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Development and planning for chapter 2 (and 3, for that matter!) should be finishing up in the next few weeks, so I should have more to deliver hopefully relatively soon for those that wanted to see more ^^\n\n5,522 words\n", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Thus concludes Reapeating History chapter 1!

This is technically a repost of Trudy's initial story, "The Longest Afternoon" with edits to bring it into a position that it not only more accurately reflects the canon she's found herself part of, but also leaves a significant amount more room for me to build upon the happenings within! Development and planning for chapter 2 (and 3, for that matter!) should be finishing up in the next few weeks, so I should have more to deliver hopefully relatively soon for those that wanted to see more ^^

5,522 words
", "writing": " The rattle of a key in a lock, and small mumbles of self-exasperation broke the silence of a small cabin in the dim light of a fading sunset before the door’s handle twisted open, a relatively diminutive and rail-like woman of black hair, fair complexion, and misty eyes stumbling past it in a tizzy, a large tome clutched in her grasp. \n\n She took a moment to survey the surroundings for any signs of forced entry, noting her common space still much as it was left – mildly unkempt but cozy, her kitchen tucked behind that, a door to the right leading into her modest bathroom, in which a victorious bubble bath was thoroughly anticipated, all beneath the small loft that made up her bedroom and all that entailed. A small stairway tucked against the far left wall its’ sole means of access. \n\n Satisfied that all was as it should be, she nudged the door closed awkwardly with her ankle and the ball of her foot before knocking it into the latched position with a pointed slump of her entire body weight, a relieved sigh joining the relaxing motion. \n\n Clumsy as she may be, she’d managed to get the metal and leather bound bundle within her grasp safely home, somewhere she could spend the entire night pouring over it beneath an oil lamp and quill. The vibe was half of the fun, after all. Content with her accomplishments, she rustled through the small space, kicking her travel shoes off of her feet with a practiced dance before stepping onto the rug that covered the majority of her small common room, placing the tome gingerly onto a well-worn oaken coffee table. It was plain-legged, a basic rectangle with softened corners, ashen finish long ago polished to a satin patina by use. The leather-bound block of dull-red dominated the space, but she figured it left enough margin for her to fit her usual ritual in snugly beside. \n\n For now, however, there was something far more pressing to attend to – that ever important bath. She couldn’t quite help but giggle to herself from anticipation. She was Gertrude Auf der Maur, principle archivist, historian, and aspiring anthropologist. While she was unassuming and pale skinned, her knowledge and lust for more to collect and catalogue was her chief defining factor while she scuttled about the shelves and drawers of her ward, attired in plain black leggings, an often fluffed sweater, and her round-rimmed glasses, affixed with a beaded retaining strap to prevent loss. Farsightedness truly was a plague upon her person.\n Little time was wasted in a happy skitter to the loft, dragging herself up the stairs as though her upper body was more willing and able than the lower it found itself attached to, even if it was merely a practiced reflex to limit how often she went spiraling down the stairs in a bramble of limbs. \n\n Her clothes were shed in a flash of flesh and cloth, tossed into a wicker basket beside her bed, near-identical spares sourced from the dark dresser that flanked it on the opposite side, the primary difference being a dull black diamond hanging just below her chest on the newly sourced white sweater, sad and deflated in the relative absence of breasts it was originally intended to adorn. It was comfortable and warm, however much she may swim in it.\n\n She didn’t bother to cover before moving to the first floor once again, allowing her glasses to hook onto the back of her rouge-toned couch, careful to not allow the retainer to cross the lenses. \n\n The fluid motion carried her across the kitchen, close to dull brown cupboards and their blue-stone counter-top, before throwing open the door to the bathroom, bathed in an orange cream glow of waning day. She inhaled the dull scent of pine cone and pitch, taking in the pale cream of her footed bath, one of the chief inspirations for having procured this particular domicile, before closing the door behind her, and gathering her soap ball and allowing it to roll to the closed drain. Clothes crumpled quietly on top of the toilet with her nearly-too-fluffy pink towel, she allowed the warm water to flow from the tap, waiting patiently while the quiet tones of lavender filled the room and bubbles formed in the froth of the slowly filling tub. \n\n It was nearly five minutes later that the level had finally crossed a threshold she could drop herself into, easing with a mumbled groan of pleasure as the warm, herbal water cradled her body, easing the tension of innumerable hours spent doing her best her imitation of a hunchback, pouring over manuscripts that her mind couldn’t help but let fantasy wander, imagining the last person who had opened them, poured of their contents, what they could have been searching for. It all made her eyes lust for more and her skin tingle with the excitement of untold stories and unknowns. \n\n Maybe she was a bit of a romantic.\n It was over an hour later, long after the warmth had faded, and the bubbles had receded to a shadow of their former volume that the woman dragged herself from the clutches of the reclined slope with a contented sigh, though she couldn’t help but frown at the even more ghostly paleness and prunish appearance of her skin, she couldn’t exactly fault anything but her own unwillingness to retire from the bath for it.\n\n The warm confines and caresses of her towel more than made up for it, gliding over her skin in fleeced fingers, effortlessly wicking the droplets that cascaded dull trails across her skin away. \n\n She entered the main room once again at a far more languid pace, satiated by her self-rewarding action. Half-lidded eyes only lasted as long as her re-positioning her spectacles on her face, flicking the retaining beads to rest over her ears, and her vision trailing to her new guest. \n\n Whatever it was, it was old. She couldn’t help but hazard a guess that it was bound at least a millennia before she’d discovered its’ dull visage, calling to her upon a cobwebbed shelf she’d never had the joy of perusing before, even from this distance she could still feel the tickle of the dust it had collected against her nose. Even in the case from which it had come, it was the only text that she could find no record of – and she’d searched extensively. Paradoxically, even though it looked ready to crumble at the lightest provocation, it felt as solid as any other text she’d seen in her entire archive. In reality, the entire day had been spent trying to find the origin of the elusive treat, her excitement rising with every dead lead. She couldn’t find a mere mention of it in the archive’s most complete index, and that was a beast of a text that she could barely manage to shift as one person, with equipment to aid her! \n\n A thirsty eye drank in the darkened spine, relatively minimal malformation of which brought the tantalizing prospect that in all of its’ years of being in existence, it had scarcely been opened – and its’ place so heavily hidden from view only supported that hypothesis. It still clearly suffered the same witherings of age that all things do, the metal that reinforced the spine dulled and tarnished. The adornments of the cover were a strange collection of icons, swirls and intertwining geometries that her mind assured her must have meant something to someone, at some point in the text’s long life. However, it frustratingly didn’t impart any useful knowledge of what the text’s purpose may have been. \n\n If she hadn’t known any better, she might’ve even suggested that it was purposefully hidden, buried in the sea of knowledge in a heavily neglected, dark corner. Disposed of. She shook her head free of that nonsense before it could wander farther. This was not the place of fancy and folly! It was a mere book, there was no harm it could do, even if it were to hold ‘forbidden knowledge’. She snorted indignantly that she’d even dared to think of such a ridiculous notion. Knowledge was meant to be known, consumed, shared! \n\n And that’s precisely why she’d been a bad girl – it was a project she’d scarcely be able dedicate more time to while at work… so she’d brought it home. Thinking of the scandal made her bubble with anxiety and excitement like a schoolgirl. \n\n It wasn’t like anyone would be asking after it, after all, and she’d merely leaf through it, take some idle notes of what exactly it might be – any leads as to its’ origins she could find, and then decide how to add it to the index, along with all the others that it shared an atrium with. No harm no foul, and she couldn’t help but internally preen at her track record with books – she’d sooner damage herself than a manuscript!... She’d proven it repeatedly in the past.