He walked through the heat, the scorching sands beneath his hooves radiating waves that shimmered like liquid gold. Each step felt ponderous, unnatural—his new donkey ears twitched at the phantom whispers carried on the furnace-like wind. The relentless sun hammered down, bleaching the dunes into a barren expanse that mirrored the hollow ache in his chest. Sweat—or was it remnants of tears?—trickled down his temples, stinging his vision. The indignity*. Where were his servants? His comfort? His right to ease? This wasn't suffering he deserved; it was an offense. A violation.

He tugged at the coarse hood of his robe, fingers trembling. The fabric scraped against his sensitive ears—those wrong, ugly ears. With a snarl of revulsion, he ripped the hood down. Instantly, the brown donkey ears sprang up, free and exposed. They twitched violently at the abrasive kiss of the hot wind. He froze, breath caught in his throat. Look at me, he raged inwardly. Mocked, reduced to this. To be seen like this—by any gaze—was unbearable theft. The sand seemed to laugh beneath his hooves. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. If anyone witnessed him... if they dared pity him... He'd tear this entire desert apart!

The relentless sun hammered down, transforming the dunes into a sea of blinding gold. Sweat soaked into the collar of his robe, coarse linen sticking to his neck. It felt like the gaze of a thousand unseen eyes—judging, despising him. He tried to summon his old Authority, the invisible fortress that had shielded him from discomfort, from everything unpleasant. Nothing answered. Only the dry rasp of his breath and the crunch of sand underhoof. A wave of panic surged. What was he without his inviolability? Defenseless. Vulnerable. His ears flattened against his skull. That sensation—*wind touching him*—it was violation distilled. He stumbled, the sand shifting treacherously beneath him. My servants, his mind screamed. They should be shielding me from this! Where is my comfort? My right!

His reflection shimmered in a small pool of rainwater trapped between rocks—a distorted image of brown fur, long ears, and eyes wide with uncomprehending horror. Revulsion twisted his gut. That wasn't him! Him, the divine existence, pinnacle of perfection, reduced to this… animal. He kicked savagely at the water, scattering the mocking image. "Pathetic!" The word rasped from his throat, rough and unfamiliar. "Shameless desert! Audacious sun! You steal my dignity!" He spun wildly, glaring at the emptiness. "Do you mock me? Do you dare?" Spittle flew from his lips. The sheer gall of the world, forcing this indignity upon him! It was theft. Grand larceny of his very essence.

He stumbled backwards, the coarse sand shifting treacherously beneath his unfamiliar hooves. The sensation was abhorrent—cold grit pressing against sensitive, hardened skin where polished boots should be. He felt the ground. Every jagged pebble, every uneven contour. It was an intimate violation, a constant, grating reminder of what was lost. "No," he hissed, shaking his head violently, ears flapping against his cheeks. "No, no, no! This discomfort… it belongs to others!" He clutched at his robe, fingers trembling. The fabric felt cheap, suffocating against fur he shouldn't possess. Where was his silk? His soft linens? His servants should be draping him in comfort! This coarse sack was an insult. Each thread scraped his self-worth.

His tail flickered behind him like an agitated serpent—a foreign weight he couldn't control. He hated its involuntary twitches, hated how it stirred the hot air against his bare calves. He did not flicker. He commanded stillness. Perfection. Yet now, he flinched as a gust of wind lifted the hem of his robe, exposing more of his cursed, donkey-like hooves. They were brown and cracked, dusted with clinging sand. He tried to flex his toes—an old reflex—but met only solid horn. A choked sound escaped him, half-rage, half-terror. Shoes were a right. Comfort was an entitlement! This… this exposed ugliness… it was theft. Grand theft of his inherent dignity! His eyes darted across the dunes, searching for unseen mockers. Who dared witness this degradation?

