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Fetlocked
This here is a story placed in the universe belonging to an artist over on FA by the name of Silao: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/silao/ In this universe, he has a character with four unique incarnations who is completely fixated on “fixing” the “sickness” that is the human condition. He does so by designing a multitude of methods to convert humans into equines. Virus to mutate people? Check. Potions and concoctions to forcibly alter the body’s chemistry and hypnotic inductions to reprogram the mind? Check. This guy will literally use any means necessary to “save” humanity. Oh, and did I forget to mention he’s an anthropomorphic donkey? (At least in this incarnation. ;)) Hope you all enjoy.
“You’ve filled out all the paperwork, and the risks have been explained to you, yes?” the monocle-wearing donkey asked.
Trent gulped as he sat there on the doctor’s table in the cold office. A carefully painted green pasture wallpaper flowed around him, and a set of stables could be seen in the distance, alongside a large red barn. The room smelled of freshly mown grass, a scent that helped sooth his nerves. He widened his nostrils, and took a deep steadying breath. “Yes.”
“Good.” The donkey lowered his muzzle to fix Trent with a smirk. Trent prayed it was just the monocle warping that smile so much. He fought to suppress a shudder. It must have been innocent, but … it seemed so sinister. He shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. Equine expressions were more difficult to read than human body language, after all, even if they were anthropomorphic.
“Um … one question, if I may, Mister Silao.”
“Please, call me Doctor, or Silao. I don’t really care which.” He shrugged. “Yes? What is it?”
“Well, Doctor, I was wondering, why is your mane blond on top and black down the back?”
“Perceptive, bold, an inquisitive nature. Interesting,” Silao murmured as he jotted a few extra notes on his tablet. “To answer your question, Mister Schumacher, it is the last vestige of my former humanity. I have to say, of all the parts that could have stayed behind, I rather like it. It adds a certain sense of mystery to my appearance. Is it dyed, is it natural? Why would I consider doing such a thing to myself? So many questions to draw the eye of the wandering human. It makes for an excellent ice breaker, you know.” The equine chuckled as he lowered the pad, and pressed a comms button on the side of the door. “Josephine, we’re ready for the monitors, if you would be so kind as to bring them up.”
Trent blew upwards not for the first time as he tried to adjust his unruly black bangs. No matter how many times he pulled them off to the side, they always found a way to droop back down again.
“Now then, Mister Schumacher, you are aware we are not to be held liable for any accidents that result from your time working for us, correct?”
“Yes,” Trent nodded.
“And it reads here that you wish to work with us for the remainder of your days. What drives a man to such a state that he’s willing to abandon the world for a scientist’s lab?”
Trent blushed. “It’s … a personal matter.”
Silao quirked an eyebrow as he reached over to pick up his cane, and smiled. “Is that so?” he proceeded to twirl the item skillfully as he maintained a careful grip on its silver donkey head. “Well, whether you’re looking for work, fleeing the law, or just looking to face an ‘accident’ in the field, I’m sure we can find a place for you.” The donkey’s smile widened into a smirk as he noticed the way the human’s green eyes trailed after the silver donkey head. “Though more than a few of our employees and test subjects have lost their humanity entirely. Are you prepared in the event such an … unfortunate incident should occur?”
Trent shifted uncomfortably as he folded his legs, and his plump cheeks flushed. “Yes, Sir.”
Silao sneered. “Excellent.” Yes, this human would do very nicely. Plenty of extra mass to work with, and a most obvious passion for the equine species. Perfect. “Of course, Mister Schumacher, we’ll have to see about getting you a better set of work clothes. We’ll be starting you off in the stables, after all. Every new employee does.” His tail twitched idly behind him as he leaned on his cane, while his ears shifted to listen for the familiar sound of … ah, there it was.
The door opened with a beep and a mechanical chunk as the lock came undone, and a slim, well-muscled jenny stepped forward. Her long mane had recently been washed, and curled down her shoulders and back as she carried a metal tray to the support extension next the examination table. She batted her long eyelashes over big, brown orbs as she rose to look at the patient. Her nostrils flared as she stepped back from the table with clasped hands, and fidgeted slightly.
Silao laughed. “No need to be so shy, Josephine. This is our newest employee, Mister Trent Schumacher.”
“P-pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” Josephine had the advantage of a shiny black fur coat to help hide her blush. Trent had no such luck.
The jenny nodded Trent’s way once, then turned back to the doctor. “I’ll return to the nurse’s quarters, unless you needed me for anything else, Doctor Silao,” she said meekly.
Silao smiled. “Go on, then. I know you ladies have your hands full with the physicals today.”
The jenny turned back only once as she opened the door. “It was … nice to meet you, too, Mister Schumacher. She looked down again, averting her gaze. “I’m … looking forward to giving you your next physical.”
Trent smiled back. “It’s a date.”
Josephine’s ears shot straight up, and she quickly left the room. Silao chuckled at the sight as he leaned on his cane. “Quite the lady’s man, aren’t you?”
Trent blushed. “Not really. She’s the first girl to really notice me, you know?”
“Well, let’s see what working here will do for that, hmm?” Silao’s hooves clopped loudly on the tile as he approached, and picked up the first of four metallic bands. “These are vital monitors of my own design. They are water proof, extremely durable (we tested it against the strongest bucks our equines could produce), adjustable for multiple builds, and one of a kind. Your first job will be to wear these at all times as you work in the stables. This will allow us to track you, and ensure your health remains optimal. While there is little chance of you spreading any disease to our work animals, we prefer to ensure our employees’ wellbeing. After all, to allow the effects of a virus to impede one’s judgement and motor skills when tending the animals simply isn’t professional.”
“How long will I have to wear them?” Trent asked nervously.
“All the time, of course. Now hold still. You might feel a slight prick.” Silao slid the first of the cuffs on deftly, and quickly adjusted the band with a squeeze to ensure it fit Trent’s wrist.
Trent hissed. “A prick? That felt like a freaking needle!”
Silao shrugged. “The horses certainly don’t seem to mind.”
“You used these things on horses?”
“Yes. Animal testing, remember? It’s always required before clinical trials. Now stop being a baby, and hold still,” Silao ordered. He had the other bands secure in a matter of seconds. “I call these my fetlocks. A bit of fun wordplay, given the unique nature of my establishment. You’ll find every one of my animals are wearing them quite comfortably.”
“So … what happens now?”
Silao smiled as he planted his cane, and leaned on it. “Now, friend Schumacher, you get to work.”
Trent grunted as he shoveled yet another load of manure into the wheelbarrow. He took a moment to wipe the sweat off his brow, and try to slow his heart rate. He looked about nervously as he fiddled with the overalls and simple white cotton shirt he’d been given at the changing rooms. Considering the nature of the work, he supposed he should feel grateful that they gave him these spares. It didn’t exactly make the exertions any easier, though. His whole body felt wet from his exertions. Fortunately, Silao had been kind enough to offer a steady supply of water from a special dispenser outside.
Trent picked up the two sides of the wheelbarrow, and wheeled it out to the compost heap, where he upended the barrow, and did his best to let all the horse apples roll out. One of the horses let out a whinny, and Trent looked off in the distance to see the animals grazing. Trent sighed longingly as he returned the wheelbarrow to its proper position, and began to cart it back. A familiar tickling itched at the inside of his nose, and not wishing to stop, Trent opted to follow the example of his charges, and snorted. A few extra expulsions for good measure, and he was fit as a fiddle. He sighed as he strode up, and lowered his head down for the sensor to read. The water shot upwards in a stream into his mouth, and he adjusted his tongue to let it flow upwards and down his throat, until he was satisfied. He sighed in contentment as he rose up, and wiped his mouth for what had to be the twentieth time since starting. Why, he’d wiped so many times, it felt almost as if there were no lip left. He chuckled at that, picturing what it’d be like to have those thick, smooth, rubbery lips horses were known for.
He took another deep breath through his nostrils, and sighed. The stable actually didn’t smell so bad, now that he’d had time to adjust to it. He walked over to the hay bales, and started to spread the clean straw into the feeding troughs. While the horses were able to graze at the field, that didn’t mean they got a full meal. After all, they were only let out so he could clean out their stalls. Trent eyed his handiwork, being careful to note how well the stalls had each dried out. He strode over to the supply shelf, and took down a bottle. He dumped a portion of the contents into a spray container, then filled it with water, before hauling it with him. His muscles screamed in protest at the weight as he worked to spray over the floors and walls of each stall, but the work eventually grew easier, and he sighed in relief as his body sent in the extra surge of adrenaline to save his sorry hide.
Hide. Ha. He chuckled at the thought and continued to work. His boots clacked rhythmically against the cement walkway as he sprayed down the earthy floor of the stall, being careful to avoid the extra dry bedding that was still usable. He took another deep breath, and smiled. “Man, this deodorizer stuff works well.” He reached over to the remains from the last feeding, and pulled out a sprig of hay to stick between his teeth. He swallowed readily as saliva built up in his mouth, and his tongue danced curiously along the edge of fibrous stalk as he continued to work.
He finally reached the last stall, a vacancy Silao had told him needed to be prepared for a large Shire stallion they intended to rent out for breeding purposes. Trent knew how that song and dance went. He quickly grabbed a hold of a hay bale, and hauled it over to the stall, pulling it apart with the assistance of a recently cleaned and disinfected pitchfork to spread into the feeding trough. Next, he turned to the automatic water trough, and mounted it to its wall brackets. Then he took the connecting hose, and wove it through a series of wall connectors to keep it held tight, thus preventing any curious equine teeth from accidentally chewing on it. From there, he used the connector at the hose’s end to hook it up to the garden hose connected to the rear spigot in the stalls, and turned on the pressure. The rushing sound of water thumping against plastic greeted his ears as the sensor triggered, and the trough began to fill.
“There,” he said as he dusted his hands off, “all done.”
“Well done, Trent,” Silao’s voice echoed from a set of speakers in the rafters. “You’ve certainly adapted well to the manual labor, haven’t you?”
Trent chuckled. “I’ll probably be sore in the morning, but anything for you, Mister Silao.” He turned to the security cameras, and grinned as he stuck out a thumbs-up.
“Is that so?” Silao chuckled as the speakers began to blare a loud horse’s whinny, followed by the rhythmic clopping of hooves. “Then get those stalls ready. It’s time for our good little horses to file back in.”
Trent furrowed his sweaty brow. “And this is supposed to do it?”
“My horses are highly trained. They respond to the recording, both because of the fact it’s the head mare’s whinny and the fact that I associated the recording with rubdowns and sugar, two things they have come to enjoy very much.”
“I, uh … see,” Trent said as he walked to each of the stall doors to open them again. “And they’ll just walk right in? No complaints? No trying to break out again?”
“You’ll be just fine, Trent,” Silao assured him. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they treated you like one of their own. Just be gentle. Their training will take care of the rest.”
“Um … okay,” Trent said with wide eyes as he watched the whole herd approaching at a measured cadence. Their hooves struck the ground in perfect unison with the recording as they approached.