\n\n A steadying sigh to temper her excitement left her pursed lips before she moved to collect her treasured oil lamp from an unassuming short cabinet nestled beneath the window beside the bathroom’s partition, its’ frosted glass chimney her only modification, allowing a more diffused and gentle light to emanate from the lightly tarnished brass object and its’ consistent flame. Perfect for reading long periods by lamplight. \n\n Beside it lay a small, leather bound book, worn to a bright shine, and heavily marred by creases left behind with extensive use. It was well-loved, as was the pen that was tucked into its’ closing ties, an entirely unassuming jade-toned fountain pen, its’ golden nib gleaming even in the low light of the space.\n\n That light was soon rekindled as the dull thump of brass on wood signaled the lamp being placed in the position of honor, a neat circle worn into the finish of the wood to which it nestled perfectly. Three small, wavering clicks came with the gentle turning of a silver knob that jutted from beneath the chimney, and then a small flame breathed to life within, a cozy glow falling across the small space as Gertrude placed the journal at the far corner of the table, flipping through to a clear page, and setting the pen in the crease of the spine to stop the paper maw from closing and losing its’ place. \n\n Her nightly ritual laid out, there was but one thing left to do – open the tome. A deep breath was all she needed before her fingers wrapped around its’ cover, pulling gently while her off hand adjusted it further down the table’s accommodating length, adjusting for the swing of the large plate of leather and what must have been stiffening wood beneath it. She was greeted by a sight that made her brows crease. \n\n The title page bore distressingly few fruit, a strange and twisted collection of icons and almost decorative shorthand adorning it, hopelessly damaged and smudged away in a perplexing and concerning act long before her time. What she could only assume to be the title had clearly at one point been attacked, or an attempt made to erase it. Titles were a texts’ identity, one of few things truly sacred to them. To take it from them was an unforgivable attack, and her face faded to a disapproving grimace in reply to the signs. \n\n That thought complete, however, intoxicating fascination once again began to bud in her mind. She didn’t recognize the script, and she’d studied every single language that she could find, a necessary pursuit if you were to archive. Whatever this was, it was truly ancient.\n\n Maybe it had been intentionally hidden, to dodge the repercussions of damaging something that is so obviously irreplaceable. A rage bubbled somewhere deep within at what could have been lost, before she patted it down, allured once again by what may remain within, before flipping to the next page – greeted by what seemed to be an entirely normal bestiary. The first page being dedicated to foxes of various varieties, in unsettling and unheard of detail, their coats rendered so well she almost swore that she could touch them and feel the softness. The images were gorgeous, but the text was terribly misshapen, seeming gibberish, all painted onto textile pages by a careful, practiced hand. Though she doubted it, part of her wondered if it might have been simply a dialect she hadn’t yet seen, another language dead and lost in the tides of time.\n\n It was difficult to resist the childlike urge to brush her fingers across them, as impossibly solid as the pages seemed while being so ready to crumble away, she had no way to be sure that the illusion included the ink on the pages themselves, or when reality may finally catch up with the text. This was clearly going to be a struggling exercise in restraint. \n\n Her breathing fell to nearly imperceptible levels as she turned her attention to the next page, this one of owls, their plumage rendered in a similarly disconcerting realism that seemed almost inhuman. She’d found something extraordinary, something that she’d never seen mentions of even a similar type from. Almost seeming to snap out of a trance, she startled to alertness once again and then rushed to jot down the species she saw, canines, birds, turning pages with rising excitement each time. Wolves, mice, rats, the species nearly leapt from each new leaf, their painted visages seeming to regard her with as much intensity as she did them. \n\n Soon the species on the page turned more exotic and far-flung, jackals, crocodiles, aurochs, elephants. She supposed this scribe must have dedicated their lifetime to this endeavor, traveling to catalogue every species that they could, painstakingly rendering each. A kindred spirit, her mind volunteered, even if they had been centuries apart, and their pursuits of different varieties. The nature was the same. \n\n It was then that she came across it. A page adorned with a sprawling, towering giraffe. She was transfixed instantly. This, unlike the others, was rendered as though it had been mid-meal, a small scene of swirling grass that she swore could actively sway with breeze. She could barely make out the individual brush strokes that made it up, and couldn’t help but hover the nib of her pen over the page, a minimal breadth between, while she traced the movements. An orb of black went unseen until it was too late. Beneath it laid a strange, out of place scrawling. An image of sorts. A misshapen, seemingly decorative swirling.\n\n No forewarning was given before a small collection of droplets fell from the pen, its’ rushed filling having left it overloaded, the feed nudged imperceptibly out of place, and allowing excess flow. They fell innocently to the page, sinking into cracked, ancient paint of the character, and the crumbling yet solid textile with a greed that only dehydration allowed, seemingly becoming one with the initial image within an instant. \n\n A horrified gasp left her lips as she jolted the pen away, not even realizing as it left her grip to then go soaring across the small space, dull clicks as it impacted the wall, then floor, and rolled beneath the cabinet that it had recently lived atop. Unfortunately for her, the deed was already done as paper did not let up ink once it fell so easily. Certainly not ancient, irreplaceable paper that she dared not to abrade. The text, whatever meaning it had had, was irreparably damaged, however minor it may have been. Her blood ran cold. \n\n She’d managed to do exactly what she detested, and it was the first time that such a thing had happened in years! She didn’t know what had come over her, made her feel it was remotely safe to even hold the pen near the book, let alone over it. She usually knew better than this. \n\n The significance of her crime had barely even processed before she noticed something that seemed terribly, horribly wrong – the image of the giraffe had always seemed lifelike, sure, all of them had thus far in the bestiary – but she could have sworn it had just been eating. A green breeze seemed to shift across the page, confusingly brushing across the items in the image, swirling around it, leaping from it. \n\n She laughed to herself in disbelief, that was a totally absurd notion to even entertain, clearly she had simply been mistaken. Except the face of the giraffe was rapidly whitening in front of her eyes, draining of color as it faded to white and black, a monochrome approximation that continued to simplify by the second, before growing, approaching the page and seemingly crossing a barrier, before it began to leap from the page entirely, parting from the textile on which it had been painted. From there it raised in the air, now an ethereal mask, floating quietly in the space in front of her, a dull, inexplicable green glow swirling around and emanating from it.