(At Vee's request, a speed writing)
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The plucking is how it starts.

Plucking, pulling at your hairs, you can feel them growing and changing. You can feel each of the three hundred spots melt in to a coat of brown. Always, always we start out as brown... the smothering coat begins to bring higher your temperature.

The fur does not fit anymore, too long and coarse... your bones, skin, and muscle have to fit it...

burning, chilling fever engulfs you in cold flame. Skin so taut... too taut... painfully stretching and pulling,

think change so you don't reverse. Embrace the fever as it embraces you.

Bones sound like breaking twigs as they grow in to thick, tough trees. Harden, crack, grow, change, tighten muscle, strengthen bone.

Hooves grow larger, sharper, duller in color...

fever blazing as the stupor sets in... you're changing, growing, warping from fawnhood, just like your soul warped from innocence to the knowledge you have gained being young.

Falling to your knees, weakened for a brief moment, you pray to the gods that it is over, and they assail your head with rods.

The nubs that housed seeds now sprout, fed by your knowledge, and grow in to long tines. Six branch from one, climbing to the sky as if trying to reach the sun. Trees sprouting, made of bone, from your skull. They feel heavier, but you can carry them.

As your headache fades, so does the fever.

You stretch, peering in to the nearest source of water, seeing your grown form. Your form now... the pictogram glowing brighter.

Magic is yours; you have worked for it. You have endured to get it. Now, you can hold it.

Grown.