Iomhar wheeled himself down the streets of Lomedor, his rickety chair bouncing over every stone in the street. Which each thump, he feared that the chair would fall apart and he would thus sprawl across the road and be trampled by people who really did not care about crippled beggars. He knew that the next time he got a few coins, he ought to put some effort into repairing his chair; after all, without it he was nothing.

His hands skimmed over the wheels as he pushed himself along, weaving in and out of people as they pushed through the bustling streets. Finally as the sun set and people headed indoors, the crowds thinned and Iomhar could finally breathe with a little peace. He knew that in a matter of hours, the taverns would empty and the drunk would rule the streets, but for now everything was his, save for when a few people walked by on their way to buy a drink. At any given moment, he could see about five to ten people, but compared to the population just an hour earlier, these streets were vacant. And now Iomhar hurried along his way to his favorite tavern, the one where he usually got a decent amount of coins for his work. Or whatever one wanted to call begging.

No, life was not splendid for Iomhar, but he did not complain too much. His old life--the one he had lived in before being booted out of his house--had been full of luxury and overabundance. Not a day went by that he missed it, but he also knew that he had to face the reality of the situation: he had no home, he had no money, he had no food and he had no friends; the only things he owned were the clothes on his back and the crudely-made wheelchair on which he now rode. But at the same time, he realized that had he never left his house, he would always be living in darkness. No, not physical darkness; don't be ridiculous. Mental darkness. While studying books and learning the ways of cartography had made him more intelligent, it had done little to enlighten him as he had often thought that it did. Rather, it simply made him more and more arrogant, and were it not for that tragic cart accident--shudder!--the gods only knew what sort of jerk he would be now. Haughty, yes. Indifferent to the pursuit of wisdom . . . unfortunately yes.

Because there was a large difference between wisdom and knowledge, something which he fully did not grasp until he had been on the streets for several long, weary days, struggling to survive. All of that book knowledge did nothing for him as he did his best to live amongst all of the refuge of the streets. The people around him--the other beggars--were not so fortunate as he; while he had had the opportunity to learn, he had never had the opportunity to live. And now with the fall from fortune, he had had the most bizarre opportunity to live that one could ever imagine, for now his eyes were open. The others around him--well, what did they know? They would never learn and they would never live. Their existance was a pitiful struggle for suvival; Iomhar's was much more than that because now he had the groundwork for something much different. Something much . . . bigger. No, he knew that he was not destined to life on the streets any more than he was destined to a wealthy life.

He had to find his own life. And how many people in all of Arda could say the same thing? He watched the people come and go, so obsessed with how they lived. He hated the crowds because of this depressing note, but at the same time, he was utterly fascinated with it because not too long ago he was one of them. One of the ones obsessed with putting food on the table or collecting another gold coin. It didn't matter how wealthy or how poor they were: what mattered was that their lives were mere existances.

But unfortunately people did not look upon crippled beggars who wheeled their way down the streets with much seriousness. Oftentimes he was a laughingstock, so he kept his life views to himself. And when he kept them to himself, he often became quite withdrawn into his own mind. And when he became withdrawn into his own mind, he did not pay attention to where he was going. And when he did not pay attention to where he was going--

He bumped into someone with his wheelchair, knocking him into the ground.

H'tes had come to the city for the same reason any wanderer would: to find a quick bit of work to get some money for some food before they continued to wander. H'tes would never have a reason to stay anywhere long, and just move on from place to place. Unfortunately, there was not much work to be found out here for someone most people viewed as too small, too weak, and too worthless. All H'tes had to offer was a determination to get enough money to make to the next day, and most employers don't take that seriously.
And thus, H'tes continued to walk through the city continuing a hopeless search for a job. He was lucky enough to still have a little left, but not enough to wonder to the next town or city. One thing he would not need as he walked would be some kind of begger. Even if he was generally mistrusting, H'tes was not cruel enough to turn away someone who was less fortunate then himself. After all, some one less fortunate then H'tes was some one in really dire need of fortunes.
One might wonder why, if he was so unfortunate, why would H'tes be a wonderer. For one reason, and that was determination to not hit the lowest he could. H'tes might be without friends, family or even strength, but he had enough determination to keep him going and enough pride to never let himself fall so low.
H'tes looked towards the crowds of people. "Damn, I hate cities," he said to himself. "Far too many people."
As he was watching the crowd, and trying to plot a course through it, something hit him. The size of the wheel chair and the man in it, mixed with the speed of the mostly uncontrollable wheelchair, was enough to really smack the small H'tes down to the ground. He went down on his arm, making the landing give him some good scratches.
When he hit the ground, he cried out in pain for the first jolt, and moaned a little as he got up. He looked at the other man angrily. And, as his anger came, his eyes seemed to change a little bit. From those human, pale blue eyes, they became red, with the pupils focusing into cat-like slits, and the sclera of his eyes going from white to black.