\n\n “W-Wha…” she mumbled in a shock-dulled stupor, confused alarm spreading across her features as she cowered from the strange phantasm, tightly balled into the soft cushions of her couch, her eyes constantly transfixed on the mask as it finished rising and growing, before turning silently in the air, rear facing her, just as blank as the front of it had been, mere shadows over the eyes and tip of the muzzle. A scream of surprise choked in her throat as it rocketed onto her face, a breeze following it.\n \n Her hands reflexively shot upwards to catch it, only to find no purchase. Her eyes opened after a moment of darkness, and it was nowhere to be seen. The mask had seemingly vanished. \n\n And so had the giraffe on the page. \n\n It was all so surreal, her stomach turned and lurched. She had to have had something wrong to eat, or maybe she’d caught something on the way home? Perhaps she’d even fallen asleep without noticing, triggering this horrific, twisted, lucid… dream? Nightmare? She wasn’t sure what she could even call it. Her stomach gurgled and cramped again, a blossom of pain and what she could’ve sworn was her guts themselves twisting somewhere deep within. \n\n Something about her body, something she couldn’t put her finger on, was terribly, horribly wrong. And the sinking feeling was only growing. She breathed through its’ revolts, small twinges and cramps spreading from her core, warming beneath the skin, pulsing through her nerves and into her lower extremities. With each heartbeat, her feet peaked out from her legging’s pant-leg a little farther, her thighs swelling within the restraints of the dull fabric. Each pulse brought more change across her body, lunging and lurching outwards in every direction, her skin crawled and her senses protested as the couch seemed to slide beneath her. \n\n Her joints throbbed with displeasure as they bulged and extended, the limbs that attached to them lengthening by leaps and bounds. Within seconds she was struggling to remain on the couch, forcing her brain to catch up to one single thing. \n\n She was getting larger. \n\n She panicked, a wide-eyed rush of adrenaline leaping from her mouth in a grunt of exertion, discomfort, and panic, too-long limbs flying about the space blindly before finding purchase. Her foot slammed into the floor painfully, unexpectedly, and she kicked in surprise, letting out an indignant squawk as the heavy piece of furniture flipped unceremoniously onto its’ back, dumping her into a tangled mess of limbs and panting breaths. Her glasses had fallen down her nose, the retaining strap and its’ beads hanging around her chin, having tumbled wildly in the jostling of her clumsiness. \n\n Her wind had been knocked out of her, a strange gasping grumble heaving from somewhere deep in her chest, eyes partially unfocused by knocking her head, tongue swelling and dully lolling around the confines of her mouth, cramping and twitching with a lifelike writhing. \n\n Even laying there, reeling, she could feel things shifting. She rolled idly in her daze, allowing her limbs to fall heavily to the wood below them with a deep thud, ears twitching, twisting to listen as the threads of her clothing began to pop, the knot in her neck worsening by the moment. Her sweater and leggings were struggling increasingly to contain her body as it pressed and bulged in every direction, spreading and stretching the fabrics as her stomach and chest bloated, something beneath her, painful and pulsing and wholly unnatural, snaked against the flooring and between her legs. But that wasn’t nearly as alarming as the thing that pressed at the hem and crotch of her pants, growing and tightening, sensitive and making itself known increasingly with each pulse of growth. Her hips, not to be left behind, ballooned outwards with every beat.\n\n Her feet twisted and blended, lengthening wildly as her toes fused, forming two massive digits adorning a foot that soon was as long as her calf had been, shifting to be more and more indistinguishable from her leg by the moment, a dull, deep grey tone overwhelming her skin, fur of a similarly dark tone blossoming from it. Her thighs ballooned, her leggings finally splitting in innumerable places, newly furred flesh bulging wildly from each new hole, tearing it wider by the moment. Soon her bottoms were merely tatters, clinging to her crotch, horribly bloated and stretched from within, before that too burst forwards, shredding much of what remained. In their place lay new, spotted, powerful legs, and a rapidly unfurling udder, four hardened teats poking proudly from it. \n\n During this process, however, she was otherwise preoccupied, her neck swelling against her neckline, stretching it wildly as her entire torso swelled and lengthened beneath it, muscle and fat alike packing onto her frame as it grew, her sweater at first clinging, then protesting, then splitting at the seems as a newfound paunch and arms that had gained massively in circumference and breadth exerted increasing pressure upon it. Her hips continuing to throb and lurch wider were the final, shattering nudge that caused the poor garment to practically disintegrate, only the neckline and tatters hanging from her shoulders. \n\n Regardless of where her focus lie, her body was not going to was time, all the while shifting, skin graying, sprouting fur in large patches, varying in color across her increasingly massive frame. Spots blossomed across much of her body. She kicked the wall with a groan as her face ached, lurching and cracking as it slid across the floor in strange throbs of painful popping, bone growing, splitting, and repairing all in one fell swoop. Her chin extended as her nose and jaw swelled, fused, and exploded forwards. Her tongue not one to be left out, lengthening, probing past her lips as it neared completion, newfound muzzle creeping into her vision, and a strange new sensation of horns bursting from the top of her head, scraping across the wood spurred her into action anew. Her eyes half focused as dark, worm-like taper snaked into her vision, jaw clenching in alarm that sent a yelp of surprise and pain leaping from her lungs. The dark form retreated southward once more, back past her lips as it throbbed, nerves chastising her for the rough handling. It had been part of her. \n\n Vertigo assaulted Gertrude as she tried to stand, her sight-line strangely off-kilter from what she’d have expected, her perspective nearing the ceiling more rapidly than she’d ever expected – even more so as her hooves found purchase, scrabbling legs sending the hardened digits digging into the wood beneath her, propelling her upwards. \n\n Something that she almost immediately regretted, when her head slammed horn-first into the beams of the loft above her, a groan lost in her too-long throat as her glasses had formed a makeshift muzzle, muting any sound that she attempted to make. Unfortunately, it only muted the sounds her lungs made. Her body made plenty of noise as her disorientation sent her crashing into her counter, back and newfound mane slamming into a wall that groaned in protest, a cacophony of splintering wood, shattering stone, and bending metal exploding across the enclosed space, and starling her wildly. Her hips occupied the width of nearly her entire counter top, body occupying the space between her fridge and cupboards with little to spare. Her arms flew outwards to catch herself, her torso shifting along with them, and crushing a curtain rod in the process, while her right arm finally found purchase, resting atop her fridge as she used the heavy appliance to stabilize herself. \n \n Barely trusting that she wouldn’t fall further, she finally took a moment to take stock of the situation, her brows furrowing as she peered down at the blurry sea of monochrome fur that extended well into the room, all of it screaming to her brain that it was part of her – a brain that could barely process any of it. An impossible, four pronged udder that shouldn’t, couldn’t have been there hanging innocently from her lower stomach as though she had been born with it, as though it was totally normal. \n\nAs though she wasn’t human.