste is what I can provide so we'll leave the smells to someone else."
"We've uh...got taste...but how long were you...uh...in the box?" Ian wasn't entirely sure on the man's sanity, given what he was going on about. He also sounded more than a little Scottish at moments.
"Too long. Far too long. Also, no idea. Could be a week, could be a century. I could've been shut in next month and ended up out beforehand - no real way of telling." He cracked his knuckles. "Alrighty! Here's what I'm thinking. The world needs more me, and you three need a reward for getting me out of that box, so I'll be making you part of my portfolio! It'll be fun! There'll be benefits! Health breaks! Coffee insurance!"
Sam leaned back towards the others. "Hey..." he whispered quickly, "I'm all for fun and adventure... but we might be in over our heads with this."
"No kidding," Zane muttered, warily watching the Artist at work.
Ian, now completely convinced this man was insane, leaned towards Sam and nodded. Still, perhaps there was a way to him to just leave? Insane didn't always mean unreasonable. "We're uh...flattered, but we're all gainfully employed. Perhaps we can exchange e-mails on the weekend or something along those lines?"
The Artist nodded understandingly. "Ah, I see. Thank you very much for informing me. It makes things so much easier, really." He floated over to the door and took something out of his bag. The man began rubbing whatever it was over the door, much to the trio's confusion. This didn't last, as they soon saw that the door had begun to vanish. The wood began to fade from existence and reveal a solid wall as the Artist literally erased the only exit.
"Thank you so much, again, for alerting. It would be terrible if you ran off first."'
Ian crossed his arms. "We don't get a say in this? That hardly seems fair to us - we did do you a favor by letting you out. It's only fair that you return the favor by letting us go."
The Artist moved next to Ian in a single fluid motion and peered into the youth's eyes. "Hmm, you do that sort of thing a lot, don't you? The whole mediator bit? I can see it, yes, definitely a bit of a judgey-udgey in you. Not a lot to work with but I think I can manage."
Without warning he grabbed at Ian's head and pulled away carrying a single wisp of hair. From his bag he drew a large lump of clay and began winding the strand around it. The gray mound rippled and flowed until it had reshaped itself into the likeness of a human.
The Artist cracked his fingers again. "Now then, watch a master at work! If I know my mythology right...."
"If you...what?"
The Artist began molding the doll. Ian felt something pressing into his hands. He looked down to see his skin rippling and churning, kneading like dough. Or like clay. Ian looked up sharply, eyes locking on to the clay doll. The Artist was in the process of reshaping it. As he worked, a wracking sensation struck Ian's body. It wasn't painful, but by all rights it should have been as he felt his bones and muscles squirm.
As the doll's hands started to look like more canine paws, Ian's followed suit. Claws lengthened out from his fingernails, pads puffed out on his fingers and palms, all the while black fur began to spread. His frame rippled as the Artist continued to mold the doll, and Ian felt himself bulk up slightly.
As his body grew more toned and covered in fur, his pants altered themselves. The fabric turned black and manifested a gun holster and a hole in the back through which a bushy tail poked through.
"The hell are you doin' to me?" Ian asked. He was startled by how his voice had changed. It was deeper with a slight drawl.
"Well I can't use the full Anubis theme, can I? Egypt was cliché when Alexandria was new. If you're going to be the decider, at least do it in style!"
The Artist went to work on the doll's lower body. Ian almost fell over as his legs and feet were wrenched into a digitigrade position. His shoes reformed as a pair of wrappings around the unpadded portions of his long, clawed paws. The transforming youth stumbled as he adjusted to the new stance.
His upper garments changed shape from a simple shirt to a dark body armor with a bandolier slung over a shoulder. Moving upwards, Ian grunted as the Artist started tugging at the doll's ears. Sam and Zane got a good view as Ian's ears grew long and triangular. His face artfully extended out into a canine muzzle, nose black and wet, teeth sharp. Ian had to squint when his eyes changed to piercing amber.
To top off the changes, a long tan duster settled onto Ian and a gold star-shaped badge manifested over the jacket's breast.
