Chapter 76 (Book 3 Chapter 3) (Patreon)

Vul’to bit back a curse as he stepped to the side, turning Zamira’s glancing blow into a minor one, her longsword scraping across the length of his shield. Even then, his knees trembled under the weight of her attack, and he had to lock his muscles in place to prevent his arm from being swept aside. He barely had a moment to collect himself when Zamira struck again, forcing him to repeat the same defensive maneuver, his body pushed back a fraction of an inch more than before.

Frustration built with every bit of ground Vul’to lost. Zamira was a Swordmaster who had eschewed Strength in favor of Dexterity, and his own latent Vanguard Skills increased the durability of his shield and allowed him to stand his ground against blows that would have sent other Classes crumpling inward. Vul’to had assumed that her attacks wouldn’t be overly difficult to deflect, and at the beginning, he’d been correct. When their sparring session had begun, Zamira charged forward in the blink of an eye, and he deflected her opening strike without too much effort. She’d struck again, and the sequence repeated.

Then she’d struck again. And again. And again.

When Orn’tol suggested Zamira as a sparring partner, saying that she would put him through the paces, Vul’to had underestimated just how true that statement would turn out to be. A clean loss was to be expected, but being so completely overwhelmed that he was helpless in the face of her relentless aggression? Less so. His Stamina had been worn away as if he was a tree steadily whittled in half by persistent axe swings, and the number of counterattacks he’d managed to pull off with his shortsword could be counted on one hand.

I am a novice, Vul’to reminded himself. Learning a new Class takes longer than a single sparring session, and finding opportunities to strike back isn’t as important as honing my defensive capabilities. The role of a Vanguard is to protect my allies, to safeguard their-

He raised his shield too high, and that was all it took. Zamira crouched low and swept Vul’to’s feet out from under his legs. Her practice sword was pressed against his neck before he’d even hit the ground.

“You did well,” she said, inclining her head at him. “Just as the heart of a Swordmaster lies within me, the heart of a Vanguard lies within you.”

She held out her hand. “I’ll feel much safer with you at the forefront of our Party.”

Vul’to didn’t miss the unspoken qualifier of ‘with more training’. He suppressed a sigh and accepted Zamira’s offer, grasping her hand as she pulled him upright. They exchanged a customary high-five, bowed to each other, and then sheathed their practice blades. Zamira exited the training grounds, leaving Vul’to to stew in his own failings.

He was well aware that he had little to complain about. Their spar had been extremely valuable, making him cognizant of his own shortcomings while pushing him to overcome them. He had a scant two days before the Deserters left Esternard City on a perilous journey north, and every opportunity he was afforded to improve himself during that time would be invaluable. Nevertheless, Vul’to couldn’t help but be disappointed at his showing, one befitting of the novice that he was. And he knew why, although the reason made the top of his ears burn at the thought.

Meyneth was watching from the sidelines. He knew it was immature, but he didn’t want her to think of him as incapable.

A choked grunt from the opposite end of the sparring grounds drew Vul’to’s attention. Randor, one of the new Combat Class recruits, was biting his lip as he nursed a quickly-purpling bruise on his left arm. “Gods above,” he hissed. “I was under the impression that we were using training swords devised to prevent serious injury. If I wasn’t currently blessed with the Lord Blightkiller’s Vitality buffs, your attack just there would have snapped by bones like a twig.”

Lycia had a sheepish look on her face. “My apologies. Training is an art form, and sometimes you spill paint all over the canvas. I should have been more careful to adjust my speed and strength for someone of your Level.” She glanced around the sparring grounds, sighing when she found it empty save for themselves, Vul’to, and Meyneth. “Figures that we would neglect to bring a Healer. Should I fetch one?”

Randor opened his mouth to reply – presumably in the affirmative – before his eyes widened. “No...no, this is ideal. There will come many times when I’ll have to fight while my body is bruised and broken. What better place to inure myself to that hardship than in the safety of training?”

He rolled his shoulders, winced at the stab of pain in his arm, and adjusted his posture into a fighting stance. “Come, hurry! Now that I recall, the Lord Blightkiller’s buffs include Regeneration as well! If we don’t fight while the wound is fresh, you may have to injure me once more!”

Vul’to could only stare and watch, chuckling under his breath. “He certainly seems spirited.”

“Agreed.”

