A Blonde City Elf (Values used for this story)

The figure looking back at you is an elf woman. Which is, you've got to be honest, not what you were expecting. You blink, hoping that you just hit your head really, really hard and you're now seeing things. That didn't work. You try slapping the pond, hard. The ripples disperse the reflection but soon enough the water stills again. That didn't work. You even try the unthinkable. You close your eyes and pray. Pray to whomever might listen. Shallya, The Blinded Lady, even The Frozen Queen. You open your eyes. That didn't work either.

Bollocks.

Begining to suspect this might be the product of Biomancy rather than a rattled brain, you tentatively peer deeper into the pond in order to assess the damage. An unfamiliar pair of large, icy blue eyes stare back. Actually, you begin to wonder, are they that unfamiliar? Different, sure: you are a cityborn human male, deeply tanned from having spent almost half of your twenty four winters on the waves around the Dreadsea Coast. Or at least, you were. Those eyes that gaze back at you are the same shade as yours, with the same curve and general shape. They're just larger, more feminine and with the slightest trace of an elven flair.

Taking in the rest of your face, you note that the trend continues. It's still yours. Mostly. The same heart-shape, same jawline, same nose and cheekbones. Just softened, shrunk and girlish. And beautiful. Gods, is the woman looking back at you beautiful. You had always been told you had a sort of rugged attractiveness. Aided by a leanly muscled figure and a stong aura of self-confidence, you had never had a particular problem pulling a quick fling during shore leave. But the slight changes to your facial features, in addition to their general feminisation, have produced a beauty that takes your breath away.

Trait Discovered: Exceptional Beauty

What is new are the ears. Long and pointed, they stand at perhaps four inches long, angling quite steeply up but not so much out as they remain relatively flush against your head. Their tapered points break through your shoulder length blonde hair in such a way as to highlight them quite attractively. The hair itself is the same straw-blonde as it's always been, but it's now wavier and more volumous, cascading down to frame your face in a picturesque manner. Your skin is also paler than you remember. Although difficult to tell under the stormy sky, it appears to be an unfamiliar milky-white, though it's quite possible that that is what your skin looked like before your perpetual tan.

So you're definetly an elf now. You'd probably pass for a City Elf given how human your features have remined. Not that there's strictly that many differences between how, say, a High Elf looks compared to a Cityborn, Noble or Commoner Human, besides the obvious of ears. But there are some, and you mostly fall on the human side: not uncommon for the typically mixed ancestary that characterises City Elves. Your frame would seem to support this too. Your rags are hanging off of you in such a way as to suggest you've lost some amount of height and a fair amount more bulk. In fact, you've lost enough mass that you now realise that your bindings must have slipped off. You're free to move your arms and legs and are only now just clocking that you shouldn't have been. Well, that slipping your mind is more than understandable, given everything else that's happened, you concede.

With your newly realised freedom you push yourself onto your feet and stand. And then almost topple immediately over as your new body attempts to adjust to its new self and fight your muscle memory. Once stable, you spread out your arms and make a few tentative steps away from the pond to re-familiarise yourself with locomotion. Quickly it becomes familiar enough to try walking like a regular person. Suspiciously quickly. Perhaps it's a consequence of the magic. Or maybe not. You don't really know. You could test though.

Before you can stop to evaluate if it's a good idea or not, you attempt to break into a sprint and promptly become reacquainted with the taste of the soft, dirty ground.

Okay, no running just yet. You muse internally as you pick yourself back up and dust your front off. At least my tits don't feel particularly large...I didn't to be thinking that this morning...

You look around to gather your bearings. Katerina hasn't moved in the slightest. Part of you wants to check if she's still alive, moreso out of morbid curiosity than anything else, but you can't help but feel that that would be tempting fate a little too much. Best to just count your blessings and move on before she can wake up. Quickly you recall where you came into the clearing from and thus where the camp would be in relation to you. Now you can avoid it as you make your escape.

And that raises the question. Where to go? You're currently deep in the arse end of no-where within the Great Plains; dozens, if not hundreds of miles from the coast where you made your life. You have no idea how to effectively navigate the terrain nor where to go. You're just going to have to pick a direction and walk. Or you could just sit and wait for the slavers to return.

Well, that was an unwelcome thought. You know where it came from though. Over the past two weeks the camp put you through some Basic Obediance Training. It wasn't anything too bad, typically it was just a leather-clad dominatrix telling you that you weren't worth anything and that you should just be listening to what others tell you before making you do degrading exercises in the middle of the camp. At the time you were more amused than anything else. Guess it must have worked better than I thought. You resolve to fight the conditioning and any other impulses that come with it and focus on the choice at hand.

Training Discovered: Basic Obedience Training

The way you see it there are two choices. The first is to walk north, towards the Dreadsea Coast. You wouldn't be able to make it for a while, but once you did, you would hopefully be able to piece together some semblance of your former life. Maybe even you could afford to pay a biomancer to reverse these changes. Eventually. Trouble is, north is the obvious choice. Sooner or later, the slavers will come a-hunting. The Draenei with the horse was sent on a mission to Aversol a couple days back, but even on foot, it would be difficult to outrun the rest of the band.

The alternative would be to head south, past the camp itself and deeper into the Plains, towards the Deep Mountains. Whilst this would take you further from familiar territory you think you'd be safer from the slavers. You hope they wouldn't think that you'd go back past the camp. Because that would be stupid. But maybe that's what you need to make good your escape.

So, the choice lies heavy in you mind: