FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Something was wrong with the weather. Despite being late October, the first autumn chill had not arrived. The leaves on the trees had browned, not from the natural change in the seasons but from a weeks-long lack of rain and the biting, oppressive heat that should have been consigned to summer. The amount of daylight each day had not decreased a second since the summer equinox, leading to an ever-lingering heat that lasted well into dusk. Anything green had started to shrivel and die, and crops withered, worthless and sapped of nutrients. Despite it all, Mark had found no reason to cancel his mountain cabin getaway. He had booked his week-long vacation in the heart of the Smoky Mountains at the start of the year as soon as his PTO became available, anticipating cool weather after a long, hot summer, gentle morning walks through leaf-strewn trails, and warm apple cider beside a crackling fireplace at night. Instead, he spent most of each day cooped up inside the remote, black bear-themed cabin, ceiling fans turning at maximum speed, blinds closed, AC unit struggling to combat the heat. Early mornings and late evenings were his only respite, despite the blood-sucking mosquitoes and buzzing black flies. On one morning midway through his vacation, Mark left the cabin to hike a new trail, the temperature outside a comparatively cool 85 degrees already. His pack was filled with protein bars and trail mix, and he carried a jug of water that felt big enough to rival his body weight, small and slight as he was. The trail was just a mile-long loop, but he thought it best to be prepared. As he slid open the sliding glass door at the rear of the cabin, a rush of wildlife scurried away: a host of birds took flight, three raccoons waddled, and four deer trotted. Each night, he had made a habit of filling up the lid of the garbage can, overturned frisbees, anything wide and round with water and leaving it scattered around the cabin’s perimeter for any local animals to drink from. The management office that rented out the cabin discouraged feeding or interacting with wildlife by way of threatening fines, but he couldn’t care less. It was too hot and too dry to do nothing for the creatures that lacked steady access to water. After a short incline and a few twisting turns, Mark could no longer see his cabin. He had slathered his skin with sunscreen and bug spray and felt oily and uncomfortable, but the sensation beat getting a sunburn or the itching that would follow from bug bites. The trees were close set, bulky, rising high in the air like great columns supporting the foundations of the heavens. He felt especially small, even more so than he usually did at a height of five feet five inches. “Is someone there? Please, help,” a voice weakly called out, muffled and indistinct. Mark stopped in his tracks, looking around for the origin of the voice. With the way sound bounced through the hills, it seemed bodiless, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Hello? Where are you?” he called out in reply. The cabin was advertised as a remote getaway far from civilization, and he hadn’t seen another person in days; he wasn’t entirely sure if the voice was real or borne from his imagination from a total lack of human contact. “There’s a ditch. I… I’ve been in here for so long.” The voice was starting to sound clearer. It was old, high-pitched. Mark pinpointed the voice off to his right. He jogged around a group of trees, hopping over their roots, and stumbled through a briar patch, smarting from the stings. Reaching a clearing, he stopped dead in his tracks and gasped. A shallow ditch stood a few feet away, its soil bone dry. He couldn’t place what he saw lying in the ditch. It looked like some kind of worm with gray, segmented skin, but could worms reach three feet in length and be as thick as his arm? A closer look revealed four thin limbs protruding from its core and a pointed tail extending from the base of its spine. A twin pair of wings lay sprawled beneath it, the membrane dry and torn. A lizard-like face stared up at him, eyes hazy. Mark took a deep drink of water, not sure how he had already managed to get heat stroke from such a short walk from the cabin. What else could explain this creature? He was simply seeing things that weren’t there. “Could I have a drink?” the creature asked. Mark froze mid-gulp, water spilling down his face. Righting his water bottle, he crouched beside the creature and carefully lowered the mouth to its lips. If he was having a heat-borne hallucination, it didn’t hurt to be polite to the imaginary talking creature. It drank from the cool, clear water, pausing to take lurching, gasping breaths. When he lifted the bottle, the creature gave a contented sigh. “Thank you, kind stranger. If you have water to spare, could you pour some on me? My scales are so parched.” He did as requested, pouring a light stream of water onto the creature as though he was watering a plant. A thin smile reached the creature’s lips. “One final joy before moving on,” it said quietly to itself. Looking up at Mark, it continued, darkness passing over its face, “This is all my fault. If I had been younger, stronger, the seasons would have changed long ago as they were supposed to. Who knew even we could grow old? When the aestival god attacked me and broke my lyre, I lacked the strength to fight back. I was reduced to [i]this[/i], one who used to tread the world in so few strides.” A tiny, lizard-like hand reached up. Mark