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"YOU!" The boy blurted, brandishing his sword and startling the patrons into picking up their tankards and retreating to tables out of reach to the aimless gestures of the lad.
The man addressed sat behind a table laden with an abundancy of food, picking through the morsels curiously and without heeding the commotion. He had ordered the cook to empty the pantry and was indeed too busy savoring the sophisticated treats to be distracted, only a tiny dragon coiled around the neck of the guest looked up from its meal, a half eaten cherry, to hiss at the nuisance.
"Master, I believe this one means you," it whispered.
"And what does he want?" The man behind the table reached for a bowl, dipping in his finger eagerly and tasting the pudding, followed by a sigh of satisfaction.
"I have come to restore the honor of my sister!" came the bold statement, underlined with a mild annoyance at the situation.
"Sister?" Came the puzzled reply, the man gazing into the bowl as if to divine the answers to his confusion from the shifting ripples in his dessert.
"You," he picked up with a lot of threatening emphasis, "turned her into a bull!"
Most of the patrons had settled again, following the spectacle by peeping across the edges of their mugs. Usually the town marshal would have shown up by now and made a mess of things, but he had crossed paths with this stranger a day ago and had been unceremoniously relieved of his post. However other than not being one of the locals the landlord saw nothing wrong with this peculiar guest, or the small fortune that had exchanged pockets during his short stay at the tavern and indeed it seemed that only few mourned the loss of the irritating town official who had been on bad terms with people not just for occupational reasons.
"She wreaks havoc wherever she roams and..."
"Aah ha ha," the man chuckled as memory resurfaced, setting down the bowl and his pet slipped along the sleeve to scavenge the droppings lying about. "Are you jealous to no longer be the father's pride, or have you come to beg me turn you a cow so you can continue your family tradition of inbreeding?" He quipped, undecided on how to continue his feast, and arranging the dishes in his mind.
"I WILL KILL YOU!" the sword cut through the air, stopping short before the brow, the man merely tapping the tip aside with a finger to restore the undisturbed view of his supper.
"You should not point that thing at others, you could hurt someone unintentionally." He chided, reaching for some pie, his magic already siphoned through the blade and into the body of his victim, where it would flower any instant.
"Thrphbphth," a hissing noise spilled across the table, followed by a noisy belch.
"Ugh, you really have the table manners of an animal," The mage frowned, swatting the air as if to disperse a nasty smell.
The blade dropped onto the table, teetering for a moment then it clattered on the floor, the boy gripping the rest of a chair for support, wide eyed and blushing embarrassed by the unbridled clamour of his gut and the people around laughing at him for it.
He tried to balance the staggering unease by setting his feet apart, and yet his clothes nipped on every corner, the previously loose chain shirt suddenly feeling tight across the chest. His crotch swelled into the pants which bulged increasingly, the waistband slipping down his buttocks slowly. Rings unclasped one by one, shooting from the mesh and ricocheting around the taproom, people winced at the chime of their impact close by, but would not avert their gaze.
The boy flailed his arms for balance, pounding his fists on the table, their beat sounding unusually firm on the wood ere it became obvious that his callous fingers were knotting together into pummels in the likeness of cloven hooves whose labored clout made the crockery jingle.
Bothered by the perturbance, a determined shove with the tip of his staff to bridge the distance made the gadfly stumble back into the circle of gawkers where he tried to stand tall among them but could not and instead stuck his rump in their faces. A few of them had the stomach to tug at the fattening growth there, making the hapless victim turn in circles in an effort to avoid the tease. Meanwhile his angry act had changed to dizzied panic. He stomped about uneasily, feet turning in his boots and finding less and less purchase within, trousers ripping along the seams which could no longer hold back the swelling thighs, and his coat groaning, spanned across the girth of a bloated ogre. Bit by bit the useless apparel turned to shreds which admitted the prying eyes a thrilling glimpse onto the shifting flesh underneath.
The cumbersome, hunched posture was as taxing as was gathering his scattered wits into sorting thoughts under the jeer of an audience that was pointing fingers at him and gaping. There was an audible sigh of relief when his pants finally tore along the middle and released the pink mass which had pushed in between his legs and into the confines of the fabric to tear it apart albeit many of the first hand witnesses, most of them male, swallowed at the sight and washed it down with ale until laughter erupted at a drunkard's pun on the alleged semblance to his wife.
