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I Got Better | OTA
WHO: Merrill, Wysteria, Coupe & YOU
WHAT: Let's turn into some animals.
WHEN: Don't make me look up what month this is.
WHERE: Wildervale, the Free Marches.
NOTES: Full OOC info. Please feel free to make your own top-levels.
WHAT: Let's turn into some animals.
WHEN: Don't make me look up what month this is.
WHERE: Wildervale, the Free Marches.
NOTES: Full OOC info. Please feel free to make your own top-levels.
Something strange is afoot in Wildervale.
Those who venture into the forest will sprout fur and scales, transforming into animals. The locals believe a witch to blame, but it may have something to do with the rift at the heart of the woods.
OOC NOTES:
Please feel free to make your own top-levels for whatever you, personally, want to do.
I. FURRY CONVENTION | OTA
PAW PATROL
Welcome to Search Party: Witch.
The locals will only show you so far into the woods before turning back. It's not so bad to be a beautiful butterfly — as an ex-witchfinder will tell you — but one misses wearing trousers.
So you walk. And you walk. Nothing happens, until it does. All at once: pew, or zap, or whatever noise magic doesn't make. The absence of sound, and there you are!
Or there you were, and here's another body entirely.
Turn back, and you'll find human (elven, dwarven) feet under you again. Forge ahead long enough, and you may come out the other side. The spell sweeps a perfect circle, more than five miles across. Who can say how many of the locals are still trapped within? Not all these animals are acting naturally. Maybe you should detour for a rescue.
FIGHT OR FLIGHT
You could just wall off this forest forever, if it weren't for the hole in the sky.
The rift crackles electric green, attended by demons above a pile of debris. It's rare to see the spirits so close, and so still: They won't attack an animal unless they or the rift are disturbed. The junk at the base of the rift is heaped with several similar, abstract statues. Good luck checking them out without irritating your new friends. Someone's got to close that rift.
It may take a couple of tries.
MISC
Maybe someone turned back from a chipmunk and you saw them naked and that was hot instead of super weird, somehow. Maybe you want to angst about not being able to magic. Maybe you want to tell werewolf stories. Maybe you just want to frolic.
The world is your oyster, where the world is now also your body.
yngvi ota
Thing is, right, that Yngvi should probably know better. And likely does. Run with a mercenary crew for the better part of your life thus far and listening to some of the locals when they refuse to go places turns out to be a wise choice. Sure it's maybe a detour out of your way but when you've nearly had your legs chomped off by lurkers that time we aren't talking about again Liadan thanks then it's better to go with it; what's three days if you get to keep your shins, ankles, even the toes?
At the end of the day though Yngvi doesn't tend to listen to whatever thing that sits on his shoulder to whisper in his ear (if indeed that thing has ever existed, he probably put it in the communal pot as a child) which is why the prophecies of childhood have come true.
Namely he is a raccoon. Stepped clean out of the clothes as a raccoon, patting himself down with hands that put him in mind of the nugs, honestly.
Speaking of nugs—is that a flash of pink? Did he have one in the pockets of the coat he wandered out of that is now roaming free of the strange creature that's no longer a dwarf?
He's off to the races, figuring out this whole legs business but you know he's not really too far from the ground than he'd usually be on a given day and the hands (paws?) seem about the same (even better if he were an honest dwarf and fortunately for all he's not that honest) as ever for feeling things out.
misc
There was a nug. Or a squirrel. Maybe it was a weasel.
If Yngvi had the words or voice to protest he would but for once he does not and instead has found leaves, the kind that are soft and wet, full of woodlice all rolled into little balls, fat juicy worms burrowing away at top speed (which isn't fast, they're worms even here) and a spider that he does shy away from because he doesn't know what that means for raccoons but this is smaller even if it's not the usual sort of spider but the small kind. Probably big enough in the face parts to do damage.
Anyway, a pile of leaves. A raccoon. No he hasn't left he's a raccoon, this is glorious, this is all he's ever wanted apparently, he can roll in the leaves, in the dirt, racing between them with the grace of a chunky raccoon with his pelt glistening, tail streaming behind him. Can't you hear that sweet siren song in the distance?
You can run with us. We've got everything you need…
misc.
She is somewhat slowed down by trying to get out of her own trouserleg, her clothes falling to the forest floor when she is suddenly a good deal smaller than she was a moment ago, but she is soon enough off and chasing after Yngvi with her little raccoon hands out, identifiable by the dull green glow that remains in the left. An attempt had been made to drag along one of the knives, but it had occurred to her in her determination to do so that she hadn't really considered how a raccoon would wield it when she was having such difficulty dragging it, so it remains where she left it, a foot and a half or so away from her boots.
As much as she's chasing down Yngvi, she is also sort of interested to see what happens if she blasts something with her anchor-shard out of a much smaller hand. Is it a smaller blast? Is it not? Should she definitely find out.
no subject
(Is this how it is for the nugs? For Saucisse? No wonder the kitten leaps a foot in the air then dives under the bed if he drops a trap on the floor.)