tentatively took it. The hand was cold and rough. Tears dotted the creature’s slitted, cat-like eyes. “I’m sorry, young man, for what must happen next. But the world cannot exist like this. It needs the autumnal, and one who can bring it.” A stabbing pain struck Mark’s hand, and he yanked his hand back, grimacing. A shallow stab wound stood in the center of his palm, his skin already puffy and inflamed. He was ready to hurl shocked insults at the creature, but the words died in his throat as the lizard stopped breathing, eyes glazing over. He scurried away from the ditch on hands and knees, his palm pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. The conversation was surely a figment of his imagination, but the sting felt real enough. He had to get back to the cabin and disinfect the wound. Whatever animal he actually encountered, a bite couldn’t mean anything good. He could feel something tangible flowing from his palm to the rest of his body, his veins standing out starkly against his clammy skin. His body began to itch all over and he couldn’t scratch fast enough, merely two hands useless. The blue from his veins spread across his body, his skin slowly morphing into an azure canvas. Coming right on the heels of the incessant itching was an all-encompassing heat, as though a forest fire raged within him. He hurriedly unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and drank big, greedy gulps, excess water spilling. His stomach roiled and he stopped drinking, coughing back choked breaths. Clouds of white vapor puffed from his mouth with each cough. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he upturned his water bottle and doused himself with the remaining contents. The relief was momentary, his skin audibly hissing and wafting off steam. Mark threw off his clothing to try to minimize the heat; his tennis shoes, shorts, and loose athletic shirt were too hot, too constricting, light as they were. His shirt and shorts came off in tatters. A brief look down revealed fingernails and toenails lengthening into thick elongated points of a darker blue than the rest of his body. Spiderwebs of blue crisscrossed his body, his skin hardening into rigid segmented scales. He tried to speak, to call out for help despite his isolation, but his words came out slurred. His tongue had lengthened, touching against sharpening teeth in a maw that stretched outward. A nub of a tail grew from the base of his spine, propelling outward to touch the ground. The itching became even worse around his shoulder blades, in an infuriating spot he could not reach. However, as he contorted himself to try to lessen the itch, his clawed fingers brushed against twin mounds of growing flesh. He could turn his neck just enough to see cartilaginous, veiny wings growing from his back, eventually reaching nearly half his height. His peripheral vision became obscured by thick strands of purple hair caressing his shoulders and cascading down his back, eventually stopping at the back of his thighs. Mark grimaced, pressing a protective hand against his chest as additional discomfort arose there. His chest itched, ached, felt sensitive to the lightest touch and movement. Something pressed against his palm and upper arm, growing outward. A quick look revealed fleshy, scaled breasts, minute and ending in darker blue nipples. Blushing, he pressed his arm against them again, as though keeping them out of sight would make them no longer. He dared not look at what was happening further down, but could feel it all the same. His manhood, shrunken from fear against his body, inverted itself, disappearing inside his crotch, replaced with new, female anatomy. The itching went away, and his body stopped changing. He looked down at himself, heart pounding, dumbfounded, to take in the body of a dragon. In a way, it was a draconic reflection of his human body: skinny, small, looking as though a stiff breeze might knock him over. Even his female features were slight. His breasts were little more than mosquito bites, and his lower body was straight and angular. Or would [i]her[/i] be more appropriate? Mark’s heart fluttered at the thought. Why did that sound so nice? Regardless, why was she now a [i]dragon[/i], a mythological creature that belonged to fairy tales and legends, not to stark reality? She eyed the remains of the creature and gasped as understanding dawned. Her body had changed, but that wasn’t all. Memories which didn’t belong to her flooded her mind. This creature, lying dead in a ditch, was the goddess of the harvest, the personification of the autumn season. As she said, something had happened to prevent her from attending to her duties, from transitioning the world from summer to autumn. [i]Aestival.[/i] Mark hardly knew the name, but it sent shivers down her spine. Panic spread as understanding dawned, worse than waking up late for work or completely forgetting a project in college. Autumn was very, very late, which was now her responsibility. But wait, did it have to be? She was just some random person, new dragon body notwithstanding. She hadn’t agreed to anything, had just stumbled by chance upon her predecessor. She hung her head, casting the thought away. No, she may not have made the choice but, somewhere within her, she had the power to return the seasons to their natural order. She thought of the animals drinking water from the containers she had left by the cabin, thinking further out to all living things suffering from the extended summer’s oppressive heat. Somehow, she would make things right. Mark looked around hurriedly for the tool, the means of utilizing a power she couldn’t quite understand yet. No, it was [i]her[/i] tool, the goddess now dead. Memories arose of walking the world, breathing in the cool air, plucking at the strings of her lyre. Mark swore under her breath and started pacing the clearing, tail dragging on the ground behind her. She didn’t know how to play an instrument! Even as a child, blowing in a spit-soaked recorder in elementary school had been a futile task in producing anything remotely related to music. