Deviant Mage Pt. 01

What would it be like, to actually live the life she'd just committed herself to? There was no substitute for experience, and she had none of it. She didn't expect that the people of Lanovale would especially appreciate a shit-stinking sexual deviant galivanting/skulking around, especially since she might have to steal food from them (if she managed to survive long enough to run out of her own supply). And when things inevitably went disastrously wrong, the only way out of the pit she had dug for herself would be to end it all, or else she'd suffer a fate far worse.

Well, as she had already extensively considered, it was too late now. The only thing she could do was to try enjoying it, while it was still enjoyable.

She sighed. And grinned a little madly, thinking forcibly about the wonderful fact that she didn't have to clean up from this. That the filth upon her flesh was a fundamental part of her being now. She would never be anything close to clean ever again, and that was amazing. She ran her hands over skin upon which thinner patches of filth were already starting to turn into a flaky crust, while the more thickly-covered parts were growing tacky. Poop was just so interesting, she loved everything about it. She wanted it to stay on her body, forever, and it just might. She found herself daydreaming about that as she played with herself and (somewhat forcibly) thought happy, dirty thoughts.

She noticed something about the texture of the poop on her body change, but she assumed that to just be something to do with its drying.

Reluctantly, she decided that that was enough. It was time to go. She smeared her filthy hands into her hair, so as to 'clean' them a little for the task of getting dressed. Or at least, she tried to.

The muck covering them wouldn't come off.

Huh?

Lyran looked at her hands. They were arguably the dirtiest part of her, covered thickly with clumpy, oozy brown shit. Which... felt different now. She had thought that to simply be because the crap had dried, but it wasn't quite right. It was too cohesive. And besides, there was too much crap there for it to have dried yet.

With her filthy right thumb and forefinger, Lyran picked at the filth on her left palm, and the poo covering it didn't budge. She pulled at it some more, and suddenly a part of it tore away. An entire section of the muck encasing the front of her hand just ripped off, a little like she had just ripped an enormous blister away. She held an actual sheet of shit between her thumb and forefinger, which looked like a few square inches of very dark and lumpy leather.

Was this how poo behaved when it dried?

No. No, this was not how poo behaved when it dried. She knew that quite well. She was practically an expert! And she was currently regarding the evidence to the contrary, which didn't make any sense!

And the sheet of skin-like shit she held broke apart, fell to the ground, and crumbled damply when it landed.

What the fuck?

Lyran stared at the suddenly clean section of her hand, surrounded by filth that stopped abruptly in a ragged line, like torn cloth.

She picked at another part of the filth covering her, this time on her forearm, and it acted like regular shit again. This part of her coating was thinner, and was starting to get a little crumbly from the movement of her arm.

As she looked at her arm, confused and starting to get anxious, something changed in her vision. In the shadow of the rock that loomed over her, her surroundings were dim despite the sunny day. Whereas the crap covering her body was suddenly vivid in its brown-ness, like it (and only it) was lit by direct sunlight. She flinched, and jammed her eyes closed. And that made things even worse, because she realized immediately that she could still see her shit-covered form through her eyelids, but nothing else, so it was like she was crouching within an infinite black void.

And then the image went away and there was nothing but the blackness behind her eyelids, and she opened them to reveal nothing more than her hiding place on Hethaltie's Plateau.

"What." She said dumbly, staring at her gooey brown forearm, and then at her hand, with the patch of shit that she'd somehow peeled off herself still very much evident. "The fuck."

A hundred questions seemed to flood her mind partially-formed, and the cumulative result was utter bafflement. What was going on?

"Oh Gods..." she muttered, and a feeling of dread started to creep up her spine. She glanced behind her, more than half-expecting to see a portal to the Underworld opening to swallow her up, for the many successive transgressions she had just gleefully committed. There was nothing. Still, Lyran found herself engulfed in crushing existential dread at the idea that maybe Hethaltie had been watching what she had just done, and had not approved. He wasn't a cursing kind of God, that was why they worshiped Him. But she had just done something few mortals had ever been crazy enough ever to consider doing (presumably, anyway), yet alone actually do, and if anything would offend Him, that would be it. Right?

