Yatsi knew it was bad manners for the guest of honour to leave his own party at any time, but to be honest he was tired of festivities. He wasn't in the mood for the dry dull anecdotes of his elders, nor was he in the mindset for going wild with his friends. His reminder of how Minsc had rejected his confession to her yesterday felt like the swallowing of a bitter pill. Man, love sucks. Rejected love even more so.
However more importantly, he was curious. Yatsi wanted to find out what on the good green earth his crazy uncle Kohler had given him. The rest of his birthday gifts had been mindless repeating offerings of more wine and alcohol - which was basically the cossack way of replenishing the stock of the host whose stores you were depleting.
But this queer little box was something else. For its small size it carried a deep weight about it; as if ancient forgotten magic inhabited its contents. Yatsi grinned at the ridiculous thought. Yeah right. He was probably just excited out of his wits and with his curiosity eating at him.
So Yatsi found a secluded secure room on the 2nd floor. He turned on the light to illuminate the compact wooden room. In private, he turned all his focus and attention to the innocent looking little box.
He fumbled with it for a few minutes before giving up. Oh come on! The lid was sealed more tightly than a clay horse's arse! Yatsi then took out his pocket-knife and pried the lid open between the tiny crevasse. Finally, at last it burst due to being forcefully opened, and enveloped Yatsi's face with a billowing cloud of dust - most likely as a result of wood-lice having feasted on the box.
After Yatsi had managed to get his coughing fit under some control, he looked upon the insides of the box with teary bloodshot eyes.
Disappointingly, only a piece of paper. Fragile, torn and historic looking. Well that was dramatically anticlimactic! Yatsi scowled. He wasn't sure whether he expected some kind of treasure-like artefact or gold or diamonds or something. Ah well. Here's to hoping that it can always be a treasure-map!
More puzzlement. More confusion. More 'what the hell is this supposed to be?'. The lettering on the feeble paper was outmoded baltic - a sub dialect of old russian. Peering closely, he could just make out what it said if he focused hard.
It read something akin to the following:
===
"I Alendrenski, 4th of his name, leave the following to my lineage. May it serve all those who come after me, as it served myself and my ancestors. This is the legacy of our bloodline. This is the legend of our family."
Beneath this stood a scribbling far less coherent that the top title:
"Mark of the Shapeshifter." and beneath that the supposed mark. It was unlike anything Yatsi had ever seen. It wasn't exactly epic or or artistically impressive. But it was unique in a very queer type of way.
Imagine a circle with a diagonal cross being drawn out from the center. The cross end points ended past the circle circumference, then all of them bended sideways to form something similar to a swastika, although not entirely as the ends were askew at 45 degrees. In seemingly random fashion dots were scattered inside and around the circle. A triangle formed the centerpiece eye.
Below this symbol stood more words; they even less legible.
"Use this Mark very wisely. It will allow the Wearer to take the form of any human he pleases, whether that human is reality, a work of fiction or the Wearer's own imagination.
As caution, be warned however that once the Wearer had taken the shape of another, he or she will remain that way for a total of 24 hours, 14 minutes and 17 seconds. The Wearer shall not be able to revert back to his or her original form, nor will he or she be able to take on another shape till the relapsing time period had passed.
The Mark is not required to be used once worn, but the Wearer be pleased to know that it can be used indefinitely and infinitely.
The Wearer, if in an alien shape to his original form, may choose if he or she so desires to, to remain in that alternative shape for as long as necessary, even till death. However the Wearer can not change back or take another shape until the required 24 hours, 14 minutes and 17 seconds of relapsing time had passed.
I Alendrenski, 4th of my name, leave these instructions in the hope that the reader and next Wearer will be aided in some way to discover the Mark's potential in ways I had never been able to."
And below these words stood scribbled as if in a hurry, this time in a blue pen:
"From your loving grandfather, may this aid in your life, my dear comrade. Happy birthday, Yatsi!"
===
Yatsi looked up with glazed eyes. Then he said: "What the f###?"
This has got to be this most deplorable, most depraved attempt at a hoax that Yatsi had ever seen. This has Kohler's sick humour written all over it. Oh come on! He had to read the little scrap paper several times over before he could decipher it; then he had to read it several times more yet just to understand what on earth it meant.
This was borderline stupidity with the poorest attempt at a laugh yet devised. This Mark and Wearer business is downright moronic. Like some kind of instructions to superpowers or something. Ugh.
And what the hell exactly was this rubbish about his grandfather actually having written his name, Yatsi's name, in that last sentence?!! Yatsi wasn't even born then! How in the seven hells was his grandfather supposed to know the name of his unborn grandchild?? Ugh. The writer of this little prank was retarded.
Yatsi had enough of pretending to be Indiana Jones. He stood up and stretched his back, then made his way for the door.
Then he stopped. Dead in his tracks. He looked at his upper left hand which still held the silly paper.
It was burning. Like agonizing fire! But there was nothing on it. Yatsi gasped and mashed his teeth in agony. It felt like a thousand hornets was busy stinging his upper left hand!! Blood started to ooze from the surface, as if someone was busy carving into his skin with a scalpel. By this point Yatsi was crying like babe; he collapsed in a shuddering heap on the floor, his right hand clutching desperately to his left that was causing him the most excruciating pain imagination could invent.
By then he could see black lines forming all over the surface of the pained skin of his left hand. Like an invisible tattoo artist drawing with ink where the pain focused. It was the mark from the paper. Its outlines slowly forming a less and less ambiguous picture until a solid replica stood there on Yatsi's shivering hand.
In soul-releasing relief, the pain stopped. Suddenly and inexplicably. Yatsi gazed at his hand in shock and awe. A perfect tattoo where there had been none a minute ago. What...what was that?
Yatsi didn't know what made him look at the paper he had dropped; he just had to know whether it was the same mark. To his final heart-stopping shock Yatsi saw that the Mark was missing from the paper!!!
Nothing, just an empty space. The words and instructions from his grandfather was still there, but the mark...gone. Vanished. What witchcraft was this? Yatsi wondered flabbergasted.
He needed help. He needed to get back to his friends quickly. Whirling with haste he knocked his head into the mantle-piece of the room, landing himself a concussion on his forehead.
Stars and stripes was the last thing Yatsi saw before unconsciousness took him into her dark embrace.
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