If Vel Anir's academy was the harshest place in the world, then Torrith was a close second. Only recently had it become what could be honestly called a settlement, and even more recently something marginally "safe." Even with the walls built, the bridges guarded, and supplies barely self-sustaining, the days were still oppressively hot in the summer, and frigid in winter. The air off the sea would have been refreshing if it did not bring corroding salt that darkened their watchtowers and walls, nor remind them all of the horrors beneath the waves. At night, blood sucking insects the size of small birds plagued anyone out of doors who had not wreathed themselves in smoke, a lesson learned only after the first blood plague had thinned their numbers shortly upon landing.
A tall, muscle-bound man toiled in the mid-afternoon sun, loading supply carts with food from the small farms, water from the nearest streams, and various other goods: strips of leather, thread, flint, steel knives, small bolts of cloth, tiny whetstones, etcetera. He hefted a crate filled to the brim with dark, half-wilted greens. He was broad as an ox, with a sheen of sweat covering his bare chest and back. Close-cropped back hair and beard framed heavy-set eyes and a square jaw, and he wiped his prominent brow with the back of his hand.
"This one's all set," a thick, baritone called out and he slapped the side of the cart twice, signaling that it was ready to go to the stables where supplies could be loaded and packed.
"Dreadlord Ripley," A voice caught the large man's attention. It belonged to an older man, though not much older by looks. A commanding officer who approached. Ripley took two massive strides to pick up a rag from atop a wooden crate and wipe his face, neck, and shoulders. "Captain," he replied.
"The scouting timeline has been moved up, you leave at sunfall. Make your preparations and meet by the western gate."
"Sunfall?" Ripley repeated, but they were not the large, broad shouldered man nor was their voice and deep rumble. That man was gone, and in his place was a younger, leaner man with a shock of jet black hair on a clean-shaven face. His eyes were equally dark, and he picked up an overcoat, shirt, pants, and boots from where they had been neatly folded. These garments appeared well suited to his current stature.
"We are to travel by night?"
"Admiral's orders," the captain answered, passing a small slip of paper to Ripley to confirm the change in plans. "Wash up. It will be the last chance you get for some time." He spoke in a tone that said there would be no further discussion on the matter.
A few hours passed. A slender blonde woman bathed and dried herself. A young man of similar build to the black-haired man, thought this one ginger, dressed himself, but by the time he had finished dinner his hair was a sandy blonde and his eyes had transitioned from green to blue to brown. These sorts of minor changes were like stretching to Ripley, exercising and preparing a muscle before strain. When it came time to load the horses, Ripley's hair was a silvery blonde, almost white, but his face remained clean-shaven with the crisp, angular features and high cheekbones that he preferred.
"Fool's errand to set off by night," he muttered.
"Aye," answered Oglaf, a stout young dreadlord with mop-like ruddy curls and the ability to speak with the earth. He clapped a startlingly powerful hand on Ripley's shoulder. "The only errands they ever send us on."
Oglaf was dead before the second dawn. Leaving by night had slowed them significantly, and they did not make their first checkpoint. So they pushed on through the day. That night it rained like the skies had ripped. It only lasted for half an hour, but the deluge had been so fierce that the ground could not take it all in, and they were beset by transient streams and floods. A horse broke a leg in a muddy sinkhole, and when it was put down the supplies it carried were divided amongst the others. The mounts were not overburdened by this, but they were when a second horse fell to a mudslide in the same day. Oglaf could have stopped the it, had he not been thrown and immediately cracked his skull.
The party had been set to return to Torrith in a fortnight. A week out, a week back. It had been six weeks now. They party had continued to lose mounts and men to accident, then heat, and finally disease. Navigation failed. These stars were different, and the terrain was all but unknowable. Ripley was more adaptable. Ripley survived. He observed the creatures they passed, noted what they ate and where they fled to. When the rations ran out, he became these creatures to feed. A small rodent when seeds were abundant, a spider when the gnats swarmed. A vulture when his comrades fell.
It could not last forever. Ripley had no idea where he was. He could take the skies but for what? There were no landmarks here he recognized. If smoke rose from Torrith's forges he could not see it. He kept to a human form whenever possible now; it took less energy, and the figure was lean and wiry. Strong enough to keep walking, but less mass that needed nourishing. His clothing fit this shape, so he did not need to mimic those.
