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“Stand back.” Ebreth the boar took a running start at the door and smashed it open in an oddly cathartic splintering of wood. The lock mechanism fell to the ground and spun there, once. “I never knew pigs had such strong necks before,” he mused, hopping up on his hind legs to inspect his tusks in the hall mirror. “Learn something new every day, I guess. This, ah, this spell does wear off on its own eventually, right?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Jack,” sighed an older man, rubbing his temples as he stepped through the broken door and into the hallway. “You have no idea how much trouble you just got me into in there, do you?”
“Uh...” Jack Yearlate balked a little and looked to Ebreth, who looked equally confused, insofar as a pig could look confused. “I’m sorry, do I, uh... know you?”
“Jeez, kid, it’s your uncle Asinus! I wasn’t born a donkey, ya know.”
“I, have amnesia,” Jack apologized.
“Asinus?” said the pig.
“You had better not be one of my old sidekicks from that flarkin’ barnyard revolt of ’89,” Asinus grumbled.
“No,” he said. “No, it’s Ebreth Tor. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you two, obv--” Asinus stopped. “You have got to be flarkin’ kidding me.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the pig. “I can see how this gets old after a while.”
“Let me guess. You found the impression of Arturian.”
“No, Aithne did it. You’re all here, aren’t you?”
“Hell yeah,” said Asinus. “What got into Witchy Spice?”
“She thought we were doppelgangers. Long story.”
“Well, it’s something of an improvement, anyway.” Asinus grinned, and switched the pig on the side with his bow. “Come on, you two, let’s gather the troops and get out of here before my destiny figures out where I went.”
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