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. THE WREN WEARS A
GOLDEN CHAIN. I WEAR A COLLAR. IT KEEPS US,
DESPITE YOUR FORM, WHAT WE ARE.
The squirrel's headache was getting worse. I DON'T
UNDERSTAND.
I AM A MAN. MY NAME IS PYTR. THE WREN IS A
WOMAN WHOSE NAME IS, WELL, WREN. Pytr stretched
lazily, then curled up on the table next to the cage. It was a
long tale he had to tell, and he thought he might as well be
comfortable. It had begun to snow again, and the day was
waning. He was hungry and restless and worried. It helped
a little to have someone to tell his story to, even if it was
only a squirrel with a headache.
. . . AND SO, the wren sighed, WHEN I WOULDN'T
AGREE, WHEN I REFUSED TO FORSAKE PYTR FOR
HIM, THE MAGE LAID AN ENCHANTMENT UPON US
BOTH. "WREN," HE SAID, and she fluttered her wings a
little, a small shudder, "WREN YOU ARE CALLED AND
WREN YOU SHALL BE." AND - AND PYTR HE MADE
INTO A CAT. THEN I ESCAPED. I FLEW FAR AND
CAME TO SOLACE WHERE I FOUND THE LITTLE
KENDER WHO HEARD ME AND CAME TO HELP. AND
NOW THE MAGE HAS HIM, TOO.
OH, IS THERE NO WAY YOU CAN HELP US?
On the strength of that tale, Wren had led them far and
long, flying ahead and darting back, making sure the five
did not deviate from the way. All of her small strength was
for leading, for bringing help
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