Meen-Tra was in a foul mood, pulled away from the comforts and levels her workshop provided. She thought – she hoped, rather – she’d heard the last of her ultra-rare, and she had, vowing never to cycle the skill on another ingredient so long as she lived.
After dumping the human off at a healer's, it was only by chance she knew of Draven, a story heard in passing; Meen-Tra had washed her fists of the situation, chucking her own cursed sandals to the back of her not inconsiderable shoe pile.
Alas, she was mired in muck! A bog-blooded curse was upon her. At that last thought, she touched her titan mark.
Right after receiving a high-level crafting request, one for “Jackbooted sandals, stretched with displacer hide." Her sandals had called to her. It wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t.
She tried ignoring it; she really had. But fears of her talking to herself while in the presence of a high-ranking official, or worse yet, one of them sensing the sandals calling to her. No, Meen-Tra had to deal with this now, and perhaps burn the sandals when she was all through.
Displacer beasts were a rare variant of bog dragon. Their existence, like so many things in the Mire, was related to the Tearing and the advent of the system. Meen-Tra had been forced to sit through hours of lectures from Garzha on the subject; the woman would not shut up about the mysteries of dungeons: ‘Dungeons are dimensional spaces, Meen-Tra’, ‘Pockets of reality Meen-Tra’, ‘Maybe a path out of the swamp inside, Meen-Tra’, ‘Fame and fortune, Meen-Tra.’ It went on and on; she wouldn’t shut up about them. Dungeons weren’t for her; she was a crafter, through and through.
In her workshop, she never had to deal with situations like this. The temperature was high and dry, but the real danger was in the ground. She stayed away from the sand, sticking to the edges, hopping from rock to rock.
She moved across the terrain with ease. Garzha had instilled in her the foundation of an explorer, whether Meen-Tra liked it or not.
Meen-Tra still trained daily – a fit body and nimble mind had helped her push her artisan levels.
Many had blamed her Titan mark for her rapid advancement, whispering behind her back, but she ignored such things; hard work and discipline, as Garzha had taught her, were the keys to advancement.
To that end, she continued to train, working out her physique as often as possible. Crafters needed strength as much as an explorer, even more, in her opinion. Spotting a gap between two large boulders ahead, Meen-Tra broke into a run. She accelerated into cartwheels, the world spinning like a top, before planting her legs as she leaped, arcing through the air, her hands landed inches from the edge. Pressing the ground, she sprang forward, tucking her chin, pulling knees to chest.
Meen-Tra's lips pressed into a thin line as she flipped through the air, uncurling at the last second. Her feet slapped stone, arms up in a Y.
A nod of approval - she still had it. That was good; she had a feeling she would be tested.
Her sandals had brought her far outside the comforts of the City. If she were to scale a titan here – and she almost certainly would be, Meen-Tra would need every advantage.
Meen-Tra approached her target, a titan along the zone line, her sandals tingling with approval. Craning her head to view the canopy, so that she might gauge the length of travel, it was – this was going to be a long day.
She broke into a run, leaping onto one of the larger trunk coils close to the ground. Sandals firm on the trunk, she began her long, spiraling ascent. Titan trees were of magic and mystery; whole classes were dedicated to their study, and every bog-brained scoundrel with a pair of feet, paw, or claw learned to brave their trunks; interdimensional roads to the canopies!
Some of Meen-Tra’s earliest memories, still a grunt knee high to a bearkin, were of chasing after wyrmback monitors, an endless race to the branches above, all in a competition for the glory of the sage moss’s spirit-filled tufts! She smiled sharply, keeping her eyes to the ground; it wouldn’t do to step on a tail!
Time was always strange when traveling inside the trunks, their spirals visible both above and below. She reached out a hand to feel the inner trunk and its thick interlocking plates.
In her youth, when Garzha’s tales of exploration and wonder had still filled her head, fantasies abounding, she’d wondered if perhaps the spine of a dragon lay beneath – the creatures of the old world, hidden in plain sight, their eyes in the canopies laughing, as their descendants scoured the swamps high and low.