\n\n Her limbs were long, sprawling, covered in spots. Tipped with black, stiffened toes that didn’t twist as expected. Hooves. A glance that dripped with trepidation sweeping across what else she could view of her fuzzy form confirmed that it was coated in even more spots. And there was the muzzle hanging in her line of sight, refusing to be ignored. \n \n She sighed in desperation to process it all, tears stinging at her eyes. \n\n Her family held a not insignificant seat of power in the region, they had for hundreds of years, but this was something that they absolutely would not, could not aid her with. If they’d even believe that she was their daughter. Their heiress. \n\n Nature spirits were myths, not flesh and bone, they couldn’t breathe. They weren’t real. They weren’t her. And they couldn’t have been human. The entire situation was terrifyingly paradoxical in nature.\n\n She had become some form of giraffe-human hybrid, it was all that she could think of. Almost like those cryptic creatures she’d heard of blighting the nearby forest. Something unnatural. Something dangerous. The only thing that came to mind matching the description of her current countenance was what many thought to be nature spirits, preternatural combinations of beast and man that mythos speculated to have originated from some far off land, another plane of existence entirely. Another world. Little was truly known, to her knowledge, past their habits of coming and going as though they were merely ghosts. \n\n The gibberish – the script she hadn’t known. It had to have been theirs. This book must have been bound somewhere else entirely. By hands that were not hands.\n\n Panic licked at her mind, the room shifting and closing in as she found herself suddenly claustrophobic. She needed space, space to think, space to… exist and process all of what had just happened to her. To think of something to fix it. If it could even be fixed. \n\n Her memory helpfully reminded of a regional research project. A strange ruin had been discovered in the forests surrounding the city-state, something with a strange, seemingly pointless gateway. A gateway that her correspondence with researchers at hand had enlightened her could be opened. It was a wild card, a shot in the dark. But it was her only option. The only lead she had towards someone that might be… like she now was.\n\n Someone or something that could help.\n\n With a hiss of confused exertion she managed to crawl out from her nest of destruction, wincing as the remnants creaked, splintered, and fell away from her unharmed hide. Even more so as her shifting weight caused the flooring beneath her to dip and creak, every board stretching and bending to its’ furthest extent just to support her newfound bulk. Even with her body kept relatively low, she nearly saw stars as her head found another supporting beam, the jostle furthered by the fact it came in two shocks, once to her forehead, and once to her horns when she tried to dip out of the way. \n\n It only served to further her resolve to leave, crawling awkwardly with limbs that her brain hadn’t had the time to learn to utilize. It all combined into an awkward, clumsy shamble, her cloven hand reaching for the door knob, only to slam into it and knock the door so heavily it rattled out of the latched position. She shrunk slightly at the excessive damage. This was going to be so hard to explain, and even more expensive to repair. \n\n Nonetheless, the door was open, and she squirmed, twisted, and pushed her upper body painfully through, wincing and gasping quietly with every jostle and knock to get through the door, her head, her neck, a shoulder, an elbow. None of it terribly damaging to her or the door, but all of it embarrassing. \n Not nearly as embarrassing as when she shifted to continue crawling, her body half out of the small cabin and her hands digging into the pea stone below, and her thigh and hips both brought her to a harsh halt. Her hips dug into the wooden door frame heavily, laughably far from fitting as she found herself stuck fast – a notion that only made itself more clear with the fact that her thighs had no more room to move forwards, they merely slammed into the door frame themselves.\n\n In a last act of desperation, frustration causing her to groan so forcefully she split her glasses away, beads flying to and fro while freeing her muzzle, she pressed at the wall. Nothing even shifted. She was, well and truly, stuck.\n\n Frustration bubbled into anger, and desperation melded with it to create a whole other kind of irrational panic, shame and alarm leading her brain to wonder what would happen if she were to be stuck like this and nobody find her – or what would happen if she were to be found regardless. Her knowledge, however relatively limited on the subject it may have been, poorly documented as it was, at least spread far enough to know that the nature spirits were not welcome. Indignant and prone to skirmish where they occurred, many were of the opinion that were to be destroyed, then their intent unfurled, not the other way around.\n\n Emotions boiled behind her skin and in her throat, her eyes darting as she struggled increasingly against her newfound bindings, the stubborn door frame creaking as she struggled, her thighs thudding against the walls as she struggled to find purchase with her hooves, shredding the flooring beneath them. Even so, her efforts bore few fruits, past the wall beginning to bulge. “Just let me…” she groaned, finally finding grip as she ripped into the boards beneath her feet, her arms pressing and pulling with everything that she could muster. \n\n “Owt!” she yelped soon afterwards, the wood that had been protesting so audibly against her form and strength giving way explosively, splinters and shattered boards flying forwards as her body went tumbling face-first into the dirt and stone in front of her, tumbling over-end before finally coming to rest. \n\n She panted heavily, allowing her aching body to rest for a few moments, the grass refreshing against her… fur. She’d need some time to figure out what to do. She could barely see, so that was a poor start. Of course of all things she had to be cursed to become a giraffe. As a farsighted person. She cursed her fortune, in turn. At least then things might be fair. \n\n After a few minutes to grasp the situation, battling down panic and anxiety, she decided the next best course of action was to at least figure out how to stand, using her cabin as a makeshift crutch as she lifted her sore form from the ground on shaking limbs, unsteady and stumbling even with its’ support. Her limbs were simply too long for her to wrap her head around, moving in strange ways that were entirely alien and out of order to her brain, her head distressingly near to in-line with the peak of her cabin’s roof.\n\n She could practice walking later. For now she needed to rest her head and think. Standing was enough. Her head fell against tiles with a grumble, a cry stinging at her eyes and nose once again. She’d figure something out, someone could help, had to help her, she told herself. She had to.\n\n She’d have to find the impossible, find what she didn’t believe existed until just a few minutes. Find more of what she had become. Maybe then she’d find answers. If anything else, she found the prospect of meeting these supposed savages far more enticing and likely of success than convincing someone of who she was, or had been, and that she was of no threat. Too many stories of conflict and fearful attacks lingering in her mind. \n\nTo be continued…", "writing_bbcode_parsed": " The rattle of a key in a lock, and small mumbles of self-exasperation broke the silence of a small cabin in the dim light of a fading sunset before the door’s handle twisted open, a relatively diminutive and rail-like woman of black hair, fair complexion, and misty eyes stumbling past it in a tizzy, a large tome clutched in her grasp.

