Equip and prepare himself.

“Mistress, are you sure you're alright?” The more articulate, larger orc gives the Akkadian a careful study.

Though still stunned by this unnatural switch, the assassin's keen eye realizes the orc is beginning to have questions about his leader, which is a very dangerous thing from such a chaotic, brutal and treacherous race.

“Leave me!” The transformed Akkadian orders in the best threatening voice he can muster from this feminine body. “Return to your posts.”

The orcs look at each other, then bow to their mistress and leave the tent.

Making sure that he is completely alone the Akkadian looks over his new voluptuous frame. The sorceress is tall and in decent shape for a woman, but still this new body is weak and inferior to his original warrior's physique. Trying an unarmed strike combination that he learned from the War Masters of Khitai, the assassin grunts in disapproval. The martial forms are in his mind, but they're no longer in his muscle memory. He moves are slow, fragile and ineffective, like a woman who has never trained in the manly arts of combat.

“Dagon's Dick!” He swears under his breath at his weakness as he takes hold of his biggest distraction, his new breasts. They're firm and round with showing no signs of sagging from age, no doubt enhanced and kept so by the witch's sorcery. Yet they're so big, and constantly bouncing and jiggling about hindering any sudden motion. Taking them into his hands for the first time in his life the assassin desires that a woman would have a flat chest. “My back is already sore.” He complains.

Stripping off the useless brocaded silk dress, down to the loin cloth the sorceress wears underneath, he roots through her traveling chest, trying to find something practical to wear. Seductive outfits, skimpy dresses and revealing lingerie soon pile up on the floor. Tying his hair up, the Akkadian selects the best outfit for easy of action he can find, but it is far from his liking. Soft high leather boots and tight linen paints are topped off with a broad belt from which hangs the only melee weapon he could find, an ornate dagger etched with strange dark runes. For his top the assassin puts on a linen strip that wraps around his breasts. Over that he wears a dark blue leather chest piece with golden trim. It is costume armor, made for show and not combat, which leaves his midriff and a sizable amount of his pushed together cleavage bare, but at least it gives some support. The only piece of true armor he finds are leather vambraces for his wrists. As he judges his new attire a revelation comes to the Akkadian. If he lacks his former powers, as he retained the witch's?

For the next half an hour the assassin attempts to cast spells, in vain conjuring up mental images and trying to will the effects he has seen the witch cast before into reality. He knows that most cantrips and spells, let alone rituals, require a combination of gestures, components and magical words, yet he cannot read the arcane script of the witch's tomes. He wonders if he simply lacks the knowledge or some innate ability to cast magic. Then a dreadful thought occurs to him. What if the witch is now conscious in his body having both his martial prowess and her magical abilities! She would be nearly unstoppable and would she even want to switch bodies back?!

Immediately walking out of the tent the Akkadian sees the sun is beginning to rise. “Guards!” He barks which summons his two orc minions to him with martial bows.

“Prepare the camp we return to Al Areth immediately.” He orders.

The larger orc's eyes widen in concern. “But mistress.” He hesitates. “We barely made it out of city last night. The Tyrant Trimon knows you were there. If cloak man talks, Trimon will want blood. It's too dangerous to go back now.” The brute points in the opposite direction away from the city. “We should return to tower, and be safe.”