Command! Illya Thumbs Mistress of Magic

[countrymouse]

Heyou stood in the shadow of his warped sign—HEY YOU'S HONEST GOODS, the letters cracked like old teeth. His ears twitched when he saw them coming. Sharp smile already in place, like he’d been born with it.

“Well, well, well,” he crooned, straightening his crooked little tie. The “suit” he wore looked like it had once been curtains in a brothel. “If it ain’t the green gal of my dreams, the blue banger of ballads, and—” His eyes hit Illya. He flinched.

“—that. Shit on a shovel. Keep that one twenty paces back, arms where I can see ’em.”

Illya blinked, confused. Her pink skin shifted slightly orange with offense. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Ain’t what you did,” Heyou muttered. “It’s what you are. Stay back, devil doll. I got nightmares with your face on ’em.”

Illya pouted and took a step closer. Heyou shrieked, actually shrieked, and dove behind a barrel of rusty horseshoes. “Gods damn it, twenty feet! Twenty or I start throwing salt.”

“She’s not contagious,” Hurdy called out, hands on hips, grinning wide under her mohawk. “Just a bit unstable. Comes in handy, sometimes.”

“Yeah? And sometimes she damn near melts a well pump tryin’ to dry her socks!” Heyou popped his head back up, eyes flicking to Yutjaa. “And you. Tall, green, and glorious. You show up with a Beholder’s head in one hand and the devil’s brat in the other? Makes me question your judgement, darlin’.”

Yutjaa crossed her arms. The leather creaked. “I wanted to kill him.”.

“Kill me?”

“The Beholder,” she deadpanned.

“Oh.” Heyou stepped out from behind the barrel, brushing himself off like nothing happened. “Well. That’s a relief. Let’s see the eye, then. Proof of kill. We had terms.”

Yutjaa didn’t blink. “He didn’t fight.”

Heyou’s grin faltered. “Beg pardon?”

“He cried,” Yutjaa said.

“He sobbed,” Hurdy added, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, clearly enjoying herself. “Turns out the Beholder, Bernard, got the axe when the warlord downsized. Wife left him. Took the kid. Sad thing was tryin’ to teach himself how to cook stew in the lord’s wine cellar.”

“Wanted to die,” Illya chimed in brightly. “Real existential. Real gooey.”

“We made him dinner,” Yutjaa continued, voice flat. “Fed him. Talked him off the ledge. Told him to pack his things and piss off.”

Heyou stared at them. Stared at Yutjaa like her tusks had grown new tusks. Then glanced toward Illya—who was now fuchsia with pride. He shuddered.

“You fed the floating death orb.”

“Homemade stew,” Hurdy said cheerfully. “Turnip, leeks, little dash of thyme.”

Yutjaa didn’t reach for her axe. Not yet. But the way she shifted her weight said the weapon was about to be part of the conversation.

Heyou’s smile thinned. “Gods below,” he muttered, rubbing his temples with spidery fingers. “And here I was, hopin’ you’d bash his skull in and drag back his meat marble.”

Yutjaa squinted at him. “You had a buyer.”

Heyou’s ears twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You were plannin’ to sell it.”

“Pff.” He waved a hand. “A hypothetical. Maybe a collector. Maybe a wizard. Maybe someone what likes jewelry with nerve endings.”

Hurdy raised an eyebrow. “So we’re the ones unpaid because you lost a sale on a floating eyeball?”

“I lost a deal, sweetheart,” Heyou snapped, his flirtation souring like milk in the sun. “You cost me a fortune in arcane reagents and eyeball smugglin’ contracts by playin’ nursemaid to an aberration.”

Yutjaa stepped forward. Her tusks clenched tight against the edge of her lip.

“I cost you?”

Heyou whistled sharp. From the flaps of nearby tents, four guards stepped out. Tall, human, armored in scrap and leather—but sharp-eyed, professional. One cracked his knuckles. Another chewed a toothpick like it might be the last thing he ever tasted.

“Alright,” Hurdy said, voice still calm. “We’re drawin’ steel over a stew recipe now?”

“I’m not payin’ you,” Heyou spat. “Not for talkin’ to the damn monster. You fed it. You tucked it in. You cleaned up its mess. You did maid work, not murder.”

