Ash 1, 4623
Vivian Kreine had settled into the simple life. A small cottage, three square meals a day, an honest job working alongside Bara as a beast of burden in the fields, and a baby only two seasons old to care for. The first Ascended mage in all of Atharen in centuries was ploughing fields as a mule for twelve hours a day, cooking simple meals, and curling up with a small babe in the evenings in front of the fire. He hadn't used makeup in weeks, he was dressed in a simple muslin shirt and pants, and his boots were more suited for mucking stalls than parading his svelte figure around.
Gods, he hated it.
On the one hand, Laurent was growing up. He was putting on weight every week, and growing stronger. He had weathered the blistering summer without so much as a sniffle, and Vivian had worked half a season to have a blacksmith make a brace for his foot. With some slow encouragement, he hoped his son would at least be able to limp without the use of a cane. Still, it was hard seeing iron wrapped around his little leg.
Vivian had been cooped up for too long, and he had hit his breaking point. There was an ocean of ether inside of him, a sleeping power that was growing stronger with each passing week. Every time he used his magic for something so pedestrian as helping harvest or tugging a stump loose, it grated on his nerves. Today, with Laurent fed, cleaned and down for a nap, he felt safe enough to finally spread his proverbial wings for a little while. The sun was going down, and it was the end of a week. The villagers would all be headed into the nearest pub, and Vivian finally had an excuse to trim his hair, rouge his lips, and spread kohl around his eyes. He fished his long coat out of a basket, put on a decent pair of pants, and made his way to the nearest pub.
Of course, it wasn't as though he was going to find anyone worth bringing back home. Every man in the village knew him for a Malformist, every wife had sent him vaguely threatening letters warning the prostitute to keep away from their husbands, and every husband had met him in a clandestine manner behind stables and woodpiles for the better half of a season.
Ah, but to be free! To be drinking whiskey and not worrying about what effect it would have on Laurent.
Unfortunately, he might have been slightly more concerned about the effect the whiskey would have on him.
Vivian stumbled out of the pub into the night air, downing the last of his eighth glass of the evening. He wanted to run. He wanted to gallop. He wanted to hunt. He fell onto his hands and knees, barely managing to throw his coat and pants into the bushes, and kick off his boots. His flesh stretched and his bones crackled. His skull dissolved entirely, spreading wide in the fanned, fleshy visage of the hammerhead worm. Wet mucus coated his skin, his hair sloughed away, and his spine stretched to accommodate a wide, paddlelike tail. His fingers fused together into hooves, his ribcage widened, and his hips broke apart and strengthened. Vivian rose to all four hooves, an unimaginable horror of flea, worm and mule. Hunger boiled in his belly. Hunger that begged him to swallow, and crush, and digest. Meat was plentiful here.
Inside, the pub's patrons began to scream. Vivian staggered forward, lashing his tail to keep his balance. Even in such a large form, the whiskey had a firm grip on him. He lifted his head proudly, flicked his tail, and set off at a trot down the main street. A flash of black fur caught his eye, and he flicked his fleshy tongue out to taste the air. Dog. Something no one would miss. He turned, drunkenly, stumbling and catching himself.
Vivian lurched after the dog, almost crashing headlong into the slumbering forge of the local blacksmith. The dog hid under a workbench, snarling, scrabbling as far back against the wall of the blacksmith as it could. Vivian huffed at it, and circled the workbench. Right. He was too dizzy to yank it out. Or was he? He pawed at the ground, snarling in an attempt to startle the animal out. The dog, being a bit smarter than it looked, snapped at his hooves.