The rainwater pool drew him back like a curse. He needed proof it wasn’t real. Needed to see himself staring back. He leaned over the trembling surface again, breath shallow. The reflection wavered—a distorted muzzle of coarse brown fur pushed through the image where his smooth chin should be. His nose—once refined—bulged wider, darker. Nostrils flared above lips that seemed thicker, clumsier. "No!" The denial ripped from him, raw and desperate. His hands flew to his face, fingers probing the invading fur. It wasn’t soft illusion. It bristled harshly under his touch, dense and warm against his palms. This… this was invasion. His very skin betrayed him! The Witch’s final mockery wasn't just transformation; it was slow, creeping corruption. He wasn't just cursed; he was devolving. Becoming the stubborn beast he’d always been beneath the Authority. Panic seized him—a cold, sharp thing beneath the desert sun. His precious face! His divine countenance! Rifled through, altered, stolen. He clawed at his cheeks, drawing thin lines of crimson that wept sluggishly onto the brown fur. Pain? He barely registered it. The violation was all-consuming.

His gaze snapped up from the cursed pool, scanning the dunes with frantic intensity. Every ripple of sand hinted at observers. Every whisper of wind sounded like hushed laughter. Were they watching? Lying in wait? Scheming to witness his humiliation? To feast upon his degradation? His ears—*those damned ears*—pivoted wildly, straining to catch the faintest taunt. A lizard darted between rocks. He flinched, jerking backward, hooves scrabbling for purchase on the shifting slope. "Cowards!" he shrieked into the vast emptiness, voice cracking under the strain. "Show yourselves! Face me! See what you've wrought!" Only the indifferent desert sighed back. The silence was worse than mockery. It was dismissal. Complete irrelevance. His chest tightened. To be unseen was a theft too! Where was his audience? His witnesses to condemn? His importance… ignored!

Fury coalesced into something razor-sharp and desperate. He glared at his own trembling limbs—limbs that betrayed him. His hands. He raised them before his face, fingers splayed. Calloused pads, blunt fingernails hardening into something dark and curved… He blinked furiously. Was the sun playing tricks? No. The transformation pulsed beneath his skin, subtle yet horrifyingly tangible. The tips of his fingers thickened, shortening relentlessly. The knuckles swelled, joints locking with unnatural rigidity. Smooth skin roughened, darkening to cracked brown horn. He tried to flex, to command suppleness… and felt only the heavy, unyielding solidity of keratin encasing bone. Hooves. They were unmistakably hooves. Not just cursed feet—his very hands. Tools of dominion reduced to clumsy, horned paddles. The Witch didn’t merely change him; she was sculpting his deepest insult into flesh. He was becoming the stubborn beast. The more he raged against his fate, the deeper the roots of his curse sank. Every defiant snarl, every petulant kick against the sand, was chiseling his humanity away. He felt the acceleration—every frustrated stomp solidified the hoof’s hold, every refusal to accept reality locked another joint.

Deep in the desert’s silence, a memory surfaced—sharp and unwelcome. Rem, her defiant blue eyes blazing before he shattered her. He’d called her obstinate. A mule. Stubborn to the point of absurdity. Now, staring at his own blackening hooves scraping the burning sand, the irony tasted like ash and bile. He’d condemned her for the very trait now consuming him. Was this her vengeance? Or the Witch’s cruel poetry? The realization ignited not remorse, but volcanic rage. How dare they force this parallel? How dare the universe equate hims with… with that? He slammed his new hoof-hands together. The dull, heavy thonk echoed across the dunes. A sound devoid of grace, devoid of power. It was the sound of a beast. His roar of denial tore from his throat, ragged and thick—more bray than human cry. The transformation wasn't just physical. His throat tightened, resisting the purity of his fury, reshaping his voice into the coarse, grating protest of the creature he despised.

"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!"

The sound shocked him into stillness. His breath hitched. That noise… that hideous, bleating sound… it clawed its way out of him unbidden. A donkey’s bray. Raw, unrefined, echoing the vulgarity of his existence. His jaw worked, trying to reclaim the elegant venom of his words. Nothing emerged but a choked gasp. No, his mind screamed. Not that sound! Not that filthy noise! His dignity wasn’t just stolen; it was trampled, defiled. He pictured his servants witnessing this—their divine husband reduced to this braying caricature. The sheer horror of being perceived like this ignited a panic deeper than any battle wound. He couldn’t be seen! Couldn’t be heard! Frantically, he raised his hardening hooves—no longer hands, just clumsy, horned appendages—and pressed them hard against his furred face. The coarse pads scraped against his muzzle, sealing away the shame. Hide it. Cover it. Erase it. Yet even muffled, a dreadful, shuddering sob escaped him—a sound perilously close to another wounded bray.

