In a room
The sign reads
"Welcome all new travellers.
To continue you must go through a series of doors.
After going through you will pick a costume. You will then become a half- human and half that creature.
After a week(100 mins a hour,20 hrs a day,10 days a week) has passed you may morph and get another costume. To start of with you will only be able to become 40% human to 60% human.
If you put on a costume you will then become that creature, be teleported to it's home town and have to wait a week before being able to morph.
After 50 costumes you may change into one of your other costumes and become 30% to 70% human. When changing costumes you must wait at least an hour before you can change costumes again.
100 different species/gender costumes allows you to gender-morph and become 20% to 80% human
200 different species costumes allows you to combine costumes and become 10% to 90% human
400 different species costumes allows you to return to your world with no more morphing
And 800 different species costumes makes a polymorph and allows you to morph outside of this world.
Also if you have a costume like a centaur then the human part will always be human and is counted towards the human percentage.
Any gender/species transformation magic of yours can only change your gender(if you have at least 100 costumes) and the animal part to a different animal.
When you change into a different costume (that you already have) you may teleport to that species home town but you will have the week penalty where you have no costume changes.
If you die while wearing a costume you will be reborn at the local inn (or appropriate location ). If you have more then 100 costumes you will lose the costume you had when you died and go to an appropriate place for your next costume.
If you fail to make it out in 100 years(100 weeks in a year) one of your possible forms will be chosen and you will be permanently stuck in that form(apart from magic) until you die. Also there will be no possibility of going back to your world.
Also, one final note: should you take a female form and become pregnant, you won't be able to change your gender until the child is born, though the other aspects of your form may change (the child will change to match.) That is all, and good luck!
You realise that you have to do what the sign said to do and go through the doors and grab a costume.
Alternatively you could use the key system to determine the room
Written by Catprog on 11 February 2004
Myth Land
You go through the door.
All of a sudden it slams shut and with no handle on this side it appears that you are stuck.
There are two more doors however and both of them have a sign on them saying
Costume room for
Element: Land
Type: Myth
Gender: ????
So which door do you want
Written by Catprog on 26 February 2004
Female Myth Land
You go through the door.
All of a sudden it slams shut and with no handle on this side it appears that you are stuck.<P/>There are five costumes in this room, all of them female, all of them are mythological land creatures.
- Snake <span class="female"><li>Wolf
- </span><span class="male"><li>Lion </span>
Written by Catprog on 26 February 2004
Unicorn
When you come to, you are no longer in your living room and familiar home. Flat on your
back, you blink several times as an entirely white room swims into focus. It is perfectly
circular with no sharp corners, a most intriguing design that has no beginning and no end.
It makes your head spin and you groan, propping yourself up into a sitting position. Your
arm quivers, struggling to support your weight. What has weakened you so? You swallow
the lump in your throat and trace your hand over the smooth linoleum, the faint aroma of
cheap alcohol lingering on your breath. Panic sets in, twisting and contorting your stomach
as if filled by a rope of snakes. Are you trapped? You stagger to your feet, the room tilting
sickeningly, and call out.
“Hello?” You shout, leaning into the comforting embrace of the cool, white wall. “Is anyone
there?”
No one answers and you lower your head stupidly, wondering what you expected. Clearing
your throat, you cough hard, forgetting to cover your lips with the palm of your hand. Your
arm itches and you scratch it without thinking, lips turning down in a frown when it does not
immediately relinquish its annoyance. How are you going to get out of this room? Pacing,
you lose track of where you began and run a handful of prickling fingertips over the seamless
surface, searching for a flaw in the pattern of nothingness. Why won’t the itching go away?
You mumble a curse under your breath and peer at the back of your hand where the itch has
struck up something fierce, expecting to see an insect of some kind causing the disturbance.
Your eyes widen sharply and you stumble backwards, back flattening against the curve of the
wall. Holding your hand away from your body as if it is infected, you tremble at the sight of
the sprouting black hair, covering your skin as if by an animal’s fur. A non-human cry darts
past your lips and you slap the back of your hand, striving to scrape the hair away with your
short fingernails. A hallucination — the hair is not disappearing. A hallucination it must be, for
you refuse to believe that you are growing hair not only on your one hand now. Your other
hand is also afflicted and the hair spreads up both arms at a terrifying rate. You whimper and
crumple to the floor. What is happening to you?
The hair disappears beneath the sleeves of your loose fitting shirt and your belly is sucked
inwards, a lighter ‘padding’ softening the appearance of your masculine body. Groaning
harshly, you pant open-mouthed like a rabid dog and wrap your arms around your torso as
the itching sensation races up your chest and to your head. The fat from your stomach seems
to be migrating to your chest, though the feeling of femininity is unfamiliar to you and the
knuckle-cracking in your head is adequate distraction as your face changes in a way that you
cannot see. Bones grind and grate against one another for a brief, painful moment, realining,
and your eyes slide to the side. Your vision is left oddly distorted as you cannot see directly
in front of your nose any longer as it has shot forward as an animalistic snout.
