Chapter Text
You remember the last time you cried. It was a lifetime ago it feels, that young carefree girl was dead. You're here instead. It seems unfair and cruel, and you curse the monster that did this to you.
In a trance you feel the distant ache of your body. You ignore it and hold your position. The glade around you falls away but your concern does not. You know that your muscles will remind you of this tomorrow. You focus on emptying your mind and holding your pose. Hanging from a branch, you hear the loud splashes of your urine falling uninhibited from your vulva and your resolve is renewed.
You continue your exercise, you need to be strong; nobody was going to help a skinny little bitch from the woods, they'll walk all over you. For several moons, when you weren't hunting, or scouting, or working, you were training. You found the one you were after. You knew it was her but you couldn't confront her empty handed. An axe or a little hunting knife was of no use, you would need something better, and magical. You did not have this yourself, and better doesn't come cheap. But luckily you aren't actually penniless. You've learned to be good with your hands. Needlework, woodworking, hunting. All of it necessary out here by yourself. You didn't have nothing, you had the whole woods to yourself. You learned how to make things of use, you learned how to smoke out bees and collect their honey; you learned how to skin and make furs, and how to sew those furs together. But most important of all, you learned how to hide your condition, for a short time at least.
The ever-present noise of your urine was second nature now, but you longed for a day when it was not so. How so many things would be easier, hunting without giving yourself away, sleeping, being among people. You dreamt of that, living in a village, or a town. You dreamt of finding your family, though you don't know if you would be able to. It frustrates you to no end at night as you toss and turn in your hammock, your urine making the occasional splash and trickle in the night. You dream of your revenge, and when its done, you dream of peeing on her as she dies, to remind her of the life she took from you.
Your father sharpened his axe in front of the house as you carried a pale of water inside. The winter was melting away, and during midday one did not need a layer of fur outside. You poured the water into a pot to boil and left it for your sister, going outside out with the pretence of fetching more. When you came to the stream suitably far away, you set down the pale, and got up on top of a large boulder on the side of the stream. You don't know why you enjoyed this, but it seemed fun and thrilling and the thought of getting caught gave you chills sometimes. You pulled off your pants and crouched low and looked back toward the house as your stream begin its trickle down your flesh. Soon it had enough force behind it that it arced upwards almost to eye level.
You were actually somewhat good at this, if that's something you could be good at. You know your sister makes a bigger mess than you, at least, she can't aim it in a direction like you can. You were so caught up in the action, that you failed to notice the presence of another individual on the other side of the stream. It began to move away when you saw it. Too far into your act, you couldn't stop now until it was done, so you drop a knee and try to at least hide yourself from whatever it was.
The old crone lets out a raucous cackle, as she pauses on the bank of the other side of the stream. She was hideous, gigantic nose, unkempt and unwashed hair, dirty ragged clothing and an eye covered by a diseased looking bandage. When her laughter stopped, you thought you saw her teeth until you realized she might not have any. “What kind of naughty little girl enjoys such a lewd act?” she asked, loudly.
You trembled. You've never seen this person before, not anything like her. If you weren't already peeing, you might have wet yourself out of fear. You wanted to run away, your clothes and pale and urine be damned, but before you could make your move, she made hers. Reaching into her tattered robe she opens a parcel and pulls out a handful of red powder. “You looked like you were having fun, please don't let me stop you…” she said with a very unsettling laugh. She raised the handful of powder up high, “… in fact, don't let anything stop you.” She held out the other hand, and you saw it was missing an index finger. She clapped her hands together, and a cloud of red dust filled the air around her silhouette.
She laughed harder and as the dust cleared you saw she had begun walking away. You had gathered your clothes and pale and were already running away, the urine running down your legs as you went. You gave one last glance to where the crone was, disappearing up a trail. After a minute or so running towards the village, you pause as you come up to a rock. Strangely, you were still peeing yourself, so you set your things down and lean against the rock and wait for it to finish. You look around this time and make sure nobody is watching you.
Your heart was racing. You were thoroughly frightened by whoever that was, and you wonder what she meant with the dust. Your bladder still feels full however, and after a minute or so, your stream shows no sign of lessening, you feel no relief from your bladder. Still, it took a few more minutes for you to realize what was actually happening. You began to panic. You push trying to pee harder, and you succeed only in flooding the ground you stand in. As it begins to sink in, your heart drops. You know who the old crone is now. She's the reason these woods are what they are, untouched. The tears run down your cheek as you weep from both ends of your body.
It still hurts to remember your struggles, but the more you think on it, the more you are driven to do what you need to do. You've learned to manage in hindsight, you grew strong.