It took every ounce of his composure to avoid jumping out of his own skin. Vul’to turned to face Meyneth, who had somehow snuck up on him despite being at least six inches taller than him. It was simply another instance of proof that he had never been fit to be a Ranger. Riardin would’ve tanned my hide had he witnessed one of his pupils being so lax in their environmental awareness.

“I don’t recall ever meeting Randor,” Meyneth continued, eyeing the adjacent sparring session with mild interest. “Was he less spirited in the past?”

Vul’to arched an eyebrow. “You don’t remember meeting him? He was the Ranger that we carved out of the Dreamthief.”

Meyneth’s face tightened imperceptibly at the mention of the Dungeon Crawl that had almost gone horrifically wrong. “I would not call that a ‘meeting’,” she said. “He was unconscious, half-dead, and slathered in Dreamthief innards. I recognized his face when he stepped onto the training grounds, but today was the first time we ever exchanged words.”

“In that sense, we are similar,” Vul’to said. “I barely saw much of him myself before you joined the group. At the risk of painting the man in an unfair light, he always came across to me as sullen. Dissatisfied with the way of the world.”

He gestured towards Randor, who had just taken a second glancing blow from Lycia and was muscling through the pain with fierce determination. “This, however? Is a whole new man. His talk with Rob worked wonders.”

Meyneth relaxed as an easy smile spread across her face. “I imagine it did. From my understanding, Rob has a proven track record regarding his way with words. When taking Fast Learner into consideration, it may not be farfetched to presume that his Level in Diplomacy has reached 6, perhaps even 7.”

Vul’to examined the pleased look on Meyneth’s face and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “He...does help people, yes. Rob is a good man.”

“That he is.”

“...a very good man,” Vul’to probed.

Meyneth tilted her head slightly. “My standards for what construes a ‘very’ good man or woman have been warped like steel bending under a Nachri’s fist, but for now, he does seem to fit the necessary qualifications.”

Vul’to shot a quick glance at Zamira, who had departed the training grounds after their bout and was just now disappearing from view down the street. She was well out of hearing range. Swallowing his indecision, he stood up straight, faced Meyneth, and threw caution to the wind. “Do you like Rob?”

“Yes.”

Tension roiled in his gut before he comprehended her matter-of-fact tone. “No, no. I mean, do you like Rob?”

Meyneth furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. Her expression shifted rapidly, as if her emotions were a stone tossed about by the wind. Finally, she settled on bewildered comprehension.

“Ah. No.” She shook her head. “He is, as has been determined, a very good man. Outside of a stubborn propensity for self-destruction, I can find few faults with him. However, this does not mean that I am attracted to him. Humans are a mite too...”

She trailed off. A few seconds later, she drummed her claws on the golden scales that covered half of her arm, producing a hard tapping sound. “A mite too squishy. Call it personal preference.” Meyneth shrugged. “Even were that not the case, I would have scant interest in poaching someone else's mate. Especially someone who can remove my head from my shoulders should I incite their fury.”

Her eyebrows furrowed once more. “Which, in the technical sense, would be an unfair response. As they still have yet to admit their feelings to one another and officialize their union. Tylrud’s Teeth, if I am forced to intervene...”

Vul’to was still reeling from the blow that a single word had inflicted on him when Meyneth extended her claws further. “Apologies for the sudden digression, but I believe we should begin our spar now. You may not have had a chance to fully rest from your bout with Zamira, but Randor has the right of it in that enemies will seldom afford you that luxury, especially to a Vanguard whose role lay at the front lines.”

A glint of excitement shone in her eyes. “Zamira outpaces my Dexterity by a fair margin, but she can’t hold a candle to my Strength. Clench your teeth and steel your resolve, Vul’to, as I intend to spare you no quarter.”

She walked to the other end of the training grounds. While her back was turned, Vul’to poked at the flesh on his own, very squishy arm, and let out a deep sigh.

–

Rob knocked on the front door to Urian's house. He waited patiently for a response from the Artificer; when none came, he knocked again, louder and more insistently. Still nothing.

Well, Zamira did say this would probably happen, he thought. Guess we’re breaking down the door.

<She also said the door would be unlocked,> Diplomacy remarked.