Yngvi turns and-- well that's a hand that glows because these are certainly still hands really, they're very good hands, and he's as unkempt as ever because this is Yngvi in his determination to undo any possibility of lingering Guilfoyle on his person. The leaves burst as if the blast fired but no, that's him, investigating the company; some people you'd always just know, doesn't matter what happens you'll know them even if they were aged twenty years or grew horns or turned into the same sort of forest thief as you.
Can raccoons bounce? The hand wiggles out in the direction of a dying tree that'd be of a height with a regular sized Yngvi and not this extra special fun-sized edition. Do it.
alistair ota
It's fine, he thinks, stepping forward toward the perimeter over which others have already stepped, and where others have already been transformed, and where others have already come back and found their bodies just the way they'd left them—it's fine, it's fine. He fought an Archdemon. This is nothing. Nothing except fine.
No one's complained that it hurts, but when he takes the final few steps he scrunches his face up anyway, eyes shut so he's just looking through his eyelashes with one of them, when suddenly the ground is much closer, and everything is much bigger, and he doesn't have eyelashes anymore.
Figuring out what he is takes some time and, ultimately, a hop, and then he turns and hops immediately back the way he came, warty and brown and squashed-looking all the way until he finds the invisible line that returns him to himself, crouched and staggering at the same time.
He's very naked, and that's priority number one, but once he's clutched a bit of clothing in front of the parts of himself he least wants anyone seeing, he points back toward the woods.
"It did that on purpose."
ooc | or wildcard me
no subject
Matthias looks around Very Naked so he can size up the wood. There's no perimeter line that he can see. And there ought to be, so they know where it's dangerous, where not to cross--though it becomes pretty quickly obvious, doesn't it. The line is discovered where you step and then suddenly you've got webbed feet and bulgy eyes and warts and all.
"Wonder if it's based on personality. Like, you're a toad in your heart, so you become a toad. You've got a toad spirit. Maybe a different color of toad, depending on your mood..." He scratches at his ear, with a little half-grin. "Could go back and see what happens to you. And, bonus, mate--it'd help with the whole being incredibly naked, and all."
This is a serious situation. But it's also a little funny.
matthias || ota
Pew, zap, crackle: there's a stoat eating a roll. He's down among the brush and leaves of the forest floor. Sleek, dark brown, his paws are a little overlarge, furred white, like he's wearing tiny gloves. He's eating right off the roll, his tiny jaws working quickly, furtively, his nose twitching.
All at once he stops, and goes stock-still. His round ears remain in place. He blinks his black button eyes, rapidly. Then he snatches up a big bite of roll and, holding it in his sharp rice-sized teeth, goes scampering to a nearby rock. The rustle of leaves is the only marker of his passage. He's otherwise impossible to detect, too fast and too well-concealed by the shadows--and his short legs that keep him low to the ground--and his coloration--until he pops up on top of the rock, still holding the chunk of roll in his mouth.
There's something coming along. He can hear it. A crunching of feet--boots, some sensible all-too-human part of Matthias reminds himself, boots, they're boots, there are other people here--but stoat ears hears only--
Well, it's a threat, maybe. Or prey. Either way, the stoat drops the bite of roll and goes streaking down the rock like a slip of water, liquid and boneless and fierce. The war of thoughts--his stop stop stop up against pure instinct and aggression--all of it mixes like a confused cocktail, fueling him, pushing him to attack.
Hiding would probably be the smarter choice. But this is Matthias, as a stoat. So whatever's coming, the stoat goes for it, latches on to a leg or whatever it can reach, furious and feral.
Sorry about your ankle. Or your haunch.
fight or flight.
Poised like a statue himself at the edge of the clearing, the green light of the rift is reflected in the black of the stoat's eyes. He's just watching.
Well, for now. Tension bristles along his tiny spine, which is loaded like a spring, ready to launch him forward. His haunches are bunched, his tail is very still, and his whiskers ruffle with his every breath as his little nose works at the air.
This might be his life now. A stoat, instead of a mage. And he's resigned himself to that, actually, written off the possibility of ever being what he was before. If there's no changing it, there's no changing it. He's still here to do a job.
So, then, all at once, like a very small soft arrow launched from the world's weirdest bow, he's off. Running, running, running across the forest floor, heading for one of the bizarrely immobile spirits.
The spirit doesn't see him coming, its sickly translucent face turned toward the rift, just as Matthias' face had been mere moments ago. With a snarl, the stoat dives for the spirit. His every intention is to kill, and he leaps forward.
Casually, almost lazily, the spirit backhands him out of the air, and Matthias goes flying in the other direction--hits a tree--and then falls with a quiet phud and rustle of fallen leaves, right to the forest floor again. Dazed, he stays still, as the roused spirit looks around with a horrible hiss. The others begin to look about as well, stirred from their silence.
Well, shit.
misc.
for WILDCARD options. get it, wild, because wild animals.