(FGO TF, F to Pig)
Jeanne D’Arc slinked into the library as quietly as a fully-armored knight could. Her tiara clinked as she looked from left to right, checking that the coast was clear.
In some ways, it was a little ridiculous to see someone so esteemed acting so foolishly. But it was her foolishness that had driven her to this course of action. She was fully aware that she wasn’t the most educated Servant, just as her Master was aware that it wasn’t her fault. After all, growing up on a farm in medieval France left a girl with few options.
However, all of that changed with her summoning into the modern era. At first, she’d found herself content to fight on the frontlines as a Ruler. That was the natural order of things – Servants were supposed to be incarnations of their myths and legends, immune to change.
But she’d seen other Servants change. From Berserkers calming down to Jeanne’s own evil twin brightening, Chaldea seemed to have a transformative effect on warriors of legend.
So, why couldn’t she change too?
It was for that reason that she’d been reading a different book each night. Some of them were a little beyond her, but she’d at least gotten the hang of sounding out the syllables when she couldn’t read the words outright. Little did she know, this habit was about to doom her outright, for tonight’s book was not one meant to be read unprepared.
It was as innocuous as any other book, especially to someone who was a novice like Jeanne. It had a blue cover with gold inlay, and was left opened to a page of text, opposite an illustration of a farm.
“Oh my,” she breathed, hand over her heart. Up until now, most of the books she’d read were fantastical tales of voyages deep beneath the sea, or of the day Horus slew the Emperor. This; however, evoked a certain nostalgia she couldn’t resist.
Her armor clacked as she dropped onto a wooden chair, eagerly looking at the page. One sentence in particular was written larger than the rest of the page, so she skipped ahead to that.
Ic i hīewiġe þæt fédelswín.
Jeanne blinked. She narrowed her eyes. Rubbed them. The words were as stubbornly incomprehensible as ever. “Is this what most Englishmen think of French?” She laughed to nobody in particular, before pressing a slender finger against the page.
“Ick… I… Hyeweeje… Bayet… Faydelsween?”
It was her best shot, and unfortunately far too accurate. A greenish glow passed across the text, sucking some of the light from the rest of the room.
Jeanne was no stranger to magic – any saint worth their salt knew fully well: if it glows green, it must be mean. She stood from the chair, extending her arm out to her side. A small burst of magical energy would summon her flag to her palm, a banner that she could use to ward off any attack. Then perhaps she’d have words with the librarian about what sort of books were being left so unguarded.
A glowing green hand burst from the page, interrupting her defense. It clutched around her wrist, squeezing it in a firm grip. Then, the spectral hand seemed to almost liquefy, swirling into an orb that encompassed from Jeanne’s left wrist to her fingers.
For a moment, she felt a sucking sensation on her fingertips, like she’d stuck her hand over a vacuum. Then her fingers went numb, and began to deform.
The blonde widened her eyes, gasping in horror at the sight of her form reshaping. She was by no means vain, but at some level she respected that as a saint, her body was holy. Some book shouldn’t be able to profane her so easily.
Yet the evidence before her eyes begged to differ.
The two fingers at either side of her hand had merged into one another, splitting her gloves in the process. Her wrists thickened just enough to pop the clasp on her gauntlet, and as it clattered to the ground, she caught a clear sight of a hoof at the end of her left arm.
Jeanne wasn’t a stranger to farm life, or to transformation. She moved to summon her flag to her unchanged hand, only to dodge back as a hand darted towards her wrist.
“So, you’re responding to my magic?” Her eyes narrowed as she studied the tome before her. “Then, if I cannot summon my weapon…”
Her next best option was to pray her way out of this. She took a step back, awkwardly pressing her palm to her hoof. “Our father who aahhh!”
A hooked hand snaked up her nose, fingers stuck into her nostrils. Her eyes watered as it tilted her head up, up, up, until she couldn’t tilt anymore. But the fingers kept pushing, spreading her nostrils wide, stretching them out on her face until her nose was flat and twitching.
“Ghhrrrnk!” She snorted, a bit of snot shamefully dripping from her changed sinuses. “Wuhz the meaning of rrrrnk this!?” Her voice had taken on a bit of an embarrassingly nasally inflection. It wouldn’t be tonight’s only humiliation.
More hands coiled around her waistline, embracing her, lifting her off the ground. Her armor held fast against this blasphemy, for now.
Unfortunately for her, her thighs weren’t so well-defended. More ghastly palms emerged from the book, twisting around her legs, pressing against the unarmored backs of her legs.