He had no ears for such gossip, though they were larger now, and growing yet. His skin was crawling with ants, and the need to itch was overtaxing his capabilities which barely extended beyond the defiant lumber that kept him swaying on two legs trembling under the weight they could barely support. Still his squat frame fattened with bulk and the massive bones to carry it, until the compulsion to set down on all fours was so great that the shuffle of his hands on the floor boards gained comical qualities.
He looked into the circle of people around him who had fallen silent, searching for words himself which were stuck in his mind. His neck burst the clasp of the last piece of chain which hung around it and now dropped to the floor in an almost deafening rattle. The wearer startled, dumbly shifting on his hooves to ready for the speech he had assembled.
"MNOOUUUUH!" he blundered, leaving the masses unmoved.
"A cow and a calf to the first fellow who brings his bull into the tavern," The mage countered his contradictor.
He watched, reclined in his corner where he could survey the whole room. Surprise showed on many faces, fear on others, but he could also clearly hear the wheels turn in the heads of the less scrupulous or fortunate among the crowd, and the first one had already snuck out the side door no doubt to claim the pristine heifer for his property. People were predictable, if not to the piebald cow in their midst it seemed. She turned her neck to bellow complaints at those in reach of her, offending most who had to look down into her gullet and caught a good deal of her snot in their faces when she spoke.
The door opened soon, and a ragged man came in with a rope in his hand, something big shifting in the darkness beyond the inn's porch.
"Come in good man, come in," The mage beckoned from his place, the faces of everyone but the bovine glowering at the villain turned towards the door.
"And who might you be?" He asked.
"They be callin me Ole Grubb milord," the peasant answered hesitantly.
"And whom did you bring with you?"
"Burly, me bull sir, as you commanded." He said with a smile.
"Then I reckon you are the first, eh? Good fortune to you!" The mage clapped his hands.
"Nay milord, the others be waitin outside."
The mage laughed, those in the room who were not too stupefied to do so soon following his example. The farmer looked a little unsure about his deed, standing there and kicking his foot against the floor.
"Do bring him in!" The mage beckoned, the rope tensing and the head of a somewhat dottled looking bull poked into the room, its body pushing in behind, barely fitting through the frame of the door. People backed away in the presence of the beast. The proprietor knew better than to protest, but sent his wenches to gather what little precious goods there were in his establishment. With the money he had got he could open two inns if this one fell to pieces through a mishap.
The one who should have fled in the first place retained an iron posture on the spot however, in the middle of the room. It was not for lack of motivation, or driving panic for the matter, but his hooves were as if rooted to the spot.
If anything, they set apart a little further, to fortify her posture. Her flesh was easy to manipulate yet, for she had no will over it, her mind refusing to operate the new frame, so he could bend her to his liking, no, not his own, but the brute which approached from behind, and savoured the smell in his nostrils, the tavern with its usual fragrances only adding to the comforts he was beginning to anticipate. The mage snickered, slapping her tail in his face before letting it go to align with her flank, the tongue of the suitor licking across the chubby buttocks and the swollen lips of dark leather in their midst to tickle her pleasantly. The assessment of the situation was almost immediate, she tasted ripe, and it showed on his maleness which pushed forth from his sheath and hardened into a brawny, reddish lance. Everyone was shushed, the tension almost tangible in the air. Only the clod of his heavy steps could be heard as he shifted into position behind her, the boards creaking as the hulk pushed onto his hindlegs and pranced ere he tipped and his weight broke onto her back.
A muffled snort escaped her lips, she could feel his every muscle ripple through her hide as he shifted his bulk ahead and she frowned at the tease which sank into the orifice to her womb. This couldn't possibly be happening, he thought, and she shook her head in denial. But somehow the folds of her sex unraveled, and allowed for the intrusion, her wetting membranes compliably welcoming the visitor into their expanses. He screamed, she lowed, and the sound which rang unsettled at first, smudged into a surprised moan towards the end.
The bull's breath whirled through the curls on her brow, his frame seemed almost overfraught, putting too much weight against her creaking joints to allow his loin to thrust. It went so deep that she groaned, the advances of the rutting monstrosity turning far too pleasant to be shunned, to be neglected, but nothing filtered his virility, no love or passion, her tract tensing around the penis as if to hold it for a tad longer and maybe milk it for more than the seed which shot into her body in tickling squirts. It was done before she had time to lose herself in oblivion or even rapture, all that lingered was an itch and a morose aftertaste that she would have enjoyed it, if he had given her a chance.
"Pudding?" The man asked in his best of moods, offering the dainty to her frothing muzzle. "No? You don't know what you're missing..."
"Wut of me calf, sir?" The question lingered in the room, then it was drowned with laughter.