*Callimpsest stared around the marketplace. Face after angry face filled his vision. Not since he'd angered the imps had there been so many people threatening violence against him. 'Him' somehow not being him. He had to explain. But the harder he tried to talk, to make Grimwold's tongue work, the more nonsense tumbled out his mouth like regurgitated food. His reward for his efforts was a swell of jeering and laughter. He hung his head. This was a sad, strange destiny, like some cursed metamorphosis imposed by an Olympian god on a sinful mortal: perhaps the Tower of Time was never meant for him and now he was being punished. But he wasn't so important anyway. It was the School Library that mattered. And-
-This was still the past. He could still stop the school from being blown apart. Could he go to the school himself? No, damn it, not looking like this. He would have to tell the townsfolk so they could stop it for him. And even if he couldn't speak of it, he could tell them in another way. He turned towards a stall with writing implements on, and pointed.
Unfortunately, it belonged to Francis, the stallholder that he/Grimwold had so recently assaulted. Francis' eyes widened, raising his eyebrows almost as fast as his shield.*
Francis: Oh 'eck! I'm back on the menu! Get me more armour, QUICK!
*A breastplate was passed across the marketplace and handed to Francis. He tried to work out a way of putting it on without lowering the shield while Callimpsest looked on silently. In the end, Francis threw both items on the floor and sobbed in despair.*
Francis: That breastplate's all dented and it's got holes in it! And the straps are really fiddly! Are you trying to get me killed?!
*From further up the marketplace, the originator of the breastplate, fledgling trader Oliver Scaramonger, replied,*
Oliver: Calm yourself, Francis of- *he stopped himself from letting slip the man's secret nickname* -my good fellow. You'd be quite safe against an ogre in that.
*Callimpsest rather suspected that the young Scaramonger was not likely to give decent stock to someone who could be dead before he could pay for it. But of course Callimpsest couldn't say so. He wondered for a moment how much brute strength was at his disposal in this new body.*
Francis: Then why is it in such shoddy condition? Couldn't you have warned me? Look at the state I'm in now. How am I meant to sleep tonight, if I even survive the day??
*Perkin sighed. Francis of a Sissy had earned his nickname once again, and little short of a personality transformation would banish it.*
Perkin: That's not Scaramonger's fault. Some hooded madman walked into the market not more than an hour ago and started bashing the breastplate up, then walked off, calm as you like.
*Others in the crowd corroborated this tale, adding how tall the stranger was and how he'd been seen heading in the direction of the Rocks of Bruin. This wasn't an incident Callimpsest had heard about at the time: he'd paid little attention to goings-on beyond the school gatess. He peered at the breastplate on the ground. It depicted some less-than-perfect renderings of selected adventures of Heracles, or Hercules as so many called him. Two sections had borne the brunt of the earlier battering and were particularly hard to identify, but an erudite mind like Callimpsest's was up to the task no matter what body was housing it. That image was Heracles sacking Troy, generations before the wooden horse; and that image was Heracles battling the... well it looked like the maker of the breastplate had combined several of the monsters Heracles encountered into one for reasons of space. Still, it was nice to know that some creativity was making it onto the battlefield. Callimpsest became aware of Perkin stepping closer to him.*
Perkin: ...And you can pick out whatever victims you like, but if you raise a fat hand against anyone here, you will bloody - and I mean bloody - regret it. So in case you forgot: leave or we will make you.
*Callimpsest shook his head. He held one of Grimwold's hands out flat and waved a finger over it, then looked back toward Francis' stall. The crowd realised what he was getting at, even if they couldn't quite believe it.*
Perkin: Go on, Francis, give him what he wants. He can't kill anyone with it.
*Francis passed some stationery to Perkin, who dropped it in front of Callimpsest. As he tried to decide which hand to use to pick up the crayon, he remembered a story about Grimwold killing a dungeoneer for lack of one, and felt sure that he was being taunted. But if he got his message across then it was all worth it. With the townsfolks' waning patience there was no time for a written account, if writing was even possible in his current state: but he was confident that even an ogre had an inner artist. Deciding that Grimwold was a left-hander, Callimpsest got to work. It was a struggle to get the ogre's hand to follow his wishes, but he got there, and proudly held up the parchment for the onlookers to look upon.
The reaction he got would have made Motley green with envy. Buckling knees gave way to tears. Never were so many St. Audrey's lace handkerchiefs shifted in a single trading day.
Callimpsest was distraught. He'd drawn the school, he'd drawn the explosion, he'd even drawn a line of suns and moons to show the passage of time up to the catastrophe. Alright, so it wasn't a Parthenon frieze, but surely these halfwits could see that he was trying to tell them something important? The best library in the land was going to be blasted for no blasted reason while they stood around laughing themselves silly. Bullies! He felt a fury surging within. He closed Grimwold's fingers into a fist, the easiest function he'd yet performed with them; he opened his mouth to roar - then closed it again. The fury was more than Callimpsest's alone. He had to control it. He took deep breaths and waited for the laughter to subside.*
Perkin: Very well, maybe you aren't such an animal. More of an overgrown child. But you're still not welcome here. Leave us: I won't tell you again. And if you see any furry toadstools sitting in troughs and blowing bubbles, *snort* be sure to show them your picture!
*As the laughter began again, Callimpsest stood up, still holding the crayon and parchment. As he patted Grimwold's clothing in search of pockets, there came the sickening but unsurprised awareness that the timer he needed to return to the present day had not made the journey with him. At Grimwold's belt he found a coinpurse with a few clinking inhabitants. He thought about paying towards the damage to the marketplace - but no, sod them, he'd already paid them in dignity. He needed to forget about them and think through what had happened. Trudging away from his fickle audience, Callimpsest/Grimwold - henceforth known as Callimwold - headed for
the one place in Wolfenden where an ogre would be tolerated.*