“OooOOHRRRNK!” She couldn’t help but vocalize her discomfort, kicking her legs as a pressure built within them. It was a new heaviness, a density that forced her skin to swell outward. Her loose-fitting leggings, perfect for battle, were now stretched tightly around her thighs. Small runs tore through the fabric.
Desperately, she tried to pray again. “Our faaahrrrnk-father! Who art in heav-”
A glowing hand darted between the part of her fabric, and she could feel the chill of its passing along her buttocks, until it pinched her tailbone. With an almost sadistic, deliberate slowness, it began to curl her tailbone like it was winding a toy.
“AaaAAAAAhaAAARRRNK! HRRROINK!”
The effect was immediate on the poor saint. Her body expanded much like her thighs, dense fat rippling out from the center of her existence. Her skin felt rougher as well, which at least spared her the discomfort of pinching against her too-tight armor.
Her throat felt hoarse, a scratchiness underlying her every breath. The delicate song of her accent was turning into a deep-pitched grunting, punctuated by the occasional squeal.
“Nhhoorrrnk! Hhhyyy am Juh. Jeanne DuuuhhhOORNK!” She shook her head, but the motion only drew the attention of more hands. They gripped at her ears, pulling and tugging them. They got bigger, floppier. Soon her own ears were swatting her cheeks with each shake of her head.
Of course, by this point she was fully aware of what she was becoming. Despite her lack of formal education, she was the most well-versed in farm life in Chaldea by far. This knowledge was what made her struggle all the harder.
She wasn’t vain, but what woman would want to become a pig?
Her armor cracked at the thought, not down a strap or a buckle, but down the middle. Jeanne’s eyes widened, and she flailed her legs. Her unchanged hand pressed at the seam in her armor, as if her fingertips could somehow hold it together.
The seam widened, and fat, punk flesh spilled out. It rippled. She rippled.
Jeanne gagged as a hand snaked into her open mouth, tugging at her tongue, swelling it. Her teeth thickened too, both herbivorous flat teeth and wide tusks forcing her jaw open. Drool spilled out onto the table, every drop somehow missing the book.
No, she shouldn’t be surprised about that. After what it was doing to her, there was little doubt that this cursed object would be protecting itself.
Tragically, she had no idea the real reason it was able to change her so freely. Nor would she get the chance to realize.
More and more hands emerged from the book. Some twisted around her remaining hand and her feet. More of them speared towards her mouth, ears, and nose, snaking through her head and piecing her brain.
“Hggghuuuh!” She wordlessly moaned, eyes crossing. She could feel the fingers pressing against her brain, shrinking it, smoothing away her… Her… thinky-tings.
Her body went limp, still suspended in the grasp of a couple of the hands. Her armor simply slid off of her, clattering onto the floor.
Her eyes flicked from side to side, up and down. She was struggling. She was Jeanne D’Arc, a holy maid… holy m… Saint. She was Jeanne D’Arc…
She was keenly aware of how sweaty she was now. She stank like a pig. Her tail wiggled a bit, and one of her ears twitched. She looked like a pig. “Ddhhuhh… rrrnk…” She sounded like a pig.
Jeanne was a pig.
The hands vanished, dropping her onto the floor in a mess of fat pink flesh and blonde hair. Ironically, the change had let her keep her hairstyle, so anyone would clearly be able to recognize the sow for who she had been.
She was too far gone to feel ashamed about that. It wasn’t that her brain had totally been eradicated, just diminished. She still clearly knew she was Jeanne D’Arc. And though she may have been a little uneducated before, and nearly rock-stupid now, she was still a genius for a pig.
“Hrroink,” she trotted around in a small confused circle, coming to terms with her life now, but remembering that there were definitely people in Chaldea that could return her to normal. She just couldn’t remember what any of them looked like…
More to the point, what if one of them had left out the-
Her belly rumbled, and Jeanne snorted reflexively. Those were worries for later. Enough of her thoughts remained to remind her there was a fully-stocked kitchen with friendly cooks. She could worry about the past later. For now, she wanted food.
Meanwhile, in another room…
“Hm…” The Rain Witch, Aesc checked under her bed. She took her glasses off, polished them, and placed them back onto her face for what felt like the dozenth time. “… Wherever did I leave that Self-Polymorph tome?”
She sighed, brushing off her robes and pouting. “Well, it’s not like anyone would read from it anyways… What’s the worst that could happen?”