For the Sake of the Many
 
(People into Livestock)
 
 
 
The winter had been the harshest one you, or anyone in your township, could remember. Between the bitter cold and a strange illness, all of the livestock had perished. From the strongest horse to the oldest goat, they had all passed with strangled cries. Worse yet, amid all that tragedy, all the meat your colony had attempted to salvage was soured from the disease, rotting away before the beasts had even passed. With a dry season on the horizon, there seemed to be little hope.
 
It had seemed to be your imminent fate. Then… A moment of hope. The governor had gathered everyone in the colony to the square. Man, woman, old, young—all had been assembled, with news that there was a sunrise to end this dusk. You had considered the words to be flowery, but the assembly was mandated by law.
 
You shift from side to side, sending an uneasy glance towards the gallows. The wooden stands are decorated with a few fluttering quilts to attempt to add some color to the bleak situation. It doesn’t help much.
 
Atop the stage, a few cloaked figures step forwards to address the crowd. "Good citizens of Covington, attention please!" The man in front calls, and you recognize his voice as your governor and leader. "My good people...we are a community. We are true friends and neighbors among each other." He continues. "And it is with this understanding as a community we have agreed to cooperate with our tribal neighbors, for they offer us salvation to our blight." He smiles, raising his hand to motion to a figure beside him.
 
The cloaked person steps forwards and removes their hood. A long trail of straight black hair outlines the tanned skin of a woman from a nearby native tribe. "This is...." The governor trails off. "....Kazza?" He attempts to speak the woman's name, but from the slight elevation of her eyebrows it’s clear he was incorrect.
 
"Kasa." The woman speaks in her heavy accented voice.
 
The governor pulls lightly at his collar and cleared his throat. "Right, apologies… Kahsa,” she flinches idly at his side, but makes no comment, “here claims she is willing to help us survive this travesty in return for our full cooperation." He motions with his other hand to an old milk pail as worried whispers raise from the crowd. "Inside this bucket is a slip of parchment with a number on it. Everyone here is to come and take a slip from the pail, no matter your age and no matter your gender."
 
A fresh wave of whispers greets your ears, but after a few moments of disorder you find yourself in the line behind your neighbors. The pace is rather fast and you soon find yourself in front of the pail. You turn to glance at the impassive expression on the tribal woman's face. She betrays nothing, it’s like trying to read a rock.
 
You reach in and pull out your number, glancing down at the hastily written twenty-seven on the ripped parchment in your hand. You let out a sigh and step down, rejoining the others at the base of the gallows. You hear some of the group trying to talk and liven up the dreary gathering, but soon they too fall silent as Kasa removes her cloak and lets it drop to the ground behind her.
 
You hear some of the womenfolk behind you mutter as the tribal reveals herself to be wearing only a single deerskin loincloth, with her modest breasts on full display. Purple symbols, drawn in warpaint, are marked all across her skin. You watch as she reaches to her hip and pulls loose a satchel. You cannot help but continue to stare as the mostly nude woman approaches the dull embers of the campfire that had been burning beneath the gallows. With a fluid motion of time practiced hands, she flips the pouch and pours its contents onto the dying flames.
 
The instant the strange chalky powder strikes the crackling embers, the fire roars back to life. The glare is too intense, and for a moment you look away. Once the initial flash subsides, you look back towards Kasa to find her sitting just behind the fire, chanting in her native language and slowly raising her arms towards the sky. A strange violet smoke begins to rise from the fire. It slowly snakes around the gathered community, trapping you within the circumference of the ring of smoke.
 
You hear one of the other men shout from in front of the group. "Witchcraft! She means to curse us!" His words ring out as he pushes his way through the group, towards the sitting medicine woman.
 
Her eyes open to gaze upon the approaching man and the fire before her billows violently, causing the man to withdraw. "Once started it cannot be stopped without a much larger price." Kasa's accented voice explains, sending a frightened silence through the crowd. Kasa turns her dark eyed gaze to the governor. "You can begin your....lottery." She says before turning her attention back to the fire and starting a soft chant once again.
 
The governor wipes his brow with a kerchief before tucking the small cloth back into his coat pocket. "If your number is called, please come up to the gallows with me." He says before turning his attention to a second bucket. You look down at your number and back up towards your admired and feel a shiver run down your spine. Something about this feels wrong.
 
You watch as the governor reaches his hand into the pail. He slowly pulls out a slip of parchment, of the same shade as the ones in the first bucket. Silence falls across the square as everyone in attendance pauses in apprehension. Then the governor lets out a shuddering breath, opening the folded parchment with curiosity. Your dread grows as you realize not even he knows what Kasa is going to do to your colony. Time seems to crawl as he stands looking at the drawn number. "Ninety-one." He finally announces.
 
You look around, trying to figure out who would be the first to face whatever is in store. Finally a woman steps forwards, her face calm and rather cold. She heads towards the steps and up onto the stage, stopping on the edge to face the village.
 
Now that you can better see her, you recognize her as the town widow and quilter. The older woman looks across the worried faces and lets herself have a small smile. "Fear not. Whatever tomfoolery this savage is trying to convince us of, do not believe it! Nothing will happen to me, you will all see." She says and reaches up, untying her starch white bonnet to reveal graying hair pulled back into a tight bun. "Well....get started." She hisses at Kasa.
 
Kasa doesn’t even turn to her. Instead, her chanting grows louder once again as she moves her arms in a swaying motion. The fire before her distorts her voice, and the smoke seems to follow her hands. Slowly, it creeps towards the stern faced widow. With a sudden swoosh, the smoke flows all around her. Her coughs echo through the haze that surrounds her, a haze that soon is dissipated.
 
