Just expanding on a quick idea I came up for this thread: One month has passed since that fateful night. Donaar scratches his chin pensively as he reads again the page of the old manuscript before him. He has come to the conclusion that the owner of the dungeon, Barhad the Great, isn't actually dead. How could he be, after all, being he the creator of an elixir of eternal life? The book is a relic itself, valuable more than one hundred crowns. He has obtained it for less than a third, from a deaf, old codger. Donaar chuckles remembering how he bargained with that old crazy fool. He loves bargaining, as many Dwarves do. But something is not right, the chin is too smooth and the beard is missing. Gods, how he misses his beard, so lush and soft. It has been a tough month for the dwarf treasure hunter. After waking up in his new body, Donaar has been completely discombobulated for a whole week. He could barely walk, let alone talk. His body felt weirdly tall, weak, and willowy, and got immediately cold when the night came. His hands and feet were delicate, smooth, and easily hurt when he climbed on a slope or grabbed a root of a tree. Nonetheless, he had managed to reach the village from which he had departed in search of the dungeon. Once there, people had been surprisingly welcoming and helpful. He had been fed, washed, and given clothes and shelter too. When he had been finally able to walk properly and speak and found a goddamn mirror, the old dwarf had eventually understood why. He had turned into frigging Elf. Of course, because everybody loved Elves. But not Donaar, he hated Elves. Contrary to common belief, not all Dwarves hate Elves, but Donaar did, from the deepest of his heart. And what was worst was that he hadn't been simply turned into an Elf, he had been turned into an Elf girl! A small, frail-looking thing, barely eighteen springs old, by the looks of it. Crystalline, teal eyes, silvery-blond hair, skin so smooth and white to be mistaken for alabaster. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy the sight, I mean, Donaar was a Dwarf of culture, he was probably one of the most worldly of his peer. Traveled, accomplished, and of course, rich, thanks to his job. More than once he had indulged in the pleasure of flesh in the deepest recess of the black market brothels. There, Elven wenches like the one he had turned into were worth their weight (which truthfully wasn't much...) in gold. And he, a couple of times, had even overcome his loathing for the Race from the pointed ears to experience what everybody described as the ultimate carnal delight. He had actually found it cathartic to be able to finally unleash all his hatred. The sex slaves of the black market were normally magically bound to an artifact, which was rented to the paying customer. As long as one held it, they were willing to do anything for him, withstand any humiliation or pain. It was actually a gruesome fate, but Donaar had learned to not ask questions and pity anyone in the black market environment. Now he was the Elf wench, he couldn't help but feel uneasy and vulnerable. Stares, stares everywhere. I was like everyone was looking at him... at her... Dona. He had uttered his name when he was still convalescing and that was what the host of the tavern and his wife made out his words. Later, he hadn't deemed it wise to clarify his name, he didn't want anyone he couldn't trust of what had happened to him. And Donaar didn't trust anyone. His whole life he hadn't known the feeling of being desired. As a Dwarf, he was rather average-looking. Had he decided to stay in his country, he could have easily found a wife and put on a family. But in the lands of Men, he was just an ugly Dwarf. Not worthy of interest or affection or friendship, least of all love or passion. When all was good, he was considered a useful tool. If a woman cooed at him, she was eyeing his purse, he was well aware of that, and took advantage of it anytime the chance presented itself. The way people looked at him now... he wasn't prepared for it. After a whole month, he had barely accustomed to buttoning his shirt and sitting with his legs closed. Goddamit, he was a still Dwarf inside, not some dainty maiden. He had been earning his meals by serving at the tavern, this way he had been able to retrieve the luggage he had left in the care of the tavern owner (for quite a hefty sum of money...), locked in one of the rooms of the upper floor. But he couldn't bear the situation any longer. The smiles, the flirting, the furtive eyes of every Goddamn male of the village... He had to set out and go look for Barhad, the one and only able to revert the effect of the potion. Donaar was sure he was alive, his sixth sense told him so, and it hadn't failed it once in forty-seven years...