Iomhar's wheelchair came to a sudden halt when he realized he had just run something over. He paused for a second as though he couldn't believe it, and then slowly rolled the wheelchair away so that he could see exactly what he had hit. To his great surprise--and admittedly much amusement--he found himself face-to-face with a young man not too many years his junior. A bit of a smirk slipped across his face as he looked up a few inches at whoever stood in front of him.

"My apologies, good sir," he said with the composure of one raised with great wealth and educated ]in the art of public speaking. A strange thing for a beggar, he knew, but it was something he could not quite fully shake. Sometimes he could effectively avert his eyes as he reached out with his tin cup for a few spare coins, but on other occasion--particularly ones he found amusing or ironic such as this--he could not help but revert into his old ways. At least, he reasoned, speaking skills was the least of his problematic "old ways"; it could have been worse (much worse) such as being a complete jerk and not apologizing in the first place.

Of course, he couldn't remove the smirk on his thin lips as he watched the man's face light up with sheer anger, and in some ways he couldn't blame him--he had, after all, just been plowed over with a wheelchair. Something about the firey look in the mans' eyes concerned Iomhar greatly: most people would have jumped to their feet and brushed it off, pretending that they had not just been trampled by a crippled, and hurried out of there before anyone of any importance could have seen. The fact that this man did not care much about his appearance meant that he could not possibly be ought to impress anyone--at least not anyone who cared about anything other than fighting.

Which left Iomhar wondering if this man was about to pick a fight with the cripple just because of a small accident. Surely he knew by the clothes than hung limply from Iomhar's underfed frame that he would get nothing out of this battle--but then again, maybe money was not what he was looking for. The smile slid slightly from his face and he repeated, "My apologies."

H'tes anger continued to grow a bit. That arrogant smile was getting to him. And the apology that came with that smile also angered him, because with the obviously amused man, it sounded insincere. But, he soon was able to gain control of his anger, and his eyes slowly went back to their human form of pale blue. H'tes was not known for letting his anger get the best of him.
But, while he was in control of himself, his anger did not cease. But, he stopped to actually look at the man. He looked homeless, and was obviously a cripple. It also seemed to be just an accident that the man took as mildly amusing. Well, that made him ease up a little bit more, but it was the second apology that allowed him to look more annoyed then angered.
"Are you just so poor you can't even afford to pay attention?" he asked. Damn, now that was a lame pun he probably shouldn't have used. In fact, he regretted using it after he used it. He sighed, and said, in a whisper to himself, "Am I really just that out of it after he hit me, or is what I say that childish all the time?"
H'tes started to brush himself off a bit, and hissed a little as he brushed over the small scratches, causing a stinging feeling. Some people were looking over at the slight spectacle, but H'tes hardly cared. The way humans viewed him was not his concern, not since he was a lot younger and still trying to fit in with humans. But, when a few started to laugh, it did irritate him a little. He stared at them threateningly, but they seemed to laugh at that too. After all, who would fear the kid who was just smacked down by a cripple?

Iomhar watched with somewhat alarm as the boy's eyes shifted to blue; he hadn't seen them turn color in the first place--great. He was dealing with some sort of monster here, and if there was one thing he knew, it was to be wary around monsters. They never bothered him too much before, but now that he had no sort of foothold in the upper rungs of society anymore, they felt that they could walk all over him. This, to say the least, did not amuse him.

Iomhar raised an eyebrow at the man as he started throwing around puns he had heard a million times before, but Iomhar saw that the boy quickly became distracted. He focused his attention on the boy as he listened to the laughter from around them. Oh, it didn't bother Iomhar too much, but the boy seemed to become very peeved over the entire thing.

"Can't take a few stares, huh?" asked Iomhar with a little amusement. "Don't worry--I suppose you'll get used to it eventually. You must be new." Or at least knew to the life you live, he contemplated as he studied the kid. He wasn't too old and still had many lessons to learn, Iomhar noted. He was short, which made him appear even more youthful even if his face said otherwise. Aside from the magic color-changing eyes, he looked like every other midget out there. Iomhar had to stiffle a laugh and instead just sat there quietly, waiting for the boy's reply.

