Jonatan Willow, Jon for short, wandering minstrel, well respected gardener and veteran of many brutal pub crawls, was no stranger to a killer hangover. In fact, he spent most of the last two years making merry in taverns all around the country and spent maybe half of it with a belly full of ale (the other half was spent regretting that decision).

But in all of his heroic songs and stories, not to mention his many improvised brawls, he had never even considered the existence of a hangover that reversed itself with song. Usually it required a day’s rest by the fire with a steaming cup of his Father’s gorgeous soup and a stern telling off from his Mother.

Jonatan blinked several times, taking in several deep breaths. His dreams were never as vivid as this, but just as absurd. Maybe one of the town guards had gotten slightly too drunk and slipped him something extra in one of his many drinks? That seemed the most likely explanation. He took another deep breath, a smile building on his face. Those idiots always made his life a hassle.

“So that’s what-” He began, cutting himself off when that new voice spoke instead of his own. “Ok, that’s seriously not funny.” His smile vanished; his brow furrowed, and he looked around the small hill, seeing if anyone was pranking him.

He quickly abandoned that task when he remembered that even the most skilled mage who lived here, Sylvia, didn’t specialise in illusions, and was far too uptight to ever consider pranking someone. She didn’t even join in on the annual celebration for when the bats roost and get really fluffy! What a sad life.

Jonatan shook those amusing thoughts out his head, refocussing on the mystery at hand. The first thing he should do was check in at the pharmacy to see exactly what kind of drug he had been spiked with. Or maybe meet with said uptight mage to see if maybe Michael, Jonatan’s second cousin, had learnt a new spell and tested it on him…again.

Of course, being about as sensible as the average 4-year-old, Jonatan did neither of those things. He stood up, holding his lute aloft, and got ready to sing a song with this strange voice of his, just for the fun of it.

“When a-”. The first beautiful notes of the song escaped his lips, his fingers strumming a chord at the same time. He was immediately cut off by the sound of shattering wood and exploding strings. He froze in place, lifting his instrument up to his gaze, a cold dread building up his spine.

The worn lute had practically detonated in his hands. The neck had snapped, the strings had all broken free, the body lay in splinters at the foot of the tree. A soft breeze blew the smallest of the debris into the far beyond.

“Oh…that was a rental.” Jonatan sighed, letting the rest of the instrument fall to the soft grass in a heap.

He started walking down the hill, the light of the moon just barely lighting the path. How he managed to get up here drunk and still alive was a miracle. He stopped, that thought nagging at him.

“Why do I feel sober?” Jonatan looked down at his hands, at his crumpled, ale stained clothes, at the lively town below. There was no fuzziness to it, in fact it seemed sharper than before. The noises seemed more acute, more precise. Jonatan cringed. The out of tune singing of the guards he had left mere minutes ago was even louder than before.

He sighed, rubbing the sides of his head. There was something wrong with him that he didn’t know how to solve, and it was far too late to ask for help from anyone who knew anything besides the most efficient way to cut a steak with an axe.

Jonatan smiled at the thought of Charis, the only guard that didn’t tease him mercilessly about his lifestyle of making music for money. Though they did tease him in other, more embarrassing ways that Jonatan would never admit to enjoying. Until he met them, he had never even considered how persuasive Changelings could be.

A patchwork idea began to form in his head.

“Charis!” He snapped his fingers in victory. He frowned again, his irritation rising again. His new voice no longer had his accent, but somehow made Charis’ name sound infinitely more attractive in every way. “Am I turning into an incubus or something?” That last thought sparked several more that Jonatan filed for later viewing.

He started jogging down the hill, careful to avoid the rabbit holes, the loose stones, and the many discarded bottles of booze from the tavern, which held a weekly bottle throwing contest every Saturday, the prize for which was even more booze.

He reached the bottom of the hill with surprising speed, and with only the slightest hint of tiredness. Things just kept changing and Jonatan was in dire need of someone sober to bounce his thoughts off. The street was dim and quiet, the revelry of the tavern at the end of the next block was clearly audible.

He passed by several closed shops, some guards playing cards on a doorstep out of sheer boredom, who were kind enough to toss Jonatan a silver each to not tell their captain.

He reached the tavern, and immediately ducked out of the doorway as a flagon rocketed out, smashing against the stones of the road. Jonatan sheepishly poked his head back in, only to sigh at the sight of ‘the town’s guardian’ laughing her head off at all the fallen bodies beside her. Jonatan only knew her as his mother, however, so he avoided her for the sake of awkwardness.

The tavern was relatively small in comparison to the ones he had visited previously, so it was rather uncomfortable to manoeuvre around the many drunken patrons, as well as his mother’s alcohol fuelled antics.

He spotted a group of 4 muscularly built guards sitting around a table, laughing at each other, playfully putting each other in headlocks. Charis would probably be there, if they hadn’t already gone home to sharpen their many over the top weapons and knitting needles.

Before he even reached them, one of them spotted him, and raised his mug of frothy ale in the air with a shout.