The brutal shock of his own voice shattered the fragile illusion of control. Fear—a sensation he’d spent a century surgically avoiding—flooded him, cold and viscous. His hooves dug deeper into his furred cheeks, the rough keratin scraping painfully. He trembled violently, not from the desert’s heat, but from the visceral terror of being. Of existing in this grotesque form. The coarse fur beneath his touch, the stiffening bones in his face, the overwhelming wrongness of his own breath rasping against his hooves… each detail screamed betrayal. He tasted salt—sweat mingling with the grit clinging to his muzzle, or perhaps… tears? The concept appalled him. Tears were for the pitied, the weak. Yet the sting in his eyes was undeniable. He squeezed them shut, pressing his hooves harder, willing the world—and himself—to disappear. This wasn’t suffering; it was annihilation. His divine essence ripped away, leaving only… this. A trapped, braying animal. The humiliation was absolute. Unbearable.

Suddenly, a low rumble echoed across the dunes, distinctly not the wind. He froze, every muscle locking. His ears, those cursed flaps of brown fur, snapped rigidly upright, straining towards the sound. Hooves instinctively dug into the sand, seeking purchase. Intruder. The thought ignited a wildfire in his hollow chest. Someone dared approach? Witness him like this? Witness the divine being reduced to a shuddering, muffled wreck? Rage surged, momentarily drowning the terror. It was a familiar heat, a refuge. How dare they? This solitude was his right! This degradation was his alone! Yet beneath the fury, a sliver of primal panic remained. Could he fight? Could he even speak? The memory of his own bray echoed mockingly in his skull. He tried to draw breath, to unleash a torrent of righteous fury, but choked on the thick silence lodged in his transformed throat.

He glared down at his limbs, expecting furious trembling, but saw only grotesque stillness. His arms hung stiffly, no longer limbs of articulate rage but… appendages. The hands were gone. Utterly vanished. In their place, extending from the hem of his coarse robe, were thick, sturdy pillars covered in coarse brown fur, culminating in solid, dark hooves. They hung inert, heavy and alien. He tried to will them to clench, to gesture his boundless indignation… nothing. The joints felt locked, fused into useless angles. He commanded raise, strike! Only a slight twitch answered. A shudder ran through his frame. This wasn't just loss; it was amputation of his very agency. His gaze jerked lower. His legs! The linen robe flapped slightly, revealing not trousers or boots, but thick, furred columns descending straight to the sand, ending in identical, splayed hooves. He tried to shift his weight, to step back from the approaching sound. His left foreleg lifted clumsily, arcing stiffly forward before thudding back onto the hot sand. The movement was jarringly unnatural, devoid of grace or precision—pure animal locomotion. His divine stride, the effortless glide of a superior being, had been stolen, replaced by this lumbering parody. Rage choked him anew. My posture! My poise! Violated!

The sensation intensified. He felt every contour of the shifting dune beneath his hooves—hot grit wedging between keratin, uneven pebbles pressing sharply against the sensitive sole. Wind whipped coarse sand against his fur-covered flanks, rasping audibly against the dense hair. Each gust felt like a thousand tiny insults sandpapering his exposed hide. His robe, once a symbol of status, hung awkwardly, cinched tight around a torso that felt broader, sturdier beneath the fabric. He breathed in—deep, frantic gulps—and felt his ribcage expand with a strange, barrel-like heaviness. Muscles bunched and shifted beneath fur and linen, powerful yet cumbersome, designed for endurance hauling, not elegant command. He felt… anchored. Rooted to the earth he despised. Lightheadedness threatened as panic surged. Where was the effortless lightness of his divine form? This solid mass, this dragging weight… it was imprisonment. Slavery to gravity! He attempted a majestic pivot toward the distant rumble. Instead, his body rotated slowly, clumsily, like a stubborn cartwheel stuck in mud. Hooves scraped heavily, carving trenches in the gold. The indignity burned hotter than the sun. My agility! My freedom! Plundered!