You can see her still standing, though a slight wheezing can be heard coming from her panting mouth. She looks up, parting her lips to address the crowd once more, but the sound that escapes them sends a deep chill down your spine.
 
"HEEEEEEHAAAAAAW"
 
Her eyes go wide at the bestial sound that had passed her lips. Her hands shoot up to grasp at her throat and cover her mouth to stifle another bray, but the sound still forces its way from her mouth. As she hyperventilates her nostrils seem to flare, beginning to enlarge with every inhalation and twitch with every exhalation she took. The quiet awash over the crowd is slowly interrupted by her muffled brays and a faint creaking sound as her clothing begins to stretch and tighten around her middle.
 
The straps of her apron strain against the woman’s swelling stomach. You watch in horror as she grows in bulk, her gut looking more like it belongs on a donkey than a woman. Ironically, her handmade clothing is too tough to split easily, and so she finds her swelling frame packed tightly into its fabric confines. Then her stomach plumps into a proper pot belly, a joggling motion popping her apron loose and causing the seams on the sides of her faded green dress to begin to rip apart.
 
You continue to watch as her once nimble sewing fingers began to harden and merge together, her fingernails thickening and darkening to a dingy black. Her shoulders audibly pop, forcing her arms towards the front of her torso while her chest expands from her growing bulk. Finally with a loud tearing of cloth, the top of her dress rips apart, revealing her bare breasts and changing body. Some of the crowd gasp, and you echo them as her arms pop and change into the forelegs of a common beast of burden, while short coarse hairs began to push out of her pores to cover her darkening flesh.
 
Her once modest breasts, sagged with age, now shrivel even further. The soft flesh pulls back into her bulking chest, dwindling away into a small pair of leathery udders complete with nub-like teats. Her new udder slowly begins to crawl down her chest and belly towards her crotch before slipping out of sight. Mercifully, her lower dress that still covers her from the waist down.
 
With her hands dragged away from her face, you can see her broad nose and jaw began to push outwards with pops and crackles. Her struggling brays become lower and more guttural, almost bestial as her face forms outwards into a muzzle and her neck thickens to better suit her changing body. “HEEEEEEHUGHHAWW!”
 
You catch a loud pop as her back seems to snap, dropping her heavily to her fully changed forehooves. Her brays are louder and more panicked as she begins to kick her still human hind legs. Her kicks, blurred by the dress, give glimpses of merging toes, then of hooves matching what had become of her hands. Another loud rip sounds as she bucks her shredded dress fully away from her still changing hind end.
 
Her backside swells up with muscle and fat that seemed to come from nowhere and her womanly thighs flatten and widen to better support her new quadrupedal stance. Her kicking revealed, only for a moment, her most private and womanly parts swelling and thickening into the blacked lips of a common jennet. Her spine stretches outwards and dangled between her now massive rump before a dingy tuft of black fur sprouts from the end of her new ropey black tail. It covers her puckered equine anus with its tuft, though not for long. As the muscles finish forming, her tail begins to sway and swat, ready to keep irritating insects away from her hindquarters.
 
Her brays grow louder and louder and her kicks more animal-likes as her ears stretch skywards into elongated ovals and her once tight bun sheds from her scalp. It falls along with the rest of her hair, to be replaced with the growing dull black mane that travels from between her asinine ears down her thick neck. Her wide eyes slowly began to dull, her brays and kicks slowing as the light within is snuffed out. Soon her eyes are little more than the dull brown orbs of a mature jennet. The changed beast lets out a final bray, looking around as if trying to figure out where it is. Nothing is left of the widow, save a few shreds of discarded clothing and fallen hair.
 
A deathly silence washes over the crowd as they realizes the stakes for those whose numbers are drawn. Then the silence breaks as quickly as it had formed.
 
Fear spreads like a wildfire through the crowd. While most stand dumbstruck by the transformation of a woman into a beast, a few turn to flee. You wish that you possess the courage to do so, but your legs are rooted to the ground in terror.
 
Though you do not run, you can still watch. You recognize one group: a man, his wife, and their young daughter: the Stevensons. Last week, Garren had come to you to beg for some of your rationed food. "Hurry now!" He calls, running beside his wife and daughter. You can tell he’s moving a slower pace, making sure not to outpace his wife Natalie and his daughter Lucile.
 
As they approach the barrier of smoke that had surrounded the population, their daughter slips on a mixture of melting snow and mud, falling to the ground. That stirs you from your petrification, and you lift a hand to call out to them. Fortunately, Garren and Natalie notice. They pause and turn, but as their worried gazes fall upon their daughter, the smoke comes alive behind them.
 
"Lucile!" Her mother cries out, reaching out with her hand as the smoke engulfs them. The thick miasma floods their lungs, leaving them coughing. For a moment, you worry they’ll suffocate. Then, the smoke withdraws from the two adults.
 
"M...mummy? Dad?" Lucile whimpers. Fear is written on her face as her parents wear confused expression on their faces that the widow before them possessed. You hope their fate won’t be the same; you can’t bear to see them change.
 
Garren looks to his wife and opens his mouth, coughing for a moment before speaking. "Natalie....are you o...o.....MMMMMEEEEEEHHHHH!" His voice degrades into a sheer bleat, causing his wife's eyes to go wide in fright.
 
She takes a step from him. "B...but we weren't chosenMMMMEEEEEEEEEH!" Natalie's voice devolves into the same frightened stammer as her husband.
 
Lucile freezes at the sounds her parents are now making, her eyes welling with tears as she watches small changes begin to settle into her parents. On her mother’s once soft face, wisps of brown fur sprout from her chin, while her father's sideburns fall loosely from his pores. His face won’t be bare, you can see similar strands of fur grow down from his chin. Both Garren and Natalie look at each other and let out frightened bleats, watching as small horns part through their hairline, horns that push both hat and bonnet aside.
 