I know, I know, Rob chuckled. He reached for the doorknob. It’s a minor fantasy of mine. One day I’ll get to dramatically bust down a door and- MMFGWHEWCK

Rob gagged and stumbled back, arms pinwheeling, as a thick plume of smoke surged out of the open door and smacked him in the face. Small tears welled in his eyes as he damn near hacked up a lung, idly thankful that no one was around to witness their Lord Blightkiller defeated in an instant because he didn’t close his mouth in time. The smoke in question was billowing upwards, dark gray smog cutting through the blue skies, resembling an industrial-era smokestack on a factory where the idea of safety regulations was heresy. Rob gave the house a wide berth until the overflow of fumes had subsided, after which he rushed inside as fast he could.

“Urian!” He yelled, waving lingering smoke out of his face as he ran deeper into the house. “If you’re okay, say something! Was there a fire?!”

He rounded the corner of a hallway and came face-to-face with an aged Elf. Zamira had described Urian as a slightly disheveled, but otherwise intelligent man with a fierce glint in his eyes. This man – Urian, presumably – looked more like a mad scientist from a Saturday morning cartoon series. His face was caked with smoke, his jacket was askew, his white hair was sticking out in all directions, and his eyes were wide with a gleeful mania. Rob strongly considered turning around and powerwalking back outside the house, but that would involve exposing his back to a potential crazy person, and he knew better. Shopping at Wal-mart had taught him that much.

Urian locked eyes with Rob and grinned from ear to ear. In a flash of motion, he held up a shiny metal object and stuck it an inch in front of Rob’s face. “Look at it!” The Artificer hissed. “I have taken arcane powers plumbed from the very depths of the world and refined them! My work is done! It is COMPLETE!”

Rob gulped. “That’s, uh, that’s real great, bro. Are you talking about the Enchanted Item?”

Urian’s already-wide eyes widened even further. “What else is there worth speaking of?” He said. “Gaze upon my work once more, and this time, look beyond your eyes!”

“...What?”

“Use Identify, you daft bastard!”

I can see why Zamira refused to meet with this guy a third time, Rob thought. But if it’ll placate the man and keep me from getting shanked: ‘Identify’.

Name: Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, grants the wearer several abilities when entirely submerged underwater. Their swimming speed increases dramatically, they become as maneuverable as a fish swimming through the sea, and they become able to breathe underwater indefinitely.

“That’s a lot better than it was before,” Rob affirmed. “The old Moderate Ring of Waterdwelling didn’t let you breathe that long or swim that fast.”

“Finally, you understand!” Urian withdrew his hand and stowed the fruits of his labor in a pouch. “With this Enchanted Item, we Elves can now tread within a realm that, until today, has been dominated by the Merfolk. An entire ecosystem, ripe for exploration! Just imagine the wondrous discoveries that might be lurking below the water’s surface!”

“Don’t the Merfolk already live there?” Rob said. “That sounds like less of an exploration and more of an invasion.”

Urian waves his hand in a nonchalant manner. “Bah, as if they would not do the same to us given the opportunity. Small-scale incursions are a simple matter of course.”

He paused, the mania in his eyes dimming. “They used to be, anyway. The Scouring and the Cataclysm were unlike anything we’ve ever known. Perhaps those two atrocities left a deep scar that has instilled an aversion to large conflict in our bones. Or maybe they simply changed the nature of war, and that the next invasion – whenever it occurs – will be on the same scale, or greater.”

Urian stared at the ground for a few seconds, lost in thought. All of a sudden, his head jerked up, and he glared at Rob with furrowed eyebrows. “You’re not an Elf.”

Rob blinked. He pointed at his hair, then his ears. “What gave it away?”

“That would make you the Lord Blightkiller, then?”

“Last I checked.”

Urian grunted in reply. The Artificer re-opened his pouch and retrieved the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling, holding it towards Rob in a much more casual manner than before. “I suppose you’re here for this?”

Rob nodded, not trusting himself to speak. With the care of someone petting a wild animal, he used his left hand – hiding that his right hand was still limp – to gently take the Ring out of Urian’s palm. The man didn’t flinch when the Enchanted Item disappeared into Rob’s Spatial Storage in a flash of blue motes.

“Same as a Storage Crystal,” Urian muttered. “Then it’s true; you’re the one quadrupling my workload.  The Deserters wouldn’t have the capacity to carry as many supplies as they do without magic of your like.”