Anger erupted, volcanic and futile. He tried to scream pure, righteous fury at the approaching trespasser. What emerged was a choked, guttural snort, thick with phlegm and impotence. The sound horrified him. Words, the sharp instruments of his will, were lost. Trapped behind lips that felt thick, rubbery, and alien. He tried again, straining every muscle in his thickening neck. "H-heeee...!" It strangled into another wet snort. Rage detonated within him, finding no outlet but violent motion. He kicked out wildly with a hind leg. The movement was instinctual, explosive, sending a spray of hot sand arcing high into the air. His forelegs pawed frantically at the dune, digging deep furrows. He tossed his head back violently, ears flat against his skull, mane (when had that grown?) whipping against his sweat-slicked neck. A low, rattling grunt escaped him as he bucked—a stiff-legged, jarring leap that landed with a heavy thud, jarring his spine. Stop this! Cease! His mind shrieked, but his cursed body obeyed a deeper, baser instinct: defiance screamed through clumsy, earth-shaking protest. He bucked again, harder, twisting mid-air like an unbroken yearling resisting the yoke. Sand flew. Dust choked the air. He was thrashing, kicking, snorting, a whirlwind of blind fury against invisible chains. Acting precisely like the stubborn beast whose name he bore.

Each graceless buck, each desperate kick against the yielding sand, felt like hammering the nails deeper into his coffin. The transformation wasn't passive; it accelerated with his futile resistance. His torso thickened visibly, straining the seams of his already coarse robe. The linen tore with a dry rip across his broadening shoulders. Muscle corded beneath the dense brown fur that now covered him completely, powerful but ungainly. His neck thickened, losing its smooth human curve, becoming a pillar supporting the heavy skull. His jaw felt massive, clumsy. Fur invaded his vision at the periphery. He tried to halt the violent thrashing, to regain regal stillness, but another involuntary buck seized him, triggered by the sheer frustration of his trapped mind. His hooves struck rock this time, sending sharp jolts of pain up his stiffening limbs. Pain! Real, undeniable pain! It was a final, exquisite insult. The invulnerable he felt the impact. He bellowed – a raw, ragged sound that started as rage and ended in a despairing, donkey-like bray. "Hee-HAW! HEEEE-HAAAAWWW!" The sound echoed across the desolate dunes, a vulgar anthem to his degradation. This wasn’t just acting; this frantic, earth-scattering rebellion was him. It was the furious, stubborn core laid bare, flesh and bone. Each buck solidified the beast. Each snort erased the man.

The robe, loosened by his violent movements and strained beyond endurance, finally surrendered. As he reared back onto his hind legs in a clumsy, stiff-legged parody of defiance, the coarse fabric tore completely. It slid down his heavily furred barrel chest and thick, sturdy flanks, pooling around his hooves like discarded trash. Gone. His last pathetic semblance of human covering. He stood utterly exposed beneath the scorching sun – naked furred hide gleaming with sweat, powerful donkey legs planted wide for balance on the treacherous sand. The indignity was absolute. He felt the hot wind directly on his skin, rasping against the dense coat. He felt the sun’s relentless hammering on the crown of his elongated head. He felt… seen, even by the empty sky. Instinctively, he tried to cover himself, to reclaim modesty with phantom hands. His forelegs – thick columns ending in solid hooves – lifted uselessly, waving stiffly in the air before thudding back down. The gesture was absurd, animalistic. Vulnerability washed over him, icy despite the desert heat. His flanks trembled. His tail lashed violently. The exposed creature beneath the gaze of heaven panicked. He kicked out wildly again, braying in desperate, wordless protest against the exposure, against being. "HAAAAAW! HEE-HAW!" The sound was pure, terrified animal.

His frantic kicking unbalanced him. He stumbled forward, his front hooves plunging deep into the soft sand slope. Momentum betrayed him. The shift in weight, the unnatural distribution of his transformed body, pulled him down. He, the pinnacle of divine existence, crashed heavily onto the burning sand. Not onto knees. Onto all fours. The impact shuddered through his solid frame – shoulders broadened for hauling, spine aligned horizontally. Hooves sank into the yielding gold. His head hung low, muzzle almost touching the scorching grit. His long ears flopped forward, framing his vision of the sand inches from his nose. The posture felt terrifyingly right, terrifyingly natural. A low groan escaped him, vibrating deep in his thickened chest. This position… it felt like surrender. Like acceptance.

