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He woke to the sound of waves lapping at the shore, carelessly licking over his legs. Sand pressed against his face, coarse and cold. Every fiber of every muscle burned. His fingers hurt, particularly at the tips of his right hand. His head felt heavy and dull and throbbed painfully. It took several long moments for him to piece together that something was clutched in his hand, and had crushed his fingers. He groaned and stirred. For all the sand and salt caked into his fur and mane, he couldn't tell he was clothed. The ocean licked over his legs again, icy fingers caressing his thighs. He worked his mouth and felt sand tumble in past his cracked lips. He coughed, sputtered and raised his head weakly, feeling the scars straining all over his body. He opened his eyes, closed them again when the daylight assaulted his vision. He paused to gather his arm under himself for support. The last time he could remember being on all fours like this was when he last fenced with his instructor. Come to think of it, he'd felt about as sore but nowhere near as miserable. He opened his eyes again, this time slowly. He stayed like that for an eternity, sucking in air until he felt the burning starting to slough from his muscles, fading into a dull throbbing instead. His tangled mane fell over his shoulder as he pulled his other arm in. He relaxed his grip around the bundle in his hand and thumbed the cloth until he could see the dull gleam of metal underneath, sighing at the familiar sight with relief. It was pocked with spots of rust from being soaked in brine, but mostly it was in solid shape. He wrapped his hand around it again and dug the covered tip into the sand just in time to lean on it as he vomited. Harsh sea water and bile rushed out. He panted raggedly for a few moments, his broad nose flaring as he tried to spit and blow the sand and salt still clinging to his cracked lips. Now that was something he never had experienced before. In fact, had he ever been on a boat before? Certainly he'd never sat hoof on a beach before! The last thing he remembered he was on land in a small city and wearing proper clothes, not these rutting rags! He stood up and frowned at the harsh, scratchy cloth hanging off him. He'd seen potatoes hauled in finer sacks then he was dressed in. He pushed himself up to his feet, leaning on the wrapped up longsword heavily, only the pommel and hilt free of the scratchy material. He sucked in a breath and looked at the tangled forest ahead, licking his dried, broken lips. He was thirsty and his head was pounding. The salty ocean pounded on the shores behind him, taunting him to remember what happened. He grit his teeth and squeezed the pommel of the sword tight. "What the fuck?" he asked the clouds. The ocean shrugged back on the shore.

Dehydrated as he was, he wasn't a hundred paces into the forest before the icy memory of the ocean water caught up to him. He wasn't pleased to discover that the rags he had on were all he had to cover him. They were in such a sorry state that he didn't have to bother to tuck himself back up after taking a piss, a worryingly dark color soaking the roots of his chosen tree. He stabbed the cloth-covered end of his sword into the dirt with each step, trudging past branches that whipped at his burlap covered thighs and hips. Some of them he barely felt. His skin was clammy and cold under the fur and mostly numb besides. He had every right to stop and collapse. His eyes stung from being so dry, his hooves throbbing with each step. He cursed every ounce of muscle he'd built up, feeling the weight of his entire body every time a new patch of ground came up to meet him. But by whatever gods there were, he'd survived the ocean's caress. He'd be damned if he was gonna give up in the middle of a forest. The overcast skies were disappearing behind the canopy and casting darker shapes around him. He was getting deeper into the forest than he should have, he realized. "Should've stuck to the beach," he grumbled to himself. I would've eventually found a river that way, at least. He scowled wryly. It was no use getting annoyed over, especially knowing he wasn't in his right mind just yet. In most circumstances, he knew, he could hold his own. His many scars could attest to that. This, however, was pushing it. He tried to think of something--anything--that might be familiar about this. A story, a lesson from his mentor, an anecdote; anything to help him survive. Every single one that came to mind all ended the same way, and it wasn't 'happily ever after.' "If I were water, where would I be," he snorted, annoyed at his own question. But the thought was pleasing after a moment of reflection. Where would he be? It seemed obvious enough now and, leaning so heavily on the covered-up sword as he crashed through underbrush, absolutely appealing! Downhill, then. He managed an emphatic nod, the tangles of his mane sticking to his face. Downhill towards a stream. And then who knows? Maybe signs of civilization...