“Good horses. That’s right. Such wonderful, obedient beasts. G͓̿̆́̅̄̕e̡͍͔̞͚ͮͅt͆͛ͬ͛͝ ĭ̶͛̊n̯̭̙̲͖̠ͣ̍̂̆ͅt͍̪̤̞̺̋ͪ̌̄̈́ȏ̱̦̖̃̏ͬ̋ t͈̬̜͚̉ͤ̓͊͗̍͞h̳͇̰̮̊͑ͭ̈́ͪe̔͒̾ s̖̜̃̌ͯt̸̎a͓̩l̟̖̦̯̟̻͍͘l͎͖̺͚̓̓ͬͭ̉ͧͮś̬̗̹͑ͧͭͫ. I̩̲͈͇͔ͫ̍̉ͧ͊ͦ͐͘ẗͤ̍̅'̻͚̺̺̤͉̖ͯͤ͑͗̒s͔̠̼̞ͯ̈́ͨ̐̕ g̛͇̭o͊̀ͬ̊͛o̗͇̖̒ͭͫͭ̆̚d̖̱ͥ͐͂̚ t̷͔̏̓ͦo̮̪͙ ̲̱͔̹ͭ͒ͮͧ̃̐ͪb͙͈̼͕͔̱̊͑̈̎͑e̯̱̱̮͋͌ͥͥ̂̀ ͇͍̘̌̽ͫ̏ͥ̚i͍͚͇̲̾̽n͖̗̭̏̊͆ ̗̮̲͎̝̫̻͋ͪͯ̆y͔̫̟̦ͥͣó̥̀̊͆̒̚u͇̹̹̹ͯ̔ͯ͠rͣͯ̈́҉̪̻̩̥̱ͅ ͕͍̥̙̾s̸͕͙͔̩̽́ţ̪̘̼̜̦ͨͩa̸͎̺͖͈̫̎ͪ̃̿l̞̜͍̬͠ḽ͉͒̿ͯs̝̞̝̅.̢̖̞͖͉͎̝̺͗̉̅ ̦̥̥̹͓̒ͤ̍ͥ̂̀T͖̼̼̮̈́͡h͓̄ͪͫe̡̓͂̐̈́̑ ̲̗̲̥̙̜̘̊͗s̱̱̼̪̱͌͢t̤͝a̘̠̱̲̓̐ͭ̉̆ͧͦl̈́̉̀̒̔͋l̻̞̫̰̗̳̩ ̟͙̞͔̈́̚i͖͓̬̳̣̣̓̎ͪ̓ͤͅs̛̰̹͍͋͑̎͂ͨ ̗̣͌ͨ͆w̮̯̗̠͐͛̇̋̎̌h̦̝̗̖̯͚ͧ̃e̯̬͇̱͔̰̥r͎͉͛͆̽ͅe̴͖̞̬̞ ̲̠͍ͣ̏̔̀̈́ͯͣͅy͕̲̥͉̐͒̀͐o̺ũ̙̗̲̰̗͙̭ ̱̪ͭ̐͗̉ͫ̄b̡̓̅̿e̱̬̳ͦ͗͛͛͡l̖͒̿̆̋ͪo̳͚̹̦̰̮͈n͔̺̝̞̊g̣̱͎͊̅͐ͩ̋̑̈͟ͅ.͚ͦ͑̒̀̅͛̕ ̡͉̓̀ͨ͋ͧͨ̇Su̡ͧ͌̍͐ͮ͑c̅̅ͭ̍͋͡h̞̟̞͍͓̒̑͆̕ ̠̜̬̞̼͇̦̉̋g̞͇̰̳͂̎͊o̊̽̂̀̓͑̔͏̟͓̗o̍́̃ͮͪ͘ḍ͕͚̮̜̰̞́̑͛͊͋̾ ̶͙̘̬̮͚͈̯͑ͬ̐͂ḥ͎͚͟o͌ṟ͈̱̥̲̾͂ͥ͋̕s̤̙̣ͨḙ̮͈̘̩̉s͓̲̞.̢̪̱̣̱̓͗̒̄̌͑ ̼̰̘͔͉̃R̥̫̻͖̖͎̹̋̌͐ͯe̮̖̖͖̮̒̍͗ͯ̀̅ͅl̷̹̲̤͚̲̂̆a͉̦̻͙̥̰̘̋͒̇͐ͣx̩̜̼̱,̟͖̹̰́͐ͬ͂ͅ ̦̖̥̩̤͒ͧͅa̪ͧ͆ͪͯ̎̚͜n̡̜̱̩̪̥͚͙͂d̙̜̼͙͖̖͌ͥ̒̀ͅ ̶̍̃̐̇̑ͧͨl̢̜̗̘̮͉͇̊ỉ̺̞͎̩̙̫̼ͦ̇s̨̐ṭ͎͙͚̐ͮ̚e̛̪̖n̛̦̮̙̊,̳͙͍̖̱̱̆͗̓ ̪̖̥̼͓̰̲ͩ͐̇ͫa͈̻̬̩͙͈̺̓̌̆͌nͪ̆̆ͅd̩͖͔͎̭̣̼͊̊͆̌ͥ̈́́ ͔̩̳̩̞̬̌ͮ̅̒͋̄̓͞o̳̼̎͆ͭ̔̀̏͂̀ḅ̤̪̘͚ͫ͂ͤͫe̟̣̺̋͑ͤ̉͗͊y͖̻͕̩̫̏̌̈.̟͇̩͕͙̟ͧͭ̋̋͆̄͑ ̒̎̓ͯ̚͢J͚̩́ṵ͈̬͊ͮs̺̦͍̹̎̑̓̃ͩ̊͡t̷͕̮̀͂̆̉ͩͨ ̦̘̺̗͊̅̓r̰̪̬͓̲̘̹e͛͛ͥ̋ḻ͈͔͙̻̱̙̂̀̓ă̈̎̈͆̈̿͞x̷͕ͣ͋ͤ̐̚,̘̰͎̲͓̅͂̊̋̔ ͉ͪͥ̈́̔͝aͦ̽ṇ͍̺͙͎̮͕͡d͞ ̷͔͇̼͒ͧ̈́͐͂l̙̰͑̊i̩͕ͫs̡ͩ̆̽ṭ̠e͍͇̜͎ͩ͛ͫ̓̐n̹̟̗̘̱͉͚̋̄.̷̒̓̈ͨ̈́͗̊ ̴̞ͫR̄̌͡èl͙̙̆̌ͦ̊̎a̴͍͖̞ͥͅx̙̜̔̽͊͞,̛̹̜̣̱͂̀̽̒̇ ̛͓̗̙̔̀ͦͮ̏a͎̤͋͋ͤnd̪̪̆ͯͯ ͖ͩ̐̅è̛̹͈̼̖̣̓̒ͦ̾n̹ͬ͡tͬe̮̘͡r̯͇̟͈̦̃͋̍̔ ̤̬̼̗̗̏͗̓̔͌ͥyͮ̌͌ͤ͑o̗̼̫ͯ͂ͬ͂ͩ̄͌ú̻̱͖͉̓͆̓ͮͭr̪̭̭͢ ̜̹̦͌͗ͭ̈̌ͭ̌ś̢͉̱̥̻ͭ́̓͂̈̅t͕̻̔͗̈̒̎a͂̇͐̆l̻̖̼̰ͤ͗͌ͤ̆͝l̪̲͇̒̓̉̑̆͌ ̈̄̄̅̅a͉̬̩̝̲̳̾̒s̩̘͙̐̌͂͘ ̸ͩ̊͌̒̅y̥̤̠̐ͣ̂ͯo̸͈͔̞̓u̫̟̫̝͕͎͚ ̘͈̜͖̭͙̑̅l̡̪̣͕͔̖i̷͈̱̼̩ͤͭͥ̍͊s̶̪̠͙ͯt̻͇̹͍̉ͬ̑e̪̙̬ͪ̅̽̏̀n̹̻̜̟͕̱̳ͦ̽̀̈́̊ͥͣ ̻͚̲̥̤͡t̒ͥ̍o͓̖͓̊̎̉ͨ͟ ̻̦̤͖͙̯̯ͪ͛̃̃̇m͉ͭ͌͜y̻̳͍̟͉͍̲̑ͮͬ̍ͥͮ ̟͋v̘͕ͫ̆̑͂ͮͦ͞o̹̺ͥͅi͍͉ͥ͊ͪ͋c̆̅̚̚e̠̟͙͓͎̖̞ͥ,ͪ̈҉̻̝͔̩̜ ͚̤̱͓̫t̲̝̳̙̱o͉̼͉̠̎ͭ́ͣͣͫͅ ͎̿ͪ̋̑̌͌͐m̧̮̩͈̝̲̻̆ͪ͐́ͦͫy̗̪̳̲̬͔̮͡ ͔͖ͧ̍̄ͬ͝r̰͇͙̣̠̀ͨ̐ͅͅe͚̿͐̀̓ͭͪ̀c͈͈͐̋̏ͫ̏o̠̬̬̦͔r͑̅d͏͎̫̪̖̝̺ì͕̜͎̹n̵̪̺̼̉̌g̷̹̙͇̰͗ͭ̈́͋ͮ͋s̔́̆̂͗͏̟̬,̩͉̪̤̼̉ͬ ͈̱̮f̧̳̠̪̩̲͇̂͂͌a̡͙̘̹̯̬̓ͦ̌ḽ̛̈͂̇͌͂ḻ͚̻͕̘̹̫̉ͨ͒ͬ̌ͬ̎͡ĩ̖͖͇͚̠̠̚ͅn̤̥̜̗̾̓́g͋͛҉̖̣̹ ̗͎̦͚́ͬ̚d̹͓̟̣ͥ͛̏̆ͦ̑ȇ̖̔̏e̷̖̣̣̪̝ͪ͂̾̚p̶̫ḛ͓̣̯͔̟̑̊r̪ͥ̿ͮ̌ ͈͉ͦ͐͑ͬͬͭ̀a̓̆̋̑͊n̸͉̜̖͓̫͉ͅd͇̮̯ ̖̰̝̫̬̩̗́ͦd̘͓̦̭e̻̺̫̪e͐̓̾̅̉͌͂̀p͈̠̭͚͓̮̉͑͆̅ͥ̚ẻ̓r͓̠̜̻̖͋ͭ́.̲̉͂̐́.̫̟̩͔̱͙̩̊̐̒̎̂̌.̺͇̲̲ͯ̎̄͢.̸̥̻̟̪̱͌”
Trent watched as the horses, quite miraculously, passed through the stable doors and filed down to each stall. He watched their tails twitch, their rough hide stretched taut against the solid muscle of their … was it croup or rump? He could never remember which was proper. He watched their tails swish and sway back and forth as their docks willed.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Clip clop. Clip clop.
He blinked sleepily as his head began to drop down, where he noticed their hooves and legs. Familiar wraps fit snugly around the equines’ cannons. “Fetlocks. Huh. Silao wasn’t joking about that testing,” he muttered.
As each horse entered its stall, Trent closed up after it, securing the gates in place, before the horses each turned around and snorted. Their lips curled upwards as they sought to take in his scent, and then they chuffed out into his face. Trent decided not to bother cleaning up, after the fifth time in a row. And since Silao wasn’t laughing, he assumed the voice playing right now was likely a recording. Besides, he didn’t have time to be upset. He had to work quickly, and he could only do that if he remained calm. Calm, and relaxed. He rubbed at his wrists as a peculiar warmth pulsed around them, before returning to his task. He’d be sure to tell Silao about it later.
Trent found it easier to avoid so much unpleasantness, if he blew out his nostrils at the same moment the horses did. It was difficult to manage at first, but eventually, he got the timing down, and he was able to divert some of the … excess the animals sent his way. He sneezed as his nostrils flared, trying to clear the alien substance from his nasal passages, no doubt. He grit his teeth, and curled his lip back, doing his best not to let his frustration over the situation prevent him from fulfilling his duties. He had to remain calm. He scratched an itch on his chest beneath the shirt, and sighed as he felt it subside under the rough ministrations of his hands.
