ORIGIN

Much to his own confusion and later embarrassment, the first thing he did after having the gist of ordinarily meaningless scribbles beamed directly into his brain was topple into the mirror before him, legs struck by a sudden unsteadiness as the fog began to clear. It shouldn't have happened, of course, his four feet firmly planted on the floor. And yet, just as inexplicably, he possessed the necessary instinct to catch himself and prevent his face from colliding against the polished surface. Snout a mere millimeter from being bashed in, Fahl did not see the whole picture to begin with; familiar brown eyes engulfed his vision for the moment, closer together than he'd ever recalled them to be.

Then he noticed the lack of scales surrounding them, their texture replaced by soft skin.

"What the..."

Elbows snapped rigid as Fahl shoved against the mirror, drawing back to stare at the strange creature standing in his place. They squinted at him, the incredulity presented in perfect sync with his own.

"Fuck?" So too did they mimic speech. To the iguana's increasing distress, lips opened and pressed shut at the exact same time.

If not for the message prior to the whole transformation, he would've spent far more time puzzling over the sight. Thanks to it, the conclusion was reached after finding, to deep consternation, an identifying mark to recognize himself by: while no unwieldy gemstone resided in his mouth, a large white bead pierced the being's tongue. He touched it with a clawless finger and sagged in place upon making the connection. Apparently not even magical influence could prevent the thing responsible for his less than perfect speaking ability from appearing in some form. Aggravating, but little could be done about it.

Then a thought occurred to him, easily voiced without anyone apparent to overhear it in the room. "How am I going to find Imp like this?"

Maybe there would be something to give his friend away. After all, if it was the case for him, perhaps it would be for the batgator too.

"Shit," he hissed.

But what if there wasn't? What if he approached the wrong Gembound and made a complete idiot of himself by acting far too acquainted with them? Furthermore, what if the palace artist wasn't here at all? He hadn't checked to see if both of them had received an invitation carried by squeaking little mice.

With no other door to go through, backing out had been removed as an option. He had no other choice but to take a calming inhale through his new nose, turn the knob, and enter whatever lay beyond.

Imp--living, as he did, in the palace--found it easy enough to get there on time. His transformation--a stumble and a peer into the fogged mirror--left him squinting.

"This shit for real..?" he asked the mirror, then spent a few moments patting himself down. He came to a few conclusions, most of which were not safe to voice in an environment that might potentially contain children but which had to do with genitals, Valkhands and humanoids in general. "Huh. Fuck," he said to the mirror.

He took a few moments to adjust to movement, all the while asking the mirror (which did not answer) "So... this shit permanent?" He hoped not, but the hands would admittedly have come in handy for his painting. (Ha. Handy.) Still, the sensation of being soft was a weird one--gone was all semblance of strong jaws or alligator armor, and his hearing, without his bat's ears, was incredibly, strangely dampened. He tipped his beret to one side, adjusted the new scarf (I'm keeping that shit) and headed out.

He paused once on the mostly empty ballroom floor. A glance was offered the live band, another the ball pit but in the end he arrowed to the food. There he started scarfing hors d'oeuvres, grinning as he wandered from one spot to the next. "Fuck, this is cool," he muttered.

Vargas felt himself shrink--felt his hulking, spined form give way to something small, and soft, and weak. He'd attended--send in that stupid little card--after careful observation of the familiar colors stitched across it. A suspicion had risen in him, and so here he was, eyes narrowed as he adjusted the slick suit and stepped out into the ball.

He was not too concerned with this form--his power still lay latent beneath soft skin and strange cloth. But it still rendered him somewhat vulnerable; regardless, his demeanor as he paused to look around was one of silent confidence.

This is hers? -It must be.

Yet he saw no signs of it--only delicate decor, for the most part, and tasteful amenities. And the fact that he was human-... He knew humans well; too well, perhaps. He'd seen them, inside and out. Studied them at length. He knew almost precisely the limitations of this body, and its capabilities--but did she? Pondering this, he lifted a glass of white wine, sniffing it. A sip, a faint wince, and he headed out across the dance floor (oblivious to the fact that it was, in fact, intended for dancing) and made his way to the ball pit. He did not notice Imp or Fahl, at first--he was too busy standing at the ball pit's edge, frowning studiously into it and wondering what this was for.