You let your legs down, resting the muscles in your stomach, and drop to the ground softly, careful not to slip in the mud. You walk over to your pack and grab your skin of water. You take a drink and then kneel in the grass, as you pull out a piece of dried venison to snack on. The wind blows and you enjoy the early autumn breeze. You're in your silence stance. Kneeling on the ground like this, you pee directly onto your ankles, and it runs directly onto the ground; not only does it not make noise, you've learned that animals have a harder time smelling it too, as long as they're not downhill from you.
Hunting has been the hardest thing to learn. There's deer and hares and foxes in the wood, but for several years, you could never seem to find them. Not like your father. He took you hunting once, before you left. He tried to teach you the patience of a hunter, but in the end, it was you who tested his. After your second sister was born, he tried taking the next oldest, though your little sister had even less interest in it than you did. It wasn't the first time he tried to teach you how to survive either. He wanted a son and all he got was daughters, so he tried to make a son out of you. You wondered if he would be proud of you, or at least the parts there were to be proud about. If it weren't for all his efforts, you might not even be alive. You think he might be happy that despite all his pain, some of it managed to sink in.
You grab your pack and head out. The sun was directly overhead, and you had a handful of chores to finish. Tomorrow was the hunt, and the next was to head into town. Your hair was getting longer and you needed to fix that. At the edge of the glade, you step into a small stream and wash the mud off your feet, and you put on moccasins that you kept in the pack. The moccasins were a small act of defiance in a way; a feeble attempt at civility when the civility had been torn away from you so forcefully. Today your feet weren't totally repulsive, but most days they were. With your condition, your feet were rarely dry outside your cabin, and that did not do good for their appearance. After so long though, you were used to having wet feet, and were a master of never slipping.
You wore a small vest of leather and a belt of furs around your waist. The furs were your own, the leather bought from the village and worked by you. As you trek up the slope of the mountain, you think back to when you bought the leather. You weren't always able to buy things, you were so afraid of what others would think of you that you dare not show your face to anyone.
You didn't return home that day, you hoped beyond hope that you would soon cease peeing, but it proved to be in vain. You slept nearby on the first night, on a rock leaned up against another while covering your torso in your trousers. The smell of your urine once was the sign of a playful jaunt, but now it only served to loosen the tears even more. Your eyes wouldn't stop crying and it didn't take long before you were sitting in a puddle of your own urine. You barely slept at all, but when you woke, the sun was barely beginning to rise and you had fallen to the side in your shallow puddle. You rub your eyes cleaning away the crusty tears of the night before. You were covered in your urine, from head to foot, and clothes too. You were exhausted, but as you sit up, you realize you were still peeing. It was real, you were really cursed by a witch.
On the first day, you stayed in the woods nearby your house, and watched your family. For three days they looked for you, chasing into the woods calling your name, but you did not answer. You wanted to, but you felt the shame of yourself. For days you loitered in the woods behind your family's house, trying to summon the courage to face them. But on the fifth night, when you began to feel weak with hunger, you sneaked up to steal some rope from your family's porch, wanting this to be over. When you got close enough, however, you instead found outside on the stump a small lantern, lit. Next to it, was a leather pack. You look at it and know that they have hope that you haven't died. You walk up to it, in distant view of the cabin. When nobody stirred inside, you opened the pack and found a half loaf of bread. You took the lamp and the pack, and left the pale on the stump in their place.
For whatever reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to take anything else from your family. Instead, you would sneak up on the outskirts of villages and steal things from the houses that lived far enough out. It was small at first; food, knives, an axe, some clothes. But only after a few weeks did you start getting desperate. You stole from the village daily, just to survive, to live. When the food got scarce, you resorted to stealing animals. You imagine what would have happened if you had ever gotten caught. You were always thin, but in in those days, you were sickened by the sight of your own wiry body.
After long, you had a den near a stream, where you kept all your stolen things. You found a nearby farm that grew corn, and you would sneak through and gather a weeks supply or so. Now that you had free time, you were able to work on your trapping. It turned out to be easy enough once you learned to look out for skunks. You were glad your father taught you that at least. You learned how to build shelter, and your den got better. You learned how to make a hammock, and you slept better.
Once the winter came, the furs proved to be your most valuable possession. It was a rough winter, and you cursed your bladder to no end. Once the corn was gone, you braved the shorter crops until they were gone too. You thought about planting your own, but gave up when you realized you didn't know the first thing about farming.
You travelled to another village, in an effort not to get caught. You knew of one on the other side of the mountains and hiked your way over. Sewing proved to be more useful than you thought at first. The pack you had was not equipped to handle all the things you wished to take with you, but you were able to add pockets, loops and pouches to it that proved to be prudent. You left behind only scraps, and managed your way over, camping every so often, and eating what little food you could take with you. This forest had been your home for your whole life, you at least knew what you couldn't eat along the way. But hiking through the snowy winter proved to be quite dangerous, and near the end you found yourself going without supper at night.