“S̘̬͎͈͈̝͠o͗͏̙̯̥̤͍ ̜̼͎̖͖̳̐ͦ̇̔ͪͅr̬͈͓̳͎̱ͤͭ̓͟e̪̘̠̣͎̥̼̊̌ͪͤ̐ļ̣̺̥̝̟̳̻͂a̪̞͕̬̼̹͠x̰̘̟̰e̘̠̊̊̉̾͌d̄̆͌̃́͏̱͎̬ ̷̋̈́̃̏̽.̥̤̜͈̠̏̓͐ͪ̃̔̿ͅ.͕͑͂́̇̀ͅ.̦͕̬ͨ̐ͤͥ͛ ̤̮͓̙̗͙̹̍̅̋͡i̞̐̀n̄̓ͣ̀́͏̖̜̦ ͦ̍ȳ͔̜̗ͣo̭̪̘̒̀u̗͖̺̬̭̟ͦͬ̃ͅṙ̉̒̽͏͎͚͈̫̬ ̯̬͓̰ͮͮ͐̀s͎̭͕͍͋͡ẗ̘̹͙̞̙̮́͒̍ͨā͑̀ͦl͖̠̾̄̿l̜̜̱͒ͥs͖͚.̟͈͉̻̻̩̺ ͍̞̞̲͇͖͂ͫ̃͛̉̾͋͢Ģ̠͐͊͂̾͋o̡̞̘̥͈̪ͯ̌͑o̶͉̫̼̯̜d͍͓̳̰̣͚̆̀̿͗ͬ̌ͅ ̣̽͊̾͋ͩh҉̫̥̖͉õ͔̠̙̱̯̐ͮ͟ȓ̷̻͈̱ͨ̄̑̏s͕͎̤͕̤̆̆́ͨ̎͡e̗̥͔̦͉͓̖ͦ̇ͦ̚s̴̙̫̯̖͚̥̝̐ ̠͕̺͂ͮͤ̽ẁ̘̲̖̘͍͆ͨͥ͗ͅą͉̫̥̹̯̟̭ͯͣī͓̙̱̠̬̩̻t̵͔̍̌̆̂ͩ ̟̖͕̙͇̥͟p̠̙̪̫̤̭̆ͤͩͅä͇̳͝ť͙͚̣͎̰͙̦͑͛̓̓͒i̭͚ͣ̈́̓͞e͇̯͎̥̩̲͌̒́͛̄n̅̊t̩̤̘̜̮̂ͪ͂̈́̐͞ļȳ̶͕͇̫̆̽͗̽ ̬̖̪̭̱̊̍̒͛ͩ͒͑i͔͇̩̜ͩͬ̉̐ͣ̓ͦ́ͅň͐̉̀̚ ̗̯̹͎̯͛͐̎ͥ̕t̤̖̩͙̩̙͖ͫͥ̒͂̓h͚͇̻ͩ̆ͣ̽ͩ͛e̴̯͈̠̻̲͊̒̉̔ͪ̚i̼͋ͩͭͭ̂r̭̥͇̼̉̑̃ͣ̐ͅ ̽̀ͫ͒̈́s̐̉͑̑̏̉̈͏̼̣̺̖t̤͖ͦ͂̈́ͤ͘ä͚̦̼̜̐͒̀ͅḽ͍͚̭͑̈̈ͭͪ̅ͮ͘ͅl̝͔̹͍̱̬̬̄͐̇̏́ͨs̬͙͍̠̦̐.̻̙ͥͮ̄͒ͭ̈̚ ̛̣̮̫̙̳̖͍͌̑L̻ͧͨi̸̠͍̪͈͐s̆̏͛͂͑ͧ̓͏̬̭̝͔t̼̤̩̻̟̓̽̎ͫͨ͂͠e̞̬͔̟͕̗͐n̂i̼͓̫͋ͪn̳̂̍ͣͩ̇͞g̰͎͚̠͕̰͞ ͧ̂̇ͥͨ͡e̞͓̫ͬ̾v̤̩ͭ̔̈ͨ͌ͅe̖̅̒̾̃̈́r̩͈͑̃ ̹̻̻͎̲͓ͪ̀s̵ͯͣ̒̇ơ͕̹̻̠̱ͥ̋͗̊̌̓͆ ̺̞̦̩̯̞c̬͙̖͙͚̔̈̊̉̎͘l̨̬̬̬̥ͮ́̈͛o̼̫̮̕s̝̞̓ͩͬͫ͑̇ͬ͡e͞ĺ̺̭̗̪͎̱̊ͭ̍y̬̫͓͒̉͑͢ ͓̄͑ͧ͛͌͢ͅǎ͇̙͖̥́̓̽̂̚sͩ҉͉͍̱̯̠͍ ͓̓͐ͫ̍̅̓͢y͑ͫͭͭ͞o̢̠̻̙̩̔͋̐ͨͨ͑u̷̖̪̫̼͒̈̂͗ͭ̽̀ ̫̞̘͐ͦ̇ͯͧ̓r̨̘̔̈̈͛̍el͍͖̩̅̊̏ͯ̚͝a̼͉̥̮͛̇ͅx͔̼͚ͣͥ͘ ̷͎̙͑͒i̜͉̲̖̫̦̦̊͐̎̽n͍̗̻̣̑̐ ̬̞͉͓̥̗y͈ͧͩͫͪͧͤ͐͜ȏ̜͙̥͍̗͚̥͝ȗ͙͕̟͉͙̲͈͂ͦ̏̉͐r̻̬̱̘̝̠̎̈ͪ͠ ͔͕̙͓̭̦̦s̸ͭͮ̒̂̃̉̔t̢͈͓̜̃̅́ͅa̦l̜̪̩͉̲̐́ͯ͋ͅͅl͙̦͉̣s̓͊̈͛.̷͌ ͙̔ͤ͐Rͅé̼͚̦̳̎ͣ̌͌l̚ã̮͉͚̝̞̟̣̔̑ͩx͂́ͦ̀ḭ̢̙̻̜̱̻̥̈́ͨ͛ͣn̴ͩ̄̎̃ͪ̾ͣg̤ͮ́ ̠͖̥̼̖̓ͫ͌̈́̇͆ͨ͜ͅa͊̿̈s̳͍̲̺̎ͤ̏͐ ͓͈̗̪͓y͂o̙͈̟u̩ͫͧͯ̂r̊ͪ̏̽͏ ̸̫͉͎̼ͯ͑ͧ͗ͅë́́҉ạ̷̝̺̼̎r̤̯̞̝͉͍̼ͦ͌s̩̰̖̱̺̋ͥ̒ͪ̔ͥ̕ f̢̥̜̲͍̹͂ͮ́ͤ̓̈́ͬͅḷ̮͕̇͑̈́̏͂i͔ͮ̈ͩc͇͛k̯ͥͨ͑ͪͣ̄ t̲̣͚̦͔o̧̠̜͎͕̝ͥ̃̈ͥ l̨̜͍̲̺͍͈̯̋̈́ͧi҉͇̙͕̮̳̺̺s͈̝̊̉ͤtͣͨ͛͏̖͔̜̳̺ͅe͚̰̬ͦ̃ͦ̅̏͊́̚n̼̥͕̓ͯͮ ť̎͋͐̄͑҉̭͕̳̳̰o̎̇ͦ̈ͧ́ myͣͦ̽̃̓͛̚͏͙̟ vͦ̌͌̇͛̇ͯo͕̳̤ͯ̔͗ͭͥ̊i̗͍̭̥̩̣̋̂ͭ̑̇c͉̲̔̎e͓̜͔̩͛̈́ͯͣ̈̐̔.̹͕̤ͧ̓ͤ̓̀͞ R̩̜̬̗̲͎͐̎̋̓̊ͮ̂͝ę͚̭͈̤̫̏̑͐̐l͓̯̲̭̤̼̺ͫ͌ͯ̅̅ͣͭa̳̋̂̏͋͛͡x̠̘͒̉̚i͉̥̪͐ͩ̄ń̴͈̬͗͊g̻̀̉̑̓ͯ a̫̖̰ͥͤ̇ͅs̝̼̙̙ͣ͆͟ y̙͖̞ͥ̓ͦͧͅo͖͒͑͂ͬ͊̊̓͡u̥͉̟̝̥͓̓ͣr̷ͬ͑̒̿̃ ̯͍t̛̀̆a͍̯̮͎i̯̥͟l̺̻̰̭̩͖ͣ̌́s̘̰ͧ ̪̙̝̈̂̐͆ͨ̂s̛͇̳̩͚̏̈́̄̄͐ͤͪw̵̟̒̀i̱̗̣̯ͤ͡s̟̝͎̬h̭͖̹̾ͯ̆̃͒ ̺͐̎̌͋̍̅̂i̪̰n̴̪̞͎̥̩͍ ̬̝͈̬̐ͪ̆͐̊̾ͪt̝̐̒̌̃̐ͯì̸̹̲̥̹͙͓̍ͨ̽̒m̢̦͕ͩ͋̐̎ͦͮë́̽̃ͨͦ̌̔.͉̳̥͓̟̙̇ ̻̜̟̱ͅR̶͋ͧͥ̊é̻͘ḽ͙̟̯a̴̠̯̞͌͆̈́̈́ͯ͑x͔̗̜̼̯̠ͧ͒̄̈́̎́in̶g̸ͦ̅̐̒ ͈̜͋ͩ̑̓a̱̳̭̟̟͚ͮͫ͂̾ͪͅs͎̜̲͉̬ ̫͖͕͇̫̭͇ͨͨ̆y̺ͪ͑͐͋̈ͅͅo̴͇̟̮͙̲̅u͖̟̬ͫ̅͌̿̄̈r̵̬͆ͭ̊ͣ ͕̲̜̬̭͋ͪh̠̩̝̿̇ͥͅǫ̪̑͆͆ŏ̼͓͔̱̬̞͙ͪͪͦ̀͑͝v̞̝̥ͣ̆͑ͬ̔e̴͖̪͙s̪̜̗͡ ̱̄t̾̋̃̓͂̃a̪̮͎̣̣̳͓p̼ ̢̺̜̙ẗ̴̯͔̠̼̼̼̙̃̈́o̦̰̯͉̜̾̅̑ͦ̎ͯ̕ ̀̔ͬ͗ͯ́m͕͖̳̈ͣͫy͔̜̳͈̯ ̠͕̲̭̓̿̈́͐̂r̝̟̍̎̏̎ͥ̽̾h̯ͫ̊̔ͦ̉ͦ͆y͓̯̱̳̭t͍̑̎ͥͩ̌́ḧ̘̘̺͕́ͬ̉͂̅̌m͋̉.͎̹̾ͪͬͬ̐̏͡ ̧̻͕̟̮̣̼ͭͅĈ̳̹͕ͬl̨̻͕͙̼ͮͯͯͧ̐ͨi̷̮p͈̠̃.̲͖̝ͨ̑ ̘̘̰̬͉͉͔̿́C͇ͩ̓̂l͕͚̘̯ͪ̀̽̌̌o͙̺̩̠͋̄̋́̎ͅp̹͍͙ͩ͊̑̅̋̎̉͞.̨̼̽̎̑̃̍ ͓͗ͧͦ̋͛͠C̡̭̍ͮ͐̌́̃ͅl̗̤̙̘̯͂̉i̶̬̣͖ṗ̈̀̏͗̚҉̬̲͍͙̣.̠̬̰͖̙̥̫͛͑̊ͨ̿ ̫̻̼̞͎̹̦̃͋͘C̹̜͈̯͈͙̼̿ͤ̅l̻̹̑̋̈́ͬ̋̕ò͇̤̮ͭͮ͌ͣͅp̛̻̰ͅ.͉͈͚̍ͥ ̮̲̈ͪ͋͗̄̌͜Ÿ͔̬̮̠̠̩̯ͬ̒̾̽́o̵̲̙͚͎͎̺͈u̵̙̠̪̐̈́ͭͭ̇̓̆r̜͈̯͔̖͆̌ͥ̌̽̈́̎ ̛̗̺̰̝̳̲͂̓̄ͭḧ̝͛o͔͔̙͉͕̊ͫͩͮ͆́o͓̟̠͈̟͆̇̊̀ͩ̽ͣ͞v̙̜̒͂̂̿ͨ͐̃ȩ̦̻s̥̪͇̗̙͍̜ ̣̫̪͈̗̩̹̉͐̾̑͐̍̕f̩ͧͧo͉̘̙̗̘̤̮ͧͥ̀ͫl̯̘͎̝̠̘̐ͮ̄̅ͤ͆l̢͎̼ͬͮͪo̡̰͉̱͌͗ẉ̧ͭ̐ͧ̑̎i̲̱̥̮̇͗͊̈͑n͎̞̝̙ͬ̌́ͣͅͅg̵̰͈̥͖ͥ ̯͙̪̹ͅm̹y̯̯̹͕̪̭͡ͅ ̝͇͙̹̞̐͗͆̌̔͌h̦̤̖̹̄o̸͙̰o͏̰͇̙̘̳̤v̛̮̻̦̳̭̯͉̽͌̎e̢͕̬̫̎̓̀ͫͨͫs̗ͭ͒͂ͬ̅͜.͖̏͑͗̈́̎̀̕ ͍ͭĔ̲͕̅c̨̺͚͕̳̥̫͛̒ͅh̪̄͛ͩ̆̒̇͠o̠̭̯̝̓iͬͩͦ̽͏̥̻̗̠̪̘n̳̮̮̜̈́͑̿̏̓̕g̴̉͛ ̧͉̼̮͈̖̣ͦͩͩ̔̄ͤẗ̙̟̮͖͍͇́̆̾̔h̴̙̦̰͓͈̱ͥ̍̓̅̃ͩͅr̖̭̯̩̻̱̖̓̃̉ͯͭo̤̖͓̼̭̜͚ͮ̇ͭ̐̏͠ụ̭͖ͥ͆̚ͅg͆͊̌̅̈́̚͏͉h̨́̑ͪ̚ ͋͐͢y͖͔͉͔̣̲̓̀̚ͅo̧ȕ̩̺̃ͫr̢͖̙̦̂ͯ͂ͯ̎̂ ̠͊̇͋͢c̝͔̖͓̤̜̼̉̄̓ͬô̝̫̱̖̪ň̩͔͔ͥ̑̀͡s̜c͈͐̽͗ĭ̢͓̼̗̮̬͈̘͊́̔̎o͂ͩ́͏̹̺̪̥̗̱̜ű̡̟̘̭͓s̼̼̥ͫ̎̈n̗͎̗̘͎͂ͧ̽̂ͩ͝e̙̖̾ͥ̔̈́ͫ̚sͨs͖̈͆̔ͨ̃́͑͜.̣̱̤͍͐́̌ͪ̉͒̚ ͍̝ͧ̌ͪ̊̂C̫̰̣̱ͤ̽̃ḻ̤̮͋̉̃ͫ͠e̷ͤ̈́a̠̟ͮ͌ͩ͞r̛̗͔̻̙̠̞̳̔̈́i̛̞̱ͯͥn̫̬̘̬ͫ͐̈̈́gͨ͂̐ͮ҉ ̳̭͙̗͋̇̊̓i̺͇̮̦͑t͔̓̒̓̈́ͬ͆̇͡ ̭̤͍̳̻̯ͬͨa͒҉̩s̭̮͍ ͕̺̞ͦy͙̌ͪ̋͘o̡͐̽͑̒͒ͣu̪͍̘̭̠͙͛́̎ͪ ͇͔̜̳͙̼̾ͭͫͦͪͧ̚r̟̐̌ͯ̏ͯe̦̭͔͇͔͉̐̾̊͠l̲̰̦̦͗ͅa̼̼̠̹ͥͬ̎̅x̢̤́͐̌̐̓̌,̧͍ͭͦͮ͐ ̰̙̹͓̹ͨ̅́́ȃ͕͙̑͑̿̒͝ñ̖̭̳͎̤̪̭ͤ̃͆̉d̶̖̤̞̪̼͖̃͂ ̉̃̏͆ͣ̈̓͠l̬̟͕̝͖͍̎͋̀ͩ͌iͬ̾̌͂͏̙̟̮͈̖s͆́ͧ͒ͮ̾҉͍̼̗̖̘̼t͓͓͚͓̤ͪ̑ͦ́̓̽̋ͅͅe͂̍̅͏̦͈̟̩̟̬n̜̪̑ͯ̆͑̾̽̃,̦̬̩̳̓ͣ̒ͮ͐ͮ ̧̮̜̤̰̬ͨ̿ͅl͙̘͕̠ͣ̽ͭ̒ͩ̓͌ĩ̺͕͕͒͢k̏̅̿̅ͯ̽̒͠e̘̱̥͚͔̎͆̀̓ͮ̇̌ͅͅ ̱̥̙̦͎͒͒͘à̶̘͙͍̜̗̆ ̶̗͙̺̼̫͒̋̂̎g̡̙̉ͪo͈̽ͫͬ͒ͮ̌̈́o̻̗̟̻͖͒ͯ̆̈͋d͙̬͎̥̙̭̤ͪ̄̿̈́̋ͯ ̸̱̦̗̮͒̋h̳̜̝̥o̭̟͚͈̳ͤͮ̍̓ͅȓ̯̒ͫ͌̐͂s̿ͭ͂̆͌̾ͬe̔̌ͥ̈́ ͇͂́̽̔ͪ̐́s͚̯͔̝̱̜̃̄̓ͮͅh̤̜̪̞͖̍͆o͍̦͍ͤṳ͇͎͖̖ͨ̒l̻͖͈̜ͫ͋ͩ̑͊d̍͛.ͤ́̔͒̂”
Trent rolled his eyes, and tossed his head irritably as he closed the last gate. His ears tingled from a sudden surge of blood flow, and he sneezed again as he looked out from his stall. Did Silao really have to push the whole hypnosis thing so far? They were good horses, after all. They knew how to listen. He brushed his hair aside with his black-tipped fingers. The hardened keratin glinted in the dim light, freshly polished. After all, a stud had to look his best for the ladies.