H'tes had noticed his quick change in attitude that had lasted for a moment. Did I do something... I didn't transform the eyes again, did it? he thought to himself. He always needed to keep his control on that, but it was difficult to keep himself looking human when he was angered. He had to just hope that it was only the man who saw, or else this city might eventually to chase him out of town as a monster.
But, he was brought back to the laughter thanks to the man's next comment. He looked at the people. "I'm use to it," he said. "It just annoys me. And reminds me far too much of the rest of my childhood." He looked back at the man. "But you are correct in assuming I'm new."
H'tes eyes were studying the man. He was trying to see signs of fear, which would say if he did see the eye change or not, but so far, he was drawing a blank. The man seemed to be studying him back. Well, while this stare down was fun, it wasn't going to help if they both just tried to study each other without real answers. But there were things one could assume from the conversation so far. This man was originally more then a simple begger, which one could tell from the original way he apologized. He might have possibly been higher class then most of the people in this small crowd. But, one could also tell he must have been ridiculed in the past, for his comments he just made.
"What is your name?" he asked. He wanted to know a bit more then what he could learn from looking at the guy, so he decided to be the one to actually ask a question.

Fantastic . . . another awkward silence to ruin the day. But jaw set, Iomhar held his own and stared the boy right back; he was not going to let him get to him. Finally Iomhar let himself relax and he leaned back in his chair. He fingered at the wheels, moving back and forth much like one would imagine someone shifting foot to foot. It was a nervous habit he had--or rather, his only chance of an escape plan. Should this boy attack, Iomhar knew that the only choice he had was to flee. And since his wheelchair provided him with only limited mobility, he had to be ever watchful.

There was something slightly depressing about the kid before Iomhar, even though the older one could not quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the forlorn way he said that he was used to it. Ah, how strange this world was! But soon the boy asked him a question. Iomhar, lost in thought, snapped back to reality.

"Iomhar," he said with a smirk. He had long since abandoned his family name; now he did not even like to think about it. Even if he could earn a few grains of respect from passers-by and those who would pity him only out of shear loathing of his family, he disliked being associated with them in any way, shape or form. Thus, his name was just Iomhar plain and simple. "And you, young one; what is your name? You say that you do not come from here and that you are used to being stared at, but you have not graced me with your name. Perhaps you are like me, another beggar."

H'tes relaxed himself a bit. Aside from a surprise attack, this old man was no threat here. If he had seen the eye change, he was not going to tell anyone. That much was obvious. "H'tes Enyar," he said. And then, with a slight tone of annoyance, "and I am not a begger." He then sighed. "Not that I'm much better. Wondering from place to place, trying to get some work just enough to get money, to get supplies, to wander to the next place. That's just what I do. Not the grandest of lives, now is it?"
The crowd, starting to get bored of the already died down humor of a single moment, was beginning to part and move on. H'tes was glad of it. He did not need to be the center of attention. In fact, he hated being the center of attention. He liked to stay out of the spot light as much as he could. He looked at the parting crowds. "Damn humans," he said, a little softly so that it was hard to hear. "Always swarming like vultures to insult your prey. I curse you all with everything in me." This was mostly his own venting. He always had a certain resentment to people, concentrated on humans, ever since he was old enough to acknowledge that people loathed him.
But, he brought his attention back to the man. "So, you are a simple begger who was day dreaming while you were rolling by?" said H'tes. "Now, I have one question here: What did you see?" He looked at the man seriously. If he did see the eye change, then this might become a more odd conversation from simple 'Who are you' to 'what are you', and H'tes did not like answering that question honestly, as it generally lead to 'Get away from me, monster' or 'unholy one'. Gah, he hated when that happened.

A wanderer then, eh? Iomhar found this slightly amusing; no doubt some sort of boy kicked out of his parents' house when he didn't pull his own weight. He had seen these come and go here and there; they usually made a lot of trouble, but most of it was harmless until they got older and realized that they could make a lot of money off of murder. However, there was something different about the kid, especially with the eye-color changing, but his suspicious were confirmed when the boy started to demand of him what he had seen.

Iomhar looked at him with great amusement in his dark eyes which contrasted his pale skin so greatly. He put his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair and sat back comfortably. The smirk was back on his lips and he replied quietly, "I know that you're not a human--at least not fully. I saw your eyes change colors, yes." He studied the kid for a few more seconds, Iomhar's eyes flickering around his face and meeting the boy's own blue eyes. The boy was young and though he spent much time wandering here and there, he had much to learn, Iomhar reassured himself. Something beside human.