Rob shrugged. “Sorry? We kind of need all those supplies.” The Dungeon Crawl would have ended in over twenty deaths without their large reserve of Potions and Firebombs. “I do want to thank you personally, though. The stuff you create helps keep us Combat Class users alive.”

Urian’s stony gaze softened. “Others beside me craft our supplies, boy.”

“Yeah, but you make the most, and you’re also the one who made the EXP Share.”

“You mean the Amulet of Allocation?” Urian snorted. “My life’s greatest work. Which you then proceeded to eat, as far as I’m aware.”

Rob grinned. “Trust me, it’s come in handy. I’ll make sure to give my thanks to the other suppliers as well, but I’d say you more than earned my personal gratitude.”

It was an interesting sight, watching someone go from manic insanity to sullen discomfort in the span of a minute. Rob didn’t know exactly what kind of preconceptions Urian possessed about him, but apparently, being thanked for his services wasn’t how the Elf had expected this conversation to go.

“What do you want, boy?” Urian asked, sounding defeated.

Rob blinked, then titled his head. “You just gave it to me.”

“Spare the honeyed words and spoken half-truths. What do you really want? Had your intention been solely to retrieve the Ring upon completion of its refinement, you could have sent any one of your lackeys to complete the task, yet you elected to come in-person.”

“I don’t have lackeys,” Rob said, in an irritated tone. “You’d know as much if you spent more than five minutes a week outside instead of being a perpetual shut-in.”

Diplomacy sighed; that hadn’t been the right thing to say. Rob didn’t care. He was grateful to the Artificer, but he wasn’t going to stand by and let someone accuse him of being some pampered noble, especially when the whole ‘Lord’ thing was a farce to begin with.

“I stay indoors to work on crafting those supplies you’re so fond of,” Urian snapped. “Just as I slaved the last few days away refining that Enchanted Item, only to give it to a man who’ll walk away from our cause the moment it suits him.”

Rob froze. For a terrible instant, he was back in the Dreamthief’s illusion, being asked if he would abandon the Deserters in order to return home – and unable to give a response in turn. “I, what-”

Unfortunately, Urian picked up on that moment of indecision. “It’s as I thought,” he said, in a frosted tone. “The further north we travel, the closer we draw to Dwarven territory. They are the one race in Elatra that may accept you with open arms. What reason would you have to stay with the Elves once it becomes feasible for you to make the journey to the Dwarven holdings? What ties would bind you here?”

“The people I care about.”

Urian recoiled at the force Rob put into his statement. Rob breathed deep, taking a few seconds to compose himself and ensure that he chose his words carefully. “Do you honestly believe that I would’ve put my life at risk so many times if there weren’t people here who I wanted to protect?” He smirked. “Hell, there’s people here I don’t care about, and I still protect them. Have a little faith in me. I think I’ve earned that much.”

With that, he turned away and walked away. Urian said nothing in response. Before Rob exited the room, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. “By the way, the Dwarves are a bunch of hypocrites who took part in the Scouring and can’t own up to it. I won’t ditch you guys for them anytime soon.”

Rob continued his confident stride until he’d left the house and shut the front door behind him. Once he was out of Urian’s eyesight and hearing range, he slouched, an excited smile spreading across his face. I totally nailed that dramatic exit.

<Indeed,> Diplomacy said. <And in a way that prevented you from relying on Deception instead of myself. Urian asked the wrong question; rather than grumbling about the Dwarves poaching you, he should have asked if you would stay with the Deserters if it was also possible for you to return to Earth.>

Honestly, I don’t think I’ll know that answer to that one until the opportunity presents itself. Rob produced the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling and held it up at the sun. And I don’t think this bad boy is getting us any closer to achieving that particular goal.

<The Ring could be useful,> Diplomacy hazarded. <Although I’m not sure how. Maybe a portal to Earth lies at the bottom of a lake?>

Rob shrugged and Stored the item back into his Inventory. Can’t hurt to have it, I guess. What’s left on today’s schedule? Thanking the other supply-makers for their service, and then magic lessons?

<With Elder Duran and Malika, yes.>

“Awesome.” Rob raised his left hand and extended a finger. He concentrated, feeling out the mana around him, and managed to produce a tiny spark of electricity. “A few more practice sessions and I’ll never have to buy another laptop charger ever again.”