The other village was smaller. You made camp near a stream, half a day's hike from the village just to be safe. You managed for the rest of the winter, off of stolen potatoes and nearly nothing else. And the next year seemed to be much the same. In the mean time you learned to fish.
You had a plan, however. You found a stole a very valuable hide of raw leather from the village. You planned to work it into trousers, and it didn't take long for you to steal the rest of what you needed to make it happen. You took some boots, and lined them with leather, sewing the leather up into one piece as little booties for a pair of very baggy trousers that fit you high up to your waist. You worked it with as few seams as you could manage, taring and searing them to make them watertight. The boots were slightly too big for you, but with your new trousers on, your feet fit into them alright. The top of the trousers, had a drawstring belt that you could secure tightly around your waist. To your amazement, it worked as you intended.
It was early autumn as you approached the village. Hiding behind a tree, you slip into your new trousers and tie the string tight. You cover yourself in a small fur cloak and tie your hair back. You brought your pack with you, filled with a handful of small furs and the odd stolen good from the first village. You were able to walk amongst people. Some stared at you, likely knowing you for an outsider, but you were happy that the stares did not come from your condition. Selling your goods, however proved harder than you hoped it would be. Nobody seemed to want furs. The village had hunters already, and they were not lacking for warm clothing. You could not seem to sell to anyone, and few seemed interested in talking to you, except a man who seemed too interested in talking to you. Once he started asking you questions about yourself, you ran off. You managed to find a fat baker in the village who was willing to trade a loaf of bread for a dozen furs. You were hungry, and were forced to take the bargain, even though you knew that that was a terrible deal. Once you got back far enough into the wood to be sure you weren't followed, you found a stream and untied the trousers, unleashing a small wave of urine into it; the stream surged.
Later attempts to sell things went just as poorly, even after trekking back to the first village. It wasn't until you saw another merchant haggling lower prices did you begin to work out how to handle yourself. You later assumed his identity in a way, cutting your hair to be like his, trying to lower your voice like his, and most importantly, using your words sparingly. It seemed to work, though not everybody was fooled. In fact, once you were found out, it was not long before you developed a reputation. But that was only in one village. After yet another year, you were bold enough travel even farther. And the more places you visited, the easier it was to make a living. After two years or so, you worked out a yearly rotation. You got taller, and with that, the ruse came more easily.
You reached the cabin, walking up to the side and placing your pack on a weathered wooden stool. You take a deep breath, and listen to the birds. The feeling of urine running down your legs hardly registers anymore, you're so used to it. You grab your knife and line and head out into the forest to collect from your traps.
You collected from your traps a rare sable, overjoyed, knowing this will go a long way in paying for what you need. The rest of your chores go by in a humdrum fashion: fixing a leak in floor of your cabin, cutting your hair in the reflection of the pool nearby, and fixing your fishing rod. When the sky was dark out, you went inside and started a fire in your fireplace, beginning a stew. You had a few potatoes left and some venison remaining, and since you only had two nights before heading into town, you might as well feast before it rots. As you cook, your urine frolics down your legs to the floor of your cabin, where it trickles down between vertical slats of wood, and down the gentle slope into the nearby brook. It was a lot of work getting that wood, bringing up the mountainside several boards that were sawed at a sawmill.
After supper, you put the fire out, leaving the warm embers in their place. Next to the heat of the fireplace you string up your hammock, a mesh of small hempen rope. You climb in, ready for the sleep and the work of tomorrow. Even though it was summer, nights on the mountain still got fairly chilly. You wrap your legs with a blanket of furs, sure to keep them elevated, and roll on your side. With the soft splashing of your urine hitting the floor, you ease off to sleep.
When you awoke, the embers were out, and dawn was beginning to break. Stripping the furs and stepping out of the hammock, you wander to the door and look outside. The sky is clear above the trees, and you hear the sounds of the birds crying out to their mothers for food. You quickly put on your moccasins, vest, and belt and grab your hunting gear: a bow made from foreign wood and sinew, and some short arrows. You pad your way to a small glen and arrive as the sun begins to rise. You place yourself carefully, able to see up the valley for a short ways, and you wait. Your urine running off your ankles and into the short grass, and eventually down the small cliff behind you, which falls away and you can see further out to the nearby village. You like this spot because the deer are numerous enough and you have something beautiful to look at while you wait for them.
It was hours before you spotted your first doe of the day, but she was too far away to hit. Shortly after, you were able to loose an arrow after a young buck, but you hit him a little too far back and had to chase your kill down as he struggled to get away. It was a mess, and he spoiled a few spots of his hide, but you wouldn't complain. The rest of the day was spent hauling him back up to your cabin, cleaning and stripping him, and packing up all the food and supplies for the trip tomorrow. You plan to leave a good portion in your cabin while your gone to dry. When darkness falls, you start a fire again and reheat your stew, trying to finish what's left.