There was nowhere to hide, not from a God. She could probably flee, but she doubted that would do much good! She considered offering her God an apology. Except she she wasn't actually sorry about doing any of what she'd just done, so that would be a lie, and you didn't lie to Gods.

Also, why would there be weird divine wrath now? She'd done almost as bad as this before, and any punishment she'd suffered had been her own damn fault. When a God meddled in someone's fate, it was never subtle.

Supposedly, anyway.

She noted that 'nothing' continued to be what was happening. After about five minutes of crushing existential dread, she started to feel foolish for her reaction.

Except there absolutely was supernatural bullshit afoot right now, and everyone Lyran had ever met who had opinions on the matter of so-called 'magic' had made it pretty clear that anything supernatural that happened in one's close proximity on was cause for great concern and lots of praying. She had not been overreacting. And yet here she was, getting bored.

She glanced at her left hand again, and the impossible 'clean' patch on her palm. The crap on her body had suddenly refused to come off her skin, and then she'd peeled it away like the rind of a fruit.

She prodded at her mucky forearm again. The poop was just normal poop, still moist but no longer gooey. She stroked her filthy skin, feeling the texture of the excrement she'd just gloried in covering herself with, which would normally have stoked her lust, but she was too anxious now to be horny.

This wasn't even close to the first time that something strange had happened to her or around her. She didn't normally think about that, but whatever was happening here, it was proving to be a pretty potent reminder.

She was starting to get cold. She pulled her rain cloak out from her knapsack and put it on, which helped. She really should go, before anyone sent out searchers. A dog could probably find her pretty quickly, given how she now utterly stank of shit. But after what had just happened, she needed to think.

Lyran had, from time to time, noticed oddities, and they had mostly been to do with crap.

A bunch of times, she had passed the stables' dung heap, and she had felt like she saw a flicker of something in the corner of her vision, even though that corner was outside of her actual field of view. But she was obsessed with crap and nursed the fantasy of gleefully burying herself in that manure pile, so obviously that was just her subconscious trying to tempt her into doing something stupid.

A few other times, she'd passed the castle's main cesspool, and she'd been certain that she could see through the earth and stone down to the pool of sewage below. Again, probably just her lunatic perversions trying to tempt her; another one of her fantasies was to go down into the main cesspool (not the smaller one that served the lords' quarters) and wallow in a pool of fermenting excrement.

She'd never seriously considered actually doing either of those things. Surely, those odd glimpses had just been manifestation of the massive barely-scratched sexual itch she had.

And then there had been a few times she had been oddly certain that there was a horse apple or dog turd hidden in the grass, sometimes a considerable distance away. One time, she'd actually gone to check, and had found one exactly where she thought she had imagined it being.

And then the servant who had been supervising her (this had been when she was fifteen, and everyone thought she might backslide into madness at the slightest excuse) (and they hadn't exactly been wrong...) had reported to Dovian that Lyran had seemed oddly interested in a big pile of horse shit, and that had resulted in a fresh wave of 'treatment'.

She'd experienced a handful of oddities that hadn't had anything to do with shit, too. There had been a few times when she had had an odd certainty that someone was about to fall sick, and then they had. And meanwhile, she'd never gotten sick herself, even when something was going around the whole castle.

And then there'd been... something, that might have happened when she'd been seven years old. It was such an old, faint memory, she wasn't sure if it had actually happened.

It had been a horrible day in the middle of a horrible week. A plague had come to Lanovale, and all the valley had fallen ill. She remembered that day, but only hazily and mostly second-hand; she knew that everyone now insisted that Dovian had been a heroine for keeping all of Lanovale from falling to chaos as around a hundred people had died (and the valley had only fifteen-hundred or so people at the time), and Lyran was pretty sure that was bullshit.

