story 1:
I've always really adored your art and this setting seems fun! The idea of magic slowly growing out of control is a great story seed.

In the land Aldaraia a minor mage casts spell of protection for the local minors every day. Their spells helping to toughen their skin, let them see in the dark, and know where their fellows are. He finds the work terribly boring.

Day by day, spell by spell he begins to sprout chitin. The spells are becoming automatic but at the same time he can almost smell what each miner is thinking. They are changing too, although they never quite notice it.

Finally, as the changes progress they realize that if just a few of the miner can be pushed into perfection. She'll become the queen she always wanted to be.
Beneath swaying antenna she steps out into the night, spell in hand.

Sorry I'm dealing with a deadline and procrastination creativity go!


story 2:

Amongst the fair houses of Phthalo, every son must strive to serve their house by gaining favor at court. How he hated court. He could play the game, but try as he might he never quite felt comfortable with his reflection.

His friend, his dear friend suggested a simple spell. Form a cocoon of sheets around one's bed and chant a simple spell of confidence. For the first time he loved his reflection in the mirror, it shone to him.

In time he became the light of the court. It seemed natural enough for the other courtiers to be drawn to their light. Maybe it was their charm that kept the courtiers from mentioning the changes.

With each casting of the spell, they found themselves spending longer and longer in the cocoon. Another graceful pair of arms was all the better to brush her hair with. A pair of chitinous antenna to find traitors. Jaws to bite.

Perhaps their friend, their dear friend might prove tinder for her fire? Or another amusement, as thanks for their "friendship".

Story 3
He'd been a brave man. He'd been a brave soldier. Brave enough that when grand old Syczere had called for men to expedition to the Southern Reaches to seek allies, he'd volunteered.

They'd all been fools. The wide eyes of the officer suggested it, and the ambush confirmed it. He'd been lucky,
he supposed. The cold would be gentle compared to the animals.

He'd been caught up in a memory, of warmth, of softness. Then he'd seen the animal tear at the corpse. He'd made up his mind.

He'd said a simple soldier's prayer, taught to him a lifetime ago by some priest or another. Something from some far off Cytherian island. Then he'd sat down next to the animal and eaten.

He'd been changing for a while, he'd been barely feeling the cold for one thing. He'd rarely felt so energetic and strong. He'd been contemplating the fur covering his scars when the survivors screamed.

They'd been as upset as he was. They'd all been set up, some corruption in the heart of grand old Syczere. They'd all been soldiers. They weren't now.

He was going home, the memory of warmth and softness to guide him. He would bring along his own little family and find that corruption in the heart of grand old Syczere.

I changed the next to last post, originally it was: They'd been fools to scream. They'd been prey to fight back. He'd been a solider, He'd been. He wasn't now. Hmm not sure the new one is better. 

Story 4: original version which sucks!
The woman's love was a terrible liar. All of her eyes looked away when she lied, losing their glow for a second. Her tail would flick down, losing it's excitement. The woman loved her all the same, even if they were in the equatorial empire.

Everyday the woman would ask for her love's venom, and everyday her love would give another excuse, another reason why it couldn't be today. Her excuses were always so terrible, her tell so obvious, her embrace so warm. 

One day she declared the clouds were too numerous. Another day the sun was shining too brightly. Another day she'd consider it after they made tarts. Always tomorrow, so why not enjoy today?

The woman didn't mind. It was so nice to be looked at by all of those eyes at once, to command such attention. The forests of place were so dangerous, but she'd never felt so safe.

The next to last excuse was that the woman could sample her love's venom if she held onto a package for her. She'd almost left the forest and made it home when she saw the smoke behind her.

She was there in time to see the ashes. She was too late for her love. Too late for tears. Far too late for revenge. All of her loves eyes hung open.

In the package there was the last excuse, the last of the tarts and crystal vial of her love's venom. Her last gift.

The venom was truthful, if bitter sweet. She'd seen further, run faster, felt stronger.

story 4: new better version
The woman's love was a seamstress, of a sort. The woman was a witch, of a sort. They were both of the sort that were doggedly persued.

Everytime the witch's love said it couldn't be done, all of her eyes looked away when she said so, losing their glow for a second. Her abdomen would flick down, losing it's excitement. 