–

One week later, in a place located at the southern edges of Elatra, Seneschal Sylpeiros, leader of the Elves, found himself alone and in peril.

It was by his choice, of course. Reviton City couldn’t afford to spare its Combat Class users on an operation that led away from the City outskirts. The Elves’ full strength would be required to defend Reviton from the Blight’s monstrosities that, to this day, had yet to relent in their assault.

Which was why he’d embarked on a solo mission to expunge a Dungeon.

A hole in the ground filled with pitch-black darkness lay before him. Jagged glass had replaced the ground surrounding the entrance to the Dungeon, distorting his reflection into dozens of disparate frowning faces. Sylpeiros would rather have left the Dungeon well enough alone, but its rapid growth in size was becoming untenable. Any larger and it would begin to spew out monsters, turning the Blight’s siege of Reviton City into an overnight bloodbath. And according to the refugees from The Village, there was probably some connection between the Blight and the Dungeons, giving him every reason necessary to remove its stain from Elatra.

That it was necessary was of little comfort. Exploring a Dungeon on your own was already an exercise in foolishness; doubly so when it was likely aberrant.

There’s no reason to cloud my mind with doubts, Sylpeiros thought. The aberrant Dungeon that formed near The Village was expunged by a group of wet-behind-the-ears trainees. It’s clear that the Wound in the World’s degree of danger has been grossly overstated.

He tried his best to convince himself of that notion, and failed utterly. Dungeons had taken too many of his comrades for him to dismiss one out of hand. Large or small, normal or aberrant, he would conduct his Crawl with the utmost of caution.

Or he would die.

Duty calls. Sylpeiros drew his spear and jumped down the hole, plunging himself into darkness.

--

Around the same time, Dragon Queen Ragnavi stood on top of the summit of her castle, breathing in the crisp midday air. A collection of traveling provisions lay stacked next to her, but otherwise, she was alone. No piling burdens, no cruel memories, no simpering nobles. There was just herself, and the breeze.

Uncomplicated joys such as these were some of the strongest chains keeping her sanity tethered groundwards. Should the day ever come when a refreshing breeze failed to soothe her temperament, then that would be a day when the world trembled in agony and fear.

It was a shame that she was incapable of feeling the supposed warmth of the sun’s gentle rays. Members of other races often spoke of the calming nature of sunlight, but Heat Immunity barred her from experiencing its sensations, good or ill. She could even stare directly into the sun’s core without incurring damage to her eyes, which had made for an amusing prank to play on non-Dragonkin during her childhood. Simpler times, simpler pleasures.

Tylrud take me, Ragnavi grumbled to herself. Too often am I lost in idle reminiscence as of late. Pining over my halcyon days is a hobby befitting of ancients preparing to enter their Hallowed Halls, not a woman in her early 200s.

Perhaps it was a blessing that she’d been called upon to explore the Human lands. It granted her an excuse to stretch her wings, so to speak.

Minor vibrations in the air put her on alert. Ten seconds later, her attendant emerged from the staircase leading to the castle rooftop, out of breath and presumably having run a great distance to reach her. “My Queen,” her attendant gasped. “I must express my deepest apologies for encroaching upon your solitude, but I bring urgent tidings that you would wish to hear without delay.”

“Speak,” she commanded. Her attendant nodded, straightened his posture into something resembling propriety, and dutifully followed her order.

“Our Infiltrators in the Elven lands have relayed new information,” he said. “They confirmed that Seneschal Sylpeiros is engaging in underhanded behavior. The traitor’s weekly reports to your majesty are brimming with falsehoods.”

Ragnavi raised an eyebrow. I didn’t think he had the stones. “And what, pray tell, is he lying about?”

Her attendant hesitated, which was immediate cause for concern. After several seconds of steeling his resolve, he continued, muscles tense as if preparing to weather a blow.

“The Human is alive.”

Her attendant’s eyes bulged. A moment later, he sank to his knees as a wave of pressure crashed down on him like the weight of a collapsing building. Ragnavi pulled back her aura, chastising herself for her temporary loss of control. Killing the messenger was a boorish act better-reserved for overcompensating warlords. And as recent events had proven, capable subordinates were in short supply.

“This is true?” She asked, in a dangerously neutral tone. The question was rhetorical; her attendant wouldn’t have brought news of this caliber to her attention unless he was completely sure that it was authentic. Her inquiry was mere verbal filler, meant to buy time in order to compose herself and prevent any further mishaps from occurring.