But she was fairly sure she remembered wandering into a quarantine tent by accident, walking between rows of sick men and women and children. Remembered their coughing and retching and moans. And remembered seeing a little boy her age.

She had wanted to help, but didn't know what to do. She remembered sitting next to the boy, trying to give him water.

What had happened next, Lyran was blurry on. Whatever had happened, it hadn't made sense to her, either at the time or afterwards. She'd somehow known that boy was dying, that there was no saving him. And that had made her really, really angry. She had burst into tears and screamed for the thing that was killing him to leave him alone! She'd known that some entity was responsible for killing the boy, and she had demanded that it stop!

Her screams wound up drawing attention, and a few minutes later she was found and dragged away from the quarantine tent. Then she was told that she was a wicked and naughty child for wandering off (which she remembered feeling was horribly unfair, but couldn't remember why she'd felt that way). She hadn't gotten sick afterwards, though. Several family members had seemed disappointed by that.

And then she had heard, a few days afterwards, that the dying boy had, in fact, survived. He'd suddenly gotten much, much better. It was a miracle, truly a shining example of Hethaltie's goodness, and how everyone should be thankful to the Shrine for ensuring such good relations with their God and shouldn't gripe that the holy tithe was still required despite the plague! (And with many a hidden grumbling about just why Hethaltie would choose to save a lowly serf while better people had died.)

Lyran had been... confused. That hadn't seemed right, but it didn't seem worth questioning the adults over this, especially with her still in trouble. She didn't forget the incident, though. It had nagged at her ever since. Something very, very weird had happened. But lots of kids insisted they'd seen and done strange things that hadn't happened, so eventually she concluded she'd imagined it.

Had she actually done something, all those years ago? Was... whatever was happening to her now- something to do with it?

She pulled up the sleeve of her rain cloak and stared at her hand. The utterly filthy hand with a big patch of missing shit. She stared at it, and willed for something to happen. Anything.

After a few worrying moments of nothing, her shit-covered hand seemed to light up again, as though it was was cast in the perfect light to see by, even though her surroundings were shrouded in gloom. And she could see the shit that covered her forearm, right through the cloth of her rain cloak. The image she saw ignored the edges of her field of view. She could see the inside of the layer of crap she'd covered her face with, through her own head.

She blinked, and the wrap-around image didn't blink with her eyes. It stayed there.

She stared. She wiggled her fingers, seeing the filth on her skin with more than just her eyes. Seeing it move and flex and start to crumble. Experimentally, she tried unfocusing her physical eyes, and realized that her strange... second sight?- changed when she did that. The coating of crap that she was staring at became transparent. She found she could see the places she'd missed covering (the middle of her back, mostly). She could see the remnants of shit in her guts, and the filth she'd stuffed up her vagina. Heh. She'd almost forgotten that it was there.

Idly, she reached down between her mucky labia and started to toy with her filthy clit again. Started playing with the shit saturating her pubic hair. Her efforts amounted to a lewd sort of fidgeting rather than any determined effort to get off, but now that her terror had abated, it really was a waste not to enjoy herself a little more while the poo was still tacky.

Now, when she'd inadvertently made the shit on her hands like leather, how had she done that? Had it just happened randomly, or was it something she could control? She remembered feeling reluctance to clean any part of herself off, despite how she'd decided that she had to wipe her hands off. It wasn't a hard mindset to get back into, and she stared at the shit covering her left hand with her eyes and her... her shit-sense, trying to feel that same reluctance to ever be rid of the filth upon her skin. She picked at it with her other hand, and nothing felt unusual about the poo there. The crap on her right hand was sticky and gooey, compared to the flaky brown crust on her left hand.

And then, just as she was starting to feel disappointed, she found the gooey fingers of her right hand stuck fast to her left.

Well, it was a result, even if it wasn't the one she was after. She tried to pull her hands apart, and it was like the fresh shit was a very, very sticky, remarkably strong glue. She was not physically able to wrench her hands apart. She tried to will the effect to stop. It didn't, but she knew it could- she'd done it already, by accident no less. So she focused on the idea of the poop just having its standard gooey consistency. That worked, as abruptly her hands sprung apart, and flecks of semi-dry shit went flying. All of which she was able to track effortlessly with her 'shit-sense'.