The man's groin starts to bulge, pressing outwards against his trousers. You swallow hard, wondering if you should avert your gaze. Before you can turn away, he pushes the waistline down to reveal the swelling isn’t from his manhood, but from a lump above his groin. The man lets out a pitiful bleat as his hands squeeze at the two sensitive nubs forming on what could only be a growing udder, and you realize that his fate is going to be even more degrading than just becoming an animal. His hands continue to fondle the swelling sack as a look of bliss begins to wash over his face, fingers wrapping around his two lengthening teats to tug and pull at them lightly while his daughter watches in terror.
 
You hurriedly change your attention to the woman, noticing that her changes were progressing differently than her husband’s. Her fingers have fused together into a pair of cloven hooves, but her attention remains fixed on her daughter. She lets out soft bleats, trying to calm her child. The animal sounds have the opposite effect, only causing the girl to recoil at every animalistic grunt her shifting mother makes. Natalie’s clothing seems to be growing loose on her frame, her bodice becoming baggy as her breasts shrink away into her chest, while coarse fur sprouts up her arms from her new hooves, into the hidden folds of her ever loosening clothing.
 
Once more your focus shifts back to Garren, who lets out another pitiful bleat. You can see that his hands are now useless hooves as well, no longer able to toy with his sensitive new teats. Around his exposed hips you can see the fur spreading downwards from his shirt while he wobbles slightly on his feet. After a few moments his trousers slide the rest of the way down, as if to show what is becoming of him. A once proud member of a father and man is now little more than a minuscule nub. As you watch, it shrinks into the puffy cleft of his forming vagina.
 
With a final bleat, he drops forwards onto all fours, his overcoat and shirt hanging loosely from his caprine form. He bleats over and over, trying to convey some sort of message. Whether his sounds are cries for help or for a mate you cannot tell, but with every bleat his face pushes outwards into a short muzzle. His bleats expose blocky teeth, no longer suited for eating meat but now fit for grazing. He tosses his head as his ears elongated and flopped at the sides of his snout. Finally his eyes darken, his irises spreading into the long ovals of a goat.
 
Natalie was faring just as poorly, her hooves trying to clutch at her loosening dress while something under the dress pokes outwards from the woman's groin. You feel sympathy, but respect that she didn’t immediately attempt to milk herself as Garren had. No sooner does the thought pass through your head, than her face begins to lose focus as her hips give a rather unnatural thrust forwards, causing a damp splotch to appear on the fabric of her dress.
 
Ice floods your heart as you realize she’s not growing an udder, though the spreading stain across her groin is still ‘milk’, from a certain point of view. She lets out a long bleat as she starts to lose herself like her husband did. It’s clear that strange new desires and cravings are flooding her mind, overriding any form of self-preservation. She too finally submits to her fate and falls to all fours, though most of her changes to her hindquarters hidden under the recesses of her dress.
 
Lucile falls to her knees in the mud, staring at the two goats that had once been her parents. The animals bleat and pull at the confining clothing that hung from their forms, blocky teeth tearing cloth with ease. You realize that you should tell someone to cover Lucile’s eyes, but it’s too late. Her eyes fill with tears when she spots the dangling penis and heavy testicles her mother now sports.
 
The now billy turns and snuffles at the nanny, unceremoniously mounting his new mate to claim her as his own. They rut shamelessly like the animals they now are right in front of their now orphaned daughter. "M...mummy? Daddy?" Is all she could choke out as the filthy beasts breed before her.
 
You turn away from the sobbing child, who can’t tear her gaze from what had become of her parents, the goats mating shamelessly in front of her. Your attention drifts to other animal sounds and you realize the Stevensons weren’t alone in their escape attempt. A fat sow snorts from among the shredded play clothes of what could have only had once been someone's son. Further down, a very confused young stallion tries to buck off the remains of a dress and bodice that cling snugly to his form. You look away from the whinnying creature as you recognize the outfit as belonging to the young baker’s daughter, whom you had an secret affection for.
 
The governor raises his hands, trying to calm the crowd. "My people… It is too late for the ones who tried to flee. Please lend me your..." It does little to still fears, especially your own. To think he’d once been so respected—now all he could do was simper. As the discontent grows, Kasa’s voice rings clear.
 
"None shall leave until the ritual is complete, you have seen the fate of those who try to run." She explains. You would marvel at her grasp at your language were she not the most terrifying object in the smoke-ringed square. She reaches into the pail, plucking a series of tickets from its depths and tossing them into the fire. You realize she’s somehow chosen the slips of those who’ve already been transformed, a terrifyingly casual magic. "Your only hope is chance with your numbers. You shall either remain or become one with nature." She finishes and lowers her eyes back to her ritual fire.
 
With a sigh the governor reaches into the pail and pulls out the next number. "I am so sorry. I had no idea that this was the help she offered." He whispers before unfolding the slip. It’s not much of an apology, just meaningless words. "The next number is… One hundred and thirty-nine." He calls out.
 
For a moment the crowd looks around, before the town blacksmith pushes his apprentice forward. "That would be Michael here." The man gruffly announces.
 
His pudgy apprentice adjusted his spectacles, his frightened sweat causing his dark hair to cling against his forehead. "But… I-I-I..." He stammers, before his master places a calloused hand against his shoulder, giving him a light shove.
 
"You know what must be done, boy." He grumbles. You vaguely remember him grabbing a pair of tickets from the bucket, taking both his and his apprentice’s slips at the same time. What was an attempt to double his chances at winning is now a means of doubling his survival, and you look to Michael with pity.
 
