The twitter of birds and the sun's warmth are the first things the lump under the white sheets hears when consciousness finally returns. Soon, the soft skin rubs against tired eyes and lifts up from the bed. The lithe and slight figure blinks blearily, rubbing the sleepiness from his gaze. He shudders, feeling the slight chill of nakedness upon his breast, and pulls the covers around him as he looks over a room? It is a cell.
The prisoner sees himself as a blurry mess in the mirror. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and slips out of the bed. When his bare feet hit the floor, he blinks and glances downward.
He’s greeted with the paleness of his nude form, yanks the covers off his bed, and creates a makeshift robe around himself, tucked under his arms, with such length as to make a slight trail behind him.
How humiliating.
He pads over to the vanity, fumbling through the still soggy material lying there—a traveler’s pack with various kits and bags and a pair of spectacles in one of them. He rests them upon his nose and turns toward the light, gazing out the barred window.
A beautiful garden beyond this cell is filled with calming flowers and topiary cut in the shape of figures in various embraces. Walking through the garden in pairs are lightly-robed individuals, sometimes so unclothed as to only barely not expose their most private of areas. The young man blushes, his heart rate quickening as he watches the groups walking hand-in-hand, giggling and talking to one another. Some step to a small pool, where they undo their gowns with a simple tug, jumping in and wrapping their arms around one another, their bodies pressed tightly in warmth.
He leans in, gazing downward, desperate for more of a view of this place. He grasps at the bars and yelps, pulling back. His palms burn with a gentle rash that sizzles.
Suddenly, a scent wafts past his nose, and he whirls around. Standing right before him is the tall figure of the beautiful man with green hair and orange eyes.
Those eyes stared him down last night with such determination and passion.
The prisoner gulps, stepping back but jumping forward, not wanting to touch those bars.
“You should be careful about those bars,” the paladin says. Today, he is not armored but dressed in flowing, translucent sleeves trimmed with a shimmering material and leggings that go up to his thighs.
The prisoner snarls, grasping his sheet and tossing it at the larger paladin. He swipes at him, only for the paladin to grab his wrist through the cover, holding him tight as he pulls the blanket off his face.
“The bars are silver,” he continues.
“What does that mean to me?” the prisoner snaps.
The paladin sighs, letting go. “Was last night your first transformation?”
The prisoner’s heartbeat thumps heavily in his chest. “No… I mean, I don’t know…” He runs his hand through silver hair and sits on the bed. “You’re a paladin of love, aren’t you?”
“My name is Tybalt,” the paladin responds, finding the space next to the prisoner to sit, his arm so close that the warmth radiates off it and onto the prisoner. “And you are?”
With a deep breath, the young man speaks. “Michlah. My name is Michlah.” He raises his hand, seeing the burn quickly disappear.
“Healing fast is something you can look forward to, Michlah,” says the paladin.
“I’m not looking forward to anything!” Michlah snaps, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest. “I came here because I’m sick, and the doctors back home said I should come here.”
“Few can handle your affliction,” Tybalt says, nodding.
“So, then, you know what ails me?” Michlah asks, his high voice rising in hope.
“Indeed,” says Tybalt, placing a hand upon Michlah’s shoulder. He squeezes it, a sadness in his eyes as he faces the young man. The tears that well up on the half-elf’s cheeks take Michlah aback.
“You are cursed,” Tybalt says, placing a pillow on the supplicant’s lap.
“Cursed! No, that can’t be!”
“But it is. Lycanthropy is a disease and a curse, and it is one that you have contracted.”
“Not likely! I’ve never seen a werewolf or anything in my life! He yips! “I’m no adventurer. My travels are strictly going from town-to-town!” He hops up, walks toward the mirror, and grasps the wooden vanity. “I’ve never been bitten, scratched, or harmed by a wild animal. Those are the only ways to contract lycanthropy! I should know. I study disease!”
Tybalt stands, draping the sheet over the young man’s body. “There is another way to contract it,” he says, “One that many textbooks shun to speak about, yet it is a terrible way to get it, as it proves to be a betrayal most foul.”
Michlah tenses up, staring at the paladin through the reflection. “Are you insinuating… are you claiming I had, that I… and a monster… and because of that?”
“It’s a possibility,” says Tybalt. “But to be sure, you must tell me about any intimate contact you had before the first symptoms arose.”
Michlah’s legs give way, but Tybalt is there to catch him and guide him back to the bed.
“It isn’t every day that someone finds out that they may have contracted a magical STD,” says the paladin. “But please, tell me your tale.”