The Artist nodded as the jackal-man looked himself over. He looked at the badge. "What am I, some kinda sheriff? Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"The Artist, of course! I've tried being other people, it never worked out. And you, my fine friend, are a perfect picture of professionalism!" The man made a frame with his fingers and eyed Ian through it. "I think I'll call it, 'the Arbitrator'!"
"It? I've gotta name, y'know. It's Ian...and you've had your fun with me. Mind lettin' the others go?" His ears were laying back in annoyance for a moment, but he forced himself to be calm. There had to be a way out of this.
Zane slowly lowered himself onto the couch, torn between terror and amazement. He'd just watched this odd, impossible man turn one of his friends into what Anubis would've looked like if he lived in the Old West, using nothing but a strand of hair and a mound of what he could only describe as voodoo clay. Though a part of him knew a similar fate likely awaited himself and Sam, he couldn't help but feel strangely impressed by the Artist's skill. "Incredible..." he muttered.
"Damnit, Zane! Now isn't the time to be calm!" Sam exclaimed.
"Yea, Zane!" The Artist chided in a mimicry of Sam's voice. He chuckled before flowing over to Sam. "You're an excitable one, aren't you? All twitchy and titchy, eh? Oooh, but you're fun I can tell! I bet you're just bouncy on the good days."
Sam stepped back. "I-I'm really not..."
The Artist grabbed his arm. "No point protesting, lad - it's written all over your insides, I'll say! And you're the one who spun me free, aren't you? Well surprise! That means you get to be next!"
He produced a sketchbook and an oversized pen, which he twirled effortlessly across his fingers before stabbing Sam in the shoulder.
"OW!" Sam yelped. "What was that....f..f..." he stumbled on the spot, suddenly muddled. It had just become incredibly hard to think. He tried speaking but his tongue sloshed around in his mouth. It took a moment for Sam to realize that this had been done literally. His whole body started to run like a water-damaged painting, flowing into the pen still embedded in his shoulder. Ian and Zane were able to catch a terrified look before Sam's body completely lost integrity. It was sucked up into the pen just as soon as it liquefied.
Zane was dumbstruck and at a total loss for words. Ian's eyes went wide with fear as his friend was sucked up like water through a straw. He wasn't normally stricken for words, but all he could manage at the sight was an inarticulate noise of shock and anger. Quickly recovering, Ian's ears drew back and lips curled into a snarl. "What th' HELL did you DO?"
He bared his claws and advanced on the imp. The fur on his cheek rippled as something hurtled past his head and into the wall with a sharp *tunk*. Ian turned to see a pencil embedded several inches into the wall behind him. The Artist had hurled it like a throwing knife.
"Do not interrupt a master at work!" the creature bellowed. He crossed his legs, floating in mid-air, and propped the sketchbook open on his lap. The next several minutes were filled with a painful silence as the Artist used Sam as the ink for whatever it was he'd decided to draw.
"Aaaaand.... done!" He finally exclaimed proudly. He turned the book over and whacked the back of it. Out of the book and onto the floor fell what could only be described as a cartoon fox. Its small body - only half Ian's height - was surrounded by a black outline. A large white-tipped, bushy tail hung behind it. The fox wore nothing save for a pair of white three-fingered gloves and blue shorts. Its colours, from the white its paws to the orange of its fur, were unnaturally bright and uniform.
"Y-yip?" Sam squeaked slowly. His eyes were currently a pair of dizzy swirls but soon settled into large blues. He looked around. "I-Ian! Zane! I was just-yip!"
Sam's eyes went literally wide as he looked at himself and felt along his muzzle, ears, and ink-furred chest. "What's this supposed to be!?"
"Terrifically toonish, of course!" The Artist boomed with pride. He made another frame with his fingers. "Title: 'The Inner Child'. A nice ring, wouldn't you say?"
"No! I wouldn't!" Sam yipped in protest as he bounced up onto his paws. It might've been the height difference, but his expression really did seem like that of a pouting child.
Ian grimaced. The Artist didn't seem very interested in their protests, much less that they were alive and not material for whatever he was doing. "Now see here...ya've had your fun. You got t' change me and Sam - how 'bout we call it even and you mosey on home? After ya change us back, 'course."