“F̦͖̅̒̑̕e̱̤̤̳ͫ́ͨ̎̂̌͜e̫͇̟͍̮͌̓͒ͤ̚ͅl̫̦ ̵̝̬̬̩̯̋͊ͭ̈́̔ͫͫt̡͕͎͈̹̺̠̦̾h͛̇ͪ͝e̶͕̱͔̹̹ͥ͌ͣ͋ ͭ͏̙̩a̵͚̚i̹̞̼̾̊r̟͔ͩ̀̏̔ ̗͉̠͇͔̔ͨ͂ä͓́ͩ̋̊ş̫̮͙̳͑ ̡̾̈ͩ̅ͧi̘̠̖̬̭̼̠͑̌ͮ̅t̨̠͉͚̩͖ͅ ͙̽̾͛̆͡c̯͚̼͍͕̗̙ͬ̎̒̍͐̏ȧ͍͙̣̣̳͖̫͊͋͌ͬ͑ṟ̮̭͔ͪ̓̔ę̪͗̅ͪͦ̈́s̰̹̜͔̙̠͔̍͗s̛̳̝̙̪͍͚̀͋e̞͚̘̲ͤͧ̋͌̃ͫ̽s̴̙̠͖͈͎͍͎̃̍̄ͪ͋̽͒ ̶̀ẏ̴̍̅ͦo̗̹̟̞̦̺̖͗ȕ̩̳̭̣͍̝̝́ͮ̔rͪ̂͗̅͌͛͛ ͐͑͗ͦͪͣ̉h̸̹̱͈̖̥ͭ̐i̜̱͎̩̹ͬ͞ḏ̳̩̟͈͖̼ͨ̓͢e͕̰͓̤̟̘̋́̈́̈́͘,͇͑̎ ̞̠͚̙̙̯̪͋̈́͘r̦̮͍͆ͮͅǘ͇̣̖̏ͮ͐̿͂̊͞ͅș̅̎̅̀t̪̗̺͍̮͐ͨ̏͘ͅͅl̨̝͔̹̠̱ͪe̛̮̭̬̮ś̫͍̤͔̠ ͚ẗ͇̉͆͌͜ḩ̠̲̊ͬ̀r̖oͧ͌͏̬̝̦͇̦u̩̘͙͂́g̝ͧ̎h̔ͯ̐ ̸͓̪̬̖͓̂̃ͣy͕͙̗̑̎ͧ̂ͩ̐̃ǫ̂͗̓͊ͧủ͎̤̣̜͔̳̅ͯ͒ͭͅr̠̹̘̆͊ͣ͊ͫ ̞̭̐ͩ̍̍̓͛͆f̡̼͈͔̟̭̣ͫ̄ͫȕ̧̔̑r̪̹̪̲̜̽̃͋. F̫̆͌̎̉e͙̭̮͚͔͉̹͑e̸̠̐̎̍͂ľ̴ͫ͌ͤͤ̄ͥ į̗̣͎̠t̶̜̞̝̙̬̣̋̏͋ͬ̓ͦ̄ a̮̟͕s̥̜͔̹̼̜̥̑̏̃ͦ͐ y͍̯̞̗̣̜ͥ̉͐̚͞ͅơ̫̗͌ͅü̙̖̬͎̟̏͟r͎̤̟͍̭̙͈͌̐̀ c̬͇̬͛ͬ̊ͩͥͬ͟h̫̙͂̎͒̓̿̚e̫̮̭̳͇͉̩s̴̍ͯ̍͂ͣ̐̑t̬͍͈̬ͅ e͍̖͌ͨ̽͘x̙͔̙̯͋ͪ̍̆̕p̥̮ä̡̪̦̗̠̱͕ͅn̩̏ͨ̀d̨̹̪̮̗̘̙͆͛͂̓ͣ̏̈́s̬͙̤̦̋͌ ͓̘̦̞̱͍̗̓ͤî̥̗͓͕̤n͎ ̶̯̒͆a̘̬̞͙̎̊͌ͫ̓n̺̤̎ͮ̐̈̓d͚́ͫ̒͞ ̗̞͎͉͊̀oͬ̂͗̑̉̾͏̣̳̹̤̱ͅu̴͇̍ͯ̂ͦ́̍t̉ͩ̀ͭ̇ͩ͋̀,̑̊̄̋ ̹͍̫̗̅̄̕ì̬̥̣̇ͫn̰̲̳̣̭͔̔ͬͮͅ ͚͇̭͕̹ͧ̅ͫ͟ǎ̤̰̌̌͐ͪ͒ņ̬̝̲͓̤͂͌ͯͅd̥͎͌ ̃̂͊̾̑̾̽͟o̢͚̪̭̠̯͋ͮͦu̕t̗̎͋̆̄ͥ̆͜,̓ͧ ̵̺̯͓̱̭͓̝ͣ̓̃̓̅f̺̹̘̣̦͚̖̓̈́̆ͭ̒̂̀ȉ̭͎̻͌͛ͨ̊̉ͦl̞͚͙̝̤͈ͥ͒̒l̦̜̱̩̳͇ͩ͛ͯ̓͜ï̉҉̞̼n̋́̅͏̖͈̦̦̣̖g̴̿ͭ̄̔ͦ̄̆ ͔̪͎̳̗͋́͠w͇̠̙͍͂͠i̢̤̥͚͕̱̜ͮ͋t̥͙̦̺̼͍̻̋̍ͬͮ̋̔̀ḫ͍̱͕̟͎̺ͩ̏ͭ̽̉͂̀̚ ̶͖͔̑̒ͤ̇t͔̯̘̰̝͒ͣ̿h͌ͨȩ̙ͬͮ͐̓͂̈̾ ̖̩͇̬̼̄̒ͤͫ͗͑ͅs̙̎̚ͅa̝͉̟̦̹̥̠m͖͇ͮͯ͜e̢̎͊̔ͬ̚ ̙͖͐ạ̶̦͗ͣ̇͛iͤ̆ͫr̩̰̣̆́͊̃ͯͪ̀,̪̥̮ͧ̾ ͮ͐ͪ͑͌ṭ̩̦̫̘ͫ̾ͤ̅̾̌h͇̙̩̬͛͞ẻ̏̋ͤͤ ̷̖̺ͦf͉͚̱̘͛̑͛̀a͔͈̲͙̙̝͊ͅm̘̺̾ͪͮ̾̾̌i̠̳͔ͧl͌ͭ̈́͑̿ͫ̊͏̤i̗ͫ̌a̟̬̰̬̟͉r̝̹̫̰͙͖ͮ͛ͨ̒̅ͨ ̖͖̠ͦͯ̇͛̒̓́s͍ͫ̄̑̎͜ç͚̱͂ͨe̩̝͕͓͙͚ͬͅn̜̫̱̻̯̱̞͆̈̊͊̊̊ẗ́ͤ̎ ̼̖͔̑ͫͣ̄̚̚ͅo̢͊͋͗̑f̷͍͕͂ͤ ̝͉̘͇͙̘̐͝ͅt̸͎̣̦̍͛́̍̈́̒̇h̶̟̅̈̏̋͆e̜̬̖̗͡ ̢̪̻͍̬͛ͤ̊ͫ̓ͩͅhe̺̲̳̍̑̽̎͐̈r̜̞̘͗̈ͦͅd̟̰̤̬̝̣,̣ͫ̏̀ ̖ͮ̃ͪ̊͢o̧̭̣̣̯̟̤̍̓̀͆f̵̦̲͇̺̣̰̈́̀̈ ̫̦̺h͕̻̲̬̤ͨ̆ͤͥ̀a̩̻͛ͦyͯ͊ͥ̈́̍̚,̭ ̖̮̫̼̣ͬͯ͢o̖̟͉͑ͪ̿̌f̡͙̃̿ͮͪ͛ ̟̲̙̫̯͡w̟̳͉͖̱ͭ̏ͪ̔͛a̠̫̱̹̩̞t̄̃̍e͓̪̝̝̳̟̮͒̊ͯȓ͓̝͕̜͓̦̿͊̃̔̂,̺̣̜̏̎ ͉̾ͣ̓ͧ̄õ̉̓̾͑f̷͇ͮ́̉ͤ̇ ̪̲̟̻̮̳̈́̏̑ho̬̳ͮ̓̓̌m̍e͚͉̳̹͍͎͑̄ͧ̽.̽ͣ̓̐̅ͪ̚͜ Ŷ͎̦̽ͬ̾o̖̭͉̙͚u̹͔̫̙̫͂̂͑͂̀̆͆ ̞̞̩̈͋͆ͤ̔̾ͨͅͅa̞͋ͦr̰͈͖̔̆ͧͪ͋ͩe̬̜̩͍̠̭͕͑ͮ ̡͚̗̒̋ͥͬh͈̋ͪͥ̄ő̫̺͖̩͓͎͓͒ͪm͉͎͎̓̉ͫ̀̈́ͬe͚̥̤ͅ.̛ ̭̳ͨ̂Y̜̭͈͕̳ͣͫ͗̈́̎̿͟o͍ͯ͆͆͊́ͮͦu͎͉̩̒̊̎̑̿͊ͬ ̫͕̲̩̙͇aͫ̈̃̍r̷̗̟͙̮͈̖̜e̢̋̂̓̈̈́ͮͩ ̨̬͕̹ͮ̌́ͫ̊̏c̥̦̟͇͋̾͒ͣo̞̪ͭ̂̂͆͠ṁ̇ͤ͐ͧ̓̇҉̰͖̬̯͍̦̙f̢̑ͪͫͩ̇o͉͕̤̩͕̗̰ͤͥ͋̑ͣ͊͡r̮̝ͩ͗̾ͧ̓ͣͮt̰͉̺̦̣̥̙̀̂ͬ̐̎͡a̛̠̿͋͆͗b̬̲̥̼̀̚͡l̵̳ͧ̿ͧ̏͛̌ě͈̩̯̱̖̲̍̋̍ͬͅ ̗͚͔̮̦̊̑͟i̢͙̞̹̓͆̍n̪̱̲̺͌̐̑̒̄ͯͮ ̩̬͙ͦ͋ͩ͗͂̅ÿ͎̭̞̞̣̩͊̑̿́ò͗̎͛̋ͯ̽҉̙̦̮͚u̹͈̘̱͛̔͛͗̉̐͝r̻̙̲ ̥̌̀͝ḫ̤̤̻͇͇̻ͤ͆̅ͤ͌̎ȯ̯̃̈́͊̊̚ͅm̶̟̗͉̺̲͚̺̊e̸̪̱.̭͖̟͕̱̲̄̈́̈̉̎̄ R̵̺̟̬̮̉̽ē̮̜̪͇̪̩̎̀ͩͮ̐͘l̘ͤͩ̌ͩ͗ą̖̹͈̾͗̇̐͌̚x͎̭̥̻͇̩͉.̴̝̉ ̞̠̼̖̻ͬ̌̉͞T̤̝̐a̾ͯͨ̈́̍k̤e̡͈̠̮͙̾̓ ̳̗̅ͬ̊ͥ͠a̷̮̖̹̽ͦ̉ ͇̜͌͒̚d̽҉̮͉̟̪r͌ͧ̿ͬ͏̘̗̙̪̟̰i̭͎͋̈̎͛̕ṇ̓̏ͪ́͗̀k̷̹̹̲ͧ̾.̳̝̫̹̞̚͝ ̟̹̘̲͈ͧ̄ͦ̅̓̋͗͠ͅṞ̥ͬͨ̿̀e̟̜̤͒ͯ̐̔ͫͫ̿͞l̳̭̮a̻͈͓̗͙̙ͮ͠ẋ̝͍̩̫͑̆͒̚͜ͅ.̢̳͇̜̎ Ỷ̆̉ͧ͜őͯ̈u̪ͅ ̥̥̠̭̗͚͌́͟ȧ̯̤̟̬̗̽̆ͩͅr̝̱͍̘ͭ͜ͅe̒͊͆ͩ͏̦̲͔̼̖̝̗ ̮̩̥͚͇̿͑͑h̪̰̗̖̖̙͙ͭͭọ̴̱͉̦͋m̞͉̩͓͈̐̐̍́̌̂ͅͅe͔̫̞̜̖͍͆ͤͬ͌͒̎͢.̗̫̼̝̙̯ͫ́́ͅ ̢̥̯͈̳̟̰͉ͫ̿ͬ̒ͭ͑A̢͚͍͚͌̏ͪ͂̀̆ ̶̙̀͒̏̍ͅh̳̎͢o͙̻̖͖͇͈͔ͩͩ̐̌ͧr̺̱̺̫͕̓̏ͦͪs̙̘̤̩͖̻e̯̟ͭ͗̒̓͡ ͈̖̘̝͎̺̆̉̓̇̇̾͡ͅb̄̓̇̃͐ͯ̇ê̷̳̠̪̝̫̂́ḽ̨̲͉̗͍ͧ̏ͪ̍͂͛o͍̣̦̝͔̣̭̎̓̃͛̒͆̊n̩͜g̷̙̠͚s͖̠̬̟ͪ ̛̘͛̽̔ḯͬ͛͊ͬͬͧ͏̖͎n̮̣̽̾̈́ ̦͍͚i̬͇̙̻̱ͦ̒̋͑̈́ͣt̢̖̥̱͈̼̰ͭ̃̂ͮ̎̚s̤̫̫̺͍̲̐́́ͬ͢ ̮̬͇̑ͬ͆͊̏͋sͤ̐͋ͧ̊t̞͓͔̦̬̩̟̐̾͑͒ͬ͘a̰̲̰̙̮ͯ͛ͮ̓̅̄̎ͅl̲̘̯̜͗̑̂͒̃ͬ͆͠l̵̲̞̫̳̉̋̇ͅ.͈͙͖̖ͪ́ ̷̠̫̲̫̟̦Y͇̳ͪọ͖̯̰̫͖͕ͯͦͤ̌̈́̇̓͘u̥ͫ͆̇͆̉̚͞ ̘̍ͦ͗b̰̯̰̓͒̓̇̎̒̆ĕ̻̙͕̀̾͘l̹̘ͬ͗̆͊ͦͅo͝n̴̙̰̭̳̳̓̌̌͒̏͆g̢͖̹̅ͥ̆̐̚ ͧ̆͊͛̅͢i̼̾ͭ͡ṅ̦͍͎̣̠͎̤́͡ ̡̻̪͈̗̒ŷ̷̦̱͚̊ͥ͐o̱̓ͪu̸̮̺͎̪͉ͩͦ̿͑ͤͮr̯͙͈̹͊̌̈́̓͆̇ͤ̀ ̨̗̞̝̌ͩ̒ͫs̜̪̲̬̦͖t̶ͯ̈́̀͑̑ȁ̝̮̐̀ͬl͏̖͓̙̹̞l̖̹̪ͦ͌́ͅ.̡̰̼̣̤͓̘͉ͧ ̰͎̩͍̩̒̐Ỳ͍̳͍̥̻̌̉ͨͤ̄̌̀o̢̮̻̬͒̐̾͆ư̜ͤ̄͊̂rͨ̒̿̿ ̮̙̄͑ͤs̥̮̠̓̐͂͌ͩ̚ͅt̫̮͚̯̟̫ͯͨ̓̅́͜ḁ̴̌ͧͣ̾l̼͗̈̆̅ͅḽ̲͗ͨͬͧ̅̿͐ ͍̗͚ͭ̎ͮ͛̈́̒͡ͅi̵͉͓̥̹͂́s̛̩̞̞͓̹̿̄̒ͫ̊̏̚ ̲́ͦͤ͐ͣh҉̘o̒̐ͫ͌m̝ͥͪ͟e̯͍̺̤̹ͭ̇̏ͣ.̭͉̦̤͍̼̳”
“Fine, but only because I like the smell of this place,” Trent countered as he folded his arms and snorted angrily. He took a deep breath and smirked as he felt his overalls strain against his well-built chest. The warmth had spread from the bands and now engulfed his arms, but he didn’t care. A good hard day’s work always left him feeling a little hot, anyway. That smirk only widened as he gazed at his bare arms and noticed the thick, bristly black hairs growing in. “Ladies love a little hair, especially when it’s dark,” he thought cockily to himself. He smacked his lips and walked over to the trough, where a pool of dark water sat waiting for him. He reached his hands in and cupped them together to take a sip. The cool water running down his throat was positively heavenly. He quickly dipped in for a second helping, and then a third, and a fourth, splashing out far more than he drank, until the water began to refill. “About time you got me an automatic!” he shouted, then grinned as he braced both hands on either side of the tub and shoved his face in all at once.
