True to his word, Arkos kept far from Meso and Yotal. Not a word came their way, and they
exercised extreme caution wherever they went, constantly peering over their shoulders, abruptly
turning around at random intervals when they traveled, and going through other lengths to be certain
that they weren't being followed.
The dragon was nowhere to be found, and the canines were soon satisfied that he had no intent
of following them any longer, though they kept their guard up.
Nearly two weeks passed before they were comfortable enough to return to the outskirts of
town and go on another late-night romp. As usual, they left their clothes by a tree in the grove, and as
usual, they returned to find their garments undisturbed. Late at night, they returned home, somewhat
assured that their secret really was as safe with Arkos as Arkos's secret was safe with them.
Meso awoke late in the morning, but not in the comfort of his bed. There were heavy iron
chains about his hands and feet, and beneath him was a cold floor of damp gray stone.
A wall of bricks surrounded him on three sides, and a barred metal door blocked the remaining
direction off. It seemed to be a prison cell. Somehow, Meso had been taken in his sleep and imprisoned,
which was unusual considering how light a sleeper he normally was.
"Ah, you're up," called a man's voice. "Just in time."
The speaker was quickly revealed to be a priest, as he wore the standard red clergy robes, with
sleeves that bore the town's white-and-gold insignia. He was a portly, bald fellow, with a soft voice and
pale, old eyes.
"Just in time? What's going on? Why am I here?" Meso asked cuttingly.
He tried to keep the snarl off his face. The wolf loathed imprisonment, though. He considered
shifting to his wolf form to ditch the shackles, but with a witness, such a thing would be suicide, and
he'd be tried for sorcery... on top of whatever statute he'd broken to get carried off in the middle of the
night and thrown in a cell.
Studying Meso, the priest blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head in
astonishment.
"You must have a devil in you, child," the priest remarked. "After what they did to you
yesterday... you broke. Yet the hate is back in your eyes this morning, and it's like nothing happened. As
if the evil won't die until you do. Aren't you even sore?"
Squirming in an attempt to place himself on his knees rather than flat on his belly, Meso found
movement to be nearly impossible, and very painful. It was as though his back had been split into ten
pieces and reassembled by a careless child, perhaps not even pieced fully together. His hands felt as
though they'd been crushed by a boulder, his knees felt so weak that he couldn't imagine walking on
them, and he could've sworn that there was a hole in his right foot.
"Sore? Yes," Meso replied, bewildered. "Why am I sore? What happened?"
The priest paced around Meso's cell, eying him closely, looking first to his hands, then to his
face for clues toward any sort of treachery.
"You have to ask, witch? Ridiculous. Now you're just mocking me," the priest spat.
"Witch?" Meso asked. Panic began to set in. If he had somehow been discovered, then he was
going to be killed very soon. Really, it would explain a lot, but he had to feign innocence just in case.
"What makes you call me that?"
"As if you don't know," the priest scoffed.
"You act as though I should, when I know nothing!" Meso protested. "How did I get here? Why
am I a prisoner?"
The priest tossed his keys up in the air playfully, sharply snatching them out of free-fall before
they even reached their peak height.
His ruse played, he turned to Meso expectantly, as though the wolf should've been in the
process of casting some spell to steal the keys from freefall. Rather than anything incriminating, he saw
the face of an embittered adolescent village boy—a butcher's son whose contempt was slowly ceding to
trepidation, fading away and leaving only a sad, hollow look to his dark eyes.
"No tricks up your sleeve, it seems? Alright, then, I'll play the fool," came the priest's indignant
reply. "You ask questions about the past. Tell me, witch. What's the last thing you remember?"
"I remember..." Meso began, but really, he didn't remember much. Thoughts of Yotal filled his
mind, and he wished the coyote could be near, comforting him. Yotal was usually how he dealt with his
worst problems.
Being alone, it began to sink in that he was a prisoner, and had suffered heavy abuse. He
thought of Yotal, and between missing his companion and experiencing his body's sharp pains, it
became too much for the wolf to handle at once. Upon noticing the pains of his body, he was unable to
forget that they were there, and were very severe. On top of that, there came an unfamiliar helplessness.
All his life, Meso had felt as though he was a step ahead of those around him. He'd picked up
blade combat from his father at a young age and disciplined himself thoroughly and painstakingly
enough to at last realize his canine form with Yotal, keeping both exploits quiet as he could, hidden
abilities in case he ever found himself in trouble, an ace up his sleeve that set him apart from those
around him.
But now, he was imprisoned, caught before any of his talents could even be used in his defense.
This was a degree of weakness that the wolf had never experienced—one which, if he had really been
discovered as a witch, he wouldn't live to experience ever again.
Guarded as his heart was, Meso found it sinking to despair. He tried to move once again, but his
attempts at movement only managed to shoot a jolt of pain through his body, and he whimpered
pathetically, resigning himself to staying inactive. The reality of it was that for all his preparation, and
for all he'd gone through to develop, they were of no use to him in this situation.
He was trapped, sobbing on the dirty floor, a broken wolf alone and at the mercy of men. Meso
could think of no greater misery.
Eventually, though, it passed. He collected himself, set his grief aside, and cooperated with the
priest, recounting his story in as succinct a manner as he could.
"I went on a walk with my best friend late at night, then I returned home and fell asleep," Meso
whined. "I woke up here in this cell. I don't recall doing a single thing wrong. I don't remember being
taken here, or even getting out of bed. What's happened? Why has this happened?"
It pained Meso to hear how childish and whiny his echoes were in the town prison's
underground level, but he hardly cared what the priest thought of him at this point. Piteous or not, his
situation was unfair, and he wasn't bound by his normal standards.
"Your best friend's name?"
"Yotal. He's a dusty-haired boy about my age, a baker's son with a quick wit. I remember
parting from him late at night, then returning home, and that's where my memories end."
"You poor fool," the priest gawked, his voice laden with compassion. "You describe the other
