Vanniall Trans [updated] -

The air in the Gloaming Bazaar always smelled of rust and cinnamon. Vanniall hated it. They had hated it for three hundred years, every day of their life as a ledger-keeper for the Whispering Scales. Their body, a sturdy, square-shouldered vessel of brass and dark oak, felt less like a self and more like a very old, very boring suit of armor.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a soft, silver heat bloomed from their center. The brass didn't crack—it flowed . The sharp, angular faceplate softened into a gentle, feminine curve. The dark oak of their shoulders lightened to pale birch, rounding into slender, elegant lines. The grating rumble of their voice melted into the warm, lilting melody they’d always hummed. vanniall trans

They pressed the scale to their chestplate. The air in the Gloaming Bazaar always smelled

Vanniall’s brass fingers trembled. They could wish for wealth. For power. For escape from the Bazaar. But the truest, most desperate wish rose from their core like a song. Their body, a sturdy, square-shouldered vessel of brass

The transformation began, as all things in the Gloaming do, with a debt.