Yutjaa’s axe came up. Hurdy sighed, drew her twin blades, and said, “You just made a stupid man’s decision, goblin.”

Heyou jerked a finger at Illya. “Worry about her!”

Two guards peeled toward the forestling. Her skin pulsed from coral pink to thunderhead gray, breath short, lips trembling. “Stay back!” Illya squeaked. “I swear I don’t mean to—I don’t—I warned you—”

The magic burst out of her like a corked bottle exploding. It wasn’t fire or frost. It wasn’t light or sound. It was everything and nothing—pure arcane backlash that shook the dirt and bent the air.

Hurdy froze mid-step. Yutjaa froze mid-swing. Even the guards advancing on her stiffened like statues. Only Heyou remained, blinking in awe.

“Shit,” he whispered, as three of the most dangerous women he’d ever lusted after stood locked in place, magic still dancing around their forms like warped glass.

He adjusted his tie. “This just got real interestin’.”
——-
The spell left the air brittle. Like a storm had passed without thunder—just the pressure, still pressing. Yutjaa stood frozen mid-swing, one foot braced, her axe held just above a downed guard’s chest. She couldn’t move. But she could talk. “Illya,” she said, voice low and deadly, “what in the gods’ throats did you just do?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Illya whined. Her skin was the color of dirty rose petals—panic and guilt blooming at once. “Those men had swords, Yutjaa! Swords!”

“You don’t cast unless I say so, and I will never say so!.”

“They were gonna poke me!”

“We’ve been poked before. That don’t give you license to cast wild magic like a toddler with a hornet’s nest!”

Illya wrung her hands. “I got scared, okay?! I warned them!”

From a few paces away, Hurdy spoke up, voice syrupy and smug. She was half-bent, caught mid-twirl with her twin blades. Her eyes flicked between the others, too amused for someone magically rooted.

“Oh let her be,” Hurdy drawled. “She’s a tiefling with unstable magic, a crush on danger, and anxiety so sharp it could cut stone. You think tellin’ her not to panic’s gonna make her less twitchy?”

“Don’t take her side.”

“I always take her side. She’s cute when she’s flustered.”

Illya blushed darker, fidgeted, then stilled too quickly. Heyou, meanwhile, had taken three slow steps forward. He paced through the aftermath with his hands behind his back, boots crunching on loose stone, whistling off-key.

“Well now,” he muttered. “Talkin’, are we? Interesting twist. Not proper Hold Person, then—partial lock. Speech still engaged. Fascinatin’…”

He stopped two feet from Illya. “Illya,” he said lightly. “Turn your head.”

Her body obeyed before her brain caught up—eyes snapping to his with wide, terrified urgency.

Yutjaa noticed. “Illya—don’t move.”

Illya’s shoulders stiffened. “I—I didn’t mean to move!”

Hurdy’s grin slipped. “Illya?”

Heyou’s ears twitched. His grin went slow and wide. “Oh, now this is interestin’,” he said. “You ain’t frozen. You’re suggestible.”

Illya shook her head. “No. No, I just—my legs twitched! That’s all. Reflex!”

“Uh-huh.” Heyou tilted his head, then leaned in close, his voice dropping low and intimate. “Take off your belt, sweetheart.”

Illya blinked. Her fingers moved to her waist. Yutjaa snarled. “Illya! Don’t you dare!”

Illya froze again—half-button undone. “I—I'm not—I didn't mean to!” she whimpered.

Hurdy’s voice dropped hard. “She’s not in control.”

Heyou whistled again, low and delighted. “Well gods damn,” he said. “I got myself a spell-splashed pleasure puppet.”

He turned to the guards still paralyzed on the ground, then back to the trio. “I think we’ll be renegotiatin’ your payment,” he said. “Starting with who’s wearing what.”

Illya’s hands trembled as the dagger slipped into her palm. Heyou pressed it there like it was a flower he was gifting at a dance. “Now, love,” he purred, stepping back, “why don’t you help our green beauty out of that dreadful armor? Start with the buckles. Let’s see what’s under all that righteous indignation.”

Yutjaa’s jaw locked. “Illya. Don’t.”

Illya’s fingers moved anyway. She took one step forward. “Illya,” she growled, “you listen to me. When this spell breaks—and it will—I’m gonna beat your ass redder than a dragon’s dick. You hear me? I’m gonna tan it. I’ll make a rhythm section outta your backside. I’ll turn you inside out with my goddamn belt.”