Trent hardly noticed the warmth as it spread to his face, nor the prickling of hairs sprouting over it as he continued to suck in gulp after gulp of water, only pausing for a few brief seconds to breathe through his nose, before plunging back into the depths again. When he pulled back up from the trough, he let out a nicker of contentment, reaching up to dash the water from his eyes and sleek black fur with a few deft swipes. He crossed his eyes to see the long strip of white running down his nose to his muzzle, just to make sure he’d gotten the worst of the stuff out. Then he chuckled. “Going a little overboard there, Trent.” He shook his head again, tossing his mane as he worked his boots off and kicked them aside to hear the comforting clip clop of his own hooves on the floor. Why Silao had insisted he wear those silly things, he would never know, but he knew better than to question the boss. A good employee listens, after all. He walked over to the feeding trough and took a handful of hay, before taking a heavy bite with his rapidly expanding incisors. The force cut right through the fibrous stalks as easily as a mower’s blade. His eyes rolled in pleasure as his tongue brushed against the sprigs, shoving them back to his rear molars to be ground to that delicious paste, before swallowing.
“͇͙̹̜̝͔͊͗̆̃͜S̛̹̬͇̫̪̹̭͐͛͐ͥ̇ǘ̥̫̠̹̬͘c̫͉̤̦̱̼̓͛̔̒̄̈́ͅḩ̺̬̘̋̏̋ͅ ͓̻ͦ͒g̩̼̫͙̅ͪ̆͂̈́ͭo̤̙͓̪͙͔ͭͥ͌̊o̷̘̗̹̗̘̗͙ͪ̾d̛͚̼̱̳̹͈͋ͮ̍͆ ͕̰̺̼̮̃͗͂ͩh̲̠͈̰́͋̓̐͗̊͠o͊ͭ̋͠r̪̙̜͍̅͢s͔͋ͪ̈́̾̿͟e̡̻̻͖̰ͬ͛ͦ̄̈ͅs̟̗͑̂ͩ̀̔̚,̖̰͕̲̱̱͇ ̣͕͔̹̺̝͑ͦ̀̑͑̀ȧ͎͙ͤͮ͌̀͑ͅl̟̙͓̮̠̭͈̈͝l̵̪̱͚̝͉̖̦ ̞ͦͭ̈ͧ̂͌̚ọ̼̘̣͕̹̬̄̓̐ͪ͂̇͘f̭̘̯͇̟̰ͦ̑̉ ̫̳̟̋ͭͮ̄̽͜y͙̫ͪ͑̇͒͑̎͟o̘̺̺̞̼̘ͮ̑ͮu̜̝̥̹͎.͕̳͎͓̽ ̬͔͚̯̗̣ͪ̿̏S̭̝̟͂ͦ͐́̑͂o̳̿ͨ͋̇̍͆ ͔͐̒ͤͬ͒̽ͫ͡w̞͚͚̬ͦ̑e͙͂͆͐ͣͅl͎̭͇͈̬ͨl̨̬͍ͯͪͯ͋ͫͅ ͆ͩ͗̑ͥͫ̚b̖̪̖̙̻̱ͫ̆͑̒̚ḙ̹͍̤̑̓̍ͧ͌͟h̛̠̖̰̮̰ͥ̿͑̍ͦ̿̚ͅa̤̯͕ͥ̒͘v͓̘̥̱͍͚ͤͧͦ͌̈́ͤ̚e̹̬̹͕̼ͭ͋̇ͩ͌ͮd̬̥̹̖͉̯ͬ̓̋̂͘,ͣ ͈͎̟̣̱̿͆̐̓̄s̯͙̝ͫ͒̃ͯ̈͠ͅõ̇ͨ̂͢ ͖̯̦̲͔̝̗r̤̭͎̄e̩̭͖̙ͩ́̇́̓ľ͕̻̳͚͔ͬͭͩ̆ͦ̉͘a̛͔̜ͅx̥̝̝̯̘̽́ͅēͪ̈́͂͒̇͏͙̖̱͓d͍̻̣̎ͩ.͖͋͌̾ͯ̃̎͋ ̱͔̝͉̓ͧ̓̏͂S̯̭̝͆́͒ͧ͒ͅo̖͔̳͒ ̝̲̻͊̓́̍͂̚v̞͔̰̼̥̜̿ͥ̎͗ͨ̂ér͛͊̒͒҉̭͍̩y̠̜͚̬̬̓ͭ͛̀ ̲̾ͤ̈͌̐r͘ê̬̗̻̤̠͈͙ͣl̟͚̹̻̋̾̕a̰̟͇ͩ͛̑͟x̼̰̥͍̦͆̈̀̍̄ė̟̇̔̊̚d̾͛ͬͮ͟.̛͙̣̖̩̲̫ͪ͊̒ͯͨͯ̇ ̘̼͉̯ͣS̛̞̣̤̳͉̈́͊̈́͒õ͕̼̻ͨ̌̔ͦͫ̀͞ ̧̥͈̯̳̜̫̳ͥ̍ͤ̑d̦̪̼͂̓̇͑ͭͣ͒͟ͅo̵͙͙̻̩̦̪̖ͥc͎ͥ̒͌̈́ͣ̄̋ì̢̮̜̃̒̆ͪ̓̚ḻ̨̘ȅ̷̞̙̪̘͇̮͒ͣ, a̫͔͕ͮ̈́͂f͙͕̞̻̋̑ͪ͋͆́ṱ͖̭͓͔̐̉ͅe̜͇͕͖ͪ̐̓ͤͬr̴̙̺̬̈̇ͦ ̏́a̪̩̔͑͛ ̖̉l̰̼̯̈́ͫ͋͆ö̤̝̺̙̰͕́nͣ͂ͤ҉g̥̫̲͛͊͌ ̻̼͌̈ͨ͞d̸̎̋ͭ̃ͯà̲̭̫̲̓̀͂̆ͯy̬͎͓͓͔͎͢’͉̩͕̟̱́s͛́͆̊ͥ̿̾ ̵̋ͨw҉͖̠̦͇̦ó̸̼͕̠̃͋̂r̴̅̔͊̽͐̚k͓͉̪̔̀.̴͔͒̚ ͓̮͖̍̃̊̈́O̞̘̹̱̭̲̠ͭ͆́͆͠f̽ͭͦ͠ ̴̖̝͖̽ͮ̒̓ͣ̋ͨc͍̯̣̭̼̦ͧ̑ͮo̢̲̲͉͍u̞̝͚̥͙͉̲ͤͮ͛r̭̬͎̻͕̼s̡͕͖͔̮̲͗̒e̬͒ͪ̌,̡̞̗̩̪̰̦͊̌̾͐ͨ ̜͍ͬͪy͚͚̏ͥ̍͊̓̓ͣo̜̤̼̳͙̖ͮ̃ü͓̰̗̼ͨ ̂҉̬̰̥̖͈d̜̆̄ͤͪͮ̑̀̚o̺̠͔̜͔̬͒ͦ̐ͨ̚̕n̽ͤ̇҉̳̝̗͖̯̪’͈̠̱̤̤͂̍̊ͥͅt̵̟̤̺͉͖ͬ̓ ̜͆ͣ̈͊m̯̹ͣ̈̈́ͫǐ͕̳͔͍̟̳͋ͯ̉n̠̲̥̞̊̌̐̓͝dͧ̎̆̐͏͓̞͇̯̹ ̶̥͎̘̟ͅt̘̲̏ͪ̓ͩ̅h͉͓̳̑̈́ͥ͗̉̌aẗ̨̞,͚͗̓̄͋̕ͅ ̷̤̤̹͙̬̝͖̀͗̽ͧ̿d҉̣̱o̹̜̿͌͑̉͛̚ ̨̫̭̈́y͕̞ͧͨ̒͜o̰̩̙̳ͨ͊͛ͤ̍̒ư̲͍̠̹ͥ̒ͅ?̭͙̼̕ ̘͔̃͛̉Ỳ̺͙͍̱̬̜͉̅̀̌̊oͯ̉̆́̏̅͌҉͔̻͕͇͚u͓͚̩̙͓̩͖̿ͭ͆̉͒̍͒ ͉͚̟̤̔l̵͖̻̖̤̜̺o̖͊̾̓͐́̉̅͠v҉̲̼̜̟̥̜e҉͉̯̮ ̻̳̆ͤͮͧͫ́t̛̬͚̖̹̖̳̟̋̅̌o͖̙̼̞̥ͦͯ̅ͭ͑ ̭̤̹̙̞̫̄̑͗̒͑̏̚w̏̅͒̏̾̒̈́͏̮̝o̟͎͚͈̮̦̺ͪ̌ͯ̄̋ͦ͟ř̗͔̰̞̥̌̀̀kͭ̾ͮ̀.̖ ̷͔̱̻ͧͨ́̿̌ͥ̈́A̾̒ͫ͊́҉̩ ͫ̽҉̬͇̹̘ġ̅ͨ̏̈ͫͩ҉̗̼͇̘̪͉̞o̹̞͈̹ō͈̂̽ͬ͜d̮ͫ̃͂ͩ͞ ̈ͩͭ͜h̜̲̮̀ͦͯ̉ȏ̼̝̪͚͉̠̲ͭ̓̋̓ͣ̉r͎̝̻͕̼̪͉͡s̳̮͓͖̲̐̍ͩ̄̎ͦͭë̫͔̖̳͕̗̦́̏̾̍ ̠̞̪̲̭͕ͮ͟ĭͭ̎ͦͅş̻̺̩̞̄ͭ ͇̲̼͍̼̟̿̾̽̊́̿̔m̷̯̦̳͗̾e͉̥̹̟̙͒͑̆ͣ͘a̷͍͖̟̥̻̹͑͗ͮn͊ͭͥ̄͐̋t͚̻̥̘̫̭͗͟ ͎̱̮͕̣̙͆̔̆̃̃̊̓t̠̼ͩ̄ͤ̈́̔ơ̦̝͎̟͚̟ͣͧͧ̈́ ̴̗̫̹͕̪̹̠w͓͖̐̑̅o̻̠̪̣r͙͇͍͐̽ͅk̠̱ͯ̔ͥ̚,̺̠͟ ̴̝̞̼̹͉j̓̔͒̎͏̪̪͖͚̗͇̘ū̺̘̙̫̥̟s̩̦̮̪̹t̳̺͕̄̅ͣ́̽̒ ̳͍̝̯̼̯̬͛͊a̎̍̏̊͊ͮ͗́s̡̙̳͇̣͎̝̿ͬ ̻͕̗̬̅a̶̝̹̗̝͉̰ ̞̮ͥ͑̇̄̔ͬ͋́g̃o̧̤̰ͬ͌ͣͭͦ̓o͉̫̫̩͚̔ͪͪ̂͐̀̚d̵̞͖͕̍ ̧̭̩̗͌̐̿͗̄̄h̠̠̼͔̏̈̕o̮ͣͦͬ̿͘rͬ͒̉̆̔ͧs̰̦̻̟̯̞̮e̮̗ͤͦ͒̑ ̝̭̥͚̉͋͗ͤ͡ͅi̴̫̻̳ͩ̋̓͆ͬs̫̞̹̫̮̼̤ͫͥ͜ ̦̣̯̱̫͉̿̾̉̓̽ͫ͢meant ͙̥ͨ̇t̬͈̘͈̻̆̅o̩̙̤͐ͧ̾̏͋̋ ͎͕̞̌ͬͧ́ļ̠̉ͪ̇i̗̖̘ͫ̐̍̌̏s͙̩̬͕͉̜̅̌tͦ̿ͬ̋͛e̤̪̙̖̤͘n̤͍̻̘̰̽͒ͣ,̟͍̬͙̫̦ͦͫ ͚̤̪̯͙̭ͦt͈̖ͭ̓̚o̠͍̰̫͐ ͇̳̖͍ͭͮ̍̌ͣͨ͡l̠͔͎̙̤͚̊̽̈i̜̙͖̖̭̰͒ṡ̲̭͖̯̐̍̽̽͠ẗ́͊́e͔͓̤̓̒ͣn͓̉̅̓ͭ ̶̲̓̽̇ͫ̏ͨt͐̎̅ͯo͕̟̜͒̔ ̮͍̱̼͔̪̓̍͐r̵̤̮̹͎͌̒̐ȅ̯̘l̺̃̇̒̍̋ͭ͆ȁ̵̬̟̘̘̪͉̭̿̅x̩̺ͧͧ.