N'inktober #6

Zephyr Shrimp

Cedar Sanderson is doing N'inktober, so I'm going to follow along and do what I've been trained to do by the Raconteur Press Postcard books: come up with a story to match her visual prompts. I can't guarantee that I'll have a complete story for every image, but I'm going to at least try to come up with a scene, a start, or an idea!

Zephyr Shrimp

She’d wanted an adventure, of course. That’s why she’d stepped through the twilight portal, into the land she had come to know as Krepsdyr.

She hadn’t been prepared for what “adventure” might mean.

Kimie’s gażę wandered over the churned mud of the battlefield. Three - or was it four? - armies had met here. She’d been at Sir Ttik’s side throughout, but lost count in the midst of the alliances, betrayals, and counter betrayals. The crabs of Fathom and the slow-moving starfish of the Maw had met Sir Ttik and his army at the Duskline.  Each side had their octopoid mercenaries, scouts and rangers who switched allegiances on a whim, spinning up chaos like a cloak to obscure them as they followed their own agendas.

The ever-present light breeze from Sunside wafted past her, carrying the charnel smell of blood and rapidly decaying flesh. She flinched as, somewhere off in the distance, the sudden CRACK of a hammer rent open a shell and ended the life of one of the enemy combatants. 

“Careful, Lucky One,” Sir Ttik grumbled. That was what he called her. When she’d arrived through the portal, he had taken her appearance as a sign of favor from - well, not quite gods. At least, as far as she could tell, his people didn’t think that way. She wasn’t sure, though. The magic of the portal only went so far, and there were words that did not translate well either way. In any case, he had taken her into his service; partly as a squire, and partly as a good luck charm.

Her stomach growled, interrupting her memories. It had been four days, now, since she’d arrived. There had been a couple of old power bars buried in the bottom of her backpack. Those had seen her through the excitement of the first few days. Now, she was starving.

Sir Ttik turned to her. “I feel the trembling of your insides. Do you hunger still?”

“Kind of.” She squirmed in her saddle. The algae and rotten vegetable matter that made up the bulk of food in this world made her vomit. “When can I go home again?”

“Soon. The maquis say, not this shifting but the next. Maybe –” his voice crackled, the sound of static as his antennae stroked his mandibles to form an untranslatable concept.

Time until were one of those things that didn’t translate well. Kimie shook her head. “I didn’t get that. Sir.”

Sir Ttik clacked thoughtfully. “You had your eating-sticks, yes? One, and the another? That would be –” again, static noise. “The next shifting would fall short of eight eights of that span.”

Sixty four days? No, sixty four pairs of days. “Three months!” Her throat was suddenly dry. “I can’t… I can’t make it that long.”

“Ah! Then it is time for you to learn the the most important lesson of battle! Logistics.” He banged the butt of his spear against his armor. “Come with me! We shall scavenge among the fallen of the Fathom, and find you nourishment.”

She felt a moment of hope. “Do the, uh. Fathom-people? Do they eat the food I do?”

Sir Ttik’s antennae swayed back and forth in his version of a chuckle. “No. That would be too simple, and life - especially life on the battlefield! - is never easy. I do recall your words when we first saw the Fathomers, though. There are smaller of these in your world, yes?”

She stared, speechless. He couldn’t mean…

“Come, Lucky One. Bring your hammer. Let us gather the dead, so that we might feast together, and that you might live.” He antennae swayed. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find one of their officers. They are quite tender.”

She watched as he ambled off across the killing field, poking at the fallen with his spear.

She’d wanted an adventure. But not like this.