But could not one fight fire with fire?

The kid seemed a little overprotective of what he was, whatever that was. Iomhar . . . could be considered within the same boat, but he knew that it was not true. Iomhar struggled to embrace the creature within him, to survive with it. Yes, he had to accept that he and the monster were now one. But he doubted that the boy in front of him had fully recognized what sort of monster the boy was--he seemed to still be in the stage of denial. Not like Iomhar could blame him.

"If you're going to kill me," said Iomhar finally, his voice steady and calm. "Kill me."

H'tes looked at him for a moment. Those eyes were calm and serious, and it was odd to look at. They had a sort of seemed... less like a begger, more like an animal for some reason. Not physically like an animal, but the same conviction of one. H'tes seemed to gain a serious look as well. He almost seemed to be considering the right moment for the kill. He walked closer to the old man, and then, suddenly... he laughed. "I'm no murderer, unlike my father," he said, sounding less irritated and more light hearted. "Merely overly protective about not wanting to get cursed at as a monster in a city that be more difficult to get out of then others."
H'tes seemed to be a lot more relaxed and pleasent now. "Damn brave for a crippled begger to be that prepared for death," he said. "You have the ferocity of something more wild in you. I could see it in your eyes. Which makes me a little curious. Are you really just a human yourself? I mean, it could just be a natural separation from normal human society from being poor, but I doubt it."
But, he then thought it might be a bit rude to ask him what he was when he wasn't fully prepared to be asked the same. "Although you... don't have to say anything. Everyone deserves their own secrets to be kept secrets." He had amended himself a bit, but at the same time, he still was curious about the man.
There was beginning to be less people in the streets. In fact, for a while, it was just them, aside from an occasional and inattentive passer-by. At least that way no one would be listening to their little secrets, would they?

"So you're not going to kill me then," mused Iomhar thoughtfully. "It's amazing . . . offer to stand still and let someone kill you, and suddenly they turn into a whole new person," he thought aloud. So true: suddenly killing a beggar who was not much more than a kid did not seem as noble and daring as it did before he looked them in the eye and said, 'If you're going to kill me, do it now.' It seemed to grate their nerves and remind them that he was no threat to them. Even better . . . it scared them.

And even more amusing . . . the boy had told Iomhar that he was a monster. Ah, and once again, Iomhar was reminded of his youth. Or rather, lack of street knowledge. Walking around bragging about being a monster showed inexperience--and what was more laughable than an inexperienced monster, especially to a more experienced monster who could wipe him off of the face of Arda? Not like Iomhar had those capabilities, but one never could be too sure.

"I am nothing more than a beggar," Iomhar answered. "Once I had wealth, yes. And I suppose you could say that once I was a monster hell-bent upon the pursuit of material success and the gaining of knowledge. I spent long hours in the lap of luxury exploring wide volumes of literature and learning my father's trade. While I don't renounce my knowledge, I realize now that there are many other things in this world besides money and books. Thus, my friend," he concluded with great sincerity, "I am no longer the monster I was."

The first statement made H'tes think. He had relaxed a lot more then he usually would around some one, and it was mainly because of that moment. It might be a little unwise to become so relaxed around one who was still pretty much a stranger. But H'tes still felt relaxed. Besides, even if the man decided to tell everyone that he was a monster, how many people would take the ramblings of a crippled beggar seriously? About as many who would give work to a small and weak boy in this city.
As for the telling of what he was before, H'tes seemed to accept that as truthful statements. It did confirm his suspicions on a higher upbringing then that of a simple beggar. "That's noble of you," he said. "Although, probably better career changes out there then a beggar." He then looked back down at the wheelchair. "Not that you had many choices.... sorry."
"Still, better then my background story," he said. "I just ran away after my mom and dad died." He shifted a little bit, showing slight unease of memory. "Well, more specifically, after dad killed mom, and I stabbed dad and left him for dead." He had said more then he would to most, but H'tes was hardly ever relaxed, so this was really the first time he was in the mood to tell anyone about this. He sighed. "Doesn't sound as good as 'left wealth and knowledge in pursuit of the better things', now does it?"
He leaned on the wall of a building, frowning slightly as he thought about things like his past. It wasn't a happy time of childhood carelessness and happiness. More like a time of criticism on your blood from everyone but your always beaten and abused mother. If he could get away from those memories, he would do it in a heart beat.