̘̳͎̓̂͐̍̊̚ ̞̤͙̖̱͉̻ͣ̆̀̿͗̉ͦ͡Wͮͥ̄̑͏̺̤̦o͙͓͕̲̭͊ͯ̓ͤͅr͑̊̚ķ̞̗͓̟́̎͒ ̴̏ͪ̈́ͮͥt̞͓ͭ̐ͫ̇ͧͅo̼̟ ̕l̞͔͍ͭ̆̾̌͐͞i̘̯̳̖̓̃̈̋̑ͥ͂s̭̅͢t̺͕̳̟̓͌̋͐e̜̳͕͈̔̋̿̚nͭ̎́͏̩̟͍͍̩̣.̴͎̤̺̞̄͊ ͇͖̲́̐̿ͬ̒͡L̯̻ͧ̑͂ͪͩ͗̅i҉̺͖̳ș̘͈͛͑̌͗̏ͩ͛t́̊̿ͨ̌͑͂͏͉̥̼̝͎͈̘e̪͊n̳͔̠̻͚ͨ̆̾ͭ t̨̤o̡̠̭̿͂ ̺ͧ̋ͪ̎ͩ͆͜r̺͐ͪ͂ͬḙ̝̭ͫ̅̋͐̌l̴̪̖̠̙͗ͣ͛̉̾͑ͬa̰ͭͬ̾͐̓̀x̊҉̱̜͎̝̼̦.̾̋̒̐ͩ҉̤ ̪͔͍͙̰̈́͋̆ͫ͐̓͡R̘̤̥͝el̮̺͌̉ͬ̎̒͗a͒ͫͩ͋̎ͧ́҉̭̦̠̖͎̙x̵͇̦̦̠̙̟̞ͫ͑ ̬̥̦̈́̏ͭţ̘̭͍͔̠̫̓̌̇ͩ̑̌ͫo̴̠̮̊ͯ̈ ̵̰̼̼͇̋ͨ̆͆̌ͥp̎҉r̝̪̳̖͔̊͊e̛͉̭p͕̘̜̰̭̪̦̒a̴̩̰̱r̸̝̜̖̿̈e̐̓ͫ́ ̨͙̖͍̱͉̔͌̚̚̚ͅt̬̳̭̊̔̀̚o̲̖̫̯͊͂͛̑ ̠̦̭̊ͬͦ́ẅ̝͈͉͓̮́̉̀̀͡ȏ͓ͨ̾͐r͚̣͕̣̹ͤ͋ͮ̓̏k̺̮̇͊ ̰̺̭a̢͆͒g͓̜̯͓͈̦̣͝ả̱͇̞̲̜̼̖ͣ̊̿̀i͙͐̓̓̿͂n̤̣̭̱͆.̬͉ ͦ̌ͧ͋̇̈́̋T̹̪͂ͭ́ͭ̈́̚ȟ̦̰̝̻̖̘̀͛a̺͎̋t̲̱̙̂̽ͩ͗̄̎ ̓̀͢i̍̏̓̚͏͇̪̬̤̟̤ͅs͔̓ͫ̋̿́̓͢ ̥̓̓̃y̥̖̘͔̫̞͚ͩͫ̿ͦ͆̓͢o͋͡ű̜̼͕͚̝̍̅̔r͍̹̳̈́͂̅̑̽͑ ̦̘͓̮͍͎̻c̦̎ͧͥ̒̈́ͦy̯͗̐̋ĉ̛̟͈̼͎͔̃̔ḽ̓ͥ̎̽̀͡ͅé̝̟̀́,ͩ̆̀ ̰̎͆ͧͥͭḍ̡̄ả̺̤͕̮̗̥̣ͮ̍̌y̖̥ͥ ̌͐ͬ̈́ͤ̚̚iͪ̈̊̊͡n̷̰͚͔͍̩͕͗́͆̒̚ͅ,̬͎͖ ̗̞̠̙̺̗̼͗a̻̹̠͔̙̰̙n̞̫͙͌ͯͫ̆̾d͚̟̦͉͖̒̊̊̄ͭͪͮ ̳̥͔d̙̈͆̽ä̰̘̗́̔̉̑̏̔y̴̲̠͚̟̘ͭ̇ ̙̭́̽ͥ̆̎͆͡o̙̞̎̉͑͛̾͂̓̀u̶͙t̓ͮͯ̓̔̋͡.̋͋̒̆͊̾̈ ̰͙͈̎S̍̉̈́̉҉̯ǒ̳̹͔̾̓ ͪ̄s͖̻̦͔ị̴͔̳̜̩ṃ̩̪͚̻ͩp̡̥̦̥̥ḽ̵̩̉̐͂̅̌̔̿e͚͓̞͑ͮ̎̊ͅ,̮͇͖̙̮̪͋ͦ̌̑ ͎͈̣͈͐s̻̩̱̾̈́͒͑o̜͎̽ r͇̼̻̪ͪ̂̆ͤ͗̈e̠̟͔ͪ̄̓̈ͅl͎̀̉ͩ͡ǎ̶̱x̻̰̺̥̉́̿̊̄͂ͩe͈͈̣̮̿͗̒̔̉́d͙͈̟̯̀͌̑ͦ̇.̢̗̦͉͙̣̟̿ͅ ̟͓̖̓́̊̄Nͪͅo͒ͨͬ̂ ͔̳̞̤͎̼ͮ͊͊ͦ̍͊͡n̠̳̗̹̺͕͉ͧ͟ẹ̮̪̟̖̣ͤ̈̊̎e̢͙̻̝̘̻̥̒ͧ̓ͧ͛̈d̢̦̜̟̦̓ͨͤ ̢̺ͪ̉̔ͩ̒͆t̆ͪͧ͌ͩͩ̀o͍̘͓̣̹͇͉͊̋̄̎̏̋̚͜ ̴̉͒͆̈́̃͛̓t̛͉ͨ̑ĥ̠̼͑͋i͛̑n̼͓̳̾͠k̡ͩ̒̍̅.͕̮̗͈̳̦̝̆͂ͬ̉ ̗̮͚̞͉̺͔̊͛́Ṋ̠̦͎̯̾ọ͇͓ͬͣͮͮ ̳̕n̸̻̬̓e̼̲̫͙͟e̸̘͇̫̫͖̦̱̐͆͌d̬́͋̿̓ͮ̌͞ ̈́̄̐̉̆͜t̛̜͈͔̳̳͚ͬ̃̆̄̍̀̎ọ̡̺̫ͫ̈͑ ̼̙̖̜͉̦̮̾ͬ̉̽ͥ̒̇͡w̄o̲̞͈̘̯̊ͪ̓͢r̰̣̍̈̇̓̽r̤͕̭̲͈̗̰ͭ̄ͭy̜̭.̮̥͙̳̣̳ͪ ̻̪͕͓͚̝̠̐̈̚R̋ͩ̓ͩͮͅȇ̫ͩl̡͕̯̫̻͎̠ā̴͚̠̩̼̫x̨̟̳̩͙͙̲ͤ̂ͮ.̘̄͛ͣͬ̐ ̸̲͖͔͕Ḽ̼̠͉̟ͥͮͧ̆͘i̴̯̤̱͇̼͎s͈̤̣̙̮̐ͭͅt̹͖͙̻̙͕͙́ę̺̫͉̖̲̯̈́ͨ̊n͇̲̓.̸̭̣̙̩̤͌̄̔ͤ̈́ ̘͙͎̎͆̆ͥR̵̼̘̘̗̫̲ͯ̃͒́̊ͤë̮̥ͣl̤̬̟ͫ͊̉̌̕a̻̞͙̝̜͙͕ͮx̷̗̝̻̋͌ͧ̚.̵̣̟͒͂̆ͅ ̢͉̖̥̜̾ͧ̔̾W̷̗ͧ̍̑ỏ̸͎͇͔͖͕͛ͯ́r͔̖͚̰̍̎͂̉̃̐̚k̸ͬͯͬ̚i̻̲̠̜ͮn̒g͖͚ͯ̾́ ̹͈̩̞͓̬͗t̷̯͕̅ͨ̊̐o̟̺̲͚ͯͬ̄ ̸̫̭̠̹̜͚̘̾͐ͪl̨̻̪̫͉̭͒î̟̙̘͖͔̒̄s͎̬̱̔͗ͥ̽͆t͓̒ͣͥ̅͠e͔̺̦͓͒n̨̳̒͋̈̉̈̂ͨ.͎͕̘͔̯̮̟͂͌̿ ̞͔̳̼͈ͅW̮͙͠ǒ̤͉́̈̏ͪ̚͡r̘̮ͮͨ̽͛k̜͔̃i̶̦̗͚͓̺͗̈́ͬ̓̎̄ṋ͎̱͎̮̻͙̈́̅͆͆͒̀ͧǧ̸͕̼̱͓ͯ͛͆ͅ s̛͕̙̒͑̊̀͊ͤ̂o̩̐̽͌̋̉̚ ̳͚̙ͣ̃͌ẖ͔̟ạ͎ͅr̟̣̼̞̩͙͎̓͗̽͂d̨̖̜ͮͬ̓̄.̞̻̄ͫͅ ͇̠̗͎̌̆ͤ̌̈́͘S̢ủ͍͕͓̣̝̱͢c̷̞̪̝̗̠̦̙̅ͨͦh͕̖̼͕͐͟ ͚̝̗̰̩̳ͩͬ̄̓̐gͨ̈́o̫̖̮̬͍͔̭o̺̻̞̲͆̉̽̇ͣdͭ̎҉̘͉̗̹̠̼ ̯̜̱̣͚͚̻͌ͤ͆̀̓ẇ̅o̤̦͖͛͠ȓ̆̑̆ͩ̍͏͔k̈́̒͆̍͐ͅḥ͚̻̙ŏ̜̘ͫ̆̚r̴̺͈ͭͮ͒̇s͒ͧȩ̫͉͖͇sͣ̓ͯ̎͆ͦ͛͏͙̖̪̖̞̹.̨̦̺͙͕̪ͯͦ ̨̯̫̭͖̈́L̪̮̲̀ͯ͊̂̂̋i̡̠͕̩͈̣̘͗́̔s̡̩̣̤̭͇̘͓̾́̉t̞̩̥̺͕͍ͤ͆̐̓̒̃͑͝ͅe͔͚̟ͦ̅͆̂̚͡n͉̤̞͕̻̑̓ͣ̓i̻̮̐̐ͯͤņ̠̤̤̦̗͙̓ͤg̮͔͓͈͎ ̖͓ͬ̈́͑͒̔̑ͬh̔̈́͐a̟͍̮̱̟rͣ̏̍̿̽̅͌͝d̓ͬ͛ͫ̓.̧ͪ̔̐̎̑ͮ ̴͍͚͇̼̉̑ͨͪŴ̵͈̩̳̈́́o̳̫͐ͪ͊͛̀ř̨̝͙̈́͗̄́̾ͧķ͙ͤͥ̂ï̶ͮ͂ͧ̄ͬ̓n̥̗͇̦̩̭ͨͯͯ̃g̞͕̪̠͙̃̓̆̏̍́ ̆͑͏͙̺̗̮͓h̷̃̽́̅a͇ͭͮ͗r͙̘̗̤̬̥̻̉̊͐͆͑̒̊ḍ̤̪͉͆ͩ̽ͧ̋ͨ̏.̵̱̩̤̖ͯ ̭͔̊ͮͤ͘Ṡ̸̞͇̮̟͑̐͑ȍ̷̺̤̈́̃̿ ̗̗̘̝̝͛͆͒ͬͧ̿ͯͅv̗̮̞̱̣̅̄̑ͤ̿͘e̢̘̗̙͈͐ͧͮ͂r̤͎͎̪̗̳̃̎͝y̱̖̰̹ ̶̹̖̠̣̍̓͋͆̆ͣ̀h̥̙̳͍̥̞̾̿̉a͕͛ͣ̉̃̈́͆r̡̜͕͉̰͓̭̾̌̌͗ͯd̵̘̬͌ͣ͊ͧ͑̿̉.̶̰̤͑̈́̏̏͐̋”
Trent let out a moan of pleasure as he leaned back against the wall, and shuddered. A slick lather had begun to form on his growing fur coat, soaking his shirt and making it cling tightly to his rapidly thickening skin as his shoulders broadened and his waist widened. He breathed heavily and whickered as his arms and legs expanded with muscle. He could feel the overalls becoming tighter on his body as skin stretched and muscle corded, while fat burned away to nothing. A hefty bulge began to press against the crotch of his overalls as he rubbed an increasingly muscular rump against the wall of his stall. The room seemed to spin around him as his neck thickened and lengthened, while his legs began to shift. The knees popped out of place as the seams near his waist began to burst, and his legs shot upwards while the mass of muscle around his waist continued to expand, bursting the seam as he let out a weak neigh.