 She took a moment to survey the surroundings for any signs of forced entry, noting her common space still much as it was left – mildly unkempt but cozy, her kitchen tucked behind that, a door to the right leading into her modest bathroom, in which a victorious bubble bath was thoroughly anticipated, all beneath the small loft that made up her bedroom and all that entailed. A small stairway tucked against the far left wall its’ sole means of access.

 Satisfied that all was as it should be, she nudged the door closed awkwardly with her ankle and the ball of her foot before knocking it into the latched position with a pointed slump of her entire body weight, a relieved sigh joining the relaxing motion.

 Clumsy as she may be, she’d managed to get the metal and leather bound bundle within her grasp safely home, somewhere she could spend the entire night pouring over it beneath an oil lamp and quill. The vibe was half of the fun, after all. Content with her accomplishments, she rustled through the small space, kicking her travel shoes off of her feet with a practiced dance before stepping onto the rug that covered the majority of her small common room, placing the tome gingerly onto a well-worn oaken coffee table. It was plain-legged, a basic rectangle with softened corners, ashen finish long ago polished to a satin patina by use. The leather-bound block of dull-red dominated the space, but she figured it left enough margin for her to fit her usual ritual in snugly beside.

 For now, however, there was something far more pressing to attend to – that ever important bath. She couldn’t quite help but giggle to herself from anticipation. She was Gertrude Auf der Maur, principle archivist, historian, and aspiring anthropologist. While she was unassuming and pale skinned, her knowledge and lust for more to collect and catalogue was her chief defining factor while she scuttled about the shelves and drawers of her ward, attired in plain black leggings, an often fluffed sweater, and her round-rimmed glasses, affixed with a beaded retaining strap to prevent loss. Farsightedness truly was a plague upon her person.
 Little time was wasted in a happy skitter to the loft, dragging herself up the stairs as though her upper body was more willing and able than the lower it found itself attached to, even if it was merely a practiced reflex to limit how often she went spiraling down the stairs in a bramble of limbs.

 Her clothes were shed in a flash of flesh and cloth, tossed into a wicker basket beside her bed, near-identical spares sourced from the dark dresser that flanked it on the opposite side, the primary difference being a dull black diamond hanging just below her chest on the newly sourced white sweater, sad and deflated in the relative absence of breasts it was originally intended to adorn. It was comfortable and warm, however much she may swim in it.

 She didn’t bother to cover before moving to the first floor once again, allowing her glasses to hook onto the back of her rouge-toned couch, careful to not allow the retainer to cross the lenses.

 The fluid motion carried her across the kitchen, close to dull brown cupboards and their blue-stone counter-top, before throwing open the door to the bathroom, bathed in an orange cream glow of waning day. She inhaled the dull scent of pine cone and pitch, taking in the pale cream of her footed bath, one of the chief inspirations for having procured this particular domicile, before closing the door behind her, and gathering her soap ball and allowing it to roll to the closed drain. Clothes crumpled quietly on top of the toilet with her nearly-too-fluffy pink towel, she allowed the warm water to flow from the tap, waiting patiently while the quiet tones of lavender filled the room and bubbles formed in the froth of the slowly filling tub.  

 It was nearly five minutes later that the level had finally crossed a threshold she could drop herself into, easing with a mumbled groan of pleasure as the warm, herbal water cradled her body, easing the tension of innumerable hours spent doing her best her imitation of a hunchback, pouring over manuscripts that her mind couldn’t help but let fantasy wander, imagining the last person who had opened them, poured of their contents, what they could have been searching for. It all made her eyes lust for more and her skin tingle with the excitement of untold stories and unknowns.

 Maybe she was a bit of a romantic.
 It was over an hour later, long after the warmth had faded, and the bubbles had receded to a shadow of their former volume that the woman dragged herself from the clutches of the reclined slope with a contented sigh, though she couldn’t help but frown at the even more ghostly paleness and prunish appearance of her skin, she couldn’t exactly fault anything but her own unwillingness to retire from the bath for it.

 The warm confines and caresses of her towel more than made up for it, gliding over her skin in fleeced fingers, effortlessly wicking the droplets that cascaded dull trails across her skin away.

 She entered the main room once again at a far more languid pace, satiated by her self-rewarding action. Half-lidded eyes only lasted as long as her re-positioning her spectacles on her face, flicking the retaining beads to rest over her ears, and her vision trailing to her new guest.

 Whatever it was, it was old. She couldn’t help but hazard a guess that it was bound at least a millennia before she’d discovered its’ dull visage, calling to her upon a cobwebbed shelf she’d never had the joy of perusing before, even from this distance she could still feel the tickle of the dust it had collected against her nose. Even in the case from which it had come, it was the only text that she could find no record of – and she’d searched extensively. Paradoxically, even though it looked ready to crumble at the lightest provocation, it felt as solid as any other text she’d seen in her entire archive. In reality, the entire day had been spent trying to find the origin of the elusive treat, her excitement rising with every dead lead. She couldn’t find a mere mention of it in the archive’s most complete index, and that was a beast of a text that she could barely manage to shift as one person, with equipment to aid her!

 A thirsty eye drank in the darkened spine, relatively minimal malformation of which brought the tantalizing prospect that in all of its’ years of being in existence, it had scarcely been opened – and its’ place so heavily hidden from view only supported that hypothesis. It still clearly suffered the same witherings of age that all things do, the metal that reinforced the spine dulled and tarnished. The adornments of the cover were a strange collection of icons, swirls and intertwining geometries that her mind assured her must have meant something to someone, at some point in the text’s long life. However, it frustratingly didn’t impart any useful knowledge of what the text’s purpose may have been.  

 If she hadn’t known any better, she might’ve even suggested that it was purposefully hidden, buried in the sea of knowledge in a heavily neglected, dark corner. Disposed of. She shook her head free of that nonsense before it could wander farther. This was not the place of fancy and folly! It was a mere book, there was no harm it could do, even if it were to hold ‘forbidden knowledge’. She snorted indignantly that she’d even dared to think of such a ridiculous notion. Knowledge was meant to be known, consumed, shared!

