A Little Trouble, and a Big Impression

You stand before the lengths of the market streets pensively, your body language betraying your fear and unfamiliarity. A cool bead of sweat breaks out of the oppressive heat and trickles down your neck and shoulders before being caught by your gown. Your silly, opulent, lacy gown. You feel as though every set of eyes you've passed has flitted your way, disrobing your ruse of royalty and power. You take a deep trembling breath, somewhat fettered by your corset, and try to square your shoulders. Showing weakness, you fear, is worse than deadly here. You need sensible clothing and a real weapon, so at last you set out into the market. Despite your efforts at emoting confidence, your heels let out a jittery clack as you go.

Man and beast alike, fortunately, make a small way for you as you walk. Perhaps still unsure of your position in the hierarchies of hell, perhaps genuinely respectful. Your elaborate garb does draw attention to you... But it also marks you like a poisonous frog, or iridescent octopus. "I may be small, but one touch will have you writhing on the ground in agony!" it seems to say. The thought fills you with a shell of confidence, though in reality your fear and anxiety continues to build by the second.

Thus far, you've had the luxury of only interacting with Nealie, and those carriage pulling nymphomaniac succubi, but now you're confronted with the social implications of your new body. To look up at everyone you speak to. To see just how waifish you are, not in the mirror, but by comparison. Over the two weeks journey you'd almost forgotten how small you had become, but now? It seems like your arms are as thin as the fingers of the bigger men wandering around, and your body, which seemed terribly feminine when you look in the mirror, seems barely mature when compared to the Amazonian demonesses with such developed curves and toned musculature. Your eyes barely peak above the doorknobs of the larger shop doors. You feel like a child.

As you take in your surroundings, an ogre of a demon plows into you, as if you weren't even there, knocking you to the ground and into a pile of rust and soot. Your shell of courage cracks, and despite yourself, your eyes and cheeks flush red and puffy. You're astounded at your own traitorous emotions as you begin to churn with self pity and fear. This body is wretched. These clothes are wretched. You didn't want this and now you're literally stuck in hell about to cry like a little girl before a demon. The thoughts only serve to feed into that loop of distress. You turn your gaze up at the colossal man. You have to crane your neck to spy the man glance over his shoulder at you. His face reveals leather skin, animalistic eyes, and a piggish nose. He smirks and chuckles.

"Respect your betters, doll." He grunts like a swine.

For a moment you're worried you might actually cry, but a flash of rage fills you, whisking away all other emotions. In the blink of an eye, you recall one of the spells from Arvilla's grimoire. A spell you'd have never used even a moment before, but as if possessed by the spirit wrath, you now cannot conceive of doing anything else. The power wells up within your chest, and flows across your tongue like heat and spices. You shout out in an ancient language you don't fully understand. The crowds in the street freeze as energy ripples through the air. A few nearby you dive out of the way of the bolt striking the beast. Rather than explode, or sear his flesh, or even strike him dead, the spell latches onto his form and begins to pull. He squeals as a ghostly apparition is slowly ripped from his body. It's black, and ichorous, but radiates with power. You can see, just like with Nealie's soul, a faint red thrumming heart underneath the inky miasma. Your eyes widen with madness as an intoxicating desire washes over your body. This ichorous thing. You want it, and you will have it. You hold out your hand, stretching it gently towards the shrieking form... Then you touch it, grab it, and tug. The shadow rips from the ogres body like torn paper.

As the shadow plunges into you, your insides churn and rage, erupting with an incredible heat, then calm almost as quickly. When you look up, the pigman stands before you. Eyes placid, and inquisitive. His mouth is wide and pursed. "My..." He speaks much more softly this time, then pauses as if surprised at his own voice. "My apologies, Mistress." He states. "I... behaved... beastly...?" His voice is deep, and rumbles like distant thunder, but has no sharp edge to it. He seems as confused by his words as you, but not a hint of anger or resistance can be detected.

He kneels down and lifts you gently to your feet, then makes a miserable attempt at brushing the rust and soot from your gown. Even kneeling he's much taller than you, but bows his head in respect and asks. "What is it that you wish?"

The crowd beholds this wonder, then slowly returns to their errands, apparently taking your brilliant display of power in stride. As the bustle of the market grows again, one thing is different. Everyone that passes gives you a very wide berth.