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. These new memories were not her own, but they were accompanied by skills, expertise, if she could only call them out from the recesses of her mind. In a way, it was like riding a bike. If she started playing, surely the muscle memory would return. But, play [i]what?[/i] Where on earth would she find a lyre? Or, wait, an instrument was just a means of expressing the raw power that flowed through her, like turning on a faucet. It didn’t [i]have[/i] to be a lyre. Her hands started moving before she realized what she was doing, claws glowing. She worked the air like she was painting on a canvas, a shimmering outline slowly taking shape. As she worked her power, solid matter took shape, falling into her hands. An accompanying strap crossed her shoulder and back. She looked down and nodded with approval, holding a banjo in her hands. She plucked the strings in turn, perfectly tuned. The body and frets shone in the sunlight. The sight made the human side of her brain shrug. It wasn’t the most traditional instrument of choice for a goddess, but she had toyed with the idea of learning how to play the banjo for years, never taking the plunge. What better time to learn? She strummed and felt a cool breeze. The branches noticeably swayed. A big, fluffy cloud passed over the sun, granting the clearing a respite of shade. A fine mist fell, droplets dotting her scales. She giggled, smiling wide. It was the first time she had ever done this, but it felt as natural as breathing. Cracking her knuckles, she went on a finger-picking run, playing a fast melody with skill and precision as though she had been playing her entire life. The mist became a light drizzle, the breeze picking up into a strong wind. The temperature was starting to go down, bit by bit. Mark played and played, dancing to her own tune. The faster she picked, the more it rained and the cooler it became. The leaves on the nearby trees turned into a kaleidoscope of browns, red, yellows, and oranges, colors vibrant and leaves voluminous. She stopped playing and stared down at herself, brows furrowed. The rain stopped as well, wind vanishing. Her view of her banjo was slightly obscured by her breasts, the strap contouring around the shape. Had her breasts grown? Her hips appeared more rounded, her thighs slightly stockier. Beneath her banjo, her abdomen had a slight paunch as though she had eaten a large meal. She glanced at the nearby trees. A branch that previously towered above her was now only a few inches above her head. Memories from her predecessor trickled in. To bring autumn to the world, she had needed a body sizable enough to tread long distances as quickly as possible, strides crossing a mile at once. The body of the harvest goddess was a direct embodiment of the plentiful yield of crops, of reveling in times of abundance. With autumn disappearing from the world, it only made sense that her predecessor’s body would shrink to such a diminutive size. Mark foresaw the coming changes to her body, of her soon-approaching shift in perspective. She welcomed the change with open arms, plucking at her banjo with renewed vigor. She had a particular melody in mind, a song that was always first on her mind to learn if she ever got the chance. In a way, to her, it was a symbol of the welcoming of autumn, of cooler days, the changing of the leaves, and the thrill of victory and heartbreak of defeat with the renewal of a sport endemic to that time of year. She was used to singing along with 100,000 other people, but her new voice managed the words just fine, fingers a blaze of activity. “[i]Wish that I was on ol' Rocky Top, down in the Tennessee hills[/i],” she began, voice at first tentative then growing stronger, her words echoing through the hills as she grew. Her fingers tore across the frets, creating a veritable symphony unto herself. The steady rain returned, the temperature falling and the wind resuming. More and more trees developed rich fall colors, the rain soaking into the arid soil. Mark’s body followed suit. The stick-thin, gangly dragoness grew taller, inch by inch, her banjo matching her growth to ensure her fretwork continued unabated. Her body swelled with additional weight, ballooning in size. As she ascended, surpassing the tree line, her breasts grew, morphing from their previously minute size into great sagging behemoths. Her hips swelled into profound curves, thighs growing trunk-like to surpass even a redwood. Her rear grew into two massive cheeks, sizable enough to form a veritable shelf on her lower body. Throughout it all, her body accumulated stores of fat, belly sagging to touch her thighs, arms and legs becoming plush and soft. She let out a hearty laugh as her body became a symbol of the season of plenty, having to adjust her grip on her banjo as it moved in response to her growing form. She had lost sight of it completely beneath her breasts, but had the skill and finger work to continue her playing