It's the middle of the night, in the seedy part of Edgekeep.  Torg, one
of the larger, slimier and more-despised ruffians in town (holder of the
current Edgekeep record for Most Arrests for Disturbing the Peace), clomps
down the street, chain mail gleaming.  He seems even more smug and arrogant
than usual; apparently, he has just beaten up a tourist, for he pats his
money pouch frequently as he walks.

    A mongrel dog is lounging in the middle of the street, paying no
attention to the loud metal figure approaching.  As Torg passes, he
delivers a firm kick to the rib cage of the dog, which emits a
suitably-loud yelp of pain.  Torg walks on, an evil smile on his face,
oblivious to the fact that the dog's form is changing and expanding...

    "Oh, joy, a volunteer!" comes a happy cry from behind Torg.  He whirls
in surprise, but the dog is nowhere to be seen; instead, Phaedrus is there.
"I thank you so much, sir!", he says, and a crackle of energy arcs between
them; now it is Torg's turn to cry out in surprise, as his helmet clatters
to the ground, and black fur sprouts on his head.  "It's rare that I get
such an enthusiastic one," Phaedrus continues, as Torg's vision fades to
shades of grey, and his head compresses and elongates, transforming into
that of a wolf.  "But then, the Transmogrification Research and Wildlife
Diversification Program has always been a favorite," he finishes, as Torg
stands frozen in horror, staring down at his own furry snout...

    "Now, of course, there's no charge for this," Phaedrus says
reassuringly.  Torg screams a curse at Phaedrus, but his vocal chords have
transformed as well, and it comes out as something between a yelp and a
bark...  "Of course, donations are always welcome," Phaedrus adds quickly;
Torg growls in rage and reaches for his sword, but another crackle of
energy strikes him, and his hands change into furry bear paws even as his
fingers close around the sword.  "Food and housing will be provided,"
Phaedrus continues calmly, as Torg's arms ripple and shrink into lion
forelegs, which get bound up in his chain mail.  Torg's sword clangs
against his helmet as it falls to the ground, and Torg himself howls in
fright as his legs begin to transform as well.  "And medical care as well,
of course," Phaedrus finishes, as Torg charges desperately at Phaedrus;
Phaedrus steps nimbly out of the way, and Torg falls and rolls on the
ground, surrounded by a blur of energy.

    When the dust clears, Torg is completely hidden and bound up in a pile
of his own armor and equipment; there are squirms and muffled howls of
sheer terror from within, and the smell of fresh dung and urine.  Phaedrus
looks on with interest.  "What?  A donation?  Everything?  Why, how very
generous of you, sir!  Here, hold still for a moment and let me help you
off with those..." The movements of the pile abruptly stop, though the
whines and howls continue and become even louder.  Phaedrus deftly removes
Torg's equipment, armor and clothing; he puts Torg's armor and equipment in
his pack and tosses the now-very-smelly clothing aside.

    Torg is now a four-legged beast, with a zebra's hind legs, a beaver's
tail, and reptilian scales on its torso; no human features remain.  It is
only about half as large as before, perhaps 120 pounds.  It tries to crawl
away, but Phaedrus fixes his eyes on it for a moment, and it collapses
again, completely still, except for a few soft whines and howls.

    Phaedrus pulls a large cloth bag out of his pack.  "Now, then, I'll just
take you back to the Society for a good night's rest, and tomorrow we'll
start tissue analysis... won't that be fun?", he says cheerfully.  He
grunts as he picks up Torg's limp form and drops it into the bag, but then
easily tosses the bag over his shoulder (the sounds and weak squirmings
from inside quickly stop), and walks off to the Society hall, whistling a
happy tune.


    Later that night, all is quiet at the hall.  Then there is a soft crash
from the basement, and soon the sound of claws scrabbling at the inside of
the front door.  Then the door opens, and the strange beast charges out the
door, and races frantically out of the city through the North Gate,
whining in terror all the while.  Phaedrus, watching from a window on the
ground floor, shakes his head sadly.  "I'll never understand them," he
mutters, turning away from the window and going downstairs to clean up...

    The next day, Phaedrus makes the rounds of the armourers and
weaponsmiths, and sells Torg's equipment; combined with the money Torg was
carrying, and even after paying back his better-known victims, Phaedrus
makes the tidy sum of 6315 gold pieces.

    Torg's mind is sadly unhinged by the experience.  Sightings of a strange
beast running at top speed from some unseen foe are reported in several
villages to the northwest of Edgekeep.  Eventually, it is captured by a
tribe of orcs several hundred miles away, who take it in as a mascot and
train it to be a passable guard animal for their grog storage building.

--Referee IV