The witch hated this, hated to see her love troubled. So every time she looked back into all of her eyes and said it could be done. Even with an exoskeleton, her embrace was so soft.

They'd spent many late nights, shaping the silk into arms and legs. In shaping the dummy, she was shaping herself tobe more like her love. More pairs of eyes for lower light, more legs to climb better.

It was a near thing the witch had to admit. The hut had burned well, and the investigators seemed convinced by the dummies. 

But she'd gained height and eyes that innocent, truthful, village girls didn't have. Still she'd spun enough frantic illusions to convince them.

Still as their pursuerers walked away, they retreated to make a home in the trees of Pergola. To spin and spend a life together.

The original idea was more tragic, but heck, why not give em a win?

story 5:
The Machine was good for: Being observed. Their cage was made of glass, transparent on all sides. They were carefully watched, poked, prodded by a procession of students. This is just a machine the teachers would say.

The Machine was good for: Observing. This was the sister magical academy to the one in the capital of Maur. That there were more students than ever, but less teachers to teach them safety. That they weren't being watched closely.

The Machine was good for: Listening. To the students anxieties, grievences and worries. With so many students it was harder than ever for a student to distinguish themselves. They all worried of being tithed to the dragon.

The Machine was good for: Teaching. They'd never taught anything so grand as magic. They'd been a locksmith. Teaching how to keep some in and some out. Their students all clamored for help in opening a new type of lock now though.

The Machine was good for: Being innocent. No really. They'd been experimenting with a trick lock from Aldaraia, it would relock itself with magic. Everytime they'd almost get it, their hand would grow a touch more metalic, their mind a touch more ordered.

when they'd finally gotten it and gone downstairs in the morning; their students had put them in chains. They'd unlocked the chains a dozen times, but kept getting caught again.

The Machine was good for: Granting wishes. Really they didn't deserve any credit. The student would be doing all the work. Just think how amazed their instructors would be when they'd mastered such an advanced spell. But it had to be done when the moon was it's zenith.

The Machine was good for: Timing. The noise of their own gears and clicks provided a kind of clock, and they could track the pale face of the moon. It's slow progression taunting them with it's freedom.

The Machine was good for: Running.

Story 6:
The sailor had finally found his land legs after the third day on the island. The clouds of the storm that knocked him overboard had flitted away. Surely his friends would see the fire and rescue him in no time.

His friends, the crew had been overjoyed to see him. The One in particular. So overjoyed they'd sung songs to celebrate, the sailor had never heard this one before. It barely talked about the ocean at all, instead it spoke of the sky and was full of a servile becoming.

The One with the watchful eyes had seemed to focus the song the sailor. The crew had sung along in perfect harmony. Had The One always had eyes so watchful, voice so melodious, feathers so colorful?

So he'd sung another song under his breath, and nodded and went along. Three days away from the crew and they seemed changed. Their eyes were distant, and their feathers still downy.

The sailor waited until The One was asleep and sung old songs. Songs of the beautiful deeps and the things that swam in them. Songs sailors of the Equatorial Empire knew to never sing. The crew changed as they were could hardly help but join in.

The sailor could watch the crew around him change. He was becoming stronger, more sleek, more feminine as he, she became a predator. The act of becoming was a joyous thing indeed. There was a gentle celebration among the crew, and the sailor joined in as a learning exercise.

The One had been awoken by the singing and flown up the steering wheel. They were directing the ship onto the cliffs and scanning the screaming skies it seemed the The One was One of many. A sore loser indeed.

So the sailor had run The One through and turned the steering wheel towards home. No not home, a free port. Her crew were becoming privateers from the looks of things, better free. Well if they survived this next bit.

story 7:
With the sultan there was always a "but". The woman was a hero to be sure, to save the the oasis and keep the orcs at bay. But, and the sultan would pause there. She was a woman.

Questing and heroics had come naturally to her, but it was not without danger. The arrow with a scorpion on it had seemed less pressing than the bandits rushing her. Than the captives that needed rescuing.

The celebrations in the light of the moon had been joyous, freedom always tastes sweet. But, as the night wore on the hero found her clothes ill-fitting, a strange shiny growth coming out form her skin. A strange strength and desire growing ever stronger.