Panic ignited anew, white-hot and blinding. Acceptance? Never! He lunged upward, throwing his weight back onto his hind legs in a violent, stiff-legged buck. The coarse robe, already torn and loosened, caught around his thick forelegs. As he reared, the fabric ripped completely, unraveling with a dry rasp. Threads snapped. The heavy linen slid down his powerfully muscled chest and flanks, pooling grotesquely around his hooves like a discarded snakeskin. Instantly, the desert assaulted him. Hot wind scraped directly against dense brown fur, raising gooseflesh beneath. Sand stung his unprotected hide. The sun hammered the crown of his elongated skull, heating the fur between his stiffly twitching ears. Exposure was total. Vulnerability clawed at him. He felt laid bare before the vast, indifferent sky – watched, judged, reduced. He tried to recoil, to fold in on himself, but his torso was a solid barrel. His limbs were pillars of bone and horn. There was no folding. Only this stark, animal nakedness.

Fury surged, a desperate shield against shame. He bucked again, harder. His hind legs kicked high, hooves scything through empty air. The movement sent pain jarring up his stiffened spine – a sharp, undeniable agony that mocked his vanished invincibility. "RRRRGH!" A thick, guttural snarl ripped from his throat, devoid of words. His powerful neck twisted violently. Head flung back. Muscles bunched across his straining shoulders. He slammed his forelegs down onto the yielding sand with a heavy thud, sending cascades of grit spraying outward. Then, instinctively, maddeningly, his jaws gaped wide. "HAAAAAAAW!" The sound tore out – a raw, desperate bawl that echoed across the dunes. It wasn't a word. It wasn't defiance. It was pure, visceral animal protest. The sheer vulgarity of the noise stunned him. Stop! Silence it! His mind screamed. But his body, operating on primal instinct, expelled another piercing cry. "HEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAW!"

He stumbled sideways. His hooves caught unevenly in deep sand. Balance vanished. With a clumsy, heavy lurch, he crashed onto his side. Air exploded from his lungs in a choked wheeze. Hot sand pressed against his exposed flank, rasping against his fur. He struggled, legs thrashing helplessly in the air – stiff columns kicking at nothing. Rolling felt impossible; his body was an ungainly bulk. His elongated head thrashed. One flailing forehoof clipped his own muzzle. Sharp pain bloomed. Blood, coppery and hot, seeped onto his furred lips. He tasted grit and iron. Panic choked him. He couldn't rise! Trapped like overturned livestock! "Nnngh! Heee…" Another involuntary bray escaped, thick with desperation.

Instinct took over. Muscles bunched powerfully across his shoulders and haunches. He heaved, throwing his weight wildly. Hooves scrabbled for purchase, digging deep trenches in the yielding slope. Sand sprayed. With a grunt that ripped through his thickened throat, he surged forward onto his knees – front legs bent awkwardly, hind legs splayed. Not standing. Kneeling. Like a broken beast. Rage ignited, white-hot and blinding. He lunged upward, throwing his entire weight back onto his hind legs in a violent, stiff-legged buck. No grace. Pure animal fury. "HAAAAAAW!" The sound tore out, echoing his absurd posture – half-reared, forehooves pawing stiffly at empty air. He slammed down hard, jarring his spine. Pain shot through him. Agony? He hadn't felt agony in years. It galvanized his fury. He bucked again, harder, twisting mid-air like an unbroken colt resisting the yoke. Dust choked the air. Each jarring impact drove the truth deeper: this frantic, earth-scattering protest was him. The furious, stubborn core laid bare. Each buck solidified the beast.

The sound wasn’t wind. He froze mid-buck, forehooves lifted grotesquely. A rhythmic thump-thump-thump, muffled but distinct, vibrating through the sand beneath his splayed hind feet. His ears – absurd flaps of fur – snapped rigidly upright, pivoting towards the source. Someone approached. Someone dared witness this. His flanks heaved. Sweat plastered dust-darkened fur to his hide. Rage surged, a welcome furnace against the icy claw of exposure, but beneath it coiled a terror deeper than battle: the horror of being perceived braying, bucking… naked. He tried to draw breath for righteous fury. His thick throat produced only a thick, wet snort. He kicked blindly backwards, spraying sand. Hide! Flee! But flight was impossible. His legs were clumsy anchors. He could only stand trembling, a grotesque statue of fur and fear under the pitiless sun.