“Music boy’s back!” The entire tavern erupted in cheers, earning Jonatan several mugful’s worth of alcohol over his head.

“Thanks.” Jonatan’s angelic voice grumbled, shaking the worst of it out his hair. He couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sheer drunken idiocy of the people in the village he called his birthplace. For the millionth time, the town earned its name of Mirth.

As he bobbed and weaved around the newly appointed splash zones of the tavern, the 4 guards went back to their revelry, shuffling round the small table to make room for Jonatan, while failing to hide the extra mugs of ale that they doubtlessly planned to pour over his head.

He perched himself on the wooden stool they had taken from one of their more unconscious colleagues, and placed his hands gently on the table, steadying his breathing. The large half-orcs that sat either side of him, Ban on the left, Slok on the right, exchanged a grin, and went to splash Jonatan with a full mug on each side.

Jonatan raised his arms, placing a hand on each of the tankards, and sent them flying right back into their surprised faces. They recoiled, tipping over and onto the wooden floor, raising a cheer from the nearby patrons, and a roar of ale-fuelled fury from his mother.

“You lot may be guards, but tavern brawls are my home turf.” Jonatan winked at the two drenched guards.

“Ye got ale in mah ear, ya pillock!” Slok complained, knocking bubbly alcohol out of the side of his head, to which Jonatan simply shrugged.

“I always subscribe to the ‘get me a drink first’ rule. Your ears look as gorgeous as ever by the way.” Jonatan made a dramatic showing of his embarrassment at the indecency of the situation, sending many laughs and playful jeers are the embarrassed guard.

The two half-orcs got up, squeezed their ponytails dry, and went to go take some anger out on their rampaging boss. Jonatan turned to the remaining two guards, who stared on with mock horror, a jovial glint in their eyes.

Identical eyes in fact. Identical faces, armour, even the same ridiculous ginger afro stuffed roughly into a hair clip at the back. Jonatan still couldn’t figure out how it stayed in place without breaking under all that strain.

“Are we really doing this, Brick?” Jonatan sighed. Brick was the sole owner of that supernaturally unique hairstyle, while Charis was in one of her usual trickster moods. Being a Changeling made those moods particularly mischievous.

“That we are, ma boy!” Left Brick grinned an incomplete smile, gesturing outwards dramatically.

“We want to see if your powers of perception have dulled in your two years away, kiddo!” Right Brick made the same gappy grin and over the top motions.

Jonatan sighed, taking a few mouthfuls of sweet ale, while considering the two Bricks.

“I’ve gotta guess which one of you is the real one, that right?” Jonatan raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“That you do!” Both Bricks said in unison, snapping their fingers towards him.

“Your wife’s cheating on you.” Jonatan stated matter of factly.

“SHE’S WHAT?!” Right Brick lunged out faster than the eye could see, grabbing Jonatan by the collar, his eyes shuddering with fury.

Jonatan pointed at him square in the face.

“You’re the real Brick. And I lied”. Jonatan let a tiny smile play on his lips.

Brick took several moments of silence to contemplate that thought, then let Jonatan go, dark shadows shifting under his eyes.

“You’re a scumbag sometimes. Make like a proper minstrel and go sleep in an alley.” Brick spat the biting insult at Jonatan, shoving past several patrons towards the exit.

Jonatan’s smile faded. It didn’t get any easier when they mocked him for his music or his garden. He was proud of them regardless of what they said, but their words still forced in the occasional splinter of shame in his mind. A supportive hand fell on his shoulder, snapping him out of his overthinking.

“Much as I love you man, he’s got a point.” Charis’ soft, low voice chuckled behind him, forcing the hair on the back of his neck to stand to attention. Jonatan turned back around, smiling at the friendly face among the chaos.

Charis, being a Changeling, had almost no limits to how they could style their appearance. They always leaned towards an entrancing mix of toned and feminine, mixing charm and handsomeness that made even the most ego driven ogres double take. But that didn’t stop them from trying out whole encyclopaedias worth of innuendos to try and embarrass Jonatan. Their success rate was quite impressive.

They had changed somewhat since Jonatan had left two years prior. Their hair was glossy and blonde, clipped short and spiked. They had changed their features from more rugged and tough to much softer, graceful and feminine. Their eyes were still the same sharp yellow that they’d always been, glinting with mischievous intent.

At a glance, one would assume them to be a perfect sculpture of the gods. On further investigation, one would realise that they no longer had their own purse.

“Oh yeah? When has anyone ever dug up gold with clean hands and rosy cheeks?” Jonatan raised an eyebrow, leaning against the table.

Charis shrugged, twirling a coin between their fingers, eyeing Jonatan with their unreadable gaze.

“Go on then. Out with it.” Charis’ voice flowed through the surrounding chaos of the tavern like a river through a tangle grove.

“And what, pray tell, am I putting out for you?” Jonatan chuckled, gulping down another mouthful of ale.

