Tarrin lay that morning on a yardarm high in the rigging, well up and above the scurrying people below, staring out at the sea before him with disinterested eyes. The air had warmed considerably when they sailed due south from the Stormhavens to avoid the ice, and now they had turned east and north to come back up to Den Gauche, which was their next port of call. The cool air soothed him in ways that the others couldn't understand, the clean, clear smell of the sea and water untainted by the smells of the crew below, carrying faint scents that he couldn't identify. His furred tail swished back and forth over him absently, moving of its own volition, just as his cat-ears tended to move by themselves to track in on any sound that reached them.

Tarrin was a Were-cat, a mystical being that was deeply grounded in myth and legend to the human world, but he had not always been one. His condition was inflicted upon him by another Were-cat, Jesmind, who herself had not done it willingly. His condition had been thrust upon him by the Council of the Tower, the ruling body of the katzh-dashi, who wanted a non-human Sorcerer so badly that they had destroyed his life to get one. His Were nature imparted to him certain advantages over humans, for he was a creature of magic. He could not be truly injured by any weapon unless it was silver, imbued with magic, or was an unworked weapon of nature, and only fire, acid, and other very damaging natural conditions could do him any true harm. Any other wound would heal over as quickly as it was inflicted. He was inhumanly strong, and had the agility and quickness of the cat which was now a part of him. He had the senses of a cat, with acute hearing, night vision, and a sense of smell so sensitive that he could track people by their scent.

But with those advantages came a trade-off, and it was one which Tarrin agonized over. With his animal gifts came the instincts of that animal, and his mind was a battleground between his human thoughts, morals, and traits against the powerful instincts of the Cat. There had been a long stretch when he thought he had achieved a balance between his human and animal halves, but it turned out that he was in balance only because he was never exposed to a situation where he would lose control. That moment had come when he was captured by traitors within the Tower, traitors that worked for a rival organization that meant to use him for their own ends. He had gone berzerk after being freed from their magical control, gone so totally mad that he had went on a killing rampage. The deaths of hundreds of men and women were on his shoulders, stained his soul, darkened his every thought. The memories of his actions had been slow to come to him after he had finally come out of his rage, and they had hurt him deeply. Tarrin was not a violent or savage man, but he had done things while in his rage that he felt he could never reconcile. He had killed helpless men and women, killed people trying to run away from him, people that had never been a threat to him. His Were-cat gifts had proven to be totally deadly when used indiscriminately, as guards and warriors used ineffective weapons against him, weapons that only made him angrier. The gifts that had saved his life so many times had turned into a killing tool, a tool which the Cat had used to their utmost potential.

Just thinking about it made him shudder. It was a raw wound, fresh, and it ran deep. He had once almost killed his own mother in rage, and that had nearly driven him permanently mad. Now the deaths of hundreds weighed on his mind, men and women who had had lives, loves, dreams, desires. And he had destroyed them brutally, uncaringly, with a single swipe of his wickedly clawed paw. The destruction he had sown under the Cathedral of Karas had opened a rift inside his own soul, a deep wound of chagrin, pain, and self-fear that refused to close. He had turned into what he had always dreaded becoming, an unthinking, savage monster. It was what he was, and it was something that he could become again if he felt that threatened. There would be no stopping it. That he was certain of. When he felt threatened, the Cat would be there to try to take control, and the Cat was merciless.

That was the source of his fear, almost his terror, at his situation. He had been charged by the Goddess of the Sorcerers herself to a task, a mission on her behalf, and it was a mission with danger. There was no way he could avoid putting himself into a situation where he may go into another rage. She had asked him to find an old artifact called the Firestaff, a device that could grant someone the power of a god. She wanted him to find it and keep it away from anyone who would use it for that end, and she had already warned that it would be a dangerous task. That meant that he would have to face turning into a monster again. He wasn't sure if his sanity could withstand it. Already he was given to black moods, moods that consumed him, caused him to stare blankly into space for hours at a time. He was very touchy, and he had developed a very quick and very dangerous temper. The sailors on the ship avoided him, and though a part of him understood the need for it, it still hurt. He didn't mean to be the way he was. If he could change it, he could. But he just couldn't help it.

And that was the core of his problem. What was happening was out of his hands. It was extension of the Cat within him, and that was something inside himself that he couldn't hope to control. All his life, he had always felt like he had had at least a partial control of his life. His parents were very moderate and understanding, and they had always trusted in his judgement and given him alot more freedom than other kids. He had never felt so out of control of his own life before, even after he was initially turned Were. Even then he had a feeling that he had some control over his life. But not now. He was changing. He could sense it, but no matter how hard he tried, how much he wanted it to stop, he simply couldn't. And that frightened him almost as much as the rages.

Looking through half-closed eyes, he turned his gaze downward, to the deck, where his friends were. Dolanna sat with Allia, Keritanima, and Dar, teaching them about the Weave. She wore only a light cloak, fully enjoying the unseasonably warm weather of the winter day, weather that had progressively turned warmer and warmer as they sailed south. Azakar was being trained in more subtle sword parries by Faalken, as Binter and Sisska looked on. Miranda sat somewhat off from the others, an embroidery hoop in her lap and her hands busy. The sailors had long grown accustomed to their passengers, and moved around them and among them with little concern for their activities. Allia was sighing alot, giving Faalken a long, almost wistful look, until Dolanna's sharp retort got her attention back where it was supposed to be.

That made Tarrin smile slightly. Allia was a Selani, a race of proud warriors with a highly refined sense of honor. She didn't look like a warrior. She was very tall, taller than most men, and she was so incredibly beautiful that no human woman could dare compare to her. That ethereal beauty was what made so many discount her fighting ability. Trained in the Dance, a Selani system of fighting arts, Allia was more than a match for almost anyone trained to pick up a weapon. Few could challenge her in a fight, and even fewer could hope to win. Allia was Tarrin's sister in all but blood, she was sister to him in all ways, and the bond between them sometimes defied even his explanations. He loved Allia so deeply that he didn't think it would be possible to love her any more, a profound connection between them that transcended their differences in race and mentality. He would die for Allia, if she needed it of him. Allia's powerful presence had served to calm him after the horror of what he had done threatened to drive him mad, and he spent many nights in cat form, curled up against her in her bed. Allia and Dolanna were the only ones that could exert that kind of an influence on him, and they always made sure that at least one of them were near him at all times. They tried not to make an issue of it, but Tarrin had noticed it long ago, and in a way, it made him feel more secure. She sat on a coil of rope with her back to the rail, wearing a pair of dark leather trousers and a sleeveless vest-like tunic under a loose cotton shirt not unlike her native dress, of the same sand color. She was keeping her eyes on Dolanna as the woman moved a small ball of fire about in the palm of her hand.