Captain Doubros was a happy wolf. He tried to keep his tail still and his ears down, though. He and his men were ahead of schedule a full day, but once you started showing any sort of softness, well. Give 'em an inch, may as well give 'em a mile, this lot! "Let's hurry it up, fellas! I'd like to be in town by nightfall!" he shouted. It was unnecessary, really. They were already on track for that, but it couldn't hurt to push them a little harder. The road was easy and the iron cage cart hadn't been as troublesome as he thought it'd be on these far, southern roads. In truth, he'd expected mud pits and rocks the size of heads this far from the city. But fortunately, he'd been quite wrong! He'd even brought a small engineering squad with extra planks to help dig out the cart if it did get stuck somewhere. Apparently it'd been a lot of bother for nothing. In his cheery mood, it didn't even bother him that he'd gone through all the extra paper work for nothing! It's just extra practice, isn't it? He allowed himself to smirk at that. A good mood, indeed. Maybe if he made it back another full day ahead of schedule, he could get a commendation? Not that he was one for a patting on the back, but it could only help his chances for a promotion and in turn keep him from these otherwise dreary assignments! He shuddered to imagine if the roads had been as he first thought. Or worse! He'd seen sinkholes at least twice as big as the huge, lumbering cart they had with him on roads just like this one. It was a gamble every time he got his orders, really. And to be true, he wasn't the gambling sort. "Lieutenant!" he called out. "Sir!" The answer was every bit as quick as their progress, the ferret saluting sharply. "Be ready to make camp when we get there. They may not have enough rooms at the local inn for us. In the morning, we'll load the cargo and be on our way. We'll use some of the townsmen to help us if we need it." He allowed himself a sly grin as he leaned in towards the ferret. "Don't tell them know now, but once we get in, let the men know I'm buying them a round." "'Essir!" Almost as quick as he'd come, the ferret disappeared. Captain Doubros smiled. He hardly knew the man, but the few times he'd been around him, he always seemed quite competent. Superb, in fact! He wished he got lieutenants like him more often! In fact, he just wished he had any lieutenant of his own consistently. He was always called off to doing strange chores, it seemed. Come to think of, hauling back this special batch of iron ore was the most straight-forward that he could recall in recent memory. The only strange thing about it was that they'd be using such a large cart. Sure, the stuff was particularly well suited for weapons for the war effort, but it did strike him as a bit peculiar. In the end, the only thing that made sense to him was that there would be just too much to fit onto the normal carts. It was heavy stuff, after all.

The forest began to thin out as he approached what felt like it was a valley, or at least a dell (he never was too good at his geography.) The overcast sky was visible finally, but the clouds seemed to be thinning and sunlight promised to eventually crack through. But more promising was the sight of the tiniest crack visible through the sparse trees, snaking its way through the clearing. Could it be...? He stumbled after it as though it would run away from him, nearly toppling more than once even with the help of his metallic walking stick. He crashed through saplings and over rocks, throwing caution entirely to the wind. The draft horse fell to his knees at the edge of the shallow ditch and then kept going, almost falling face first into it. He caught himself and laughed as he stared inside. "Water!" he rasped giddily. It was filthy and muddy and barely an inch deep, but it was water and it wasn't salty! He dipped his hands in and raised it up letting the cool liquid roll down his hands and wrists. He rubbed them together, satisfied it was real and cleaned the sand and brine from them. His face was next and he eagerly rubbed the cold, satisfying liquid over himself but he dared not drink it. He was patient and he was sure that he could follow it further and find cleaner, fresher water than this. But this was a start! After a hasty scrubbing of his arms and legs and even a little bit of his mane, he set off again, following the diminutive stream uphill to look for its source. Fuck the odds, I just might make it! he smiled. Despite the dull pain still permeating his body, he'd never felt more alive. He went barely another mile before he heard the unmistakeable dull roar of swift moving water over rocks. The creek was as clear as any he'd seen--not that that was a large number by any measure--and he wasted no time and dipping his head in. At first, it just felt great to have clean water coursing through his mane and fur, taking with it some of the sand and brine caked in. His cracked lips couldn't have thanked him more and after a few moments of rubbing his mane as clean as he could manage he took in a deep drink of the water. Oh, dear sweet gods! I could not have a finer gift in all my life! The greatest pleasures he could remember paled in comparison to the taste of the water and the cool feeling as it slid down his throat. He drank as long for as long as he could hold his breath then surfaced with a gasp as he sucked in fresh air and did it all over again. This time when he came back up for air, he tossed his sword on the bank and let himself slide into the water. It was freezing cold, but his rags weren't doing him any good anyway. Being clean felt too good. He sat in the creek for a few moments, the water pushing him firmly but gently as he looked around stupidly, admiring the sight of moving water and the towering trees around him. He struggled to think of a more perfect thing and decided he was ruining it himself. So he tore off the rags around one of his arms and rubbed at himself. His skin stung and his fur was sun bleached in spots, and sand and grit had worn through uncomfortably in some places more than others. After a hasty bathing, he finally dragged himself out of the creek. As invigorating as it was, his arms felt heavy as he flopped down on the bank and stared at the sky through the broken canopy. He was starving and not figuratively. The water was a very welcome reprieve, but his belly burned with a different need. He allowed himself a yawn then slapped his hand on the burlap-covered sword, hoisting himself up with the muddy tip buried in the ground. It's time I found civilization.