“S͎͎̘̗̮ͩ͋̋̕õ̓̇ͬ̊͏̟̘̝̦͖̬̺ ͚̯ͤ́́ͣͤ̚h̸͈́̍̐̉̔͐ͣa̢̗͗̍̈́͋͂ͫr̞ͫͩ̏ͯͤ͌d̫̫̹̋ͭ ͈̜̻̅a̡s͉͈̪͔͌̏͗͐̔͑̽ ̫̮͉̞̱̪̩ͪ̐ͥ͋͗ͤy͙̋̏̂ͫ́͜ơ͚̳̗͍̝̾ũ̼̝̰̘̙̈́͑̚ͅ ̗̭̝ͥ͌̈́ͫͯ̾̚c̪̥͎̭̀ͯ̔̑l͈͖̠͌o̜̗ͥ̈͛̒ͥ̄p̳ͮ͡ ̛͔͚͍̫ͤ̄̋̽o͖͇̻̫͈ͩ͂̈́̇̈͂̚ṇ̮̎ͬͤ͐͆̏̋͡ ̇͋͏͓̣a̛̼̘͚̽ͦ̊̚l͚ͩl̷͎̤̘̠͋ͭ́ ̟̰̮̬̓̊̇͞f͎̱̳̪͚͔͛̀̌ͥo̠̞̼̘͆̆͋̊̀u̦̯͔̻͍͉̪̇͋ͭ̂r͈͇͚̭̪̒̌͒̈̎ ̡͖͊̈͌̐́̿h̥̞̖̬̲ͪ̽̾͗̄̇̐o͏̫͔̝̬̮̞͕o̪͍͙̯̠̰͐̿̀v͇̣̳̼̟͍͈ͣͣeͯ҉̬͔̰̠̰̱̰s.͔ͩͮ͗̏͐̀ ̱̖̯̰̬̀̄̀͌̆̚H̘̜̔̃a̦ͮ͂́r̞͔͈ͦ͂͆͑̋ḍ̨̪̉͆̃̑̇ ͓̰̮̘͙͚́̑ͪ͒͆ͮͤṭ͕͑̒͐́͗ͧ͛͡o̘̭̥̪̯͙͑ͯͨ̊̏͡ ̠̝͈͔̭̱͜s͊͡t̡̥̩͍ą̪̟̝̫̣̪͗̍n̝̜̻͍̘̳ͦ̏̈̕d̫̤̉̑ͣͭ̑͒͌ͅ ̬̊ͦ̋̇w̙̹ͨ̉ͧ̆̄̈ͯi͎̅̄ͧ̿͑ͤtͣͩͣ̍̓ẖ̯͓̩̲̮̍͛̈̊͂̓͠ǒ͎̯̹ͣ̈͐̊̀u̙̮͉̰̱͍̣ͧt̜̝͟ ̠̍ͨ̀ͅt̙̘̫̘͚̜͍̿̓h͉͙̹̤͇̀̊ͩe̜͇͕͔͉͗ͅͅm̢̺̗ͩ.̜̼͇̥͓̜̲̎̀ ̢̜̼̠͒͗͗͗͌ͬH̭̄̕a̿͟r̢̰̔ͦ̇ͮ̑d͈̏́ ͕́ṭ̏͟o̪͚͔̒̎̈́̓̎ͩ ̼̠͕ͪ̊ͫ͂͗͠m̛̺̘̱̙͎̱͙̃̋͌o͙͉̭̞̻̕v̳͖̘̣̦̑ͬ́̎ͫ̈͝e̐̄ͣͨ҉̲ ̘̠̍ w̜̋̉̒ï̜̿ͨt̮̒ͩ͌͂̉ͧ̽h̞̖͍̪͕͙ͧͣõ͛ͭ̃͟ủ͔͖͆́̽̈t͓͌͐ͣ ̧̟̰̟͗̓̓t̩̯͉͈̾̆̍̇h̋̂͊͡e̦̦̗̼̗̓͊̀͑͗ͯ̿̕m̸̖͕͔̹̹͔̦͂͌͆,̩̻͗ͩͅ ͖͈̀͆̈͒ͯ̀t̳̥̥̪̉͡o̶͎̩̙͙̪̰̙͆ͥ͋̚ ̛̱̭̗̮͖̰̂͌ͪ͆̓ͮ̀r̊͌ͦ̐u̓͛ͥ̀ͤ̄nͦͧ͒̋҉̬̳̗͚̗̮̯,͚ͩ̃ͪ̂̆̉ ̮̯̿ͣ̓͒́t̬̘̰͈̹͈̾̍o̳ͥ̾͆̚ ͕̫̻̝͙́̋͜ẁ̮͈͚̼ͮ̚͠o̯̦̮̼̟͗̿ͮ́ͫ̌r̶̲̼͕͇͊̆ͅk̲̳͑ͥ̓̔̚.͑̚͏̝̤ ̖͔̦̫̪͘ͅͅS͕̦̳̓̿ͯͯ͋͌́u̠͔̭͑̽̆c̤̃h̫̺̾ ̝͎̥̖̌̍͛ͣͮ̀͜s̗̅̿͡ͅt̥̻̘̺̖ͥ̆r̐̈̇o̤̣͙̜̊̚n̒̐̾̈ͪͮ̅͠g̶͙͉̭̱̥̯̻ͭ̚ ͌͏͎͚̥̤ḫ̻̽̎̕o̡͙̳̤͉̎ͣ͒̾̑o̥͙̭̮͔̰ͭͯ́v̡͈̲̐e̦̰̯̩̍ͪ̂s̶̙̥ ̠̼̟ͭ̒̍͋ͮ̚͞o̴͓͍̅́̀ͅn̵̠͐̈́ ̡s̸̙̦̳̪͛̀̉ͬ̌̍ͯt͍̘̉̏ͣȑ̰̻̭̒̍o̫͒ͣͭͤͮ̀ͮͅṉ̴̩͍̬̙̤̝̐̊̀̈́g̦̩̹̫̻̟͋̀̽ͤͣͨ̒ ̗̏͂̅͂l̥̠͈̮̘̈́̏̚ë̯̭̜́g̩̖͡s̹̻̫̪͎̝̪̀̓.̘̯͈͓͈̯̲ͧ̋͂ ̲͌ͪͩ͛S̸͚̫̹͐̏o͒͛̊͏͖͙͙̠̲͕ ̲͔͓̹̗͖͎̂̓̌ͦ́̎s̴̪̞̣͗ͫ̔t̹̘͍̳̦͒ͯ͒̉̇͌͑͘r̨͍̯͍̥̤̠͈ͨ͒ȯ͇̳͚̻͙̩̰̋n̛̰͚͔̠͖͐͌g͎͇̤̦ͤ̿͗̇ͩ.̟͔͎̦͔͟ ͔̣̘̹͕ͬ͗͐̆̑͠S̪̯͔̻̟̖o̗ͣ̑̍̌̽͞ ̗̉̽v͂̍ͤͣͯ̓͏̝é̛̹ͤ̆ͤͨͨr͔͉̟͕̻̫̩̃y̲̺͓͈̮̫ͪ ̵̝̬̭͍́s͍̜͖̒ͮ̈̅͜t̖̺͈̟͕̦̓ͯͨ͗̄ͫ͞r̴̺͇͋ͤ̂ͥ̾o̐̔̾ͮn̖̖̩͚͗̈͐͗ǧ̢̪͚͓̍͌ͯ̈́̑.̻̅ͮ ̞̖̲͈̞̒͝T̺̭̬̎ͫ̀hͮ͐ͣͩ͂̽ͧ͏͙͙̲͓̠̹͉e̠̟̤ ̔̿̀͏̬̱̘̩̘̜u̩͔̖̼͈͉ͣͨ͂̆̑ŗ̮ͣ̄g͖̟͑͆̋̿̚e̻̱͎̲̍ ̧̜ͭ̋ͩͬt̘̼͙̝̩͔ͤ͋͑͛̋͐̔ͅơ̻̝̦͔̬̞͛̎͌ ͎̱̭̞̗͎s̟̒̆́t̖̮̼̬̮̀̐̂̇ͥa̧͚̰̗͍̣̭͒͒n͉̻͊̂͠d͆̑̏ͣͤ͊͝ ̣͕̫̤̹̺̒͋̅̿̈́̋̾͠ó̜̗͓̘̙̤͓n͈͚͍̜͆̂͂ͧͬ̀ ͔͝ā̪̳͍̗ͧ͟l̹̚l̥̹̱̯̞̗̲ ̵̲̓̾ͩͦ̚f̩͔̽̃͂̎͒o̺̩ͣ̋̑ͫ̍̚u͍̳̜̝̠͡r̔̆̀͆̋͒͞s͇̲̺͇̬̦͗̈̚.̨̩͚̰̯̝ͅ ̙̘̙̹͖̈̀͑ͦS̹ͯ͌̐͗͒ͦ̌͟o̭̰͎͚̻̮̓ ̴̘͈̻͂͐̋̈̾s̷̥̲̥̝̄ͣt͇͒̆̇ͮ̊̀ͬrͧ̈́͒ͪ̅̏̇o̶͎̦̾n̡̥͙̻̭͇͋̾ͮ͑̓̓g̺̞̣ͅ.”
Trent sputtered out of his rapidly swelling lips. His body trembled as the joints in his arms began to shift. Muscles spasmed, adjusting to limit his range of motion. His shirt’s collar began to tear beneath his mass as his chest swelled in size, and his torso began to lengthen. It was getting harder to stand, and the tightening muscle in his rear forced him into more of a hunching crouch than a proper leaning as he began to teeter, his hooves stamping on the earth as he struggled to remain upright. But … why should he? This … was this upright? He rolled his eyes again, this time in confusion as he looked around. Things were … different, somehow. He had to turn his head to either side to look properly. That only proved to further disorient him as his ears rotated to find the location of each speaker in the stables. “S-stroonnnngghhhh–,” he struggled to say in a guttural voice. His vocal cords had shifted, stretching longer and thicker with his changing neck. He looked to his hands with one eye and watched as the black keratin began to spread. His middle finger swelled, turning completely black as it became harder and harder to separate his other fingers. Soon the keratin consumed his whole hand, leaving nothing but a broad, heavy hoof that continued to expand before his eye.
“Wh-whaahhhaaat’s … happe–NEIGHEHEIGH!”
The horses responded immediately, adding their own neighs, nickers, and whickers. His ears couldn’t flick fast enough to catch them all, furthering the dizziness, the disorientation. His chest burned as he struggled for air, breathing rapidly through his nose as the weight increased. He heard several loud pops that startled him, prompting another whinny as he jumped in the air. Unfortunately, this proved his downfall. As he slammed down on his hind hooves, the support of the wall disappeared, and he found himself falling, falling, but … things didn’t look different. He felt the impact on his front hooves, but … everything still looked the same. Well, except for the dizziness and his split vision, but the scents of the stall more than made up for that. He shifted a foreleg and took a step forward, feeling the vibration travel up his leg, feeling each new muscle, his new strength. No … just his strength. Strong hooves on strong legs. Yes, he was strong. So very, very strong.
The annoying pressure around his barrel finally gave way, and he looked back to see a flash of blue and white, before the color began to leech away and blend in his vision. Something clung to his back legs and rump, and he didn’t like it. Without even thinking about it, he began to buck, kicking out his hind legs as he pressed on his forelegs for support. The movement was as natural as breathing. In a matter of seconds, the offending articles had been flung into a corner of the stall. Trent snorted his satisfaction and disdain at the rags, then trotted over to his water trough for another drink. Trotting felt good, relaxing. The more he moved his body, the better it felt. He stuck his muzzle in and took a long draw from the container.
“G̞͈̥̪͇͎̽̈̑̈̍ơ̫͕͋̓ͣͪ͌ͭo͂̓ͬ́d̡̾̍̃̂͑̚ ̷͎̱̮͖͙ͭ̍͋ͩͫḣ̾̇ͨ̾҉̗͇̖o̼͍ͫ̉͌̍̐r̤̮͜ͅs͓͙̈́ͮͨ͞e͋̄̄͌̓͛s̨̥̬.̼̳̭̥̩ͪ͌̐̔̾ ̮͍͉̣̩̦̭̐J̺͕̇̌̈́̍ͪ̃̚͜u̹̤̱̫̣͕̱̐ͣ̑̏ͧ̾̇s̠̝̦̯̱̖͆͋̂͂ͯ͢ͅṯ̹͉̅̐̓ ̥̹̦̥̖̖̽ͤͧͨ̂g̢̗̫̻͂̈́ͭo̴̩̅̓̑̄͂̚o͚͖͔̩̮̞͈̊d̸̝̹̙̥̺̄̋̊͋͂ ̹̤̗̻̟̤̅̀ͤͣ́̚ḧ̺͔́ͧ͘o͐ͨ͒̉̓́ŕ̳̺̼͓̟͚͍ͬ̇̌͟s̤̗̺͇͇͌͐ͤͥe̼̩͒̏ͧ̚š̜͚̖̼ͧ̇͆́̂̀ n͏̫̖̰͚õ̗̼̯̙̙̬̬̉̈́́ŵ̱͍̻͉͓͂̑ͥͤ.̞̻͇̫̞̣͖͑ͪͩ̂̒̀̚̚ T͗̊h̙̬̻͕ͦͪͭi̛͐̓ͩͨn̜̣̘̙̔̿͝ͅk͕̪̖̞̩̙̬͘i̘̫̮̣̙͗ͦn̮̻̟̩̘̩̠̉̏͒̅͒g̹̯̥̗̝̤ͪͮ͞ ḁ̶̹̹̙̝ͧͤ̊̽̃ͅb̢̦ͥ̅ͤ̑̉ō͖͎͈̞̤͂ͣu̞̮̔̅ͬ͘t̮͇͙̮̹̝̔ͪ͆̄ͮ t̡͍͑̉́ͫh͖̤ͪͯ̇̾e̴̤̞̹͎͙̤͑͑͑̽͆̀̚ ̸͕͉͓̜͕ͯh͕͚̦̱͍͊ͯ̒͡ę̹̥̻̻̥͖͍͐̎ͦr͚͈͈͓ͩ̋͗͑̔̋͆d̔̈̍͏̱,̝͕̋ a̹̪͈̖͚͊͐̌̉̿͘b̎͛̃͗ͤ̏͏̫͎͓oͣͣ͏̝̩u͊҉̪͎̪͕͓̮ͅt̂̽͛ͫͨ̆̑ ̰̯͞m̩̥̲͑̓̓͋͋̅̏aͥ͒͂͏ţ̊ȋ͈͉̾n̟̥͍̤̥̭̹̊̋ͭ̾̔̃̐͝g͕͛͛̈́̐̿,͚͑͂́ g̘͔͓͖̫̳ͯͤͫ̂̈́̽ͩr̞͆́ȧ̩̪̗̆̎͌ͤz̘̹̻͕̤ͅi̩̦̪̹̩͗nͩ͢g͈͚̰̙̀,̜͕̞͛ l̡̥̫̺̻ͮ̒̐̃͌ͦi̢̯̳ͣ͗ͯͮv̩̥i̫̰͊͒͆ͦ͌̎͟n̥͔͓̲̱̥̫̊̑̾̋̌ͦ̉g̞̺̟̫̯,̯͖̙̻̎ͪͤ̄̉̓͢ ̋̏̋͝r͒ͣͦͯ͏̫̥͓u̇̍͠ń̨̜ͪn͍̍̇̋ͧ̈́̇̓i̧ͫ͐̊n͕͐̏̀ͮ̐ͯ͘g̠̅ͦͪ̈́̍́,̍̂̾͏͕̮̰͉̪͙ ̡̅ś̟͐̈́̈́̃̕l̔̾͛̔ͤ̇̽҉͎̳̟ė̷̻͗̐̉̎e̙͍̼͓̣̘ͦ̉͌̈́ͨ͑́p̴̤̫̻͕̮͚ͥ̓ͩ͌ǐ͇̑ͣ̽̆n̩͉̹͖̮̜̩͂ͣͩ͌g̖ͨ̓͑̄̇.̸̝͔̰͐ͨ̀ ̮̠̪͓̭̣̝ͤ͑ͧS̘͓̟̘̩̱u̬̘̪̮̅͌̾̚c̩̪̜̰̤͌̑h̖̭͎͚̪͇̫̎̋̽̾ͥ ͙͋̈́͆s̻͕̙͉͚̙͡ḭ̻͇̝̬̆ͬͥ̒̊́͒m̵̍̋́͑ͫͦ̎p͇͛͑̍́̏l̫̘̗̼̼̾ͭ̊́͆̌̎ẹ̸͈̳̬͇͓̳ ͙͚̏̀̎̒t͕ͭͬ̒̈̅͒̽́h̺̖̠̖͋́ͧ͌̈͌ò̗͔͎̌̃̅ͪ͛u̲̺̤̭̖͓̝̎ͩ̇̏͟g̢̣̩h̬̜̫̮̣̼̯̾̀͂́t̲s̭̞̣̙̩̓̌̑͌͊̀.̬̩̫̜̩̻ͬ͗ ͓̯̲̰̂ͫ̋̓̏ͅŜ̬̯̰̘̬̠̐ͬ͟l̥̲͕͉̥ͅo̲ͦͨͤw̷̮̙̻̪͇̽̅ͬ ͯ͒͒҉̥̼͚̣̻a̪͉͔̰̤̳̿͐n̼͓̱͔̱͂̐̀ͅd͎̺ ̴͓͊̑ͩͦ̿ͤ̌ṡ̘̪̬̦̩i̹̗͈̙̓ͩͧ̉͐̃m̛͕̤̬͙͙̾p̶̘̳͕l͇͇̗̻͉̬̑̏̋̒̚͜e͊͋̀.̜̯̣́͋̋̔̒ ̳͎ͧ̉ͫS̤͇̲̈̀i̫̘̥̹̭̠ͦ̈́̄ͬ́͑̄͞m̙̺̙̿p̜̻͕̣̙͐͂ͪ͗̐̑l̸̦̻̭͔̥ͩ͊̑é̖̩̄̂̃͆̂ ̩̳̰i̳͉͔̥͍̻̜ͦͦŝ̘̮̖͖̝ͩ͆͗́ ̣̯̖̾͗͌ͬ͊g̹͉̘͚̙͍͓ͩ̒̄͑̀o̙̺͍̜̔̊ͅȍ̻̹̺̦͉̟̪ḋ̤̰.