without a single sour note. She took in her surroundings, her vantage point easily over two hundred feet in the air. She could peer down into each peak and valley, taking in sights never possible for a mere human. The land near her feet, difficult to see at her size, was lush with life, trees vibrant with fall colors. An expanding ring was visible around her, of life returning to dying branches. The air was cool, the rain a balm to her scales, as the temperature steadily dropped to where it should have been. Mark smiled and took a great step forward, ground shaking at the impact. No, that name hardly applied anymore, did it? She was Autumna, Goddess of the Harvest. The world would have its seasonal changes again. The human part of her brain chafed at her nudity, and she had to admit that clothing would be needed as the cooler temperatures set in. Her fingers worked a new melody, altering the flow of her power. In a flash of light, thousands of rich, verdant fall leaves interlaced with one another around her body, forming a dress that fell to her knees. What clothing could be more appropriate? “Autumna! I thought I left you for dead. It seems I underestimated you,” a deep, rumbling voice called out, startling her. She stopped playing and turned to see a golden dragon standing on the opposite ridge. He was scowling, short bursts of flame expelled with each harried breath. He was broad and muscular, easily surpassing her height. Frowning, he approached, great clawed feet leaving deep gashes in the earth. She bristled at the sight. “No, it’s not you, not exactly. So the bitch found a successor, I see. Then you must know that you aren’t needed anymore.” “You have overstayed your time, Aestival,” she replied. “Summer should be gone. You’ll have dominion again next year, same as it has been for ages. Why become so greedy now?” Aestival let out an earth-shaking roar. “I am stronger and more important than any of you! And the humans agree with me, don’t they? With their stewardship of the world, I gain more time and grow stronger each year. The rest of you don’t matter.” “It is time for you to go. This season is mine.” He made a toothy grin. “You may have her skills, but you’re brand new at this, you flabby wench. I’ll put you down, too, and make sure no one else takes your place.” A drum materialized in Aestival’s hands. Placing it beneath one arm, he set his palm across the taut, flat surface then banged on it. The force of the sound sent Autumna reeling on her heels. The skies darkened, thunder rumbled, and a bolt of lightning punctuated each beat. Bracing herself, she gripped her banjo and kicked off a new melody, working as fast as her fingers could move. Rain fell and the temperature dropped. There was an almost visible line of demarcation where her power met Aestival’s; the turbulent cold and hot temperatures created a churning cyclone in the air above, raising strong winds that lashed at her dress and sent her hair flying behind her. Aestival pounded on the top and sides of his drum with every part of his hand, creating a manic, frenetic tempo. He locked eyes with Autumna, teeth gritted. The pair fought a heated battle with the embodiment of their power, the line marking the reach of their influence slowly moving one way then another in a musical tug of war. Autumna panted, her fingers on fire, the banjo strings somehow holding up under the constant attack of her claws. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last, her tenure as a goddess possibly spanning only a handful of minutes. But she held on, heartened to see Aestival also flagging. The golden dragon, god of the summer, was starting to slow, sweat dripping from his scales. His power was never meant to last so long, an unnatural attempt to expand his domain. He was running ragged despite his bravado. Aestival paused just a moment to readjust his grip on the drum, but it was all the time Autumna needed. She let loose a roar of her own, picking so fast on her banjo that the strings smoked. The cyclone dispersed, the range of her power shooting forth and sending Aestival staggering backwards. He tripped onto a mountaintop, the trees bracing his fall forming a verdant, autumn-tinged bed. Waves of rich colors swept the surrounding landscape, life-giving rain soaking into the dry earth. Autumna panted, her breath visible in the cool air. As she approached the fallen dragon, Aestival shrank, muscles losing definition, until he was lost within the tree line. “You’ll have your time again next year,” Autumna said, peering down at the tiny dragon. She shot forth a pointed, clawed finger. “But if you try this again, the outcome will be the same. Just as you lose your power, mine too will lessen soon enough when Brumal’s time comes and the first snow falls. There is nothing wrong with that. Now, you have many months ahead to ponder what you have done. I have much to do to make up for your misdeeds.” Autumna walked away, not sparing a look back. Aestival was no longer a threat, his time for the year finally over. She strummed her banjo with renewed energy, a slower, more resonant melody this time. The soft winds caressed her hair and her dress, the cooler temperatures a welcome reprieve. Each step was a massive stride, the land beneath her feet finally feeling the touches of autumn once again and relief from the ravages of the extended summer. Though she had not chosen this transformation, it gave her greater purpose and more surety than anything she had ever known. The seasons needed her, and she would not disappoint.