The heavy rain persisted this time. Walking by the roaring river Ripley considered becoming a fish, but he doubted he would be able to fight the currents let alone whatever predators waited in those brown waters. When the flash flood came roaring from behind him, he washed into darkness, and was spit out unconscious for whatever, or whomever, to find.
A tall, muscle-bound man toiled in the mid-afternoon sun, loading supply carts with food from the small farms, water from the nearest streams, and various other goods: strips of leather, thread, flint, steel knives, small bolts of cloth, tiny whetstones, etcetera. He hefted a crate filled to the brim with dark, half-wilted greens. He was broad as an ox, with a sheen of sweat covering his bare chest and back. Close-cropped back hair and beard framed heavy-set eyes and a square jaw, and he wiped his prominent brow with the back of his hand.
"This one's all set," a thick, baritone called out and he slapped the side of the cart twice, signaling that it was ready to go to the stables where supplies could be loaded and packed.
"Dreadlord Ripley," A voice caught the large man's attention. It belonged to an older man, though not much older by looks. A commanding officer who approached. Ripley took two massive strides to pick up a rag from atop a wooden crate and wipe his face, neck, and shoulders. "Captain," he replied.
"The scouting timeline has been moved up, you leave at sunfall. Make your preparations and meet by the western gate."
"Sunfall?" Ripley repeated, but they were not the large, broad shouldered man nor was their voice and deep rumble. That man was gone, and in his place was a younger, leaner man with a shock of jet black hair on a clean-shaven face. His eyes were equally dark, and he picked up an overcoat, shirt, pants, and boots from where they had been neatly folded. These garments appeared well suited to his current stature.
"We are to travel by night?"
"Admiral's orders," the captain answered, passing a small slip of paper to Ripley to confirm the change in plans. "Wash up. It will be the last chance you get for some time." He spoke in a tone that said there would be no further discussion on the matter.
A few hours passed. A slender blonde woman bathed and dried herself. A young man of similar build to the black-haired man, thought this one ginger, dressed himself, but by the time he had finished dinner his hair was a sandy blonde and his eyes had transitioned from green to blue to brown. These sorts of minor changes were like stretching to Ripley, exercising and preparing a muscle before strain. When it came time to load the horses, Ripley's hair was a silvery blonde, almost white, but his face remained clean-shaven with the crisp, angular features and high cheekbones that he preferred.
"Fool's errand to set off by night," he muttered.
"Aye," answered Oglaf, a stout young dreadlord with mop-like ruddy curls and the ability to speak with the earth. He clapped a startlingly powerful hand on Ripley's shoulder. "The only errands they ever send us on."
Oglaf was dead before the second dawn. Leaving by night had slowed them significantly, and they did not make their first checkpoint. So they pushed on through the day. That night it rained like the skies had ripped. It only lasted for half an hour, but the deluge had been so fierce that the ground could not take it all in, and they were beset by transient streams and floods. A horse broke a leg in a muddy sinkhole, and when it was put down the supplies it carried were divided amongst the others. The mounts were not overburdened by this, but they were when a second horse fell to a mudslide in the same day. Oglaf could have stopped the it, had he not been thrown and immediately cracked his skull.
The party had been set to return to Torrith in a fortnight. A week out, a week back. It had been six weeks now. They party had continued to lose mounts and men to accident, then heat, and finally disease. Navigation failed. These stars were different, and the terrain was all but unknowable. Ripley was more adaptable. Ripley survived. He observed the creatures they passed, noted what they ate and where they fled to. When the rations ran out, he became these creatures to feed. A small rodent when seeds were abundant, a spider when the gnats swarmed. A vulture when his comrades fell.
It could not last forever. Ripley had no idea where he was. He could take the skies but for what? There were no landmarks here he recognized. If smoke rose from Torrith's forges he could not see it. He kept to a human form whenever possible now; it took less energy, and the figure was lean and wiry. Strong enough to keep walking, but less mass that needed nourishing. His clothing fit this shape, so he did not need to mimic those.
The heavy rain persisted this time. Walking by the roaring river Ripley considered becoming a fish, but he doubted he would be able to fight the currents let alone whatever predators waited in those brown waters. When the flash flood came roaring from behind him, he washed into darkness, and was spit out unconscious for whatever, or whomever, to find.