Illya froze mid-fidget. Her fingers hovered above the clasp on Yutjaa’s belt. Her skin flushed a vivid violet, sweat beading at her temples. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—I don’t wanna—he making me—”

“You think that matters to my fists?” Yutjaa snapped. “I got two left hands and both of ’em are waitin’ to introduce themselves to your sorry behind.”

Illya whimpered, her fingers shaking.

“Stars and salt,” Hurdy said, half-laughing. “Yutjaa, you got more threats than a snake got ribs.”

“This ain’t funny!” Yutjaa barked. “She’s cutting my straps!”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t armor yourself like a chastity chest, you wouldn’t be so hard to get undressed.”

Heyou cackled. “Now this is entertainment.” He plucked a knife from a guard’s scabbard, flipped it once in his fingers, and offered it hilt-first to Illya.

“Here you go, pet,” he said sweetly. “Start with the shoulder buckles. Be gentle—we like the view to unfold.”

Illya took the blade like it weighed fifty pounds. Her hands moved woodenly, resisting but obeying. She stepped toward Yutjaa, knelt by her side, and sliced the first strap.

A clang followed—a piece of hardened shoulder plate hit the dirt.

“Illya,” Yutjaa snarled, “you cut another buckle, I swear I’ll beat you with the flat of my axe. I’ll beat you until your tailforgets what it’s for.”

Illya’s next cut was slower. Almost apologetic. The second plate fell, revealing the curve of Yutjaa’s arm and the start of her collar.

“I’m under a spell!” Illya cried. “I don’t wanna do this!”

“I don’t care!” Yutjaa’s voice cracked, sharp and bitter. “You’re still gonna pay for every button that hits the ground.”

Another piece fell. ”You’re gonna need a whole damn ice pack alphabet when I’m through with you,” Yutjaa spat.

Hurdy shook her head, still half-laughing. “Gods below, you two are gonna be married by the end of this. You argue like an old couple in a bathtub.”

“I swear,” Yutjaa hissed, “when I can move again, you’re next.”

Illya’s hands shook so hard the blade jittered against the edge of Yutjaa’s tunic. Sweat rolled down her temples, hot and sticky against the growing silence. Her tail coiled tight like a noose behind her legs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, though her hands kept moving.

“You better stop,” Yutjaa snapped. “Illya. Don’t you damn—”

Rip.

The blade cut through the middle seam of Yutjaa’s tunic, betraying her.

“Yutjaa, please,” Illya whispered, voice barely audible over her own heartbeat. “Don’t be mad. I don’t want to. I don’t want to.”

Yutjaa’s eyes locked on her, dark and burning. She couldn’t move her body, but her voice came through like thunder wrapped in gravel. “You cut one more strap,” she growled, “and I’ll tie your ankles together and drag you through town by your pretty little horns.”

Illya gasped, her skin flashing orange-pink in terrified pulses. “It’s not me! It’s the spell! I’m sorry! I swear I’m sorry!”

“You think ‘sorry’ gets you out of what’s comin’? You’re gonna be sorer than sorry.”

Illya let out a breath that cracked in her throat. Then she reached forward—slow, hesitant, praying the spell would stop her but knowing it wouldn’t.

The dagger sliced through the tunic’s center seam with a slow, whispering hiss. Snick. One buckle gave.

“Illya,” Yutjaa hissed. “I will paddle your ass with a hot skillet. When I can move, I’m gonna string you up and teach you the orc alphabet in pain. I’ll make you spell out I’m sorry in welts.”

Illya was crying now—but not tears. Her breath hitched and stuck. Her voice trembled like it was trying to hide in her throat. “Please don’t spank me…”

“You’ll wish it was just a spanking,” Yutjaa spat. “You’re gonna walk crooked for a season.”
Illya’s hands grabbed the tunic—clutched two fistfuls of fabric like they might save her. And she pulled. The fabric tore in one long, ripping scream. Straight down the middle. The stiff collar popped at the base of Yutjaa’s throat, then curled open like a cracked shell. The tunic parted.