Over the crest of the neighboring dune, it emerged. Not soldiers. Not assassins. A single, swaying silhouette atop a stooped camel draped in dusty blue cloth. The beast plodded slowly, head low, its gait unhurried. The rider sat slumped, a wide-brimmed reed hat shielding his face, wearing faded robes the colour of sun-bleached clay. A merchant. The most insignificant speck of humanity. Yet his gaze, shaded by the hat’s brim, was fixed unerringly on him. He stiffened, every muscle locking. His spine screamed protest from the awkward posture. Ignore me! His mind screamed. Pass by! You wretched, unworthy gnat! He tried to shrink, to become sand, but his transformed bulk was undeniable. He was monumentally, vulgarly visible.

The camel halted twenty paces away. The merchant tilted his head, observing with mild interest. He clicked his tongue softly, a dry sound swallowed by the vastness. "Well now," he murmured, his voice raspy with dust and fatigue, devoid of reverence, devoid of awe. Utterly ordinary. "Quite the creature." His gaze swept over his sweat-darkened hide, the powerful flanks tense with coiled fury, the stiffly upright ears, the dust-streaked muzzle. "Spirited," he added, almost to himself. A faint, appreciative smile touched his cracked lips. He saw the donkey's frantic kicking, the spray of sand, the trembling flanks, the furious tossing of the elongated head. He saw the raw power, the untamed energy. He saw... potential. Value. Not a fallen god. Not a cursed noble. A beast of burden momentarily inconvenienced by its own wildness. "Looks properly annoyed," the merchant chuckled softly, shifting his weight in the saddle. "Sand in the hooves? Flies bothering you?"

His entire frame shuddered. Annoyed? This insignificant worm dared interpret his divine fury, his utter annihilation, as mere annoyance? The sheer banality of the observation was an insult sharper than any blade. His rage surged, volcanic and desperate. Annihilate him! Grind his bones to sand! He tried to scream it, to unleash the torrent of righteous condemnation that should vaporize this insect where he sat. His thick throat convulsed. A wet, guttural rasp escaped – a sound trapped between snort and gag. His jaw worked furiously, lips peeling back to reveal flat, herbivore teeth incapable of a snarl, only a ghastly grimace. He strained forward, muscles bunching beneath dense fur. Run him down! Trample him! His hooves dug deep into the yielding dune, but the movement was stiff, lumbering. He felt rooted, a statue of impotent rage. The merchant merely watched, unimpressed, adjusting the brim of his reed hat against the glare. He saw a stubborn donkey throwing a tantrum. Nothing more.

The merchant clicked his tongue again, a dry sound swallowed by the vast silence. "Spirited," he repeated, his voice rasping like sandpaper on stone. His gaze, shrewd and indifferent, lingered not on his furious eyes, but on the powerful curve of his shoulders, the thick musculature of his haunches, the sturdy stance of his hooves in the deep sand. He saw raw power, yes, but manageable power. Useful power. Value measured in pounds of pull, not divine authority. He nudged the camel forward, a slow, deliberate plod that closed the distance by a few cautious yards. The camel groaned softly, eyeing the agitated donkey-man with lazy disinterest. The merchant reached into a worn leather pouch strapped to his saddle. "Easy now," he murmured, his tone utterly mundane, devoid of any hint of reverence or fear. He froze, every fibre screaming suspicion. Poison? A weapon?

What emerged wasn't steel. It was a single, withered apple, small and wrinkled, its skin dusty and dull. The merchant held it out on his flattened palm, offering it towards him with the casual indifference one might show a stray dog sniffing at a doorstep. "Something stuck?" the merchant queried mildly, nodding towards his muzzle still flecked with sand and drying blood. "Or just thirsty?" The sheer, staggering banality of the gesture struck him like a physical blow. This… this grocer dared offer him, the divine being, sustenance? As if he were some common beast requiring placation? Worse, the apple itself was an abomination—rotted, insignificant, utterly beneath him! Rage detonated within him, a silent supernova. Crush his hand! Trample the offering into the sand!

