A few words of magic

"hominem feminamque coniunge, et..." The words mean nothing to you, but the language and intonation are unmistakable - that's Old Arcadian, and whoever's speaking (a calm female voice, with just a hint of a smile in it) is casting some form of spell.

Your eyes snap open, and the purple runes coalescing around your lower body indicate that she's casting it on you.

This makes things a lot more interesting.

You go for your knife, but it's a fraction too late as the voice speeds up and then stops, the runes around you shimmering bright for a moment before fading. There's some rustling in the undergrowth, headed directly away from you if your ears are anything to go by. The mysterious sorceress is gone.

You freeze for a moment, closing your eyes to get a feel for your current physical state. All vitals fine, skin not unusually warm or cold... what has the spell done, then?

That's when you notice a strange, tight sensation between your legs. Looking around very briefly to make sure nobody's watching, you carefully slide a hand down inside your rugged cloth trousers to check yourself.

What you find is not what you remember having there. Where you once had a hole, you now have a protrusion; it's warm, and soft, and if your times in the backroom of the granary with that hapless half-human youth are anything to go by, you know exactly what it is.

You never trusted spellcasters.

That said, you might still be in with a chance of catching this one. She's got a head start of a few seconds on you now, but you're almost certainly faster... and angrier.