Blood.
With a twitch of his upturned nose, Fuchsia was quick to confirm the scent, even as it danced with the fragrance of the wet grass and bed of yellow maple leaves he laid on. He rubbed his flushed cheek against the mottled foliage, too tired to move much beyond that.
This time the change was harder than the first—his body drew it out hesitantly, like it didn't want to contort or break in the ways necessary to complete the haphazard transformation. It was exasperating.
The elongating of his spine had morphed into a curved, bushy tail. A throbbing headache struck him as a fresh pair of furry ears sprung from his wavy hair. But like the rise and fall of the tide at the behest of the moons, this was unavoidable.
It wasn’t always this way.
How was he supposed to know that messing with a pouty, dopey looking witch would lead to him being cursed to be some freakish, deformed quadruped?
His pointed ears flicked and a snarl revealed the fangs tucked beneath his lips at the recollection. He was, mostly, minding his own business that day as the witch shuffled around the market like a lost child—wide eyed and clutching her cape tightly to herself. It wasn’t his fault that she was being such an easy target. Eventually, someone was bound to try and pickpocket her.
It was Fuchsia’s misfortune of being the first to attempt.
She just looked so unaware. Distracted. Or at least she was until some weird light flashed as he slipped a piece of paper from her pocket. Though in hindsight, maybe it was a setup. She certainly had no problem pulling her wand out in broad daylight, like the laws prohibiting magic casting meant nothing.
Witches should have warning signs: “Beware! Will curse you if I am called Pinky or if you try to steal my coins. And the curse will be seriously half assed.” He scoffed before sighing heavily. Or he could have left her alone in the first place…
As he wrestled his fate the light winds around him shifted. Blood. More of it by the stronger smell.
Except, it was a bit different. The metallic hints that were expected weren’t anything like the sweet, tantalizing aroma that tickled his nose now. It was as if the blood was lathered in something deeper, richer. Syrup, honey. Tempting.
Either there was a shit ton of the stuff or someone had spiked their blood with the equivalent of werewolf catnip.
A low grumble in his throat sounded more akin to a growl as his eyes opened and narrowed at the treeline. He then twisted around in the leaves until he could sit upright on his hocks. Then he grimaced.
“Fuck,” he said out loud to himself. “Did I attack someone on the way here?”
That was another delightful fun bonus that came with the change. Besides the furry add-ons and heightened senses, the blinding pain of rearranging bones and pulled muscles made his memory a little bit hazy.
The first time his change had occurred, he had woken up on an entirely different island huddled up with a much larger, more wolfy werewolf—the kind that had no trace of human left aside from the watchful, empathetic hazel eyes. Fuchsia really needed that empathy. Washing the blood from his skin that night had been a disaster.
Shaking the thought, and subsequently the dew off himself, he softly crawled forward. He was still too weak to fully stand, but that didn’t keep him from slinking on all fours through the foliage between the bare trees.
Despite the awkwardness, the thickened skin on his furry fingertips and large, flat paws of his hindlegs made climbing over the fallen branches and thorny shrubs painless and swift. He didn’t have to go far before the sound of crashing waves and smell of wet rocks clued him in on the approaching cliffside. His ears swiveled to detect any nearby movement, however, the thrashing waters also made it harder to hear.
That was the only reason he cautiously peeked around the bend.
He was relieved to see that there wasn't a mass of piled bodies or hordes of people cowering in terror. In fact, the single, masculine body leaning against a tree trunk was a pleasant surprise.
White hair that competed with the light from the moons and the softness of the linen shirt he wore would have been enough for the brunet to keep staring. But the fact that he was folded over at the waist, head hung low, made Fuchsia concerned enough to call out to him.
“Hey… Did I attack you? Or something.”
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