He hangs his head and starts towards the gallows, his feet dragging through the boggy ground. It’s almost painful to watch him climb the stairs onto the stage for all to see, where he stands amid the shredded remains of the widows clothing. He glances over to the jennet as she grazes thoughtlessly, now tethered to an old stump. With a light sigh he clenches his eyes shut and prepares for the worse as Kasa's chanting grows louder.
 
Then the smoke engulfs him, swirling about his form and surging into his nose and mouth. Once the obscured young man returns to view his eyes open, a few stray puffs of smoke leaving his nose and mouth. He does not cough, and you wonder if it’s because he’s afraid to, or if it’s because the smithy has hardened him to such noxious fumes. He looks down to his hands, then uses them to feel over his face before opening his mouth to speak. He closes his mouth quickly, and you wonder why. Perhaps he thinks that if he remains silent, he’ll remain unchanged.
 
From your sight however, the young man will have no such luck. He steadily begins to grow taller with new muscle and definition appearing under his tanned skin. He notices this and smiles, no doubt thinking the transformation is simply making him stronger. In his excitement he opens his mouth, his attention focused on his mentor.
 
“HRRGGHHEEEEEIGH!”
 
No voice comes from his lips, only a shrill whinny. The tearing of cloth echoes the equine call as the youth’s expanding torso shreds his shirt and pops his leather apron loose to leave it hanging from his thickening neck. The tearing only continues as his trousers begin to give way, his swelling form gaining further bulk. If stood beside his mentor the apprentice would now tower over the head of the man, and he looks to have enough muscle to pull a fully loaded wagon on his own.
 
His thickening thighs finally rip his trouser apart, removing his modesty and revealing his erect manhood. However, against his swelling form, his shaft is not growing to match. In fact it seems to be shrinking down more than anything. As his posture hunches forwards his member migrates out of sight towards his swelling rear, but judging from the forming pair of teats upon a youthful equine udder between his muscular thighs you know he’s no longer a man.
 
“NUGHHEEEIGHEIIIGH!” The changing youth lets out a strangled cry as the neck of his apron begins to dig into his swelling throat before snapping loose and sending his last remnant of human clothing dropping heavily to the floor.
 
His flanks quiver as goose flesh appears over his form, followed shortly by a rapid growth of short black and white fur that spreads over his entire body in an instant. His arms crick as they are forced forwards in preparation to support his weight on all fours, his fingers thickening as they merge together into large beige hooves. Shaggy white fetlocks flow from his wrists as his back pops loudly and he drops onto the ground.
 
The fetlocks mark him as a Clydesdale, and they sway as his forming hooves loudly clop to the stage. The wood creaks beneath him as he shifts restlessly, and with good reason. The frightened man tosses his head as his face begins to change, round human ears becoming attentive equine ovals and his rounded flat face pushing out into a broad wide muzzle with flaring nostrils and the slightly frothing mouth of a frightened mare. The sound of cracking glass seems to echo through the quiet square as his spectacles fall to the ground and are smashed under pawing hooves.
 
His once short cut hair flows rapidly into a black mane that spreads down his thick neck down to where his torso began. His sides heave as his breathing begins to slow, a shudder running across his wide flanks. His hind legs kick a few more times as the cramping of muscles and changing of bones subside and a new black tail swishes lazily over his hindquarters, flashing glimpses of his new swollen sex. His labia would wink now and again, betraying the new mare's heat.
 
With a final whinny, his eyes darken with a few tears streaming down his muzzle before the light of humanity is forever snuffed out. All that is left on the stage is a young Clydesdale mare who had just entered her first heat. The blacksmith frowns and walks onto the stage, effortlessly wrapping a lead around the mare’s neck. She doesn't resist, nickering obediently and trailing behind him off the stage.
 
The governor wastes no time, sending a nervous look towards Kasa before pulling another slip from the bucket. “Next is… Number sixteen. Number sixteen?” His voice trembles, and he quickly checks his own slip. A sigh of relief slips from his mouth before he looks back to the crowd. “Number-”
 
“I heard you, I heard you!” A feisty voice calls. You turn, finding a redheaded girl shrugging off the arms of her blonde friend. She strides purposefully towards the stage, and you admire her bravery. Her steps falter the closer she gets though, and as she passes you a glimmer of a tear shines in her eyes. It seems that she’s putting on act, no doubt for her friend.
 
Her chest begins to hike as she walks towards Kasa, the girl starting to hyperventilate. The governor tries to calm her, patting her shoulder. “Alexandra, you’re a very brave girl. I’m sure that your friend Bellatrix will appreciate your sacrifice.”
 
She shrugs him off, forcing an anxious smile to her face. It remains on her features even as the smoke swirls around her, slipping into her nostrils, choking the girl. Finally it abates, and she hurries to find words. “Let it be known that Alexandra values community, friends above AWgh.” She swallows hard, her impromptu speech interrupted. “AWlp.” The redhead swallows another sound, her hands clutching at her throat.
 
You watch as she begins to breathe heavily, her nostrils widening on her face. Short and coarse gray hairs begin to slip between her fingers, and an inky blackness creeps across her hair. “AWWWUHEEEAUUUUW!” She finally relents, sobbing out a loud and dismal bray. Her head jerks forwards as the animal exhalation blasts past her gums, and her neck stretches a full foot.
 
It’s not the only change to her face. You can see her teeth growing coarser in her mouth, and while she hadn’t sported a perfect set of teeth to begin with, they certainly weren’t as ugly as the teeth of a donkey. “HRGGHEEAAWW!” She brays again, and this time her belly balloons out, tearing her dress at the seams.
 
This seems to be too much indignity for her to bear, as she wobbles unsurely in place. You look at her distaste for her newfound lack of dignity, and her growing teeth force her mouth open into a parody of a rictus grin. She frantically paws at her bloated belly before turning, as if to hide her shame. You can’t see her face, but you can hear her sobbing brays, her composure beginning to finally slip.
 