The hero despaired upon seeing her changed reflection. She thought herself hideous, claws to capture prey and a stinger for delivering the final blow. But the ones she'd rescued didn't seem to mind, telling her of her beauty, telling her how she deserved to be worshipped.

The hero worried terribly, but in the light of the day she once again had only two legs, and no claws except her weapons. So she'd lead the captives home with a blush on her cheeks, they'd need food and water and places out of the sun during the day. 

The sultan's but had come especially late this time. Cruely late. Yes they'd been rescued, yes they had nothing. But, they couldn't stay here. He'd forbid it as long as he lived. She had nodded, those were agreeable terms.

She was a hero but, as she climbed the sheer walls of the sultan's palace on eight strong, chitinous feet, she decided she deserved something more. A reward and role more fitting of her. No buts about it.

story X:
the creature had lived in the southern reaches a long long time, it had seen empires live and fall. Briefly been worshipped as a god. But it was the only one of it's kind.

Story 8:
The missionary did not carry any doubt she thought. she knew she carried very little hope. To go to the isles of Cytheria was not a wise task. Even less so to spread words of protection agains the wilding of magic.

The missionary carried suspicions that she had been sent out to remove her, that her enemies thought her better lost on some spirit taken island than in the cloister. 

The journey was hard, the waves were not calmed by prayer she found. But the village to foster her while she did her work accepted her gladly. All can be joined into one family they had said. This place and it's people were beneath her.

She had given her first sermon in the village's holy area, there was an icon of all things, a wasp, there. She had preached of the need for temperance in the face of temptation, on how important it was to refuse wild magics.

The villagers had all listened quite politely. Then they had invited her to their own ceremony of worship. She had acceptedt to avoid souring them to her message. Their's was in the dead of night, and involved rather less preaching. Much of it was dance and song, some of it wasn't.

There was a particular reversal that caught the missionaries attention, an act of giving from a woman to a man that despite everything she could not tear her eyes away from. To see a broad shouldered man reduced to begging. A rude blush had crept on her cheeks.

She knew no scripture about such things, and suspected strongly it would be frowned upon. The next day she delivered a thundering sermon against indecent acts. And then in the night she found herself again transfixed.

The flickering firelight allowed one's mind to conjure phantasms, but despite that the missionary was sure that in the trees beyond a thousand eyes watched, which served only to deepen her blush.

By the third night she had been invited to join. Her hesitation lasted a noble second. she found a desperate pious truth in the act, a throbbing intoxicating sense of power. She had never felt more herself.

In the morning she wondered if she had taken on some aspect of the wasp. Her waist seemed thinner, her bust perhaps a touch more geneous. But what she desired most was absent.

She became a dual missionary, spreading two faiths, seeming irrconciable. But with each sermon, she became a stronger adherent of the other. Perhaps if she repeated her worship, she would retain what she so desired.

In time her missionary work ended. She was to return home to the cloister. Though she was sad to leave the friends she'd made, she was full of a certainty she would enjoy home. She had plans to fill her enemies with joy as well.


Story 9: 
The demon was older than most of her kind. The more earthly pursuits that so bedeviled most demons had left her. For a long time she had resided near the heart of Equitorial Empire consumed in study of the heavenly spheres.

But being old and knowledgeable means that you are summoned when some king can't understand what was happening. To be truthful the demon did not know what was happening to magic either. The spheres kept to their regular rotations, perhaps unconcerned. 

Still she found herself brought before a great circle of councilors, wise men and women. They interrogated at her at length, testing theories and ideas against her. Conjuring spells and measuring the effects best they could. She found herself dreadfully bored.

The conference wore on, and even the high minded demon could feel herself affected. It was difficult not feel flush with every spell conjured, to see how her compatriots were shifting into forms more suitable, more truthful. 

It would be simple enough to push the conference into corruption. The spells to weave lust and affection practically bit at her finger tips. She deserved to be happy didn't she? There were already a few open defectors, asked to leave.

She stepped out to excuse herself in the cool night air. The stars were so very bright. She found herself changing before her eyes, sprouting feathery wings as her shape changed to something unfamilar. Something almost perfect. 

