0. 
	The nightmare always began the same: with the sound of clinking coins changing hands. 
	That part was the same. 
	The next was a mish-mash of images from all the times he changed hands to a new owner. His uncle paid the monastery to keep him after his wife died. He just couldn’t keep a small boy on a working farm. The monastery sold him to the dealer. He was told it was for the best. His price would pay to keep their other orphans for years. Shire had his doubts that all that money would go to keeping the children. It was no longer his problem. The mark had condemned him. 
	The dealer sold him to the Slave-master in Sweetwater. The human wordlessly examined the mark in his belly fur and paid. The coins clinked again. Shire had already come to hate the sound. He was collared none too gently and forced into a wagon, a cage on wheels. The trip North and East across the grassy sea was long and uncomfortable. The sun was too hot on his back during the day, and he shivered with chill in the long nights. 
	At least the other slaves were allowed to walk. He was too valuable. He stayed in the cage for many days. Being valuable didn’t protect him from being yanked out of the cage and whipped if he cried too loudly. He quickly learned to muffle his tears to near-silence. 
	Then there were the pens on the outskirts of Southwind, the human city by the muddy brown river. And the Guild representative who again examined his mark. Coins changed hands again. 
	Then his collar was chained to a post, his hands were tied around it so that his muzzle pressed against the rough wood. The chain was shortened, forcing him to stand on his toes to keep from choking. Rough hands stripped him to the fur. He yelped and cried but could do nothing. He was lashed a few times across his naked legs and tail until he went still and trembling, hugging the post and digging in with his claws. 
	Then came the glowing hot iron and he was branded deep into his left buttock. His screams meant nothing. His fur was on fire, burning along with the skin. The Slave-master quickly slapped the flames out, heedless of the raw flesh. Shire passed out before he finished. He was sealed to the Guild. 
	A blur of days followed, in which he was bathed and dressed and his wound treated. Then coins traded hands again and he was stood in from of his Mistress: human, tall and severe, silver-haired. She too examined his mark closely, going so far as to run her fingers through his belly fur to make sure it went down to the skin. She spoke to the Guildsman, mostly in gibberish, but Shire had come to recognize a few of the human words by this time. 
	“…Animal is... skinny.”
	“…Feed,…” The Guildsman responded, “…Grow…”
	“Expensive,…”
	“…Much power…”
	She pointed at Shire’s forehead, and said something he couldn’t understand.
	“…Safety…” the Guildsman assured her. 
	“…Power…Stop.”

	“…Make Possible Not”
	Mistress seemed to consider, her mouth tightened to a thin line. Then: “Do.”
	An extra coin was passed and then he was led outside by the collar, and a cuff fitted around his right wrist. A pair of humans pulled him out to a courtyard and to a woodpile.
	He was forced to his knees next to the chopping lock and his arm yanked across by a chain. A heavy knee against his back forced his head down, but he fought as much as he could, crying and snarling, even snapping when hands came too close to his face. The other human held his arm down and stretched it tight, making him cry out with the stress on his elbow. He brought out a shining cleaver engraved all over with strange symbols. 
	He began shrieking even before the blade came down with a heavy thump and struck off his thumb and sprayed blood across the stump and spattered his muzzle and his eyes. The awful thing was that it barely hurt at all. The shrieks of the dream, as always, followed him up to consciousness with the blood pounding in his ears.