“You don't want me to restore Richard?” I raise an eyebrow… oh, Aldamen definitely noticed. Eh, I'll fill her in ter.

  “Hmm? Oh, revoking the magic keeping him in his current shape is fine.” Death pauses, “I'm referring to you giving him the courtesy of his preferred pronouns but not doing the same for your mother.”

  Umm… “She's Mom. She's always been Mom.”

  “Your mother has thirty four years of memories - the FIRST thirty four years of his memories - of life as a man.” Huh, I can hear Death taking a breath over the link, “the female body he now wears was originally forced on him by my sister, and is currently an effect of the self-actualizing nature of our status as deities; I look like I do because that is my own image of what a deity of death should look like. Your mother looks as he does because that is his conception of what a deity of fertility should look like. In neither case does it have anything to do with our respective self images… or did you think I like looking like a dark, soul-consuming demon?”

  “I haven't really thought about it; you're just you, my uncle; same applies to Aunt Water's mermaid form, Uncle Earth's internal volcano, Aunt Air's not-quite-harpy body, and so on,” I consider a moment, “I've seen Mom pose as a male when investigating compints at the school; she can absolutely….”

  “That's strictly temporary,” my uncle interrupts, “any of us can do it, but it doesn't st long; our own concept of what we ‘should’ look like for our role always resurfaces quickly. Yes, your mother is quite disciplined and can probably hold it off for a few hours at a time, but when he rexes he goes back to being a very well-endowed wet nurse… physically, anyway… just like I go back to being a horned monster.” He pauses, “although I must admit I am happy to hear that you really don't care about the less savory aspects of my appearance.”

  I shrug (and don't worry about it because the Guildmaster clearly already knows I'm carrying on a conversation), “I'm a shapeshifter: I always have been. Sure, I'm attracted to some forms more than others, and of course I'm going to watch out for something with cws and teeth that's not acting civilized, but beyond that… bodies don't mean much to me. Mom is Mom. You're you. I've yet to actually see Grandpa, but I certainly recognize His voice.”

  “Hmm… so I suppose the root of it is that you barely care about pronouns yourself, and view a person's shape as…” he trails off.

  I fill the silence after a bit, “I mean, it's not like Mom's ever said anything.”

  “He wouldn't,” my uncle supplies, “you're his child, and he spent enough time knowing he needed to py the part of a woman simply as a matter of survival that it will have lost any sting for him.” He pauses, “Still.”

  Fine, “I'll go ahead and see how Mom responds to masculine forms the next time I'm talking to… him.”

  “Good,” Death lets the conversation fade.

  Aldamen seems lost in thought during the trip, and asks a question as we pull up to the gate, “Who's Champion are you?”

  She's pretty good at guessing, “I'm not.” Properly speaking, I'm a Prophet.

  “Please,” the half-orc rolls her eyes, “You do six impossible things before breakfast. You obviously have a potent Gift.”

  I shake my head, “The real term is ‘Prophet’. We're supposed to speak on behalf of the deities,” I need to not say Grandpa… “the intent of The Supreme was for us to be mouthpieces, not soldiers. The Gift is supposed to serve as credentials, not a weapon.”

  “But you are one.” The Guildmaster isn't dropping it.

  “Yes,” I shrug, “for The Comforter.”

  She frowns under her scarf, “That little happy death cult has enough divine oomph to make a…”

  She trails off, because I'm staring daggers at her, “Aunt Wanda isn't a cult leader. She is representing a very gentle soul by a name he rightfully earned long ago.”

  The Guildmaster's eyes get very wide behind her lenses, “That invulnerable death machine is your AUNT?” She pauses, “I suppose that expins how you survived fighting those dozen devils all night….”

  She's only invulnerable because of Mom… “Not by blood, but yes,” I shake my head, “she was always around growing up. And while yes, she's competent in a fight, she much prefers making milk to making war.”

  That confuses the Guildmaster, “Shouldn't that be ‘making love’?”

  “Oh, she enjoys that to the point of obsession too; she will let and encourage anyone and everyone to grab her chest, massage her rear, stick their rods in whatever hole she has that isn't currently in use by someone else, and so on.” I pause, “but she has an absolute passion for making milk.”

  The half-orc Arcanist sits on her horse, blinking in confusion, “So she breeds cows?”