Gasping for breath, you crawl into the centre of the room on all fours, shoes splitting and
leg bones rearranging themselves so that you appear to be ‘standing’ on your toes, although
your feet are hard and unyielding. You rock from side to side and something unknown shoots
from the base of your spine, wriggling down your now much looser jeans and slapping
against your left leg as if your spine has been stretched like putty. Between your legs, there
is an uncomfortable sensation as your genitals churn, twisting without known feeling and
seeming to...shrink? You are not sure and clap a new ‘paw’ (tipped with hard, wide nails on
the fingers) between your thighs, grasping nothing that may be constituted as proud maleness.
Something solid rises from the centre of your forehead and a silvery lock of hair flicks into
sight as your hairline rearranges itself down the back of your neck and a fringe cascades into
your eyes.
And everything stops. Your breath comes in short bursts as if you cannot quite catch your
breath after running yourself into the ground. Inherently, you know that you are no longer a
male but you refuse to understand or accept the moderate breasts on your chest or the snug
femininity between your legs. The rest of your transformation is uncertain and, before you
have the chance to contemplate your situation, bright light streams into the room from your
right. A door, blended seamlessly with the wall, slides open noiselessly and you narrow your
eyes at who enters, his hooves clopping loudly on the lewd linoleum.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 31 March 2013
Game Show
“Welcome to the show!” The game show host says grandly, a smirk depleting the generosity in his tone. Although he does not look the same, you know it is him by his stance and demeanour. He now has the appearance of a brown horse walking on its hind legs, a black mane falling down his neck to his wide shoulders. Do you...look like him? Glancing down your body, you realise that the short coat of hair is indeed like this bay horse’s, though black instead. Your ‘hooves’ are different too, like a deer’s — cloven not hard. There is a bitter taste in your mouth and you resist the urge to spit.
“Welcome? Welcome? Is that what you say to someone that you’ve dragged here against his will and done who knows what to?” You snap, teeth clicking together. What’s wrong with your voice? It’s of a higher pitch than usual. “What am I? What have you done to me?”
The host smiles and licks his lips, straightening his smart, dark navy suit.
“I am so glad that you have decided to join us,” he continues as if he has not heard your outburst.
“I didn’t bloody decide to join you!” You shout, scrambling awkwardly to your hooves and almost topping off-balance. The something within your trouser leg wriggles. A tail like the bastard host’s one? It feels different. “Change me back right now! I don’t care about your god damn show! Change me back and let me go!”
Your anger is softened by the fight you are having with your clothes. Your trousers are too large on your new body and keep slipping, so you hook your fingers into an unused belt loop and yank them upwards, though they slide down again with a teenager’s air of rebellion. There is no holding them. Frustrated, you kick out like a feral horse at the game show host, who steps patiently to the side and tilts his head to consider you.
“As a contestant,” the host lifts a paw to gesture along with his speech, utterly ignoring your actions. “You must meet all objectives or be disqualified and lose out on the prizes. That is fairly standard. You must not attempt to harm any others during the course of the show and you now display your understanding that the show will be broadcast as per your permission.” His eyes dance wickedly. “The forms you sign give permission for this, as I am sure you are aware.”
Smoothing his slick forelock to the right, the host spreads his paws to either side in a genial pose. You stalk up to him and stand muzzle to muzzle, breathing heavily, anger searing through your veins.
“What did you say?” You speak quietly, dangerously. “You don’t have my permission to do anything.”
He pretends not to hear you and begins to reel off his game show spiel from memory.
“The objective of the first round...”
“Are you even listening?” You scream, an inch from his muzzle. He doesn’t even flinch.
“The objective of the first round,” he repeats calmly, with a plastic, dark smile, “is to find the costume. This will transform you into a new form and allow you to progress to the next round!”
Ignoring your fury and distress, he retreats to the door, though you cannot see anything beyond the square of bright light. He pauses and turns, curling his fingers into a fist and pushing his thumb upwards: a ‘thumbs up’ gesture.
“Good luck!” He chuckles, spinning on his hoof and disappearing as the door slides shut behind him. There is no evidence that there was ever a door there.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 07 April 2013
In the city
You bite the inside of your cheek, faintly amused that you still have the capability to do so in your reformed jaw. What now? As if to answer your unspoken question, another door slides open, again without any noticeable noise. All too convenient to lead the ‘contestant’ exactly where they need to go, you think bitterly. There is a street outside, something from a cityscape that is like a step back home. Your equine ears flick back and forth, detecting the sound of traffic, surprising you in two ways. Why can you hear traffic? You also had not noticed the ears before and their presence unsettles you. You miss your old body.
“Oh, yes, everything’s falling into place very nicely,” you mutter sarcastically. “‘What now?’ Oh, look! A door opens. Just like any other crappy game show. Not worth the fecking time!”