“Your voice, Jon. Where did that adorable northern of yours go?” Charis’ eyes narrowed.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I played a song to the sky, sang a song and then I sounded like an archangel and blew up my lute?”

Charis took several seconds to take that in.

“What exactly have you been growing in that garden of yours?” Charis chuckled, thinking it was a joke.

“Pumpkins mostly, keeps out the ghosts.” Jonatan silently cursed his reflexive sarcasm.

“Jon I’m serious.”

“So are the pumpkins.”

“Did you do sleep with Sylvia and she enchanted your voice for some special performance?”

“You know just as well as I do that she’d rather set bears on me than help me.” Jonatan folded his arms indignantly.

“You didn’t answer the question, Jon.” Charis’ smile grew.

“I don’t sleep with people that don’t appreciate the joys of occasionally breaking rules with the helping hand of a barrel of ale.” If Jonatan had a golden rule, this was it.

“That’s true, if she broke a rule I think she’d melt.” Charis furrowed her brow in thought.

“Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of someone changing their own voice without magic or assets such as yours?” Jonatan motioned towards Charis with his mug of ale that he had stolen from Brick.

Charis raised their eyebrow.

“If you’re talking about my chest, I’ll throw you to your mother.” Charis raised a teasing eyebrow, but dropped it shortly after savouring Jonatan’s blush. “Well, magic isn’t exactly my forte, but I’ve heard of people re-growing limbs with magic, a voice shouldn’t be too impossible. Maybe.” Charis shrugged.

“And for Changelings? Is it possible for a person like me to…I don’t know, learn how to do that?” Jonatan was very clearly clutching at straws.

Charis laughed, taking a swig of her mug of spring water.

“Unless you’ve stolen the heart of a particularly overzealous Changeling and they decided to trade kidneys with you, afraid you’re out of luck.”

Jonatan was terrified by the fact that he didn’t immediately have an answer to that question, but alas, Charis was the only Changeling he’d ever had the pleasure of being that close to. He had hit one with a decorative deer head about a year ago but that was another story entirely.

“Damn.” Jonatan sighed, comforting himself by finishing his drink, and turning around to enjoy the hilarious agent of chaos that was his drunken mother. Charis hopped over the table and sat beside him.

“Leave it for tomorrow. Doubt you’ll find Sylvia up at this hour, too far past her bedtime.” They shrugged, patting his shoulder comfortingly. They reached over to a nearby table and snatched up an unattended pitcher of sweet alcohol, passing it over to Jonatan. “For now, I sense an upcoming brawl. You’ll want to get ready.” They grinned.

Jonatan smirked at the thought of distraction, gladly refilling his drink.

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night.”

***

The one-eyed Bard sheathed his curved blades, stepping over the piles of dust that were once summoned creatures, as well as the unconscious Clerics who summoned them. He stole a glance out of the thicket that he was attacked in, spying the forest path for further danger.

Satisfied that he was no longer in immediate threat of an onslaught of angelic attack dogs, he strode out onto the beaten dirt path, shaking the dust from his hair and wiping the sweat from his dark eye-patch.

He glared up at moon, which stared back mockingly. He hated the night at the best of times, and these times were among some of the worst.

“What I’d give for a damn bed.” His voice was hoarse and tired, as if it were a beautiful tapestry that was given an overzealous dirt bath. He pulled a map of the area out of his knapsack, trying his best not to tear the crumpled paper.

He pulled one of his blades halfway out the sheath, flicking it with a calloused finger. The steel started to sing, the sound echoing out through the forest in every direction. Several seconds later, four multi-coloured lights lit up over his head, dancing in their own little circles. He returned the sword to its home, deftly bringing one of the lights closer to the map.

“Mirth, eh? Not my first choice, but I’m far past caring at this point.” He sighed, folding the map back up and stowing it safely.

“And who, pray tell, are you talking to?” A voice called out behind the Bard, the grin in his voice painfully obvious.

The Bard turned, his floating lights illuminating the path behind him, revealing a robed dragonborn, clutching a three-pronged star backed by a spiral in her navy-blue hands, their eyes confidant.

“Myself. I assumed that the people hunting me were smart enough to see something that simple.” The Bard rolled his eye, pushing his unwashed red hair off his forehead.

The dragonborn Cleric’s smile faded, her grip tightening on her holy symbol.

“I will not take insults from one of your kind, half-elf. Kneel and pray to our lady Silf that your death will be painless.” The Cleric spat; her eyes full of rage, and her hands shuddering. The Bard let out a bored sigh, placing his hands on his blades.

“While your concern is noted, my safety is the least of your worries right now.” He drew his weapons, the steel shining in the glow of his lights.

Then the lights vanished, plunging the road into darkness. The sounds of their clash lasted less than a minute, and the forest was not disturbed in the slightest.

The cleric was found just after sunrise by a local merchant, lying in a nearby ditch, her symbol cleanly sliced in half, bruises and shallow cuts covering most of her body. She wouldn’t talk about what happened to her, only that she was outmatched in every way.