So, she could control this. It wasn't just something that was happening to her randomly. It was hers to command, if she figured out how!

Lyran gave her filth-encrusted forearm a poke, concentrating on its coating of crap. It remained just being normal crap for a few pokes. She tried to conceptualize the idea of 'solidity' as she stared with both her eyes and her shit-sense. And it was as though she had poked an arm made of wood. She knocked at it with her fist, and her fist bounced off with a hollow sound. She punched herself in the forearm quite hard, and the supernaturally solid crap crumpled inward. It hurt her knuckle a little.

She grinned, and gave a helpless laugh. Not only was this something that she could control, but she could already see uses for it!

Sweet fuck. This meant she was a witch, didn't it?

It really sank in, then and there, what all this meant; that she was a witch. With some sort of power over shit, evidently. And something to do with plagues, maybe. And...

What the fuck.

She slumped to the ground, overwhelmed. Why was she a witch? How was she a witch? Why her? Why was she only learning this now, when she'd messed around with shit lots of times before? Had she really been a witch since she was seven, and not actually noticed until she was nearly twenty?!

This changed everything! And yet nothing had actually changed.

She gave a helpless smile and breathed something like laughter, and her eyelid twitched. It looked like she'd snapped, but she was just so overwhelmed by thoughts and emotions that she could barely contain them!

Everything had just changed. Her plan to run away from Castle Lan and live out her filthiest fantasies? Before, she had been terribly aware that it was basically suicide. But now? If she was a witch? Well, then she didn't even know what she was capable of yet! A runaway madwoman was doomed, but if she wasn't just some madwoman? If she was a witch? Though all she knew about witches were stories (where the witches were despicable villains, of course), it was remarkably easy to imagine a 'witch' thriving in the sort of life she yearned for! It wasn't a guarantee, but she had an actual chance now!

And yet, nothing had changed, for her plan was about to proceed exactly as she'd already planned it, despite this development, and all the possibilities it afforded. Possibilities that were now practically bombarding her consciousness.

And among the possibilities she imagined, there lay all the opportunities she had already squandered. Assuming she was right, she had been a witch for over a decade, with power over a relatively common substance that she was outright sexually fixated on. Perhaps that was because of the years of 'corrective' abuse that had made her low-key terrified of her own deviant sexuality, even as she indulged in it whenever she could. She'd only let go of that terror today. Maybe that was why she'd finally discovered her power. But now, it was too late to make use of it for several things she fervently wished she could do.

Or was it?

A wicked grin spread across her face, as an idea came to her.

And then that grin soured the moment it sunk in just what it would mean, if she committed to that idea.

Lyran's half-baked plan, to run away and live as a shameless filthy deviant, was not the only thing she had dreamed of doing for years. She had also dreamed of revenge. Quite a lot of revenge. Much like this running-away plot, she had resigned herself to the idea of never getting it. Now? What if she actually could?

But if she wanted to get it, she was going to have to return to the castle. As soon as she could.

Son of a bitch!

She didn't have to do this. She absolutely could just walk off into the woods as she'd planned, and proceed with her filthy plan. But the very idea that she actually could retaliate against the assholes who'd been convinced they were doing her a favour by making her life a living hell? How could she possibly turn that down?

Hastily, she started to clean herself up. This magic should make it easy to clean herself (which seemed really ironic) and she needed to be able to pass as someone who hadn't just smeared two days' worth of crap all over herself! She was able, clumsily, to peel all the filth off her face, her chest, her arms shoulders and back, like she was unpeeling one of those exotic fruits she'd read about. But she tried this with areas of her body that were hairy, and it proved rather painful to do that. So she shrugged to herself and decided to simply leave her pits and crotch covered in filth, and the slug of shit still up her cunt felt so nice inside her that she couldn't bear to push it out.