He lurched forward, muscles coiling beneath his sweat-slicked hide. The movement was stiff, jerky—more charging bull than divine retribution—and his forehooves skidded treacherously on the yielding slope. He managed only a single, graceless step, snorting violently, spraying bloody spittle onto the merchant's dusty robe. He tried to bellow condemnation, but his thick throat produced only a choked, guttural rasp. His jaws worked furiously, lips peeling back in a desperate grimace meant to be terrifying, revealing herbivore teeth incapable of menace. The merchant didn't flinch. He merely sighed, a dry, weary sound. "Difficult, aren't you?" He withdrew the apple, tucking it back into his pouch without haste. His assessing gaze remained fixed, pragmatic and utterly unimpressed. "Strong shoulders, though. Good legs. Once the tantrum passes..." He trailed off, clicking his tongue again. The implication hung thick in the air: potential. Usefulness. A beast to be broken.

He trembled violently. Tantrum? Usefulness? The words were psychic daggers. This insolent trader saw a thing, an asset. Not the shattered godhood trembling before him. Rage and humiliation fused into a molten core deeper than hatred. He tried to rear, to tower, to crush this insect beneath his hooves. His hind legs struggled, muscles straining against new, heavy bones. He managed only a clumsy half-lift, forehooves pawing uselessly, before crashing down with jarring force. Sand sprayed. Pain lanced up his stiffened spine. The merchant watched the awkward display without blinking. "Ah," he murmured, almost to himself. "Stiff in the joints already. Wasted energy, all this kicking." He shifted in his saddle, loosening a coiled rope from behind him. Its thick hemp fibres rasped faintly. "Sand madness, likely. Or dehydration. Easy enough fixed." His tone was matter-of-fact, discussing livestock ailments. Hefelt the last vestige of his divine dignity evaporate under that indifferent scrutiny. He was pathology, not power.

The merchant nudged his camel closer, closing the gap to ten paces. He lunged sideways instinctively, an awkward, staggering retreat. His hooves tangled in the pooled remnants of his robe, tripping him. He stumbled, catching himself heavily. Dust coated his muzzle. The merchant chuckled softly. "See? Restless legs. Needs tethering." He flicked the coiled rope casually, letting it unfurl slightly, its knotted length dangling like a serpent. "Easy now. Won't hurt you." Panic, pure and primal, surged through His thick arteries. Rope! Capture! His mind screamed ancient prohibitions against confinement. He snapped his head violently, ears flattening, issuing a sharp, terrified bray. "Hee-HAW!" The sound was a betrayal, confirming the merchant's assessment: beast, not man. The merchant merely clicked his tongue. "Fretful," he noted, dismounting with practised ease. His boots crunched softly on the sand. He approached slowly, the rope held loosely at his side. He froze, rooted not by paralysis now, but by sheer terror of the closing net. The merchant stopped five paces away, his shadow falling across His sweat-streaked flank. He smelled of dust, camels, and cheap spices – utterly profane. "Look at those flanks," he murmured, his eyes calculating. "Could pull a loaded cart through hell itself, I'd wager." He raised a calloused hand slowly, palm outward, not in supplication, but placation. "Easy… just going to check your teeth." He recoiled as if burned, staggering back another clumsy step. Teeth? Valuation? He was being appraised like livestock at market! Another choked bray tore free.

