NewtsBy Jalin/Jordiscy, (C) 2008
Jalin hated stereotypes, especially when she was involved.
It never failed whenever Halloween came around for her fellow clan members to offer her green makeup, a pointed black hat, and a pathetic-looking broom for a costume. She was a black mage, dammit. There was no bubbling cauldron in her possession, nor would there ever be. She left that for the alchemists to do. And as much as she liked to cuddle with little furry animals, that is when she was extremely bored and not out mercilessly killing them, cats made her sneeze. Jalin wasn't a witch, and she did her best to not come across as one.
Yet one day, she found herself digging up graves one rather dreary and stormy evening with Pharel and Martag supervising. She wasn't quite sure on how she ended up doing the dirty work, especially since she was the lady of the party, and a dainty one at that. By this point, the mud had coated her skirt, and the hems were dripping brown water. She had to kick off her boots earlier to stand in the mush of earth barefoot before the moisture had ruined the fine, tanned leather. A bath was in order once this was done.
"Why am I doing this again?" she asked her elder.
"The graves are enchanted in a way so that people of neutral and good alignment cannot disturb them. I tried already, as did Martag, but we just feel too guilty for ruining their graves when we approach with shovels."
Martag nodded in agreement.
"I knew there was some kind of drawback to being evil," the black-mage muttered to herself. She never knew that her lack of a conscience could be used to someone else's advantage like this.
A few hours and a couple of unearthed tabards later, the sorceress came across a glass bottle buried in the mud. A few picks with the shovel freed it, and a wipe with her skirt cleared enough of the label for her to see that the writing identifying what it was had already worn away. The yellowish liquid inside, however, still sloshed inside untainted.
"Happy birthday," Jalin sarcastically called to Pharel as she tossed the bottle to him. She had more than enough work and even more mud on her hands to worry about what was discovered and how it was dealt with.
"I dare you to quaff it!" Martag nearly shouted to Pharel.
Jalin had to stop her digging and drop her shovel a moment later when a "poof" reached her ears and purplish smoke wafted from where her elder was once standing. Leaning out of the hole she had dug herself into, she peered through the byproduct of the potion to see what had happened, and when it cleared enough for both of them to see, they found...
"God dammit," it squeaked.
"Pharel? Is that you?" Jalin asked.
The newt merely glared at her.
If there was one characteristic of the stereotype Jalin was willing to live with, it would be the fact that she could turn fully-grown, prince-like warriors into slimy amphibians.