This small mirror I purchased in the market is occupying an inordinate amount of my time. The master will be displeased if my enchanting quotas are not met.
As an ur-baron in Megalos, I only saw my reflection during official banquets or important meetings with the city officials. The upkeep of my appearance was delegated solely to my valet, who fawned over every hair on my mustache as if I was a painting to be gifted to an archbishop of the Curia. I suspect my Megalan enemies have thrown the poor boy into one of the very dungeons of that well fed and bejeweled cabal. My grandfather’s expression “blood from a turnip,” comes to mind when I think of my poor valet’s fate.
My daydreams are now supplanted by the fascination I have with the black hair on my arms and the darkness of my skin. Sadly, the rumors about an arab cock seem not to be true in the case of my new body.
The events that led up to my transformation seemed, if I was not skeptical, purely driven by providence. The powerful magics of the mages guild seem more likely. Philosophical discussions of the origins of those powers are a waste of precious time. More specifically I can point to the work of Castini, Tredroy’s master of mind control and my own master as the hands who saved me from oblivion.
I say oblivion because I was not spared death, nor the pain that came with it. Oblivion nor proof of my atheistic beliefs did not wait for me on the other side of Charon’s river. I, Kuranes, and I continue to remind myself I am Kuranes. I am now an eighteen year old arab ditch digger named Abdul Malik who barely escaped a madness brought on by the magical process of rebirth. Within a slight sliver of the finite divide which lays between human consciousnesses, the Master became the undead monster the Abrahamic religions have used to scare their children. My weapons to fight these priests of ignorant fear were only my experience and reason. As my being became accustomed to its new raven haired home, I smote these ignorant fears conjured by the foolish nannies of my childhood.
Foolish, of course, might be one way to describe my hubris in feeling safe from the dogs of the fiendish imperial court. Stupid is how I describe my failure to learn a counter to any scrying magics. Lessons are learned I suppose.
I would rather have seen Argon Nimblefingers or the Emperor’s whore the day I decided to officially become a citizen of Tredroy. Instead, Jordan Seigebreaker reared his ugly Christian head. In the ensuing diplomatic mess, I volunteered my former life to spare the city and the mage’s guild from war with the Emperor’s legions.
And now I have brown skin, eyes and hair as black as the souls of necromancers who haunt the dreams and dark nights of the Abrahamic fools.