“Verifiably and utterly,” her attendant answered, bones creaking as he rose to his feet. “The Seneschal’s claims that they slew the Human before the Elven dissidents fled north was a fabrication. His last-known reports put the Human as being alive, well, and integrated into his newfound supporters among their so-called ‘Deserters’.”

Now that was surprising. Ineffectual as the Elves were, she hadn’t expected even the lowest of their lot to start suckling at a Human’s teat of all things. Ragnavi wished she could relax and enjoy watching the Seneschal lose control of his own people, but unfortunately, his ineptitude was problematic. Of course, retribution would be met on Sylpeiros and his ilk for their deception, but that was a matter barely worth considering. That it would happen in the near future was an unassailable fact. At present, she had far more pressing concerns.

The Human was alive – and he was north.

Ragnavi didn’t want to kill him. Personally, at least. She would be delighted if thunder rained down from the sky and cooked his flesh, or if a monster tore off his head and swallowed it whole. In an ideal world, the Human was already dead, having starved to death in the harsh northlands.

The fates were rarely so kind as that.

In truth, she was furious with the Seneschal not for his deception, but because he had failed in this very simple task. By all accounts, the Human was weak. He shouldn’t have ascended to higher than Level 20 at this point. Sylpeiros had allowed a gnat to slip through his grasp, and because of that, she might be forced into proximity with the Human’s repulsive visage very soon. Searching the Human territories for signs of the Blight and errant Dungeons would be a comprehensive effort taking place over a span of weeks. The chances that she would encounter the Human were far higher than was comfortable.

It would be a simple task to slay him. A flick of her wrist should suffice. It would also bring her very little pleasure to do so. Slaughtering thousands upon thousands of Humans had been insufficient to quell her rage – one more would hardly make a difference. What seeing him would accomplish would be to dredge up painful memories best left forgotten. A brief glimmer of satisfaction in return for days of torment.

Fucking Sylpeiros, she seethed. I’ll make him hurt for this.

“There is more, my Queen,” her attendant said. Ragnavi’s mouth twitched, but she managed to keep herself under control, and motioned for him to continue.

“This report will sound farfetched in the extreme,” he cautioned. “But every word of it is true. We’ve discovered that the Human has – in some unknown way – gained the ability to grant Fast Learner to those in his Party.”

It took every ounce of Ragnavi’s self-control to school her expression. The Dragon Queen’s mouth was not allowed to drop open and gape like a fish out of water. Her station had a baseline of respectability that had to be preserved at all times. Even during momentous revelations such as these.

In an instant, Ragnavi understood why the Seneschal had lied. He wasn’t concerned with hiding his failure – he wanted to hide the potential world-shaking asset that the Human represented. Whoever gained control of Fast Learner would inevitably catapult their race to dominion over the entirety of Elatra. It was the kind of development that wars would be waged over.

She didn't care.

If her choices were between securing Fast Learner for her people, or suffering a Human to live, then that was no choice at all.

“Well done,” she stated. “You are dismissed.” Her attendant nodded and limped back downstairs, leaving Ragnavi alone to ruminate on the tasks ahead of her.

Yesterday, she had legitimately considered eradicating Sylpeiros’ Blight infestation in exchange for him sending his manpower north to perform reconnaissance in the Human lands. The former would likely have been less time-consuming than the latter. Now? If given the chance to tread north, he would hunt down the Human, and preserve the thing’s life in order to secure Fast Learner.

She couldn’t trust him. It fell to her to do what was required.

Ragnavi released some of the energy constrained in her core, letting it spread throughout her body like blood pumping through her veins. It filled her with ecstasy; pure power bubbling just below the surface of her skin. Gradually, her skin hardened, her muscles expanded, and her claws extended to ten times their length. The world shrank in comparison as she grew taller, torso expanding as her body formed mass from the inherent strength that was her birthright. Her face elongated into a snout, her legs and arms thickened, exchanging bipedal motion for four-legged savagery. Finally, two fifteen-foot wings sprouted from her back, proud and resplendent in all their glory.

She let out a bellowing roar of joy. Out of every pleasure in existence, there was no sweeter one than this.

The world held still as the Dragon took flight.

--

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