“UHGHAWWHAWWHAWWW!” She weeps, her voice a mixture of asinine braying and human misery. Alexandra’s red hair darkens further, and your view of her back gives you a perfect look at her mane growing in. Worse for her, you can see her shoulders broadening, tearing her dress along her spine. She moves her hands back to try and clutch at the dress, holding it together. Much to your surprise, she succeeds.
 
Still, with her hands like this, it looks like she can’t control the rest of her changes. Her ears begin to stretch and elongate, as though they’re being pulled towards the sky. She tilts her head from side to side as if to tuck them under her arms, but the motion only succeeds in flopping them. The girl lets out a dismayed sob, and your pity for her grows.
 
Then her ass starts to swell, an irony that doesn’t escape you. You watch the changing girl as her buttocks swell and swell, jiggling as they pack on pounds of weight. It swells her dress with transformative pudge, until finally the backside splits just as the top did. “HUEEAWWW!” She brays in horror, realizing that she’s exposing her swollen butt to your gathered assembly.
 
Her dress falls to the ground as her fingers coalesce into a pair of clumsy, oafish hooves. Alexandra turns to try and snatch at the discarded scraps, and you see just how much she’s changed. A loud gasp slips from your lips at her asinine visage, a massive donkey snout marring her delicate features. Though her back wasn’t covered by asinine fur, it looks like her front is completely covered. Her thick donkey lips smack loudly as she kneels down for the clothing, only to squeal as she teeters over.
 
The woman falls hard onto her hooves, screaming a loud “HUGGHEEAUUW!” The fall was intense enough to leave her asinine ears swaying to and fro, like a hypnotic metronome. You focus on these instead of on the rest of her, though you can see the gray fur advancing along her feminine figure. Your gaze moves from her ears to her eyes, and for a moment you lock gazes with her.
 
It gives you a clear view of the mahogany orbs, and at the inky darkness that swirls within them. It looks much like someone swirled black ink into a pool of brown, the darkness beginning to overtake the light. Her lips part, and drool spills from her snout.
 
“HGGHRAAAAW!” The jennet cries, her eyes sliding to the side of her head and breaking your moment of shared eye contact. You look away, instead turning your gaze to her friend. The blonde seems to be chatting with the blacksmith, and you crinkle your eyes in confusion. Then he passes the lead of his mare to her, moving towards the stage.
 
You realize she’s just traded her friend for a horse. It’s a natural exchange, but one that seems utterly callous given the situation. You look to Alexandra in hopes that the former redhead hasn’t noticed this, and for once your hopes proved to be more than just dreams. The change clearly stole her mind from her, and the dumb beast doesn’t acknowledge the fact that she’s been handed off. She follows her new owner down the stage, her clopping footsteps in time with the swishing of her tufted tail.
 
“Number sixty-seven.” The words startle you, and your mind goes blank. For a moment, you forget your place, hurriedly inspecting your ticket. What was the number called? Sixty-something? Something with a seven? A breath of relief slips from your lips as you see a cute brunette walking towards the stage, her curly hair bobbing.
 
Immediately, you feel a pang of guilt. You know her to be the woodcutter’s daughter, Elain Allen. You hope that she ends up as something useful to her father, only to feel a pang of guilt. You don’t want her to transform at all. But, as she begins to choke on the inky smoke, you have no choice but to accept that change is inevitable.
 
The girl fans the last of the smoke from her face, and wobbles unsurely on stage. It looks like she has no idea what to do, and you’ve no idea how to help her in the slightest. Then the magic takes its course, and you realize that you don’t need to help her. She’s not an actress on a stage, she’s a prop for the witch and her foul curse.
 
“Hghaa-aa-aah!” She bleats. Her eyes widen momentarily at the sound, as though it surprised her. It surprises you too, a little. It’s the sound of a sheep, and you’re glad for it. While it’s not the most dignified animal she could become, it’s a good deal better than an asinine fate.
 
Elain moans, stroking at her arms and legs. Already you can see that short fur is beginning to sprout, white as snow’s first fall. Then she brings her hands to her chin, stroking at it with both hands, almost as though she’s drunk. Fur sprouts there too, and continues to grow.
 
In seconds, she sports a white goatee that match’s her father, and you realize that she’s not becoming a sheep at all. You idly wonder if she felt the same as well, or if she knew she’d be a goat from the start. “HghmMMEEEEHH!” She bleats, beginning to panic. Now that her voice is beginning to deepen, you can hear the caprine inflection more clearly.
 
Someone, one of the crueler youths in the village, giggles at the sound. She scoffs at them, her eyes narrowing. Then they widen, sliding to the sides of her face. You wonder if they widened because she’s surprised at gaining prey-vision, or if they widened because she no longer has the muscles to narrow them. Either way, it lets you get a perfect view of her irises elongating into dark oblongs.
 
She bares her teeth as her shoulders and hips pop, clearly now uncomfortable with standing. Still, she tries, some stubbornness keeping her on two legs… For a moment. Then the moment passes, and a quiet thump echoes through the square. Her teeth remain bared, and they give you a perfect view of them coarsening, growing unkempt and blocky.
 
Elain opens her mouth again, struggling to pant. Every breath in is followed by a stammering bleat out, and the girl groans in dismay as her face distends. It slowly creaks outward, and you can almost imagine that her distress comes from feeling her new muzzle come in. “Haaah… EHHEEHH!”
 
You watch as her gorgeous brown hair shortens on her head, leaving her with a scrappy white tuft of fur above her crown. There’s not much shrinking or growth to be had with her body, so her clothes remain on her. In some sense, it’s a cruel insult, a humiliating reminder that this mix between human and beast used to be one of you.
 