The remnants of Yutjaa’s tunic hung in loose flaps off her powerful shoulders, torn fabric clinging like it knew it had failed her. Her breasts—full, high, and bare—rose in the cold swamp air, nipples tightening in the chill as a flush crept across her cheeks.

Not rage this time. Blush. Real blush. It was the only part of her that moved—heat climbing up her neck, rising under her skin like steam trapped beneath armor. She was the shape of a battering ram, the posture of a war-chief—but the body beneath the leather was all woman. Soft in places where she chose to be, muscle-built curves catching the swamp’s pale light.

If she could have moved, she’d have crossed her arms, spun away, shoved Illya through the nearest tree. But she couldn’t.

And Illya—Illya stood inches away, paralyzed by panic and obligation both. Her pink skin was veined now with threads of pale gray, a color her body reserved for shame. “Please don’t kill me…”

“You’re makin’ it worse,” Yutjaa muttered, her voice low, raw. “Every breath you take is a stripe I’m gonna put on your backside.”

Behind them, Heyou let out a long, low whistle, clearly enjoying himself far more than any decent creature should. “Gotta say,” he mused, “wasn’t expectin’ that. I thought she’d be all bark and bone, but that’s some damn fine bark.”

Hurdy, still frozen mid-laugh, raised one brow and added, “Yeah… I always figured she was shredded under there. Didn’t think she’d have a bounce, though.”

“I’d take a bruisin’ for a grope,” Heyou said. “Glad I made her angry. Got me a show worth a bounty.”

“Don’t let her hear that,” Hurdy muttered.

“She is hearin’ it,” Yutjaa growled. “And you’ll both be shittin’ teeth.”

“Illya,” Heyou said, voice singsong and sweet as rot. “Your next order is to smash that confounded noise-box!” Illya flinched, eyes darting toward the battered hurdy gurdy lying in the muck. It hadn’t made a sound since the scuffle—silent, loyal, waiting.

Hurdy’s usual half-smile wavered. “Ah c’mon, Heyou,” she said, voice light but strained. “We were havin’ a moment, weren’t we?”

Even if the spell hadn’t frozen her body stiff, she couldn’t have stopped it. Illya’s foot came down in a blur of guilt. CRACK.

The wood split down the top, the carved lid caving in like a chest kicked open. Springs twanged. Cat-gut strings snapped like nerves cut too fast. A gear shot loose, bounced once, then rolled into the mud. Illya gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—I couldn’t stop—”

The selke’s heart clenched, tight and quiet. Hurdy stared at the ruins of her oldest companion. For a long second, she said nothing. The hurdy-gurdy had been old. Not built by a master. Not even tuned well, most days. But it had been hers. Since she was knee-high and crooning songs to drowned spirits. Since before she knew what heartbreak sounded like.

“Gods damn,” she said finally, voice low and flat. “You’re a mean little gremlin, Heyou.”

She chuckled—just once. Bitter. Cracked. “I just got that in tune.” Heyou was already circling back, licking his lips like the air had gone sweet.

“Illya,” he said, still in that singsong lilt, “pick up every button from our bard’s tunic. We wouldn’t want to litter.”
Illya didn’t move. The spell moved her. She knelt wordlessly, dagger still in hand, scraping each small disk of carved bone from the mud—careful, like she was lifting teeth from a grave.

Heyou nodded. “Good girl. Now… use that knife. Take the rest of that blouse apart. Clean work. Don’t tear.”

Illya stood, knees shaking. She stepped forward. Hurdy didn’t blink. Her chin tilted up, just a fraction. Like a queen before execution.

Illya hesitated at the edge of the shirt. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry about the hurdy-gurdy.”

Hurdy arched a brow. “No you’re not.”

“I am,” Illya whispered. “I liked when you played. When you sang. It made everything feel… not cursed for a minute.”

Hurdy exhaled. Not quite a sigh. Not quite forgiveness. Just air carrying memory. “I know you couldn’t help it,” she said. “And so does Yutjaa. She’ll yell at you. Curse your ancestors. Probably promise to break your tailbone.”

“I’m scared she means it this time.”

“She always means it,” Hurdy said. “Then she forgives you. Like she always does.”

Illya raised the knife. It touched fabric. She began to cut. Slow, careful slices. The blade traced around Hurdy’s collar, down her shoulders, along the buttons already missing. Illya’s breath came fast and shallow. She whispered apologies with every motion.