Íomhar raised an eyebrow, more surprised that the boy actually went around telling people this information than actually being surprised of the content. Did he usually go around announcing to the world that he had commited paternicide? This worried Íomhar slightly, but he did not care too much--there were far worse people out there in the world, and he figured that if this kid was going to kill him, he would have done it already. Besides, no one would miss the beggar, would they?

Certainly not. But that was far from the point: the boy ought to know when to keep his trap shut. Sure, Íomhar had no qualms with telling people about his past and his fall from a luxurious life, but never had he commited a true sin in the eyes of most of the people--at most, he had been a stereotypical noble, something which many people laughed about, thankful that Íomhar had "gotten what he deserved." Was that right? He was crippled now and that made everything better because now he lived in the streets? Ought they cripple the others of his former class so that they would be destined to eat mud for the rest of their lives, too? That would be fair, by their reasoning. But at the same time, Iomhar knew that the people who told him that he had received his "just desserts" would quickly swallow up the positions of those they had overthrown--and then become just as bad as them. Really, it was just one endless cycle, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. That was reality.

And those same power-hungry people so willing to kick Íomhar into the ground simply because he had come from higher up on the socioeconomic ladder would be more than willing to condemn a father-killing youth for sheer entertainment. The poor had no money for entertainment and the rich just liked the bloodshed; announcing one's old murderous ways--even for self defense--was a dangerous thing to do.

Íomhar studied the boy for another second and then said carefully, "Watch your tongue. Your story is not a new one, but it makes for good fire fuel. You definitely are new around here, aren't you." He let out a low, dark laugh. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get any words out, the doors to a tavern burst open and someone came flying out, fists flailing around. The man, a big, brawny fellow was followed by someone even bigger and brawnier who looked as though he had just punched the first squarely in the jaw. And as the first fellow reeled backwards towards Íomhar and the boy, the second one approached with heavy but determined footsteps as he rolled up his sleeves menacingly.

"Better run, kid," said Íomhar, glancing back at the boy. "They have no need for a beggar, but look at them the wrong way and you're as good as dead."

H'tes smacked himself for a moment. "That's why I am not suppose to talk to people," said H'tes. "Saying too much, like a dumbass." He had said too much. No wonder he tried to avoid engaging in conversation. At least he hadn't mentioned some more things that get him killed, such as having demon blood.
H'tes slowly realised that during the conversation, the sun seemed to have set, and night was in it's beginnings. That was just great when he did not have a place to stay tonight. He guessed he'd have to find some place of mild shelter to sleep at.
H'tes heard the doors creak open, and looked down to see someone flying out. The hit man bumped into H'tes before steadying himself and raising his fists for a fight. H'tes was knocked down. 'Is it just the day for everything to hit to me today?' he thought. He heard Iomhar's words and nodded, and slowly got back up. He really did not need to get into a fight with a couple of drunks tonight. He brushed himself off as he slowly backed away, trying to get into an alleyway for an escape route. Why did he feel one way or another he was somehow going to get involved with this confrontation?
It turned outthe second, bigger man was a good fighter, because he smacked the first guy agai, sending him back into the alley that H'tes was about to go into. It was like it was perfectly set to delay H'tes, since he was in the way, again, and was hit to the ground, again. "Not... my... day..." He slowly got back up, but this time had to catch back up to hmself. Two times in a row of being smacked with a guy was not good for ones head.
Meanwhile, the guy got back up, and turned to H'tes. "You've gotten in the way twice," he said roughly. And then, he smacked him. The two drunkards now seemed to have their attention on H'tes. Don't try to understand the mind of a couple drunks... maybe they like beating up weaklings as much as themselves.

Iomhar watched with a raised eyebrow as the drunks started to fight each other. It disgusted him; every night the streets grew full of drunks who had nothing better to do than brawl while their wives and kids fretted at home. Day in and day out; they all blended together to Iomhar as he imagined it must do for the drunks. But the drunks had responsibilities that they long forgot as they drowned their sorrows in alcohol. Iomhar had, well, nothing.

His hands rested on the top of the wheels of his chair as he watched the two of them brawl. And topple into the kid. He made no move until one of them turned to the boy who had the grave misfortune of being acutely stupid and getting in the middle of drunkards fighting.

Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, becoming longer and courser at the base of his skull. The hair spread down his spine and from there across his body, sweeping over his face like a toxic ocean wave. His fingers were last as the course brown hair shot down his arms and encased his fingers, which at that point started to shrink and melt into his hands. His bones began to grind as they crunched and shifted into place. A tingling sensation burned in his legs, and he knew then that he was beginning to regain feeling in his lost limbs. He fell out of the wheelchair and the contraption clattered to the ground, but he didn't care. A tail shot out from his hindquarters and his nails hardened and lengthened. And of course, his teeth grew. Ah, how wonderful his teeth felt. He ran his tongue across the pointed canines.