"Spitting mad, aren't you?" The merchant sighed, a dry sound swallowed by the dunes. He lowered his hand. "No matter. Spirit breaks fastest when the sun's high." He glanced upward at the scorching orb. "And it's climbing." He moved again, swift and purposeful this time. Before he could twist away, the merchant darted sideways, not towards his head, but towards his powerful hindquarters. The thick rope snaked out. He felt the coarse hemp brush the sensitive pastern of his left hind leg just above the hoof. Instinct screamed DANGER! He kicked out wildly, a powerful piston-strike meant to shatter bone. It whistled through empty air. The merchant had already sidestepped, pulling the rope taut. It looped loosely around the ankle, a fleeting, abrasive touch. It wasn't secured, not yet. But the intent was clear. The act was absolute. The  Supreme Being, felt the rasp of hemp meant to bind him. A shudder, deeper than terror, colder than the void, ripped through him. The sand beneath his hooves seemed to liquefy. His vision tunneled. His immense chest heaved against a weight that had nothing to do with muscle or bone. Divine annihilation tasted like dust and cheap rope. He jerked his leg violently, snarling – a thick, guttural rumble trapped within his barrel chest. The rope held its tentative loop for only an instant before slipping off, but the violation lingered like a brand. The merchant smiled thinly, already recoiling the line. "Told you," he rasped, wiping sweat-beaded dust from his brow. "Properly annoyed." He turned, walking back towards his waiting camel, leaving him trembling in the scorching silence, utterly seen, utterly appraised, utterly owned.

The merchant rummaged in a heavy saddlebag slung over his camel’s bony shoulder. He watched, paralyzed by horror and something new – a crushing fatigue that seeped into his thickened bones. Every frantic kick, every desperate bray, had drained reserves he didn't know he possessed. His flanks shuddered. Sweat plastered coarse fur to his hide in dark streaks. He saw the merchant pull out a stone-hard biscuit and a dented tin canteen. The merchant took a small, deliberate sip, the water making a faint glugging sound that seemed impossibly loud. Then, with deliberate indifference, he poured a thin trickle onto the hot sand near the camel’s feet. The moisture vanished instantly, leaving only a darker stain. He didn't look at him. He didn't offer. He simply demonstrated possession. Of water. Of sustenance. Of agency. His throat convulsed, a dry, painful spasm. His thick tongue felt swollen, coated in grit. The relentless sun hammered his skull. The scent of damp earth teased him cruelly from the spot where the water had died. His nostrils flared involuntarily, drawing in the phantom coolness. Hatred warred with a desperate, animal craving. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was a desert within a desert.

The merchant clicked his tongue softly, almost musingly. "Hot work," he murmured to the camel, which grunted softly in reply. He wiped biscuit crumbs onto his dusty robe. "Worse for beasts." His gaze drifted back to him. Not to his furious, trapped eyes, but to the powerful arch of his neck, the thick cords of muscle standing out in tension beneath sweat-darkened fur, the sturdy hooves planted stubbornly in the sand. "You’d pull a cart full of granite through this," he observed, his voice rasping with detached appreciation. "If your temper didn’t snap the traces first." He took another slow sip of water. He tracked the movement, the lift of the canteen, the faint wetness on the merchant’s lips. The merchant saw a magnificent engine of flesh and bone, tragically misdirected by pointless fury. A creature of immense power… currently useless. His expression held no malice, only pragmatic assessment. He saw potential locked behind walls of stubborn rage, a lock he seemed confident he could pick. He felt like a prize bull being sized up at market, his every line appraised for strength and stamina. The sheer, casual objectification was a deeper humiliation than any curse.

A dry chuckle escaped the merchant. "Properly annoyed," he repeated, nodding towards the sand flecks clinging to His muzzle and the drying smear of blood where his own hoof had clipped him. "Spitting sand? Bit yourself?" The questions were casual, utterly devoid of concern or reverence. He patted the camel's neck. "He’s like you were, old girl. Full of vinegar." His chest heaved, straining against the thick wall of his transformed ribcage. Annoyed? Bit myself? This profane peddler reduced his divine suffering, his utter annihilation, to the trivial irritations of a fractious pack animal! Rage surged anew, demanding he charge, trample this blaspheming worm into dust. Yet his body betrayed him. His thick tongue felt like sandpaper. His throat constricted painfully. He managed only a choked, bubbling snort. His lips peeled back in a silent, agonized grimace meant to convey apocalyptic fury. The merchant merely raised a calloused hand, palm outward – a gesture of placating calm, not respect. "Easy, magnificent," he murmured, the word sounding grotesque in its context. "All that strength. All that fire. Wasted thrashing." His eyes, shrewd and calculating, saw only the wasted potential. The magnificent beast needed breaking. As for the donkey, he would do what he has been doing all this time, he will remain stubborn, foolish and continue to be what he is, a jackass.