  I roll my eyes, “Only as competition. No, she makes milk, personally. She kept my cousin Sam drinking milk straight from her taps for as long as her daughter was willing… just because kids do wonderful things for milk production. She directly makes more milk than any dairy cow I've heard of, and she's quite proud of that.”

  I take a breath to calm down as Aldamen stands there blinking, “but I really don't want to lean on my family name, you know? You just got me a bit riled up by calling her a cultist. So don't spread my origins around, all right?”

  The half orc goes silent for a while, just looking at me, then responds, “Sure. Everyone has a past… except maybe those ‘people’ you magic up… I suppose I can respect not wanting to lean on your family rep.”

  I nod, “Great…” we get moving again, past my minions guarding the gate, and into the town proper. I walk with the Guildmaster to the guildhouse… it's on a section of ground just outside our property… mine, I guess.

  I do pause when we reach it, “It's done already?” And it is: She got the full sized stone building up in a matter of days. I mean, I have easy access to Wall of Stone now….

  “Yeah… “ she shrugs, “I have all the spells for it in my book, and I'm rated at Emerald, so it doesn't take long to put one together.”

  I suppose that makes sense with an old party mate on the council, but something is bugging me about that… “so why'd you hire us to bring you here rather than just…”

  “...than what? ‘Just’ casting Greater Teleport?” She looks a little sheepish, “Well… Wesley has loose lips, and talked about your library. I wanted to see it for myself.” She opens her mouth, shakes her head, and continues, “I couldn't get in, though. The door is… picky, despite not being magical, and I have no idea how it was done… which really scares me. Who set THAT up?” Mom, but I'm not telling you that, “Wesley can use it, I can't. I paid Wesley to copy specific spells and let me copy his work, because there's stuff in there that is just that worth it. Seriously, you have NINTH circle spells in there… including priest-specific spells like Miracle, which wizards can't cast even with all the instructions. Who even wrote that down, how, and why?”

  Mom or one of her copies, via methods that don't exist here, so I'd be able to study it. I'm not telling you that, though, “You tried to master something, didn't you?”

  “I started small,” she shakes her head, “Cure Light Wounds. I can cast it with some effort, so it seemed like a good pce to start.” She shakes her head, “All the instructions, right there, and I can't make it work without the extra power burn."

  I chuckle, “That's how it goes. Honestly, there's more spells that you won't be able to make work than will. Chaff, perhaps. Regardless, I should go fix Richard. Have a good…” I look at the rising sun. Were we really in the dungeon that long? Whatever, “...morning, I guess.”

  “Yeah… I'm going to hit the sack. Rest up yourself.” Aldamen heads into the guildhouse, presumably then to the stairs for the Guildmaster's quarters.

  I don't sleep at all, so there's no point in resting. I wave at the door, turn aside, and mentally locate Richard… he's an early riser, apparently; he's already in the mess hall.

  I head that way, go inside… ah. He's curled over a table, his face facing the door, eyes closed, a puddle of drool under his lips, the amell of sour milk and stale beer on him... not a pleasant mix. He's not so much an early riser as he's passed out drunk. Eh, that's fine… Neutralize Poison and Restoration fix him up, and then a simple loud cp…

  “What?” He jumps up and looks around… “Why aren't I hung over?”

  “That's my doing,” I shrug, “I figured you'd want to be sober for…”

  “You're alive?” He's blinking, “I'm dreaming, aren't I?”

  I shake my head, “Nope. The others scored a Raise Dead spell for me,” I don't really want it spread around that I can just pop back up.

  “Great…” he licks his puffy lips, “so about that thing you said….”

  I chuckle, “Making you a man again is why I'm here. I'll need to briefly change you,” it's a quirk of Polymorph spells: With very few exceptions, a second Polymorph spell of any type dispels the first, no roll necessary, if the target accepts it. If the target doesn't accept the second, the first makes the target immune to further Polymorph effects, with a handful of exceptions, which makes low-level Polymorph spells an almost sure-fire way to clear out or prevent most forms of hostile form altering magic, “but that will be entirely temporary,” because I'll dismiss it a few seconds after I cast, “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Yes. A thousand times 'yes'. I am SO sick of this bloody body.”

  I nod walk over, and cast a simple Youthful Appearance spell to make him a young adult, making sure to apply Fleeting Spell so I can toss it easily, and touch Richard….