Iomhar stretched out his limbs one at a time before he began to silently walk forward. He had to be careful--ever so careful! The last thing Lomedor needed was another werewolf. Ah, but now a little scratch wouldn't hurt them, would it? Even a simple scare would do.

He threw back his head and howled to the stars high above.

While H'tes was learning why to not by the short guy in a bar fight, the two guys beating the hell out of him. He felt like a rag doll stolen from a little girl and getting torn apart by the neighborhood bullies. Pain was only a little bit of a way to describe it. These damned, accursed, stupid humans were giving him quite a few bruises, and at least one black eye, but luckily, so far, no broken bones.
But, then the howl came. The two guys stopped, allowing H'tes to drop to the grown. H'tes was in a pitiful state. He was too weak to move much at this point. The two drunkards looked around for the source of the howl. When their eyes set upon the wolf, one screamed, while the other walked backwords. H'tes, not really paying attention to the werewolf that had appeared, was able to get up on his knees, and started to wave his hands a bit, whispering under his breath.
Whatever he did, it made the two drunks even more afraid. They quickly began to run away. H'tes looked at the wolf now. He then looked at the now empty wheel chair. He looked like he was about to pass out. "I knew it," he said, with a small smile as he then fell to the ground, unconcious.
The two drunk men would report the incident to the first person they found, but, being drunk, who would believe them? That be a lucky break for the werewolf. At least he would not be found out about in the town, for now. But, now the werewolf had H'tes laying on the ground unconcious to deal with, and the possiblity for more patrons to come out of the bar to see what all the commotion was about.

Iomhar pulled his chops back and growled at the drunks until they ran away like scared little children who crept too close to the haunted house and scared themselves senseless. They bumped into each other in an almost-comical way before they disappeared into the night. Iomhar's keen eyes watched where they had disappeared for a few moments more before turning back to the boy.

It appeared that the drunks had successfully managed to beat the kid to a pulp. Iomhar snorted in disgust at the work of the drunkards before walking over to the boy. (Oh, how fantastic it felt to walk!) He nudged the unconcious boy with his muzzle and realized that he still breathed, which was definitely a plus. Blood gushed out of the kid's nose and his eye had already blackened. It would be best to get him inside somewhere.

Iomhar glanced around him and saw someone walking down the street. Crap, this was going to be harder than he thought. He hid in the shadows while the woman passed, and he wished that she would hurry on her way. The boy needed medical attention, and the woman's presence ensured that it would only take that much longer to get it. Finally she was gone and Iomhar walked over to his chair. He shed his werewolf form and fell helpless to the ground, bumping his cheek on the rough cobblestones in the process. With a grunt, he picked himself up and heaved himself into his wheelchair before taking a deep breath and moving over to the kid. There was no way he was ever going to be able to carry him.

Looking around the street, Iomhar saw a man walking quickly. No doubt on his way home from the tavern. Iomhar wheeled himself closer to the man and waved his hand in the air. "Excuse me, good sir!"

The man jumped and when his eyes focused on Iomhar he began to walk more quickly. Iomhar called out again, "Please, there's an injured boy here; he needs a doctor." The man reluctantly paused and walked quickly over to Iomhar.

"You're just a beggar."

Iomhar smirked. "And you're just someone using this as an excuse to his wife as to why he was late."

The man's face reddened in the pale moonlight. A small victory on Iomhar's part, but it was enough to get the man into action. Iomhar was far too weak to lift the boy as small as he was; after the two transformations so close together, his entire body ached greatly. He himself would need some medical attention if he could pay for it. However, the man already had the boy scooped into his arms, and Iomhar followed as they made their way towards a doctor's house.

The man knocked on the door and a sleepy, disheveled doctor answered with a yawn in his voice, "Is this an emergency."

"Looks pretty much like it," said the man.

The doctor examined the boy from a distance, but finally nodded to the man. "Alright, bring him in here." The man obeyed, and he slipped inside the house with the boy still in his arms. Iomhar followed in his wheelchair as the man lay the boy in a bed. Good. The boy would be taken care of properly here. Iomhar fished in his pocket and found a couple gold pieces he had managed to earn today. He set them down on the table and turned his wheelchair around to leave.