Mountains west of Northgate
37 Winter 217
It’s a possibility she’s worked on for a long time, ever since she first realized she could shape Aloysius into a variable number of forms. The question then had arisen, of course: Could it be any form? Could I do the same for myself? Or others?
Her experiments have largely yielded limited success - conducted only on Aloysius, so far, her long-suffering test rat. Her first attempt, a year ago, had turned him into a mangled abomination of rat, hairless wolf, and fleshy pustule that couldn’t breathe and immediately expired, which scared her off from attempting anything further for Turns after. On further study of the precise mechanics of what happens when she shapes his form, as well as going back to review her notes on altering other physical factors - strength, stride, weight, and others - she begins to make more cautious attempts. They rarely last for longer than a handful of breaths, and while nothing ends as catastrophically as her first attempt, there’s been nothing she could call a success, either.
It’s not until she sees the fountain of Stuff flowing and weaving around Bax-the-yeti that it clicks. Despite her exhaustion, she stays up late that night, scribbling furiously in her journal, recreating the remembered flows and working out potential alterations.
She doesn’t get a chance to make another attempt until several days later, though. On the pretext of going to set some snares, she wanders away from the night’s camp. Aloysius comes to her soft mental call, eyeing her askance when she tells him what she intends, an expression his owl shape is well-suited to.
“The last few times were nae painful, if ye recall,” she tells him. He chirrs dubiously, but fluffs up his feathers in acquiescence and flutters down to perch on a log before her.
Taking a breath and glancing at her notes for reassurance, she grasps the rough piece of aasimar-worked stone and calls out, with more confidence than she feels, “T’khaar.” With the other hand, she reaches out, sketching an invisible glyph in the air that streaks toward Aloysius and settles over him.
With an explosion of steam, the snowy owl form shoulders upward and outward. Horns branch out from his forehead, the wings move forward and down, thinning and losing the feathers, while the uncannily-long legs of the owl stretch and grow longer still. It happens with an almost eerie quiet; unlike some of her earlier attempts, there is no cracking of bone, no stretching of hide and reversing of joints, only a soft susurrus as Aloysius flows from owl to deer.
His delicate hooves then promptly scrabble on the log as he attempts to gain his footing, fails, falls, and flails, thrashing about in the snow.
Sav bursts into laughter, the unalloyed joy at the success of the transformation bubbling up her chest and spilling from her lips as she doubles over. The annoyance she can feel emanating from Aloysius only makes her laugh harder, until tears leak from her eyes and she slides to the ground, helpless in glee and losing her grip on the shape of the spell.
A soft sucking of air presages his return to his snowy owl shape. He takes a moment to regain his equilibrium, then wings over to her, landing on her knee and pecking her shoulder in annoyance. Making a noise of protest as she wipes her eyes, she bats a hand at him, shooing him off. “I cannae help it - you looked so funny -”
He hoots at her chidingly, flapping his wings at her to blow some snow in her face, then makes a softer trill, inviting. Shielding her face from the gust, she smiles. “I’d love tae.”
Grasping the stone once more, she sings the word again. The glyph settles over her skin and tightens, tightens, forcing her down and down, her hair whitening. Feathers burst from her arms, her body rounding and shortening, her mouth stretching back and nose pulling down to merge with her lips and teeth. The steam rolls out from her form again, and the part of her mind that always works and wonders starts to wonder—
And then doesn’t. The thoughts that always tumble around her mind quiet and disappear, the concepts vanishing from her grasp.
She finds herself in a clearing on the ground. The sky is dark above her, the stars shining, giving her more than enough light to see. Nearby is another owl - friendly, she knows. Not a mate. Nestkin? Her head swivels, taking in the sounds of the mountainside forest. Small skitters beneath the crust of snow reach her ears - prey, scurrying hidden.
Some part of her is aware that this is not all she is. There is more to her, complex and loud, and she can return to that when she desires.
Her friend hoots, hungry. She is, too. And she doesn’t want to return, just yet.
She spreads her wings and her legs push her away from the earth, feathers clawing against the frigid evening air. The other owl follows, and they glide silently into the trees, following the sounds of prey.
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