Your voice echoes in the empty room and you wonder where the cameras are. Is the obnoxious host watching you? In all fairness, you are bored by the conformity of the white room, so venture cautiously to the door and step out, one paw on the waistband of your jeans to protect your modesty.
It is indeed a city, although it is not one that you are familiar with. But who can be acquainted with every city in the world? You blink, caught by the sounds, sights and smells. The pavement is hot beneath your cloven hooves and you lift first one and then the other in an attempt to release the warm tension. The city sweats.
Where can you go? There is nothing but an open, bustling route forward, crowded by glassy eyed furs. The foxes, wolves, serpents, dragons, felines — too many species to count — stomp along their way, the anthro forms strange to your eyes. Cautiously, you pad into the street and stare upwards at the obscenely tall buildings, shop windows reflecting daylight so that the products may not be clearly viewed. A vixen in full make-up pauses and presses her muzzle to the glass of what you presume is a lingerie shop, judging from visible advertisements, and cups her paw, blocking out the light. She murmurs under her breath, swishes her tail and walks on, her pace hypnotic. You shake yourself, realising that your eyes were glued to her shapely rear, bouncing with every snappy stride. You are not a man anymore.
No, you can’t think like that. If you finish these ‘tasks’ or whatever that horse-faced bastard said, you’ll escape. Game shows always worked the same: the contestant did as they were asked and they went home afterwards, even if they didn’t win. You sigh and hug your arms around your chest, breasts pressing inward gently. Home. Did things still operate the same in this half-world? Lifting one hoof after the other in awkward walk, you bite back a grunt of discomfort as your breasts strain against the motion, unsupported as they are. Your jeans slip and you grab them as a nearby wolf smirks, his gaze tasting your body as if he was devouring a steak. Shooting him a dirty look, you ensure that you are well covered and turn in a circle, not knowing where to go. There are no bearings to be had. You want to go home.
You half-pause at your reflection in a shop window but move on quickly from the long legs and whiplash tail, crowned with a tuft of silvery hair. You are positively equine, a long horn rising from the centre of your forehead and parting your forelock. That is what equestrians called it: a forelock. Shuddering, you increase your pace and halt abruptly at the edge of the pavement, glancing from side to side. There is no ‘right’ direction and traffic is terrible, a screaming, honking mass of rocking metal containers, occupants glaring over steering wheels.
No, you can’t cross here. Making your way further down the street, you reel like a drunkard, unable to make your legs work in the correct manner. Your jeans drop, even though you have them bunched at the front, revealing a glimpse of your boxers and feminine rump, subject to humiliating jeers. Blushing anxiously, you drag them up for the umpteenth time, too embarrassed to even shoot a glare at the suspects. Traffic slows to a crawl as you trot to a pelican crossing, ignored by the cars and drivers, or so it seems.
An impatient canine, Jack Russell from the look of his muzzle, in one of the vehicles threw a curse to the air and spun his wheel viciously. You stare slack jawed as he mounts the pavement, slamming his paw on to the horn repeatedly, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He doesn’t stop for anything, smashing through a waste bin and denting the front bumper of his shiny vehicle – it could have been driven away from the dealer’s lot that very morning, so immaculate had it been before abuse. And he drives straight for you like a madman! Or mad fur? It’s too late to speculate and you dive out of the way, hitting the concrete hard and knocking the air from your lungs. There is grit on your tongue and tyres scream too close, far too close.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 14 April 2013
Clothes
A pedestrian swears and the drama rolls by, a scrap of waste paper flattening against your heaving side and then fluttering away as if it was never there. The Jack Russell barges back on to the road, scratching up the side of a sports car, and screams out the window, one paw waving crazily. Your chest heaves and you gulp at the lingering charcoal tyre marks, exactly where you were standing a moment ago. Your side aches from landing so heavily and your tail is twisted beneath your body, though you scramble carefully to your hooves so that you may not give watching bystanders any more of a show than you already have. A dolphin whistles, clicking his beak in amusement.
It is no good wandering around in ill fitting clothes, you decide, staunchly ignoring the leers, which are all too obvious when one is looking for them. Anxiety rocks in your belly. You don’t want to play by the rules but you don’t want to walk around with your wares on show either. Clothes will benefit you either way, you decide with a sick feeling. Are you playing straight into the paws of the show host?
Either way, there is an abundance of shops and, avoiding the street rubbish, you flee across the road, weaving in and out of crawling cars. Though drivers call obscenities and make rude gestures, you make it across the four lane road in one piece and stand panting on the far side next to a building with a bright pink neon sign. It seems to be a club of some kind — The Tail End — but that’s not what you are looking for right now. Clothes, you need clothes. There is a scrappy charity shop with a pea green front a few doors down, slightly out of place but as good as anything else in the near vicinity. The windows are dirty and you approach at a cautious pace, ears drooping apprehensively.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 21 April 2013