 And that’s precisely why she’d been a bad girl – it was a project she’d scarcely be able dedicate more time to while at work… so she’d brought it home. Thinking of the scandal made her bubble with anxiety and excitement like a schoolgirl.

 It wasn’t like anyone would be asking after it, after all, and she’d merely leaf through it, take some idle notes of what exactly it might be – any leads as to its’ origins she could find, and then decide how to add it to the index, along with all the others that it shared an atrium with. No harm no foul, and she couldn’t help but internally preen at her track record with books – she’d sooner damage herself than a manuscript!... She’d proven it repeatedly in the past.

 A steadying sigh to temper her excitement left her pursed lips before she moved to collect her treasured oil lamp from an unassuming short cabinet nestled beneath the window beside the bathroom’s partition, its’ frosted glass chimney her only modification, allowing a more diffused and gentle light to emanate from the lightly tarnished brass object and its’ consistent flame. Perfect for reading long periods by lamplight.

 Beside it lay a small, leather bound book, worn to a bright shine, and heavily marred by creases left behind with extensive use. It was well-loved, as was the pen that was tucked into its’ closing ties, an entirely unassuming jade-toned fountain pen, its’ golden nib gleaming even in the low light of the space.

 That light was soon rekindled as the dull thump of brass on wood signaled the lamp being placed in the position of honor, a neat circle worn into the finish of the wood to which it nestled perfectly. Three small, wavering clicks came with the gentle turning of a silver knob that jutted from beneath the chimney, and then a small flame breathed to life within, a cozy glow falling across the small space as Gertrude placed the journal at the far corner of the table, flipping through to a clear page, and setting the pen in the crease of the spine to stop the paper maw from closing and losing its’ place.

 Her nightly ritual laid out, there was but one thing left to do – open the tome. A deep breath was all she needed before her fingers wrapped around its’ cover, pulling gently while her off hand adjusted it further down the table’s accommodating length, adjusting for the swing of the large plate of leather and what must have been stiffening wood beneath it. She was greeted by a sight that made her brows crease.

 The title page bore distressingly few fruit, a strange and twisted collection of icons and almost decorative shorthand adorning it, hopelessly damaged and smudged away in a perplexing and concerning act long before her time.  What she could only assume to be the title had clearly at one point been attacked, or an attempt made to erase it. Titles were a texts’ identity, one of few things truly sacred to them. To take it from them was an unforgivable attack, and her face faded to a disapproving grimace in reply to the signs.

 That thought complete, however, intoxicating fascination once again began to bud in her mind. She didn’t recognize the script, and she’d studied every single language that she could find, a necessary pursuit if you were to archive. Whatever this was, it was truly ancient.

 Maybe it had been intentionally hidden, to dodge the repercussions of damaging something that is so obviously irreplaceable. A rage bubbled somewhere deep within at what could have been lost, before she patted it down, allured once again by what may remain within, before flipping to the next page – greeted by what seemed to be an entirely normal bestiary. The first page being dedicated to foxes of various varieties, in unsettling and unheard of detail, their coats rendered so well she almost swore that she could touch them and feel the softness. The images were gorgeous, but the text was terribly misshapen, seeming gibberish, all painted onto textile pages by a careful, practiced hand. Though she doubted it, part of her wondered if it might have been simply a dialect she hadn’t yet seen, another language dead and lost in the tides of time.

 It was difficult to resist the childlike urge to brush her fingers across them, as impossibly solid as the pages seemed while being so ready to crumble away, she had no way to be sure that the illusion included the ink on the pages themselves, or when reality may finally catch up with the text. This was clearly going to be a struggling exercise in restraint.  

 Her breathing fell to nearly imperceptible levels as she turned her attention to the next page, this one of owls, their plumage rendered in a similarly disconcerting realism that seemed almost inhuman. She’d found something extraordinary, something that she’d never seen mentions of even a similar type from. Almost seeming to snap out of a trance, she startled to alertness once again and then rushed to jot down the species she saw, canines, birds, turning pages with rising excitement each time. Wolves, mice, rats, the species nearly leapt from each new leaf, their painted visages seeming to regard her with as much intensity as she did them.

 Soon the species on the page turned more exotic and far-flung, jackals, crocodiles, aurochs, elephants. She supposed this scribe must have dedicated their lifetime to this endeavor, traveling to catalogue every species that they could, painstakingly rendering each. A kindred spirit, her mind volunteered, even if they had been centuries apart, and their pursuits of different varieties. The nature was the same.

 It was then that she came across it. A page adorned with a sprawling, towering giraffe. She was transfixed instantly. This, unlike the others, was rendered as though it had been mid-meal, a small scene of swirling grass that she swore could actively sway with breeze. She could barely make out the individual brush strokes that made it up, and couldn’t help but hover the nib of her pen over the page, a minimal breadth between, while she traced the movements. An orb of black went unseen until it was too late. Beneath it laid a strange, out of place scrawling. An image of sorts. A misshapen, seemingly decorative swirling.

 No forewarning was given before a small collection of droplets fell from the pen, its’ rushed filling having left it overloaded, the feed nudged imperceptibly out of place, and allowing excess flow. They fell innocently to the page, sinking into cracked, ancient paint of the character, and the crumbling yet solid textile with a greed that only dehydration allowed, seemingly becoming one with the initial image within an instant.

 A horrified gasp left her lips as she jolted the pen away, not even realizing as it left her grip to then go soaring across the small space, dull clicks as it impacted the wall, then floor, and rolled beneath the cabinet that it had recently lived atop. Unfortunately for her, the deed was already done as paper did not let up ink once it fell so easily. Certainly not ancient, irreplaceable paper that she dared not to abrade. The text, whatever meaning it had had, was irreparably damaged, however minor it may have been.  Her blood ran cold.

 She’d managed to do exactly what she detested, and it was the first time that such a thing had happened in years! She didn’t know what had come over her, made her feel it was remotely safe to even hold the pen near the book, let alone over it. She usually knew better than this.

 The significance of her crime had barely even processed before she noticed something that seemed terribly, horribly wrong – the image of the giraffe had always seemed lifelike, sure, all of them had thus far in the bestiary – but she could have sworn it had just been eating. A green breeze seemed to shift across the page, confusingly brushing across the items in the image, swirling around it, leaping from it.

 She laughed to herself in disbelief, that was a totally absurd notion to even entertain, clearly she had simply been mistaken. Except the face of the giraffe was rapidly whitening in front of her eyes, draining of color as it faded to white and black, a monochrome approximation that continued to simplify by the second, before growing, approaching the page and seemingly crossing a barrier, before it began to leap from the page entirely, parting from the textile on which it had been painted. From there it raised in the air, now an ethereal mask, floating quietly in the space in front of her, a dull, inexplicable green glow swirling around and emanating from it.