Elain jerks her head as her neck stretches, and you realize now she was wearing a small necklace. Was it a gift from her parents? A lover? If it was the latter, you’re rather certain that they wouldn’t enjoy her as she is now.
 
A small tail peeks up above her waistband, and the she-goat wiggles it, grunting as her hands and feet alike compress into hooves. She kicks her back hooves, and this dislodges her skirt somewhat, providing you and everyone in the square with a good look at her developing udder. It’s a swollen and dark, with long teats that now brush against the fabric of her clothing.
 
It’s clear the nanny goat doesn’t like that, and she begins to panic. Kasa is there at an instant, cooing into Elain’s stretching ears, rubbing at her thinning limbs. The Indian woman slips a knife from her tribal clothing, and you gasp in time with the crowd. Then she cuts apart Elain’s clothing, and all sigh with relief.
 
It seems that this calms Elain enough, because the goat moves towards her discarded clothing… And begins to dopily chew. You watch her goatee brush against what was once her skirt, the goat working her jaw and letting out quiet, contented bleats between the motions of her jaw.
 
The governor clears his throat uneasily, trying to distract from the goat being led off stage. “Number forty-five? Forty-five?” He seems a bit unsure of himself as no-one comes to the stage. Then, a relieved smile breaks across his face. “It must be one of the people who have been transformed earlier. No need to fret.”
 
Kasa stops him there, placing her hand on his as he reaches into the pail once more. You see him visibly stiffen, and you wonder if it’s finally his time to transform. You privately hope it is. If anyone is deserving of such a fate, surely it would be this coward.
 
Your hopes are dashed as she lifts a finger into the crowd, towards a familiar pair of goats… And the little girl clutching onto the male’s neck. You can see around yourself that the crowd is a little distressed by this, men and women alike looking from the girl to the witch. But it seems she’s made her say, and you watch as the governor’s guards descend from the stage to grab her.
 
Lucile sobs, holding onto her former mother’s neck. “Momma! MOMMA!” She wails, refusing to let go. So the guards simply slip a lead around the goat’s neck, ushering her on stage. The girl follows, shell-shocked and desperate. She buries her face in the goat’s fur as the smoke creeps towards her, and you think that might actually protect her.
 
Then she shudders, squeezing the goat tighter. “I wonder if she realizes she’s choking her… Him? Her?” You look to your side to find one of the newcomers to the village speaking to themselves. That’s not a good sign, you were always taught that self-discussion was the work of devils. Then again, it’s not like they’re the witch you’re worried about. Regardless, you make a mental note to keep tabs on them should you survive this.
 
“MOMAWK! MOMMAWKBAWK!” Lucile’s cries turn to the sounds of an animal, and it’s quite clear what she’ll become. You look back to the stage, watching her transformation progress swiftly across her body. Maybe it’s because she’s younger, maybe it’s because Kasa decided to show her some sign of mercy. Whatever the reason, her face is already a beak, and white feathers carpet her body.
 
Her legs lift from the ground as they reform into talons, her body dwindling away. Her arms clutch tighter to a goat that no longer recognizes his own child, then the change grips them too. It’s heartbreaking to see, but you can’t turn your eyes away. So it is that you watch as her fingers slowly uncurl, arms losing their ability to hug and hold.
 
She falls onto the stage, tucking her new wings under her arms, squawking in sorrow, then in alarm, then quietly clucking to herself. She’s made a fine hen, and you can’t tell whether it would be more mercy for her to end up on a plate or in a coop.
 
“Number twenty.” The governor speaks clearly, and you’re glad for the reprieve. The goat is returned to its pen, the chicken being led to a separate one. As far as the stage goes… A somewhat portly young man climbs his way there. His eyes look haunted by the day’s events, and you wonder if such an expression is mirrored on your face. You wonder if you can look into a mirror without having a nightmare of seeing your features become something feral.
 
You shake your head to clear your thoughts, and watch him kneel towards the smoke. He breathes deep, eyes closed shut as smoke invades his lungs. A small dagger of shame pierces your heart as you recognize him now: Alexander Riven, the records-keeper at town hall addresses. While it is a pity that he won’t be able to write any longer, you do feel a guilty relief knowing that these events won’t be properly penned.
 
It looks as though the man’s imagination has done him well, as he immediately settles on all fours. He breathes in and out, in and out, nearly hyperventilating with distress. You fancy that you’ve seen his nostrils widen at least once from this. Then he angles his head back, his neck loudly popping as it grows thicker, bulker, longer.
 
“HGGHREEEEIGH!” He whinnies, spittle flecking his lips. So, another horse. That’s good in and of itself, the village could use as many as possible. Moreover, it looks like he’s certainly hale, something bulging in his trousers. Several women gasp as his body exposes itself, this latest growth too much to contain.
 
You’ve no doubt that under other circumstances, the young man might actually enjoy this attention. But at the moment, Alexander seems a bit distracted by the fact that his dexterous hands are turning into hooves. He rests on his elbows, looking at his fingers in numb shock, watching as they pull back towards his wrists.
 
Soon he’s left just with palms, stubby and darkening with change. He thumps them against the ground, his ears twitching at the sound. Then he thumps them once more, louder this time. His ears jerk violently at that, pulling towards the back of his skull, growing a thick brown coat of fur. They lie flat against his head in panic, and you can see his eyes widening, revealing their panicked whites.
 
No shaggy coat of fur covers his wrists, and his mane remains rather short. He’s becoming a quarter horse, then. That’s good, he’ll double for ranch work and horse shows alike. At least, you assume that the village will still host those shows. It seems odd to have them knowing the participants used to be human as well…
 
“HNNGREEEIGH!” Alexander whinnies again, and you watch his face creak slowly out into a muzzle. His rounded features take on a strong, blocky shape. He chuffs his thickening lips, shuddering his flanks as his fatty form gives way to muscle and bulk. It tears though his clothing, exposing the fact that his pale flesh is now a dark, sweat-slicked hide.
 
