" Razugual called for his attention from across the fire, but he went unnoticed, or—more likely—ignored.
"Morgan." Repeated Mud, as though he were considering the name. He replaced his hat on his head, tipping it's brim down over his eyes.
"How does it feel to be Morgan, Morgan?" the magician asked, sounding almost like a therapist. He stood before Morgan stroking his goatee and leaned his head back so that one eye was fixed upon her.
Razugual was fed up with being disregarded and disrespected by the magician. He lunged forward through the large fire, pressing both hands down in the middle of it, and leaning forward so that he was face to face with Mud, and
partially engulfed in flames. His own luminance blended with the bright glow of the fire. It was a spur of the moment idea, but Razugual hoped it'd give him a bit of an edge when addressing the disrespectful magician.
Mud ripped his hat from his head and flung it against the ground, stomping in frustration. He faced Razugual with an intense glower, and demanded, "WHAT!? What do you wish me to hear, vexatious stooge??"
Surprised, and a little taken aback by his counter-outburst, Razugual almost faltered in his response to Mud. However, his frustration was enough to keep him well and focused. "You," he said, jabbing Mud in the chest, "have business with Damien." He thrust his finger over at Damien.
The magician frowned in confusion. "Business with Damien? What business with Damien? I've only just arrived, and I shant have any business with gospodin Damien until I make
business with gospodin Damien, and right now
—I shall tell you forthrightly—I do not feel obliged make any." He seemed finished for a moment, then waved his arms in a shooing motion at Razugual, "Now remove yourself from my fire— goodness knows you're giving whatever you've got inside a right toasting."
Razugual did not follow Mud's orders, partly because he wasn't done with the man and so wasn't about to yield to the man, and partly because he was completely fireproof; only the very outer edge of his body would even change it's temperature without his say-so. He continued to meet the magician's glare and informed him in a none-too-friendly tone, "Damien is no longer carrying your crap, now it's your
responsibility to change him back to the way he was before you ignored what must've been a thousand simpler and more logical solutions that I know
you are very capable of pursuing, just so you could havethechancetoturnanotherpersonintoanANIMAL!
If Razugual had needed to breathe, he would have been very out of breath. If there was blood flowing through his body, it would have rushed to his head, flushing his face a very red. As it were, he stared at Mud with eerily placid silence, then spoke in a quieter and slower voice than before, but a voice that was still very harsh. "You must turn him back now.
The magician seemed, if anything, calmer and less perturbed than before. He raised his eyebrows in question, and asked, "Must
I? Is this what Damien wants for himself?" he looked over to the gryphon, whom both Razugual and Mud had failed to consult earlier, despite being the subject of the sudden aggression. "...is this
what he asks of me?"
Razugual seemed to hesitate, his eyes going from being narrowed in anger to their usual roundness. He felt slightly embarrassed for having jumped into his outburst without asking Damien specifically about it beforehand, but... but surely...
"In a manner of... well, I, I-in some words... yes.
" He turned his gaze to Damien and asked hopefully, "...Right Damien?"
Mud took no notice of his companion's answer. He reached down for his hat, picking it up and revealing his blue apple underneath—fresh and uneaten. He took it in his free hand, where it became a more natural shade of green. The magician placed his hat back upon his head, and turned entirely towards Damien, slowly walking towards him. "Damien..." he said, his voice genial and soothing, "Good chap. Is
this your request? Think now: are you at peace with yourself? Healthy. Alive.
Strong as the four winds and
their trusty steeds!" He put a joyful emphasis behind each sentence, then stopped, shifting to a more somber tone. "Or must you be a rusty old chittering machine to reach your peace?"
Once again, Mud removed his hat—slowly, from the front of his head—and pressed it, holding it by the top, against his chest. The magician stared sadly at the gryphon, like an old man watching his grandchildren reject the presents he'd given them.
Razugual felt nervous.