FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Treaaassure!" Zerrick the Woodlouse whispered, on honeyed lips. "Come now, treasure. I won't bite. Hehehe..."

Human that he was, he couldn't resist the allure of magic--and Sonjahlla the Sage was a wizard and collector of all manner of things shiny and enchanted. No rogue could have resisted, had they only the knowledge that Zerrick held--the secret password to open a door where there was none--in the impermeable wall of Sonjahlla's Tower.

Zerrick clung to his Birthright--the pendant that was his only rightful, worldly belonging. Abandoned on the streets of Altima as a child, he had eked out a living through petty theft, and age had only brought deeper intricacy to his desire--to clothe himself in the wealth of the world--the wealth he knew he deserved.

The pendant told him that much. Its milky white stone danced on a tarnished golden chain, and shone with a flash of light, blinking softly, quickly, like a heartbeat, as he drew near his newest quarry. Only when he seized the prize in hand, would his beating heart gently slow, as he basked in yet another prize for his sack.

"What will it be this time?" he whispered, creeping silently between nooks and crannies--gaps between statues and spaces where stain-glass windows decorated the darkness with the light of early morning, through colored lenses. Zerrick knew that wizards were the most dangerous quarry, among civilized folk. There were always things like mummy-infested ancient tombs, and dragon's caverns, full of their own monstrosities and hazards--but the unpredictable, mixed "innocence" of a wizard's dwelling place--the decadent strangeness that filled its halls, which danced between a man's living quarters, and an arcane laboratory--always seemed to hold the most dangerous temptations and 'deliberate' wards against his kind of debauchery.

And yet, how simple it was, just to creep to that case--and not a guard in sight, or a stone out of place to signal a trap mechanism. Indeed, as he prised the lid open, picking its lock and levering it up carefully with an iron pole to test for traps--not an alarm rang--no arrows from torch sconces or statue's mouths, no gas from vents in the walls. Not even a magic spell, as he'd so often heard of--to freeze him in eternal torpor. The lid fell to the ground with a wooden clank, and Zerrick greedily fished out the cloak inside.

It felt warm--made of supple leather, and red as rust, mixed with autumn leaves--its drawstrings were braided with gold. It was a bit heavy for this time of year--but Zerrick couldn't wait to try it on. Before he knew it, he was eagerly donning the vestment, and tightening the drawstrings around his throat. He couldn't explain his enthusiasm--normally he would have been more cautious--but something about the smell of the leather, the touch of it against his skin--the very sight of the thing just... drew him in.

As he lifted the hood over his head, it drew tight, blinding him--and he began to realize something was wrong--but only for a second. When the folds in the hood opened into eyes--his eyes--he was again able to see, but now, through a filter of reds and yellows. Confused, he tugged at the material, trying to get it off. It had attached palpably to his face--and as he turned to one of the mirrors in the adjoining corridor, he could see--it no longer resembled a hood--but the head of a skinned fox's pelt.

He tried to mouth the words; "Oh no", but when he opened his mouth, something warm and bloody-tasting entered, and would not stop pushing into him--causing him to gag, and suffocate. A trap. It was so obviously a trap. But as he choked at whatever was entering into his body, something began to change. His fate no longer seemed so important--what was happening was just part of a necessary process. Yes... that was right... he needed this. Why struggle?

As he relaxed, the choking sensation died down, and he felt something pleasant drop into his stomach, and begin pushing aside his organs--moving amidst them--assimilating his insides, and growing. It didn't hurt--it just tingled--warming him from within--making him hungry. Something pinched tight around his face, though. Lifting his head again, he saw the cloak "changing", becoming softer, bristling with hairs. His entire face had been engulfed in a vulpine mask, covered in whiskers. Lifting his hand to the nose of the mask, he touched it.

It was slick, and cold... and his fingers were warm against it. He snorted, and shook his head. It wouldn't come off--the changed skin would not come off! Staring down, he watched the cape grow--developing sleeves made from the skin of bestial forelegs. One of them seized around the arm he was using to touch his nose, and unfolded, slickly drawing it aside. Trying to pull it back out, he saw the raw muscles of his bicep exposed--pulling away from sticky, moist flesh within the hide, that had somehow come uncured and quite alive. The raw tissue burned on contact with the air, and he let out a scream.

"YIPE!"

He covered his mouth with his free hand--shocked at the sound he had made--and now, by how his upper lip was stretching under the mask--growing into a snout. The hood was entirely a fox's fur now, and his head was triangulating, stretching inside the skin to fit that image. The collar of the cloak had metamorphosed now too, and was climbing up his chin, drawstrings creeping like fleshy ivy, trying to extend the pelt's transformation to his lower lip.