Celandine honestly hadn't known what to make of the invite, she had told samael she'd be going somewhere, but she didn't know what a ball was. she could barely even read, to be fair.


however! she still found herself incredibly happy to be led back through the palace halls and ushered into a dressing room, she had come to love the palace and it's little helpers. she whistled a thanks as they left and only briefly stared as the old door disappeared, and a new one appeared.

she walked inside, and her eyes flicked to the mirror,

The words rung clear in her head, startling her slightly how fast she understood the symbols on the mirror, and failed to process them fast enough to fully notice how different she looked in the mirror as it unfogged. when she did though...

oh man. for the second time in recent weeks, she gives herself a delighted little twirl, she looks lovely!!! she noticed, idly, her wings are gone, but she can still feel them! she feels them buzz in delight behind her, atleast, just can't see them. odd!

anyhow, she walks back out into the ballroom, happy to explore and see what the ball has to offer.

Obieth lifted her arms, looking down at herself.

Oh, was her first thought. Her next was not a thought at all: rather, she slid hands down her flanks, smoothing the satin fabric clinging to new curves. It felt... slithery. Not unpleasant, she decided. There was concern that this might last forever but--would that be so bad? This was Aethril's form, after all, and her magic would remain. And the Valkhand had no issues defending herself.

Obieth imitated her mistress in the mirror: she turned and curled her slender body, twisting and peering over her shoulder with half-lidded eyes. A smile curled her lips, every bit as predatory as when she bore a feline form. Then--confident in her new illusion, and just as ready to wreak havoc as ever--she gathered up her new hat and slid from the wardrobe with long and graceful steps.

Her entrance was elegant, sure of herself. Her eyes caught on Vargas in the distance, noting him as interesting; and on the rest, noting them as... not so much. The food caught her nostrils in a strangely weak sort of way and she realized that her senses, somewhat disappointingly, had been altered.

The odors of food were warm, but lacked the rich depth and spice she would normally pick from drifting air. Likewise, the music--while more detailed and with far more lingering, sweet notes than the Palace's usual fare--seemed almost dulled. She sighed and strode off toward the ball pit and toward Vargas, heels clicking in a satisfying, familiar manner.

At least, she thought, the sensation of the air across her skin was new and pleasant, raising tiny hairs along her arms. And the fabric clinging to her skin was a lovely sensation, like Aethril's hand running across her velvet fur, but unceasing. "Can anyone," she called out, her voice a commanding purr that echoed through the ballroom, "tell me precisely what a 'Spring Ball' is?"

It wasn't often that they were allowed to go so far from home, but this was a special event. They had been invited, and it was almost like a family outing as they gathered together with their sibling, murmuring excitedly about the event. "How many others will there be, do you think? The palace is so big... They confided in V-Opal-One, sticking close to their sibling until they were eventually ushered into separate rooms.

"Wait! What?" "Where'd the door go?" "What do we do?" The Jaspers hissed to each other, suddenly filled with a terror that gripped them around one of their throats and bled through their shared body.

"Look," one head pointed out to the other, pointing toward the glowing font on the mirror. Their several eyes focused in unison on the text, blinking at the blurry image behind the text as it began to fade. Two strange faces looked back at them: a pair of twins, flat faced and soft, with warm skin. The only truly recognizable part was the violet irises that stared back at them, and that wasn't immediately enough.

The pair stumbled back, and the reflection did the same, seemingly just as startled. "Oh, hello," said Jasper-One, raising their hand.

"One," Two hissed through soft lips, "that's-- that's us, isn't it?"

"So it is," One said without hardly believing it, hand held up in a confused fashion. They turned to look at one another, and saw their strange faces. Two reached up their human hand to clasp One's lingering hand, and shared a white, toothy smile.

"Come on," Two urged, feeling suddenly giddy on their shared, strange singular set of legs, "let's make the most of this!" The young teenagers stumbled through the door, struck by the sound of music and more food than they had ever seen in one place.

