Hotu is All Thumbs

Hotu had made a career out of poor decisions.

Most began the same way: a glint of silver, the shine of polished glass, the faint promise of something small and unnecessary that absolutely needed to belong to him. It was never greed, not really. It was instinct. This little teadragon saw a thing of beauty abandoned in the world and, naturally, rescued it.

Riend disagreed with this perspective, usually quite vocally while returning his little precious trinkets to their actual owners.

Tonight’s rescue target sat on a crooked little table outside a weather-worn shop at the edge of town, glowing faintly beneath the lantern light. It was a glass sphere no larger than a plum, swirling inside with ribbons of emerald and gold. Entirely impractical. Completely irresistible.

Hotu perched in the gutter above, tail twitching.

Below, the shopkeeper was exactly the sort of old man one should avoid stealing from: too still, too quiet, and wearing entirely too many rings for someone who claimed to sell herbs and “miscellaneous necessities.” His beard looked like it had its own magic. His cat looked like it had seen things.

Hotu, naturally, saw only the bauble.

He launched.

It was a perfect descent. Silent. Precise. Talons out, wings tucked, little criminal heart full of ambition.

His claws closed around the sphere.

The old man sighed.

“Oh, not again.”

Hotu froze mid-jump.

The mage looked up over the rim of his spectacles, deeply unimpressed. “You creatures are all the same. No respect for warding circles. No sense of self-preservation.”

Hotu attempted innocence, which was difficult while actively holding stolen property.

The cat yawned.

“Return it,” the mage said.

Hotu considered this.

Then he bit the mage.

It was, in hindsight, not his strongest strategic choice.

There was a flash of green light. A sound like someone snapping the world in half. Hotu felt his wings disappear, his tail vanish, his entire elegant and compact criminal form abruptly become far too large and alarmingly upright.

He hit the ground with all the grace of a drunken sloth.

The mage peered down at the sprawled, thoroughly nude young erithian now tangled in his own limbs.

“…There,” he said. “Perhaps now you’ll think about your actions.”

Hotu stared up at him, then himself, in absolute horror.

He had fingers... and thumbs?

Where was his tail? His beautiful markings?

The cat stepped onto his stomach and sat there in judgment.

The mage took back his bauble. “A temporary lesson. Usually wears off in a week. Two, if you continue making poor choices.”

Hotu made an offended noise that, tragically, came out as actual speech.

“This seems excessive.”

He froze again.

The mage smiled, far too pleased with himself.

“Oh good. You can talk. That makes the apology portion much easier.”

Somewhere, Riend was going to sense this problem approaching like an oncoming storm.

And Hotu, former king of petty theft, tiny winged menace, feared scourge of unattended trinkets, lay nude in the dirt realizing he was going to have to walk home like this.