Seeing his pupils contract into slits in the torchlight, he unconsciously drew the skin up over his raw arm. It slid in with a slurping sound, like being sucked into hot tar. The burning pain quickly abated. It was too good. He squealed with pleasure as his entire arm metamorphosed--black claws bursting from his fingertips, as each finger webbed with its brothers, and the whole sleeve tightened over his shoulder, masking it in fur.

"Oh god... I can't... can't stop this!" He laughed frantically, as the changed arm began to help its brother into its own sleeve of foxflesh. He felt his ears perk up--slide up his head, and into their own pockets of ear-skin, as he succumbed to the visage and hearing of a varmint.

"No. No, you can't, my fine friend." a voice echoed from down the hall.

"Wh-what?" mumbled the creature that Zerrick was rapidly becoming.

"A Skin of Change is a most difficult object to resist, once donned. Flayed from the back of the very sort of lycanthrope you are now becoming--it exists solely to pass its legacy to whoever wears it--and you have taken the bait."

"Oh god. Oh GOD!" Zerrick laughed, hysterically, as he hunched over, and felt the pelt melt through his shirt like wet paper, and adhere stickily to his naked backside--growing into a thick fur coat, that crept toward his buttocks.

"How do I stop it? Tell me, please!"

As the figure crept out into the torchlight--he knew it was the wizard Sonjahlla. It was unmistakable--a wizened, grey-haired half-elf, decked in black robes, covered in countless, contorting and undulating mouths and eyes.

"You cannot! Come now thief--enjoy the benefits of your hard-earned reward; for it was I who told the manservant the rumor he shared--that led you here, with my secret password!"

"Why... wh-ahahh-why? Ahahah.. hahaha..." Zerrick giggled, as the pelt tightened--bathed him in warmth, and tickled at his waist. It had wrapped itself entirely about him from navel to nose, and lost completely the visage of a cloak. It now sought for his nethers, and its steaming, moist influence seeped into his pores, sealing them shut as the embraced skin converted into subcutaneous fat, and mated with its aggressor--into a beast's hide... complete with beast inside.

"Because I wanted a pet--an experiment, you see--to observe and ponder your actions, as I set you upon a village not so far from here."

"Why... me?" he grunted, scrambling for the edges of the skin with his fingers, and--rather than pulling away the flesh--coaxing it further, pulling it tighter. Finally, he began pleasuring himself excitedly, as it drew down near his loins--his pair of pants falling away wetly, dissolving under the cursed skin's influence.

"You seemed eager enough to steal--and I know your reputation well, 'Zerrick the Woodlouse'. None shall miss you--not one will come to see what has become of you--now a hungry, wild thing. So I set out the bait--and like the greedy animal you are, you came, drawn by its scent. How well it suits you--I think it calls for a change of nomenclature."

"It... it... ah... ahhhhhh..." Zerick moaned, his tone quickly turning to the purr of a catlike canid.

"I will leave you to your fun now, 'Zerrick the Woodfox'--and you will come to me, when you are ready. I promise, you will enjoy the tasks I set out for you far more than any mere bauble-filching mission."

The beast that had been a man began to drool, lolling an incredibly broad, long tongue out of his mouth, and masturbating. He no longer registered the wizard's prattling--simply bathed in the change. He 'needed' the change. Had to have more.

He coaxed the skin down his groin, and slid his penis into the warmth of the sheathe that had formed for him-putting on the ass of a fox like a pair of pyjamas, and tightening it hard against his waist, as he squatted and waited, squeezing his genitals and massaging expectantly as the hide formed an empty tail...

*Strrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeetch!*

...and filled with his turgid, growing spine, until it stood as erect as his needy member, rust red, with a black-ringed white tip.

He grunted and snarled, and let out a "Waoooooooooooooooo!" as his erect member slid from its new sheathe, blood red and growing--a crooked rod with a spout for ejaculation, and two hard knots of flesh for tightening inside a vixen's cooze.

As his new fangs came in, and the lower half of his jaw jerked out to close with its mate, forming a true snout, Zerrick spat out his old teeth on the dirty cobblestone, rolled into a ball--and shat himself contentedly. Heedless of the filth, he began to lick his werefox cock, basking in the horrible fragrance as he released his fishy anal glands, cummed ropes of foul yellow spunk, and regressed deep into the mindset of a savage and contented scavenger.

The promise of a mate was not far from Zerrick's mutated mind. He hoped only that his new master would provide. Perhaps a bite on the ankle of a buxom serving wench, or some mayor's doting daughter, would yield a lustful new companion, that he could be allowed to keep for himself.

Reclining in his own filth and stench, perfect tail to perfect nose, with haunches drawn tight in vulpine skin, with vulpine paws, he dreamed it would be so.