George yawned, exposing his impressive set of fangs, closing his muzzle shortly after as he clenched his hand to his temple... He’d never had so much food and drink in his life... okay, that was a lie but the feast really knocked him out hard last night. Well, Misha’s Yule parties were famous for a reason.
What did he remember of the night... that’s right! He didn’t eat much, not much for him. He and Terry danced and then he took her home. So why did he feel so tired and hung over? Something must have really knocked him out.
The jackal scratched around his crotch, (he’d finally mastered the ability to restrict that habit to times when he had privacy) and noticed a change in his pants. He was wearing none. No, he was wearing something, but they were not his pants, nor underwear. What was he wearing?
He did leave the party as a taur; did Terry lend him some odd garb? George finally got his eyes open and, after adjusting his vision eventually, looked down at his legs. A kilt, he was wearing a kilt of some sort. The sight raised more questions than answers when he noticed the odd colouration of his hand. It was black. In fact, all the fur on his wrists and arm were black, and his legs and tail! What the hell was going on?!
He shot up from his bed... chair, whatever he passed out in. And looked over himself. He wore a sort of kilt that was in two overlapping pieces with gold thread. All the fur on his body was as black as his back and he had an odd sensation around his eyes.
Running to the mirror he found gold paint had been carefully applied around his eyes with lines running off in either direction from them... He spun around with a snarl to see a large golden throne sitting in the middle of his room, the chair he’d woken up in, it looked like some sort of throne and complete with what looked like a sceptre topped with an ankh.
With a loud growl escaping his lips, George said the only word that came to mind.