Dark brown fur glistens as it grows across him, its length the short cut typical of his breed. It’s white around his hind ankles, but otherwise he’s brown from head to… Well, you would think tail, but he doesn’t seem to have one at the moment.
 
Alexander’s thighs ripple and bulge, and you see his shoulders do as well. As his torso barrels out, you wonder if his stance has reconfigured properly yet. Since he started out on all fours, it’s a little hard to tell. Then again, it doesn’t look like he’s exactly uncomfortable. Far from it, it seems that the stallion-to-be is a little excited.
 
His nostrils flare, and he grunts, his shaft and head reshaping. The former bulges, while the latter gains a prominent flare. It darkens to a deeper shade than his hide, and you realize you’ve been staring. You look up to his face instead, wondering how much of him remains. His eyes look so dark, though…
 
The stallion’s backside lifts, and he grunts. It’s an utterly animal sound, and you suspect that it matches his mind. This change is the last to come to his body, a long tail creaking from his backside. It sways idly, swatting to the right as though to clear a fly from his broad rump. Alexander the man is no more, and now all that remains is a stallion.
 
You can’t help but look away as the new beast on stage raised his tail and shamelessly let a batch of horse apple drop onto the various discarded and shredded clothing under his hooves. The crowd was silent, the sense of worry and fright slowly starting to be replaced with a numb acceptance.
 
The governor wipes his sweat-laden forehead with a thin kerchief, already holding the next slip of parchment in his quivering hand. "Number ninety-seven..." He calls, his eyes looking over the crowd. A young man begins to march towards the stage, and you recognize him as the uptight priest. You hold your breath as the village's spiritual leader heads right up onto the stage and turns to face his congregation. "Listen well, my dear fellows!" He calls out, parting his hands in an open and welcoming gesture.
 
“Do not be afraid of this witch and what she has done to your kinfolk! God shall protect those with faith and I shall prove it to you!" He calls and turns to face Kasa, who was sitting silently before her fire. "Do your worst, witch! For I know the Lord is with me!" He growls and turns back to the crowd, a few faces starting to light up with hope. You allow yourself to feel an iota of this, even as the smoke begins to coil around him with its pink embrace. "I fear no evil and neither shall you! You my flock, who come to worship every Sunday!" He continues before letting out a few coughs as the smoke entered his lungs through his open mouth.
 
As his coughs fade a little he turns his face back towards the crowd. Your hope swells at his unchanged features, but you pause and wonder if his nostrils had always been that wide. "My faithful....snrrrrrrt.....We walk in dark times this morn, but we shall prevail if we.....all.....GRRRRNNNNK." He snorts suddenly as the tip of his nose begins to pull upwards, his nostrils flaring wider as a persistent grunt mixes slowly into his deepening voice.
 
You watch as the man's clothing begins to tighten in place, his tucked in shirt pulling slowly upwards to reveal a swelling potbelly, his reveal skin tinting to an all too familiar pink color. "R...Rheeeee.......live in our sty....our homes under the grace of the Lord. He who provides us with......slop...and.....sows....." He trails off, his eye beginning to gloss as a pair of small white tusks begin to peek past his bottom lip and a few shreds of his short raven hair float from his scalp towards the ground. "I mean....our.....food and families......he......he.....RHEEEEEEGRNNNNK!" He squeals, hunching over and clutching at his swelling stomach.
 
You don’t know why he was allowed to retain his voice any longer than the others. Maybe it was actually divine protection, but you suspect it to be Kasa’s doing. She wanted to give you hope, then dash it moments later. If that was her intention, it worked: the sight of the holy man falling to the same fate as those before him quickly extinguishes any trace of the budding morale, the eyes of the village watching as the young man begins to pull at his clothing with thickening fingers while his tightly buttoned cleric collar pops loose from his thickening pink jowls and fattening throat.
 
You cringe as the young man lifts his face, now sporting a pig snout and tusks, his remaining hair little more than a few dark patches on top of his fat pink head. You can see his ears stretch outwards into a triangular shape before flopping limply over into the proper ears of a common fat boar. "S...so...GRRRNNNNK....HungrREEEEEEE.....want.....sow...want....food....." He manages to grumble out through his stretching muzzle. The man soon drops heavily to his knees as his feet give out.
 
The grunting and squealing only grows louder, echoed by a faint ripping of cloth. His fitted outfit, which had seen many gatherings in the church split down his back to reveal the fattening pink pigflesh. The thighs of his trousers split at the seams as well to show his fattening thighs while the legs of his pants grow loose as his legs shrank down into the stubby read trotters of a pig. With a final tear, his top falls from his swelling body and he crawls forward enough to allow his pants to slip free. The women of the crown gasp at the sight of his now huge pink testicles resting shamelessly under a curly porcine tail.
 
The boar only snorts dumbly, any light of intellect snuffed out of his beady black eyes. He shudders and stamps his forelegs as his fingers finish fusing together into a pair of trotters. You gulp anxiously, at the sight of a boar dumbly snorting where once the town's priest once stood. Just like the others, a man steps onto the stage and ushers the new beast off to a nearby pen, where the boar carelessly plops down into the mud and lets out a contented snort.
 
You keep your eyes focused on the pig as it wallows in the mud of the sty it was placed in and gulp. "Surely there is a god right? If so....why is he letting this happen to his faithful?" The woman beside you murmurs aloud, fear in her eyes. She looks absolutely distraught, and you wonder if she had any feelings for the man of the cloth. If she did, they’re surely gone now that he’s a boar of the mud. “Why has God abandoned us?”
 