The Artist tilted his head. "Why would I stop if I'm not even done? You don't stop chewing food halfway through! You'd choke! Get a big ol' slice of melon in your throat and die. Nasty business, that. So I'd prefer to finish. Avoids melon death. And there's just one to go, too!" he chimed while gliding over to Zane. "Now, what to make of you..."
"My family doesn't even know what to make of me," Zane said coldly, looking up at the Artist. "I rather doubt someone I've just met could fare any better."
The Artist looked disappointed. "Oh. You're one of those, aren't you? All bland and uninteresting. I could be dancing naked or kicking baby walruses or making baby walruses kick puppies and your look wouldn't even change, I bet! But let's see... there's definitely something under there..." He closed one eye and squinted. "Yes... definitely... but it's so... mixed. You'll be quite interesting to work on."
He cast about the room and settled his gaze on the music box. With an inspired grin he began to fiddle with the box's mechanism. The three couldn't help but notice that the dial was turning as he worked.
As the Artist fiddled, the box began to play and a white mist seeped through the man's fingers to weave its way around Zane's feet. The young man attempted to kick the mist off, noticing with a sense of dread that the musical fog was making his body feel heavier and heavier. Alongside the heaviness came a numb, tingling sensation, all feeling fleeing his body. Zane felt his limbs go limp at his sides, his eyes drifting down the length of his torso as the changes began.
As the now immobile youth looked on, his clothes began to harden, fusing to his body as their hue and color changed from black to a metallic golden brown. The changes climbed, crystalline blues and gleaming golds appearing in the cracks in what appeared to be a forming suit of armor. Zane watched the ornately decorated metal plates ratcheting themselves down on his chest, vaguely aware of a stretching on his head. He closed his eyes, noticing the almost hypnotic tick-tick-ticking of the music box as the changes overtook him.
Although Zane couldn't tell, his friends could clearly see that the metal plating was not armor, and the ticking wasn't coming from the box. As the music had woven its charms, Zane's body had been changed from flesh, blood, and bone to bronze, crystal, and clockwork. His face now bore a metallic muzzle jutting forward beneath a pair of oversized ears and a mess of waving, lightly glowing tendrils of energy that could pass for hair. A dyad of meticulously patterned, artistic wings stretched behind the former human's back, a wire-lined tail flicking almost casually at his side. His feet, since changed into three-toed, digitigrade paws, rested heavily on the floor, the steely claws at the tips of his bronze-plated fingers partially retracted. Where Zane had been, a chimeric clockwork construct now rested, glowing blue eyes flickering open as the song came to an end once again.
Sam inched towards the machine, ears and tail low. "Z-zane?" he said tentatively. "Y-you in there?"
"My...god...what th'..." Ian's mouth hung open in a mixture of awe and fear. Zane looked incredibly intimidating in his new form. A constant ticking sound emanated from his body. "Zane... "
Zane blinked. "Yeah, I feel fine," he tried to say, but the only sound that came out of his mechanized mouth was a metallic vibration not unlike the notes of a harmonica; his hands flew to his throat, eyes going wide.
The Artist chuckled. "Ta-da! A golem! Perfect for someone so bland like yourself, wouldn't you say? Of course, I had to spruce it up a bit. You're dull as an egg on the inside, but FABULOUS on the outside!" He made another frame with his fingers. "How about... 'Metallized Music'?"
The golem glared up at the Artist, eyes burning furiously. "As if changing me wasn't bad enough, you went and made me mute, too?!" he raged, a melodic stream of notes and trills replacing every word like a musical censor.
"Oh, so NOW you want to express yourself! Well, I hope you've learned your lesson." The man chided. He gazed around at the musical golem, the cartoon fox, and the jackal sheriff. "Ah, such a wonderful collection and I've only been free for an hour!" He took a deep breath and smiled. "And there's a whole world of bad taste just waiting for me! Such a fine time to be alive. Well, actually it's a terrible time with so much horrible, horrible taste running rampant, but I shall persevere!"
The Artist tipped his hat and snapped his fingers. The door reappeared. "Ta-ta for now, my beauties! Try not to get damaged while I'm gone - you're the first originals in my new portfolio after all!" In a blink, he had flowed out through the door and away.
Stunned silence filled the room for several moments until Sam couldn't take it any longer. "What the fox just happened?"