̭̏̔͒̌͌͒̓ ̸͇̹̪̭͎̎ͤ͆͛̚̚I̛̬̳̖t̞̜͙̏ͫ̇ͪ̚ ͛̉͑͊̈́ͩ͟l̳͈͔ͪ̈́͆̏͗͟e̗̋͑ͨͬ̌t̊͛͐͊ͤ̽s͚̩̩͔̲̮̰ͦ͜ ̵͍̯̓͗ͮ̄y̠̣̩̝̱̯͋͑ͤͩǫ͕ű̴̥̙ͪ̀ͨͧ̉ ̆̄͂̏̌ͨ̿ b̻̪͈̼̟̺̹͑̓̀ȕ̠̿͒ͪͤͦi̵̺̹̮̺͑l͔̲̻̹̘̿ͩͮͯ͞d̹ͪ̆̆͐y̥͒̊ͬỏ̥̰̙̙̊̇ͨ̄́u̵̼͑r̨̲ͭ̍ͭ͊̔̉̾ ͈͕̩̪̺̦̇̑ͣ̌ͮͅs̞̲͍͍̞̲̈́̓͌̒ͤ̋ͪt̳͕̏̒͊͊̋͒̀̚r̛̠͉͖͕͔̞̊̿͂ͥ̓ͩ̚ẹ̖̜͎̦̩n̜̲̰̯̣̳͆ͥ̎̉g̺̞̬̀ț͖͚̏̇ͩ̐̑͌́̕h̦̜̫͋̾̎.̛̫̹̟̤̌ͭ̇̇̊ ̧ͧT̙̎͡h̙̗̺͎̹̓e̝̮̗͓͓ͯ͗ͨ͐ ̚̚͠s̢̪̳͇̒ͣͮ̾t̷̳̪̝͇̮̟̰͋̈̑̿̅̀ͩr̝͔̲̭̋o̧̪̠͍̩͚̊̇ͭ̈n̮̏g̭̘̜͓̖͑ͯ͌e̴̖͑ͣ̍ͭr̰̭̪͕̣̠ͨͥ̋ͤ ͉̺̹͙̪ͮ́͘y͚̰̖̖̲͚̽ͥ̆o̗̞̗̺̊͑ͩ̈́̓̍̚u̡̜̺̩̠̞͂̂͑ͦ̚ ͓̤̺̟̺̖͔̔ͧͯͧ͛ͩȃ̳̳ͅr͚̪ͬͅͅé̼,̵͇̫̳̰̮̠ ̯̲̝͖̩͔̅tͦͮ͒͑h͖̘̭̮ͪ̓ͬ̏̿͟è̲̭̱̝̙͉ͅ ̑ͫ̒s͂̎̔̍ĩ̝̤͓̻́m̛͍͔̰̦͙͎͑̌ͪ̌ͪ̓̄p̢̿̑̎l̹̙̤eͥ́̍̓ͦ̾͆҉̹r̍ ̤͐ͤͪ̉̑̆͛͘ý̾̈́̀ò̟̦ͨ̊ͫ͒̓̈́ṷ̖͈̫͈̎ͣͯ̂̋ͧ̅ ͭ̔t̳̙̙͕͒̎͒ͩ͠h̹͉̫͖͍͉ͦͅi̵̗n̸̘͓͋̿k̲̹̗̟͈̤̺ͦ̾ͯ͂.̰̜͕̹͚͕̐̒ ̱̘͖̈ͫ͂T̛̯̯h̻͈͙͈͖ͬ͊̅̇̐̏̾e̐ ̩̩̳̬ͬ͊ͭ̓̓̄s̷̲̐̉̌͒i̻̰̰ͧ̌͋͛ͦ̇̌m͖͈̮͎͈̲p̞̅̔l͇̰̖̝̟̭̻̿̇ͤͫ͞eͣ̇ͨ̾̒r̟̬̘͎̠̳̩̋ͮͬ͌ͣͨ ̨̫̳ͩy͓͇ͨ̽̉̀̍̚ͅo̵̯̮̹̤̠̲̞u͇̞̲͍͍͈ͭ̊̑̔ ̝̣̜̦̔ͧͭͫt̰̬̲̏̑̂ͅh͗̄̎ͫ͐́̐i͓̞͔̰̝͖̽̅͊ͩṋ̡̟̄ͫ̅̆̊̂̽ḵ̭̺̏,̟͔̗̬̭̯̐͢ͅ ͉͉̞̭̣̣͓̒͆͒ͤ̚͟t̜̓̌h̩̜ͅe̹̭̎̈ ͩ̍́ḙ̎͋͌̊̎̕a̲̞̲̳͍̽ͦ̒s̞͈̖̟̀i̙̱̹̙ͯͬ̏̑͐e̟̪͙̞̞͇ͤͤr̖̠̈́̐ͯ͊͟ ̮̗͚͎̹͎̹ͮ́̽́̍͗ͭ̕ĩ̥͖͎̯̳̟̟ͭ͗ͤţ̥͚̬̙̭͉̆ ͚̝̳̯̣̍ͪͮi̠ͩ̄̈́ͫs͚̱̯͔͉͈ ̖̥͇̫ͤ͊̌ͥ̀͠țͫ͂̓o͈̻̮͎̭̘͆̈̄̆ ̯̜ͣ̒̿j̞̠̬̥̹͍͉̓ͭͨͣ̿̽͞u̯̺̭̘̭̒̈̿̐̂͗̐s̘͍̪̹ṭ͋̊͐̓̕ ͊̕b̖͚͓ͯ̍͌̒͋̓̔e̲̺̙̘͚̥̼ͣ̌̒̓̌ ͪ̒͐ͧ̔ă͇̳̲̏͢ ̟͖̜̯̳ͬ͋͐ͦͫͤ̈ğ̠̖̬̖̿ͣͮ͑̍ͅo̪͉͙̊o̱͇̼̦̎̔͑̓̎́ͅd̨͌ͣͪ̒͂ͣ̇ ̳̼̤̃ͩ̀̐͛͊͠ḩ̬̪͙͍ͅo̸͚̰r̪͎̔̅̂ͩs̶̪̥̭̜̙ͦ͆͆̃̉͛̓e̘͖̐͟.̈́̇̓̌͐ ͖͍͇ͯͩ̄̀̑̀̚A͍̐̒̈n̡̜̘̫ͤd̗̹̺̯͇̬͉̆͂ͯͮ͐ ̣̖͚̲͕̦̣ͯ̚͠y̴̪͓͕͐̋ͪ́̐ͮͨo̼̓̇͐ͮ̓̊ͮŭ̮̂̊̾̌̎͋'̶̼̍̅͗̑ͧ̽̿r̻̖͂́͛̌̚e͙̤̰̞̖̎͂͌ͭ̓̀ ̏ͧ͏̺ͅal̷͉̝̣̹̖̙l̝̫̤̔̉̐̾ ̻̠̝͙͇̊̐̄̿̓ͥs̜͕̺̫̾̆ͦ̕u̎ͮ̿͒̈̒ͮ҉̜̝͈͕c̿̉̃̌̆̚͜h͔̲̰̹͈̙̏̓͢ ̫̘̋ͣ̒͢gͦ̂̌͡o̶̺͕̭͎̥ͬ̂̆̂̈́̀o̜̞̺̅̋̀̒̏̊ḑ̹̺͔̩͎̹͓ ̹̭̃͛ͨĥ͔̮̥̇ͤ̓̇̽o͔̮̘͊̉͟r̩̖̜̜̰̖s̘ͬ̍ͪ̊̽e̵̗̜͗̍̏̂ş͈̗͎̺̅͗.͖̱̪͉̝̹̻ͭ̑̔̔ ̶͖̼̇͒S̯̬͈̦̘͔ȕ̢̘̣̱͇͇̞ͬ͊̿c̴̺͎̻̪̮̜͖h̺ͦ̾ͧ̄ͧ ̜͍̖̙̹̽̐͗͗͢ĝ̟̺̺̅ͯ̌ͩ̌ő̾ͮ̂ͭoͯ̋d͔̠̮̥̣̆͆̀ͨ̇ͨ͡ͅ,͙̬̝͖̍̓̾̔͜ ̴̅̄s͏̼̜̗̤̟̘i͚͖̹͔͉ͯ͒͑̑ͦ̔ͬm̰̻͓͂̂́̂͌p̯͕̤̘̌l̲éͤ̀̿ͭ ͮͯ́̓̊̂h̪̥͈͖̃̍̄ͫ́́o̝͈̎ȑ̢̦͑ͦ̍̈̚s͚̞̩͖͑ͦͬẹ͖̿͛͌̽͋͌̃͠s̼͇̳̀ͬ͑̀.͞”
Trent swung his head slowly as he emerged from the trough. He curled his upper lip, exposing his massive flat incisors as he sampled the air. Horses. He smelled something coming from himself strongest. His own natural scent. Then the others. So many. He felt a warmth in his nether regions as the blood flow increased. A pleasant scent caused his new sheath to open, and he nickered his want as the weight of his scrotum increased, pulling down to hang comfortably between his much wider legs. He felt the brush of his feathers and fetlock hairs brushing against his fur as he clopped around. The stall felt smaller, but not uncomfortably so. The voice was so much garbled words now. He didn’t need to think about it. What he needed was one of those mares.
Time passed. He didn’t know how long. A simple workhorse didn’t care much for time. He simply went about his business, eating hay, drinking water, and relieving himself as he needed.
“Ah, there you are, Tremor. Come here. Let me get a look at you.”
The voice was strange. The horse didn’t quite understand, but it sounded familiar. And that sound … Tremor. Yes. That sounded … right. He approached the small creature and lowered his muzzle to the extended hand. He smelled something and stuck out his tongue to lick. Sweetness danced across his taste buds. He let out a sputter of contentment as his tail twitched behind him and the long hairs brushed against his rump.
“I was wondering when that would finally grow in.”
The sweet-giver bore its teeth as it patted Tremor’s muzzle. Tremor’s lip curled up, and he sampled its scent. It was familiar, somehow. Was this thing a part of his herd?
“You’re going to earn us quite a bit of money, Tremor. Congratulations, and welcome to the superior race of Equine kind.” It turned to another thing. This one smelled female. “Josephine, if you would,” the sweet-giver asked. It had a strange thing on its muzzle. Tremor could see himself in it, only he looked smaller. Tremor didn’t feel smaller. He tossed his head uneasily, and felt a reassuring pat from the sweet-giver. “Easy now. Easy. You’re a good horse, remember?”
Everything stopped for Tremor, and he lowered his head at the words. He felt something scraping gently against his fur, and nickered in contentment as pleasure ran over his body.
“Good horse,” the sweet-giver praised.
Tremor felt very sleepy by the end of the stroking, and swayed on his hooves as his eyelids drooped. His ears flicked absently at the sound of the sweet-giver laughing. He heard something rustle, then felt the guiding hand of the sweet-giver point him towards the center of his home, where a pile of warm, fresh hay had been laid down. Tremor needed no further encouragement. He clopped over and laid down on the makeshift bed, before closing his eyes and falling into sleep, where the last vestiges of his humanity would soon be trampled by his new equine mind.
Josephine shut the gate quietly with the shredded remnants of Trent’s uniform hanging in a bundle under her other arm. “I believe your experiment was a success, Doctor Silao. The subject has become completely equine in all ways, and stands at a full twenty-four hands tall.”
“We’ll need to keep monitoring him for the next few weeks. I want to see how well his new body reacts, before we move on to the next test subject. After all, we want to be able to offer whatever form a future customer may desire, even if their mass is significantly less. I believe we’ll go for an ectomorph next time. I want to see the results when there’s less mass to work with. Make sure to add that to the agenda, Josephine. Then take the samples you collected to genetics, and put a rush job on the records department. I want proof of lineage on my desk by closing time.”
“Of course, Sir.” Josephine bowed her head. “I’ll take my leave.”
Silao smirked as he looked back on the recumbent Shire Stallion. His sleek black coat, white muzzle stripe, and shiny white feathers made for a stunning appearance. The hairs Josephine had acquired would prove most enlightening in genetic analysis. Assuming this subject turned out as well as it appeared, then it was only a matter of time, until he could market this new product to all manner of companies: gyms, rehab clinics, hospitals, doctors. So many avenues for practical application. So many delicious ways to cure humanity. He chuckled to himself as he clopped his way past the cobblestones and out into the afternoon sun, then began to whistle as he spun his cane in the air beside him. He could hardly wait.