 “W-Wha…” she mumbled in a shock-dulled stupor, confused alarm spreading across her features as she cowered from the strange phantasm, tightly balled into the soft cushions of her couch, her eyes constantly transfixed on the mask as it finished rising and growing, before turning silently in the air, rear facing her, just as blank as the front of it had been, mere shadows over the eyes and tip of the muzzle. A scream of surprise choked in her throat as it rocketed onto her face, a breeze following it.
      
 Her hands reflexively shot upwards to catch it, only to find no purchase. Her eyes opened after a moment of darkness, and it was nowhere to be seen. The mask had seemingly vanished.

 And so had the giraffe on the page.

 It was all so surreal, her stomach turned and lurched. She had to have had something wrong to eat, or maybe she’d caught something on the way home? Perhaps she’d even fallen asleep without noticing, triggering this horrific, twisted, lucid… dream? Nightmare? She wasn’t sure what she could even call it. Her stomach gurgled and cramped again, a blossom of pain and what she could’ve sworn was her guts themselves twisting somewhere deep within.

 Something about her body, something she couldn’t put her finger on, was terribly, horribly wrong. And the sinking feeling was only growing. She breathed through its’ revolts, small twinges and cramps spreading from her core, warming beneath the skin, pulsing through her nerves and into her lower extremities. With each heartbeat, her feet peaked out from her legging’s pant-leg a little farther, her thighs swelling within the restraints of the dull fabric. Each pulse brought more change across her body, lunging and lurching outwards in every direction, her skin crawled and her senses protested as the couch seemed to slide beneath her.

 Her joints throbbed with displeasure as they bulged and extended, the limbs that attached to them lengthening by leaps and bounds. Within seconds she was struggling to remain on the couch, forcing her brain to catch up to one single thing.

 She was getting larger.

 She panicked, a wide-eyed rush of adrenaline leaping from her mouth in a grunt of exertion, discomfort, and panic, too-long limbs flying about the space blindly before finding purchase. Her foot slammed into the floor painfully, unexpectedly, and she kicked in surprise, letting out an indignant squawk as the heavy piece of furniture flipped unceremoniously onto its’ back, dumping her into a tangled mess of limbs and panting breaths. Her glasses had fallen down her nose, the retaining strap and its’ beads hanging around her chin, having tumbled wildly in the jostling of her clumsiness.

 Her wind had been knocked out of her, a strange gasping grumble heaving from somewhere deep in her chest, eyes partially unfocused by knocking her head, tongue swelling and dully lolling around the confines of her mouth, cramping and twitching with a lifelike writhing.

 Even laying there, reeling, she could feel things shifting. She rolled idly in her daze, allowing her limbs to fall heavily to the wood below them with a deep thud, ears twitching, twisting to listen as the threads of her clothing began to pop, the knot in her neck worsening by the moment. Her sweater and leggings were struggling increasingly to contain her body as it pressed and bulged in every direction, spreading and stretching the fabrics as her stomach and chest bloated, something beneath her, painful and pulsing and wholly unnatural, snaked against the flooring and between her legs. But that wasn’t nearly as alarming as the thing that pressed at the hem and crotch of her pants, growing and tightening, sensitive and making itself known increasingly with each pulse of growth. Her hips, not to be left behind, ballooned outwards with every beat.

 Her feet twisted and blended, lengthening wildly as her toes fused, forming two massive digits adorning a foot that soon was as long as her calf had been, shifting to be more and more indistinguishable from her leg by the moment, a dull, deep grey tone overwhelming her skin, fur of a similarly dark tone blossoming from it. Her thighs ballooned, her leggings finally splitting in innumerable places, newly furred flesh bulging wildly from each new hole, tearing it wider by the moment. Soon her bottoms were merely tatters, clinging to her crotch, horribly bloated and stretched from within, before that too burst forwards, shredding much of what remained. In their place lay new, spotted, powerful legs, and a rapidly unfurling udder, four hardened teats poking proudly from it.

 During this process, however, she was otherwise preoccupied, her neck swelling against her neckline, stretching it wildly as her entire torso swelled and lengthened beneath it, muscle and fat alike packing onto her frame as it grew, her sweater at first clinging, then protesting, then splitting at the seems as a newfound paunch and arms that had gained massively in circumference and breadth exerted increasing pressure upon it. Her hips continuing to throb and lurch wider were the final, shattering nudge that caused the poor garment to practically disintegrate, only the neckline and tatters hanging from her shoulders.

 Regardless of where her focus lie, her body was not going to was time, all the while shifting, skin graying, sprouting fur in large patches, varying in color across her increasingly massive frame. Spots blossomed across much of her body. She kicked the wall with a groan as her face ached, lurching and cracking as it slid across the floor in strange throbs of painful popping, bone growing, splitting, and repairing all in one fell swoop. Her chin extended as her nose and jaw swelled, fused, and exploded forwards. Her tongue not one to be left out, lengthening, probing past her lips as it neared completion, newfound muzzle creeping into her vision, and a strange new sensation of horns bursting from the top of her head, scraping across the wood spurred her into action anew. Her eyes half focused as dark, worm-like taper snaked into her vision, jaw clenching in alarm that sent a yelp of surprise and pain leaping from her lungs. The dark form retreated southward once more, back past her lips as it throbbed, nerves chastising her for the rough handling. It had been part of her.

 Vertigo assaulted Gertrude as she tried to stand, her sight-line strangely off-kilter from what she’d have expected, her perspective nearing the ceiling more rapidly than she’d ever expected – even more so as her hooves found purchase, scrabbling legs sending the hardened digits digging into the wood beneath her, propelling her upwards.

 Something that she almost immediately regretted, when her head slammed horn-first into the beams of the loft above her, a groan lost in her too-long throat as her glasses had formed a makeshift muzzle, muting any sound that she attempted to make. Unfortunately, it only muted the sounds her lungs made. Her body made plenty of noise as her disorientation sent her crashing into her counter, back and newfound mane slamming into a wall that groaned in protest, a cacophony of splintering wood, shattering stone, and bending metal exploding across the enclosed space, and starling her wildly. Her hips occupied the width of nearly her entire counter top, body occupying the space between her fridge and cupboards with little to spare. Her arms flew outwards to catch herself, her torso shifting along with them, and crushing a curtain rod in the process, while her right arm finally found purchase, resting atop her fridge as she used the heavy appliance to stabilize herself.  
 
