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Vaati squirms in his seat, crossing and re-crossing his legs periodically as he tries to read a swiped human tome on magic.
Human magic was so much different from the Minish magic he'd studied in his youth. Less sophisticated, truly, but certainly intriguing. Something else in his arsenal to use against them when the time came.
But his own time was running out, it seemed.
Another pang of discomfort makes him squeeze his legs tighter for a moment, until he finally decides he's not absorbing information anymore.
He stands, too quickly, evidently, when his knees nearly buckle beneath him. He has to support himself for another moment with both hands on his desk, long, lavender hair hanging down and curtaining over the desk, and growling to himself all the while.
Curse this form! It's a mystery why I ever desired it!
As a minish, these things were rarely if ever an issue. Toilet areas were far more accessible, the buildings had far fewer doors to navigate - to say nothing of their traditional clothing making things so much easier by a lack of trousers.
But in this form, though there was no mystery even to himself why he had wanted it (the channeling of magic at this scale was much more effective), everything felt that much more complicated.
Do I go to the privy? Humans are so filthy, surely something will be soiled if I even make it that far, and then what will I do?
He looks around for other options, thighs squeezing together as he begs his new body for more time.
In his temporarily rented room, a “chamber pot” had been mentioned when he arrived, though he'd never heard of such a thing before, and he would sooner return to the woods than ask a conspicuous question to clarify. The pottery he'd grown up with was so small and difficult to make, there was never a reason to use it for such things.
He spots some kind of vessel on the vanity, tall and with a handle, bigger than his teapot. Surely it will be enough space.
He takes the gamble of moving his feet, immediately regretting the decision as he feels a wave of desperation bring a flash of cold sweat across his forehead.
One hand flies to his crotch, and he thanks his luck that this anatomy had changed so little after such a drastic transformation across species. Able to find some sense of security in pressing himself into his sheath even a little bit, he shakily makes his way to the other side of the room.
Pitcher in hand, he falls to his knees to set it down closely in front of him, and frantically undoes the ties of his trousers, holding his desperation in through willpower alone. By the time he is able to begin pulling the hem down, he can already feel a tiny bit of warmth dribbling out of his tip and into the small nest of hair around his sheath as his short shaft rises further out of it.
He pitches forward to align himself over the rim with one hand steadying the handle, and lets go with an almost lustful groan as his efforts are rewarded. The thin stream’s pattering echoes off the walls of the vessel, before slowly filling the bottom of it, changing the sound from hollow ceramic to shallow splashing.
Despite the relief, though, it's almost as if the stream is too small - This will take so long! Just how much of this can humans even store in their bodies, anyhow?”
Growing impatient for more relief, he is forced to plant his hands on the floorboards to arch his back and press.
The hiss he receives in return is almost its own reward. Bearing down, he can feel and hear the stream being disrupted by the twin tiny, slender appendages at his tip as the vessel fills higher and higher, changing the sound further as it does so.
And yet, it keeps coming.
And so, he keeps pressing, hearing the stream intensify and peter out between each held and released breath.
Soon (perhaps too soon, a part of him says), the last few dribbles cannot be forced out, and must trickle from his tiny member and fall to the surface in a way almost as noisy as when he was rushing it out.
He lets his body sag with a shaky sigh, feeling a shiver wash up his spine enough to make his teeth chatter.
He stays there for a moment, before the scent fully appears to his senses.
So much different. Pungent, and yet…?
He raises himself up again, peering down at the pitcher just in time to see the final drop fall off of his tip.
He considers it all, ignoring the private indignity of having been on the floor like that in favor of being perplexed by not only the smell, but the color and the volume.
Curious. More than anticipated.
He ponders his situation for another moment, before finally realizing he can resume his studies now that this has been taken care of.
Calmly righting his clothes, Vaati picks up the mostly filled, thoroughly warm pitcher, and sets it by the door to be dealt with later.
It is such a shame that such intelligent creatures are still so ruled by their bodies.
No matter. There is much to be done.