West. North. East. South. Four points of the compass, four environments, each vastly different from the last. A wild, sandy desert, set with winds and dunes. A lucious plain, intersected by a vast lake and a distant forest. A long-cursed marsh, with twisted, blackened trees and a stench that would burn the insides of a nose. A snowy, white wasteland, another desert but this time cold like the deepest winter. And where each one of them met ... A few metres of changeable worlds, with the slow degrading of one atmosphere to the upsurge of the next. Smaller dunes, drier grass, lighter swamp and a warmer land - they were but partners, brought together by the magic of the Citadel.

Naturally, she had chosen the grasses. What self-respecting priestess of the tree goddess Drys would not? Kneeling by the lake Philomel van der Apart intoned prayers to her goddess, wishing for the chance to understand why her and hers had undergone the changes that they had. Why was Delath weaker, why had her mid form vanished to leave her with the pure ability to transform right into a devilish, massive goat? Was was Veridian now so curiously bold, with his unlimited form of standing upright, tall and proud.

There he stood beside her, six foot tall and staring into the world, at the apex where all four environments met and burst into existence. Slowly his chest rose and fell as he waited, clothed in nothing but a simple cloth about his waist. Was it necessary - Philomel had never wanted to ask, for the fox had never told her. Instead he had simply begun to wear it and she had found delight in being female.

Back and forth his white-tipped tail swung, like a steady pendulum. His golden eyes remained vivid, and his paw-like hands flexed fists. Eagerly he remained, ready and willing, patient for their moment ... Yet still she prayed.

Then a doorway appeared in the apex. Breath rushing into his lungs Veridian yapped excitedly; a single dog-like yap. Philomel looked up, brow furrowed as she was so rudely interrupted in her prayers, only to see the humanoid fox passionately prodding the air towards the doorway.

"Look! Person!"

The faun grimaced slightly, still not used to the sound of Veridian's voice being out loud rather than purely in her mind. Nevertheless she looked over, and watched as a young man with brilliant blue hair stepped from the portal.

"Oh," she said, a little disdainfully, "we have company."

"Yes! An opponent," Veridian swished his tail, conveying his excitement.

Philomel grunted, then turned back away to look at the lake again and resume her quest for divine guidance.

But the fox was not satisfied.

"Philomel, we are in the Citadel. Heroes training. Fighting. We came here-"

"We came here because you insisted," she said rudely, "you wanted a fight."

The fox kept his eyes on the apex, where he now saw the door disappearing and the figure there turn to gape at his surroundings.

"Yes. A fight," he grinned, white sharp teeth vivid. "Yes please."

Philomel paused. Pursing her lips she leant back to survey the figure. After a moment of staring she dismissively waved a hand. "Delath could take him in one bite."

"If you do not want to fight, Philomel," Veridian turned to her. "Then I will."

She paused, startled and shocked. "You will ... Wait what?"

His grin remained as he bobbed his long-snouted face. "Yes. I fight. You ... Watch. I want to fight," and he shoved out a hand. "Sword please."

The faun eyed her beloved's paw, with his furred-backed fingers ended by black claws. Gently she bit a lip, surveying the unfamiliar contours of his knuckles, studying how each digit curled and how his thumb was angled. Heart racing she began to panic, hating how much her world was changing, and desperately feeling the need to pray some more.

"Please," he repeated.

She huffed and reached over her long, violet hair into the double sheath at her back. Strapped there, over her drakescale and titanium chest guard were two mighty swords. Carefully she unhooked one - a mythril blade ended with what seemed a dragon's horn for a hilt - and slid it from its holster to hold it out to him. Nameless it was called, and much death had it brought.

"Be careful," she said, quietly.

He nodded, yet he was smiling. Taking the offered hilt he adjusted his grip until it was suitable to hold. Gently he swung it a couple of times, shearing the grass where they stood, before he nodded, satisfied.

"I see you later," he decided as he shouldered the blade. Then he began to march, taking himself over the grassy plain towards their - his - opponent.

Philomel watched with mild amusement, turning around as she continued to pray.