 Barely trusting that she wouldn’t fall further, she finally took a moment to take stock of the situation, her brows furrowing as she peered down at the blurry sea of monochrome fur that extended well into the room, all of it screaming to her brain that it was part of her – a brain that could barely process any of it. An impossible, four pronged udder that shouldn’t, couldn’t have been there hanging innocently from her lower stomach as though she had been born with it, as though it was totally normal.

As though she wasn’t human.

 Her limbs were long, sprawling, covered in spots. Tipped with black, stiffened toes that didn’t twist as expected. Hooves. A glance that dripped with trepidation sweeping across what else she could view of her fuzzy form confirmed that it was coated in even more spots. And there was the muzzle hanging in her line of sight, refusing to be ignored.
 
 She sighed in desperation to process it all, tears stinging at her eyes.

 Her family held a not insignificant seat of power in the region, they had for hundreds of years, but this was something that they absolutely would not, could not aid her with. If they’d even believe that she was their daughter. Their heiress.

 Nature spirits were myths, not flesh and bone, they couldn’t breathe. They weren’t real. They weren’t her. And they couldn’t have been human. The entire situation was terrifyingly paradoxical in nature.

 She had become some form of giraffe-human hybrid, it was all that she could think of. Almost like those cryptic creatures she’d heard of blighting the nearby forest. Something unnatural. Something dangerous. The only thing that came to mind matching the description of her current countenance was what many thought to be nature spirits, preternatural combinations of beast and man that mythos speculated to have originated from some far off land, another plane of existence entirely. Another world. Little was truly known, to her knowledge, past their habits of coming and going as though they were merely ghosts.

 The gibberish – the script she hadn’t known. It had to have been theirs. This book must have been bound somewhere else entirely. By hands that were not hands.

 Panic licked at her mind, the room shifting and closing in as she found herself suddenly claustrophobic. She needed space, space to think, space to… exist and process all of what had just happened to her. To think of something to fix it. If it could even be fixed.

 Her memory helpfully reminded of a regional research project. A strange ruin had been discovered in the forests surrounding the city-state, something with a strange, seemingly pointless gateway. A gateway that her correspondence with researchers at hand had enlightened her could be opened. It was a wild card, a shot in the dark. But it was her only option. The only lead she had towards someone that might be… like she now was.

 Someone or something that could help.

 With a hiss of confused exertion she managed to crawl out from her nest of destruction, wincing as the remnants creaked, splintered, and fell away from her unharmed hide. Even more so as her shifting weight caused the flooring beneath her to dip and creak, every board stretching and bending to its’ furthest extent just to support her newfound bulk. Even with her body kept relatively low, she nearly saw stars as her head found another supporting beam, the jostle furthered by the fact it came in two shocks, once to her forehead, and once to her horns when she tried to dip out of the way.

  It only served to further her resolve to leave, crawling awkwardly with limbs that her brain hadn’t had the time to learn to utilize. It all combined into an awkward, clumsy shamble, her cloven hand reaching for the door knob, only to slam into it and knock the door so heavily it rattled out of the latched position. She shrunk slightly at the excessive damage. This was going to be so hard to explain, and even more expensive to repair.

 Nonetheless, the door was open, and she squirmed, twisted, and pushed her upper body painfully through, wincing and gasping quietly with every jostle and knock to get through the door, her head, her neck, a shoulder, an elbow. None of it terribly damaging to her or the door, but all of it embarrassing.
 Not nearly as embarrassing as when she shifted to continue crawling, her body half out of the small cabin and her hands digging into the pea stone below, and her thigh and hips both brought her to a harsh halt. Her hips dug into the wooden door frame heavily, laughably far from fitting as she found herself stuck fast – a notion that only made itself more clear with the fact that her thighs had no more room to move forwards, they merely slammed into the door frame themselves.

 In a last act of desperation, frustration causing her to groan so forcefully she split her glasses away, beads flying to and fro while freeing her muzzle, she pressed at the wall. Nothing even shifted. She was, well and truly, stuck.

 Frustration bubbled into anger, and desperation melded with it to create a whole other kind of irrational panic, shame and alarm leading her brain to wonder what would happen if she were to be stuck like this and nobody find her – or what would happen if she were to be found regardless. Her knowledge, however relatively limited on the subject it may have been, poorly documented as it was, at least spread far enough to know that the nature spirits were not welcome. Indignant and prone to skirmish where they occurred, many were of the opinion that were to be destroyed, then their intent unfurled, not the other way around.

 Emotions boiled behind her skin and in her throat, her eyes darting as she struggled increasingly against her newfound bindings, the stubborn door frame creaking as she struggled, her thighs thudding against the walls as she struggled to find purchase with her hooves, shredding the flooring beneath them. Even so, her efforts bore few fruits, past the wall beginning to bulge. “Just let me…” she groaned, finally finding grip as she ripped into the boards beneath her feet, her arms pressing and pulling with everything that she could muster.

 “Owt!” she yelped soon afterwards, the wood that had been protesting so audibly against her form and strength giving way explosively, splinters and shattered boards flying forwards as her body went tumbling face-first into the dirt and stone in front of her, tumbling over-end before finally coming to rest.

 She panted heavily, allowing her aching body to rest for a few moments, the grass refreshing against her… fur. She’d need some time to figure out what to do. She could barely see, so that was a poor start. Of course of all things she had to be cursed to become a giraffe. As a farsighted person. She cursed her fortune, in turn. At least then things might be fair.

 After a few minutes to grasp the situation, battling down panic and anxiety, she decided the next best course of action was to at least figure out how to stand, using her cabin as a makeshift crutch as she lifted her sore form from the ground on shaking limbs, unsteady and stumbling even with its’ support. Her limbs were simply too long for her to wrap her head around, moving in strange ways that were entirely alien and out of order to her brain, her head distressingly near to in-line with the peak of her cabin’s roof.

 She could practice walking later. For now she needed to rest her head and think. Standing was enough. Her head fell against tiles with a grumble, a cry stinging at her eyes and nose once again. She’d figure something out, someone could help, had to help her, she told herself. She had to.

 She’d have to find the impossible, find what she didn’t believe existed until just a few minutes. Find more of what she had become. Maybe then she’d find answers. If anything else, she found the prospect of meeting these supposed savages far more enticing and likely of success than convincing someone of who she was, or had been, and that she was of no threat. Too many stories of conflict and fearful attacks lingering in her mind.

To be continued…", "pools_count": 2, "title": "A Scholar's Regret", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "text/plain", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "1", "rating_name": "Mature", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "2", "name": "Nudity", "description": "Nonsexual nudity exposing breasts or genitals (must not show arousal)", "rating_id": "1" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "0", "views": "47" }