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Description
The chanting, filling the atmosphere with an indescribable tension, bounced of the high arched ceiling of the temple. The reflection joined in with the incisive drumming choir of the acolytes, a cascade of voices, picking up faster and faster. Alrik eyes the mass of hooded figures around him, his heart pumping with weakly contained fear and anxiety. The chains around his wrists and ankles weighted down heavily on him. The thought of escape kept running through his mind, but slipped from him just as quickly in a situation where it was impossible to concentrate. The circle carved in the ancient stones beneath his feet began to glow a faint blue light, flaring up rapidly as the chorus picked up in speed and volume. Panic buried deep in Alriks stomach and he tried to back away, only to find the cold grip of steel halting him. He looked up; eyes filled with fear, but found only shadowed faces chanting endlessly their lines of the ritual. The light intensified, beaming upwards with almost blinding brightness. Gusts of wind origin from nowhere swept up over his body, rasping over his skin like a fierce desert wind, causing pain that ran deeper then his skin. He let out a cry of pain that was only answered by the incomprehensible language the dark monks spoke. His muscles contracted and forced him to his knees. His skin burned; his very soul seemed to be torn asunder. Shivers ran down his spine in cold waves. He jerked at the chains in desperate attempts to break free.

The choir reached a climax at the same time Alrik let out a roar of sheer agony, screaming out his lungs in pain, then fell to the ground in exhaustion. The chanting stopped; the light faded. Weakly Alrik opened his eyes to little slits, staring at the furred hand that was his own. He could not keep in a tear running over his check to the cold floor he lay on. It was too late. He had become a Satyre.

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I felt like indulging my obsession once more, my obsession being transformation, mutation, transmutation, polymorphing… you get the drift. I’m rather proud of this one! Like the pose, like the lighting. As usual all done in Photoshop 7.0

EDIT: apparently I uploaded the large version, which makes it extremly irritating to take a full view, so I uploaded the smaller version.

Description
The chanting, filling the atmosphere with an indescribable tension, bounced of the high arched ceiling of the temple. The reflection joined in with the incisive drumming choir of the acolytes, a cascade of voices, picking up faster and faster. Alrik eyes the mass of hooded figures around him, his heart pumping with weakly contained fear and anxiety. The chains around his wrists and ankles weighted down heavily on him. The thought of escape kept running through his mind, but slipped from him just as quickly in a situation where it was impossible to concentrate. The circle carved in the ancient stones beneath his feet began to glow a faint blue light, flaring up rapidly as the chorus picked up in speed and volume. Panic buried deep in Alriks stomach and he tried to back away, only to find the cold grip of steel halting him. He looked up; eyes filled with fear, but found only shadowed faces chanting endlessly their lines of the ritual. The light intensified, beaming upwards with almost blinding brightness. Gusts of wind origin from nowhere swept up over his body, rasping over his skin like a fierce desert wind, causing pain that ran deeper then his skin. He let out a cry of pain that was only answered by the incomprehensible language the dark monks spoke. His muscles contracted and forced him to his knees. His skin burned; his very soul seemed to be torn asunder. Shivers ran down his spine in cold waves. He jerked at the chains in desperate attempts to break free.

The choir reached a climax at the same time Alrik let out a roar of sheer agony, screaming out his lungs in pain, then fell to the ground in exhaustion. The chanting stopped; the light faded. Weakly Alrik opened his eyes to little slits, staring at the furred hand that was his own. He could not keep in a tear running over his check to the cold floor he lay on. It was too late. He had become a Satyre.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I felt like indulging my obsession once more, my obsession being transformation, mutation, transmutation, polymorphing… you get the drift. I’m rather proud of this one! Like the pose, like the lighting. As usual all done in Photoshop 7.0

EDIT: apparently I uploaded the large version, which makes it extremly irritating to take a full view, so I uploaded the smaller version.