Snick. The last thread gave way. The scraps of Hurdy’s shirt fell—soft, slow, final, shed petals.

The moonlight caught the skin beneath: curves that did not belong to a sailor’s mouth or a fighter’s hands. No, damn—Hurdy had the body of a temptress. Smooth where she chose to be, strong where it mattered, and completely unashamed.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh great. There goes the mystery.”
Heyou made a noise like someone uncorking a very old, very inappropriate bottle of wine.

“Merciful gods,” he muttered. “That’s just… that’s art. That’s anatomical poetry.”

Yutjaa, still half-naked herself, snorted through her nose. “Yeah, well, I do sneak a peek sometimes.”

Hurdy blinked. “You what?”

Yutjaa didn’t even look over. “When we bathe. Not often. Just a glance. Hard not to.”

Heyou grinned wide. “You’re tellin’ me you two got a whole bathing arrangement and didn’t invite me?”

Yutjaa growled. “You couldn’t survive the soap.”

Hurdy didn’t even flinch at Heyou’s swooning. Instead, she arched her back just slightly, gave him a look over one bare shoulder, and drawled, “Y’know, for someone droolin’ over orc tits and selke hips, you’re awfully proud of yourself.”

Heyou blinked, still slack-jawed. “Come again?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised,” she said, grinning now, her voice hot and sharp. “You look like someone boiled a frog with a set of dentures and dressed it in curtain scraps.”

Yutjaa chuffed. “Lopsided ears, dry-scaled neck, teeth like broken candles—he’s a whole meal if the tavern ran outta food and shame.”

Illya, still trembling with the spell’s control, let out a surprised breath. “And what’s with that smell? You bathe in old ale and foot sweat?”

“Smells like he eats whatever he bathes in,” Hurdy added, laughing now.

Heyou’s grin cracked at the edge. “Careful, girls. You’re only funny while I let you be.”

“Right,” Yutjaa said. “The big bad goblin who hires other people to kill things 'cause he’s scared of his own reflection.”

Hurdy tilted her head. “I bet he flirts with himself in the mirror and still gets rejected.”

“Oh gods,” Illya squeaked, eyes wide. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“Shut up,” Heyou snapped, too fast.

“Short, scaly, smug,” Hurdy counted on her fingers. “You’ve got all the charm of a cursed toad with a gambling debt.”

“Someone’s mother tried to toss him down a well,” Yutjaa added, voice flat. “Shame she missed.”

Illya bit her lip to keep from laughing and failed.

“Your fashion sense,” she said, pink with nerves, “looks like a wizard sneezed on a laundry pile.”

Heyou's jaw clenched. “I said shut up!”

Yutjaa smirked. “What’s wrong, Heyou? You can strip armor and smash instruments, but you can’t handle a few truths?”

“Maybe he’s just scared someone’ll pull his shirt off,” Hurdy said. “And we’ll find out that lizard skin runs all the way down.”

Even Illya giggled. “Oh gods, does it molt?”

Heyou stepped back, color rising to his gray-green cheeks. “Enough!” he snarled. “You’ll all shut your mouths—now!”

But the damage was done.

Hurdy grinned wide, teeth flashing. “That should do it—”

Snap. The magic holding her in place vanished like smoke off a campfire. Her shoulders relaxed. Her arms dropped. She wiggled her fingers and laughed. “Oh hell yes.”

Yutjaa blinked hard—then shifted. Her legs flexed. Her arms twitched. She inhaled like she’d just surfaced from deep water. “What the—” Illya gasped. “Wait, how—?”

“I told you,” Hurdy said, shaking out her limbs like she’d just stretched after a long nap. “Magic like that feeds on tension. Being held’s scary—it clings to fear. You wanna break it?”

She winked. “Make ‘em laugh.”

Illya blinked, stunned. “That actually works?”

Hurdy shrugged. “Worked on a banshee’s silence spell once too. Giggled ‘til my nose bled. Totally worth it.”

Yutjaa was already turning, her jaw tight, eyes blazing—but instead of rushing Heyou, she crossed her arms over her chest and hissed.

“Not fightin’ naked. I got standards.”

“Oh now you have standards?” Hurdy muttered, reaching for a torn cloak.