You wonder this yourself, before turning your eyes back to the stage, where the governor clears his throat and adjusts his hat back atop his head. "I understand you all may feel a little.....alarmed at our preacher's words....but he is still serving us in a new way that will save all our lives! Truly it is a reasonable sacrifice for the good of those of us who remain." He says and reaches in to take the next number. His statement does nothing to ease the tension, and if anything only worsens it with the tremulous panic in his voice.
 
You glance to the crowd and then back up to the governor as he unfolds the parchment and his face goes ghost white. "N....number....one...." He stammers and the crowd seems to perk at this. He’d made a show of good faith in marking himself as the first number, and you’re more than a little surprised that he actually put his number in the pail. Now it seems he’s about to face the same damnation he volunteered the others for.
 
"S...surely you cannot expect me to give myself....what about our leadership?" He asks, looking frantically around to the cold and uncaring faces that stared back at him. Even in your mind you felt that what was about to happen was poetic justice at its finest.
 
The stocky man steps backwards as tendrils of the pink smoke begin to surround him, since he was already standing on stage. "S...stop this you witch! Stop this....now!" He commands, but his voice was cut short by a fit of coughing as the cursed smoke entered his airway. His hat falling from his head as he leaned over to cough.
 
The thump of his hat falling upon the boards was like the opening shot of a war. The second the dull sound met your ears, his own ears begin to lengthen outwards, away from his head into two large ovals with a fine dusting of dull brown fur. He looks up towards the crowd, hands reaching up and gripping at his new bovine ears. "Stop this at once! I...I am the leader of this commOOOOOOOOOoonity!" He gasps and covers his mouth as his words change into an all too familiar lowing.
 
The governor takes a few steps towards the stairs that lead off the stage, but soon drops to his knees with a heavy thud. The faint stretching and tearing of fabric causes his new ears to twitch. The tearing soon reaches the ears of the onlookers as the man's pants split at the seams and a long ropy tail slides free. This tears his breeches from crotch to rump, but also gives his otherwise exposed rear a small ounce of modesty. He places a hand on the ground to better hold himself up, his form growing heavy and thick while short brown fur begins to spread over his face and peek free of the tears in his clothing.
 
You ruefully smile at the sight, feeling at least a little vengeance for the mindless beasts that had been stripped of their identity and families. A large bulge begins to push loose the man's tucked in shirt. He lets out a pitiful moan, the O stretching out longer and sounding much duller than he probably intended. He manages to lean back on his knees and pull the swelling mound free of its cloth trapping, revealing a fleshy pink udder that sloshes against the man's fingers. "MUGHOOO?" He asks, as though worried about the fact that he’s sporting the udder of a cow and not the manhood of a bull.
 
It seem that Kasa hasn’t offered him the same gift of speech she’d given to the preacher, and you’re your governor is only allowed the sounds of an animal. “MURGHOOOO!!!” He lows again, and this time a thin strand of drool slips over his thickening teeth and lips. He smacks them wetly, and you realize that he’s beginning to lose his mind.
 
The man's once sharp and shrewd eyes begin to expand and bulge while his irises swell and darken to engulf the orbs in a dull animalistic brown. His nose rounds and broadens while his tongue slides out and slurps over his now bovine snout. His hair and beard shed from his extending face, quickly be replaced by the growing brown fur. The final remnants of his clothing give one last rip and drop to the floor. The women point towards the changing man's crotch and against your better judgment you glance at where his manhood should be, but find a distinct lack of anything remotely male hanging behind his jiggling udder.
 
Finally the changing creature leans forwards, his hands thudding heavily onto the floor and begin to merge together and stiffen into a dull pair of hooves. His legs and arms grow longer and thicken to better support his new bovine frame. Then, with a final quiver, the new heifer lets out a deep bellow to show that the man who had brought this curse upon them was now no better off than the others he had damned.
 
A few of the men tie ropes to the lowing cow and lead her off stage, a quick glance towards her as she leaves. You think that the nightmare is over, that this surely will sate the pact the governor had made. Of course, you should have known better. Kasa motions towards a mousy man who had been standing next to the pot containing the numbers. "Draw the next one." She orders in her accented voice.
 
The man nods, reaching his hand into the cauldron and pulling out the next slip. "N...number twenty-seven!" He stammers. Silence greets his statement, and nobody seems willing to come forward. You wonder if people are actually taking the governor’s descent to heart; then you realize the number is more than a little familiar.
 
You gaze down at the number gripped in your hand and gulp. Sweat has marred the writing, but it’s still legible enough to you, and to those nearby. The world seems to grow silent and you began to take almost zombie like steps towards the stage. Your mind is awash with questions and fear, so deep so that you fail to notice as you take your first step onto the stage and turn to face the crowd. You look out onto their frightened faces and then turn your head to look towards the growing stalls and pens of those who had gone before you.
 
Swirls of pink began to coil around your feet like a snake and you glance down to watch as the tendrils of smoke crawl higher up your body. You close your mouth and hold your breath, seconds pass by as the smog swirls around your face. You can feel your will slipping as your lungs ache and beg for air, but you hold it longer. Your eyes soon roll up in your head and you open your mouth to welcome the sweet air your lungs crave, but instead of a sweet breath of air your lungs feel as if they were suddenly filled with a surge of weightless fire that burns in your lungs and soon spreads throughout your body.
 
You clutch your stomach and cough as hard as you can, your body trying to expel the gas that had invaded your airway. Then the fire fades, and an unnatural warmth takes place across your body. You look up again towards the silent crowd and open your mouth to try to say something. It feels like an eternity before a deep rumble exits  your lips and sends a strange shiver of carnal bliss down your spine.
 
"MMMMMMRRRROOOOOOOOO!"