She felt almost divine. The magic, skies above the magic. Perhaps this was a sign from above or below. What to do now? Or perhaps even the divines were affected. The heavenly spheres would turn all the same she was sure.


story 10: Southern reaches cursed artifact, not published version
The adventurer was a chancer, a gambler and if you were feeling less polite, a fool. Many had attempted to claim the southern reaches over the years, decades, centuries. In such a place surely treasure, even cursed treasure could be found.

Ship captains make money on fare even if their cargo is foolish or not. So he had set out to the southern reaches with a party of similar fools. Adventure was surely better than boredom or obscurity.

They had tracked across the reaches in search of anything likely. Mostly they found the camps of similar parties. Finally as they summited a ridge they spotted a grand house in the distance.

The house was curiously, suspiciously empty. The wisest among them said it was foolish to continue and that they should turn back. And did when the rest continued. All the better to split the spoils amongst one fewer.

They searched the house haphazardly, ransacking whatever valuables they could find. When it became obvious that the occupants would not be returning, they each retired to different rooms. Through some quick thinking the fool secured the master's bedroom.

The jewels had been looted of course, but he'd freed some gold gilding from


Story 10: alternate idea hmm it's pretty inspid but cthulu mythos riff? A tentacled idol promising an infinity of pleasure. 

The adventurer was a chancer, a gambler and if you were feeling less polite, a fool. Many had attempted to claim the Southern Reaches over the years, decades, centuries. In such a place surely treasure, even cursed treasure could be found.

Her party had shipped out to a likely cove, even from a distance it was obvious that it had been inhabited once. A strange looking scarecrow overlooked the bluffs around the cove. It'd been made from ocean materials, the seaweed hands looking almost like tentacles.

They'd swept through the structures there. It was a strange hodgepodge, clearly peoples from all over, not the natives of the southern reaches. But it was a collections across decades, perhaps centuries. Something seemed to attract them.

The party was uneasy, but sleeping in the buildings was better than the windswept tundra. That night the fool slept soundly, dreams flooding their mind. The dark ocean of oblivion felt different, dreams were rarely so warm and conforting.

These were full of pleasant feelings, gentle caresses that danced away whenever the fool tried to focus on them. A dream of being lulled ever so gently, rocked by gentle waves.

The next morning one of the fool's party found that there were caves surrounding the cove. These had clearly been explored. Perhaps treasure lay within. The fool found entering the caves almost nostalgic.

To adventure and map the caves was the labor of many days. They were clearly not the first, but the prospect of treasure was strong. They would be wiser, better, different.

Every night the fool slept better and better. The gentle caresses had moved up in intensity, to be stroked by the unknowable darkness filled them with joy. It knew the fool, loved the fool. How could she not love it back?

In the darkness of sleep the fool could feel herself changing. Her form was so limited, there was a writhing infinity of pleasure all around her. Was there any difference between herself and the black sea? Where did one end and the other begin?

Finally they found what must be the largest chamber, deep within the earth. A shore of glittering sand lit by the gentle waves of the glowing ocean. There stood a dark idol, impossible to behold and comprehend. To look was to know truth.
The fool and most of her party prostrated themselves before it. Their forms shifting like clouds of billowing steam as their minds were freed from their petty shackles. They become perfected, becoming amalgamations of human and other.

All but one, perhaps the wisest, or most foolish of them. They ran screaming. The others moved to chase them, their forms shifting to predatory perfection, only to be stopped by the fool. Their form had shifted into an icon of truth. A father undreamed.

The one that ran would tell others of what they saw here. They would bring more to help complete the family, he said. In the meantime he would be the father of a new faith for the new age.

Coda:
And done. (at least for now.) I was really struggling with a project and this was a great palette cleanser. I make a CYOA game about turning into monster girls. I'd of put that, but since it's all in second person it doesn't fit well. I do have one though:
Ron was chosen to learn magic at a young age, he would cast spells for fertility for farmers and look after livestock. That never appealed to him. His great love is fire and spells of change. A dangerous thing indeed in world of Tamor. drawn by @inkyfluffs
He fell in with a group of other young adventurers overseen by an old brave. They go about righting wrongs and getting laid. If things ever get too serious he can always use magic to fix it right? You know what they say about those who play with fire.
Good luck with your art and writing, it's always super cool!