“Shut up.” Heyou took a half-step back, looking suddenly very aware of how quickly things had turned.

Yutjaa’s eyes flicked to Illya—“You.”

Yutjaa pointed. Illya froze, eyes wide. “Me?”

“You’re carryin’ all the gear,” Yutjaa growled, hands still crossed over her chest. “Every stitch. Every strap. You’re gonna pack it, tote it, and not drop a damn thing.”

Illya nodded so fast her horns bobbed. “Y-yes! Of course!”

“Oh now that’s rich,” Hurdy said, tossing on what was left of her vest. “You good, Illy?”

Illya squeaked. “No!”

“Great,” Hurdy grinned. “Means we’re back to normal.”
——
They were almost past the edge of Heyou’s filthy little outpost when Yutjaa stopped. She turned. Her brow lowered. “Wait.”

Illya froze mid-step. The pack on her back groaned with the weight of three people’s gear and whatever shame she hadn’t managed to drop. Yutjaa stared at her. “When you were destroying my tunic.”

Illya blinked. “Huh?”

“You didn’t cut it. You grabbed it and ripped it. That wasn’t the order.”

Illya made a small whimper. Her tail curled in tight. Hurdy looked over, frowning now. “She’s right. That wasn’t the order.”

Yutjaa’s voice dropped. “You weren’t under the spell.”

Illya’s eyes widened. “I—” she started. “I was—I mean I thought I was—”

“You tore my shirt,” Yutjaa said again. “You cried. You begged. But you tore it. That’s not spellwork. That’s you.”

Illya’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Then-

“I messed up,” she said, voice cracking. “I got scared. I—I knew I should’ve said something, but I didn’t want to make it worse. I thought—if I kept going, maybe nobody would notice.”

Hurdy’s eyes narrowed. “You smashed my hurdy-gurdy.”

Illya flinched. “I’m sorry—I panicked—”

“You weren’t enchanted and you still crushed my girl?”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Illya took one step back.

Then bolted.

The gear rattled against her back as she ran, boots slapping the ground, horns bouncing.

“Don’t you run!” Hurdy shouted. “I swear by salt and song I’ll turn your tail into a drum!”

She sprinted after her, half-dressed and loud. Yutjaa didn’t move.Then she laughed. Low. Long. From the belly. She followed them at a walk. No rush. They’d be waiting when she caught up. Or tied to a tree. “Every damn time.”

[steam train]

Such a different and exciting story plot.

[WingDing]

Interesting and well written, though I did get a little confused as to what everyone was. Is Heyou a goblin or a gremlin? Youtja was an orc? Not sure what the other two were, which makes it difficult to draw a mental picture.

[countrymouse]

@WingDing That is a fair criticism, and one I have gotten for the other 2 stories in this series. As the writer, it is entirely on me. A story should not have to rely on a visual aspect.

That said I can't help myself and explain things.

Heyou is a Goblin, and a character I have played in D&D games.


Yutjaa Maneater is an Orc.


Hurdy Gurdy is a blue-skinned Selke, a were-seal. In D&D she would be a Triton.


I will call Illya Thumbs a Wood Elf or a Tiefling. Really, she is a species I made up that has a chameleon ability, and can only eat meat. This is why Heyou is so scared of her.

[Freesub]

@WingDing That is a fair criticism, and one I have gotten for the other 2 stories in this series. As the writer, it is entirely on me. A story should not have to rely on a visual aspect.

That said I can't help myself and explain things.

Heyou is a Goblin, and a character I have played in D&D games.


Yutjaa Maneater is an Orc.


Hurdy Gurdy is a blue-skinned Selke, a were-seal. In D&D she would be a Triton.


I will call Illya Thumbs a Wood Elf or a Tiefling. Really, she is a species I made up that has a chameleon ability, and can only eat meat. This is why Heyou is so scared of her.

Interesting... Topless versions when

[WingDing]

Thanks. I wasn't familiar with a Selke, and I had pictured Illys as much more, monstrous.
This helps clear some things up.

[Somebody]

It's usually spelled selkie, and it falls under the kind of were-animal myth that involves removing a skin. and typically in the story, the skin gets stolen. Which is kind of an ENF of its own kind

[countrymouse]

Interesting... Topless versions when?

https://www.deviantart.com/andthecountr ... lya-thumbs