One hesitated, pulling their hand from their twin, and tugged on the collar of their shirt. Their face scrunched, giving away their uncertainty, but Two kept pulling them along.

"Opal!" Jasper-Two called, "Opal, look at us!"

A disguise? For what purpose, Elayne couldn't help but wonder. She didn't mind the change of form, flexing her arms over her head with a curious tilt of her head. She couldn't help but think it was somewhat lacking, though she could hardly fault the magic for doing its best to make a facade for an already perfected form.

She hummed to herself-- at least the makeup was striking enough. She ran her fingers over her braid, tutting to herself as she considered the advantages of fingers versus the more delicate nature of the humanoid build. It was rather irrelevant, presently, at least.

This was an opportunity to, ahh, what was the word? Fraternize? The thought tickled her as she stepped out into the ball room, heels clicking.

Obieth's voice immediately caught her attention (how couldn't it, after all), and her lips twitched with the faint hint of a smile. She approached, raising a brow as she studied the stranger's form and considered the style that their host (presumably?) had offered her.

"I do believe," Elayne's voice rumbled, deep and rolling, "that it is a celebration. A party, with revelry and dancing." She considered the other with a half-lidded gaze, and extended her hand, palm up, in offer. Behind her eyes was an obvious hunger, and despite the easiness of her posture, it was all too obvious that she wanted something from this exchange.

"Perhaps a demonstration would be helpful?" She asked, coming on immediately too strong. Hey, a girl had to shoot her shot somehow, after all.

Raoshar didn't know what to expect, but he felt obligated to respond to the call. It felt appropriate, as the son of Tenzin, to attend this important event, whatever it was...

(Plus, the Hive wouldn't be there.)

The transformation was disarming and confusing, his feathers and balance stripped away in an instant. His hands fell on to the mirror, staring wildly at the scrawling with a dropping sensation through his stomach. He didn't recognize himself, he didn't know how to process the soft, white flesh that flooded red with-- embarrassment, mortification, rage? This was some kind of cruel joke, wasn't it? The white feather in his hat added salt to the wound, and he snatched it off his head and clutched it in his hands, staring down at it as he shuffled his way out into the ball room.

He felt naked, nevermind that this was the first time he had ever been clothed. He had none of his ability to posture and emote, couldn't even move his ears, and the world felt dull and tasteless.

Raoshar was surrounded by others transformed (maybe??) just like him, which should have been some comfort, but the way many of them seemed to walk with grace, confident and like this change was nothing.. it only made him feel more alienated. He reached for his magic, taking a deep breath as he searched for something to ground him in the moment.

"Accursed things."

Even without the serpentine aspects of her normal form, Miriam's displeasure at the contraptions magic had deemed fit to put upon her feet emerged as a sibilant whisper of rage. No more than a single step outside, and she found the balancing act required to move a trying activity indeed. Her ankle had nearly twisted, leading to her clinging to the door like it was a lifeline. Knuckles slightly paler than the rest of her deep violet skin and teeth gritted into a snarl exposing sharp canines, she huffed and forced herself into the more dignified stance a creature such as she deserved.

What was the point of trapping guests in a pathetically inferior state? To give them hands that lacked the built-in weaponry of claws and to strip them of lovely armored scales? Much as she enjoyed to play pretend and reap the benefits that came from donning the guise of chattering, friendly fool, an entire transmogrification proved a bridge too far. Despite the less exasperating pieces of her ensemble, she felt far too exposed—weak and full of vulnerabilities a Tatzelwurm shouldn't have.

But still the show must continue. Let the fierce beast be masked by the innocent lady once more.

Face falling blank, she molded her features into a far more delicate appearance. A somewhat awkward stumble forward gradually grew more fluid as she forced herself to learn the art of graceful walking in high heels. Eyes were lit by a rare spark of interest as the tantalizing music of the ballroom reached her ears.

"Oh, how gorgeous," she declared for whatever audience she might have. "I simply must know how this all was arranged. So grand. And the tunes! Wonderful!"

Were she more skilled on her feet, Miriam might have twirled a bit, girlishly giggling. Yet to fully break having legs in, she settled on striding to the main object of her attention: the orchestra ceaselessly playing away.