Meen-Tra ran for hours, stopping to break, sipping water and protein cubes. This was the farthest she’d travelled from Murskpire since she’d last visited Garzha.
The spiral she travelled along was narrowing, as it flattened into the upper canopy. Before the way ahead got too steep, Meen-Tra began climbing up the armored bark, and the lower canopy was close.
As she climbed, she cursed herself for not bringing more supplies. Some grappling rope, or even supplies to deal with some of the wildlife she might run into. Garzha would not be hearing about this. Meen-Tra shook her head as she found herself saying that a lot lately.
Right on cue, sharp clicking sounds circled overhead. She increased her climbing speed, stretching up to her limit with each handhold, but it wouldn’t be enough; she was going to be climbing all day if these pests didn’t get her first.
She needed to cut loose, “[Enduring Stitch]!” Meen-Tra’s muscles bulged as energy coursed through her system. Crafters need to work for long hours, and she had a few skills of her own, practical for exploration.
Her pace picked up, and she moved above the lower canopy. The way ahead would be chaotic, but at least she would be mostly safe if she fell. Unlike in Murkspire, here the canopies were filled with life. There were clickfangs, mire spiders, monitors, and things she hoped not to run into. The foliage was also dense here, and twigs and leaves abounded. Such resources had long since been gathered in the City. Anything belonging to a titan tree was a highly valuable resource, especially since one did not cut into a titan tree without a shaman's expressed permission.
“Bog take me!” A clickfang dove from behind, nicking the flesh across her calf.
The Mires skill-warded roads had lulled her into a sense of false security; it had been too long since she had climbed a tree in the wilds. It was thanks to Garzha’s training that she had anything more than a few snacks and some water packed on her at all, though she’d never say that out loud, at least not within earshot of that cursed woman.
The clicking was getting closer; an attack was imminent – Meen-Tra kicked off the trunk, her titan-mark flaring. She landed on a twig below, but lost her balance as it was young and flexible – I’m out of practice at this.
Meen-Tra pinwheeled her arms, falling through the air, crashing into a broad branch several levels below. She lay still for a minute, recovering her pride, her face pancaked. Hearing crunching sounds, she wasn’t alone. Looking up, an irritated wyrmback stared back at her, chomping a mouthful of sage moss.
The clicking returned; her respite was over, as the monitor's eyes immediately moved to the threat. A tongue flicked in aggression as it let out a grinding hiss. Meen-Tra froze; she knew what that sound meant, and the vibrations of toe claws scrabbling all around confirmed the answer to the alpha’s call.
Pin pricks danced along her legs. An army came to call. Her traveling qipao, black with a red band wrapping around her like a sash from shoulder to opposing hip, a gift from Garzha – of course, held up, protecting her back from the worst of the damage. Her pride, on the other hand, as lizard feet repeatedly stepped on the back of her head, smashing her mouth into the moss, her pride would suffer.
She left her face, buried in the moss, until the movement stopped. Meen-Tra looked up into the face of the alpha. It was large, easily measuring up to an adult bearkin. The army gathered at his back, sat still and silent, heads held proud, waiting for their general’s orders.
The clickfangs would be on them soon. The alpha stood up on its back legs, its tail coiled behind it, pressing into the sage-moss, in preparation for.
The alpha leaped. Meen-Tra craned her neck, looking over her shoulder. The beast sailed through the air, its tail snapping like a sail, before impacting the oncoming colony. Its mouth snapped around a wing, as four clawed feet raked the air.
Hot on their generals' heels, an army followed, hissing and tails whipping. Clickfangs grappled with wyrmbacks, spiraling below, before curled tails hooked on twig and crack. As their momentum halted, the beast snapped their necks, separating from the clickfangs, sending the fuzzy fliers careening away, their flesh torn wide, gore and guts spattering to the dry sand of the Scattered Lands below.
Meen-Tra pushed herself onto her fingertips, toes pressed into the branch like a prowling cat. She needed to be out of here before reinforcements came, and this turf war really got exciting.
Meen-Tra leaped, catching a nearby twig with open fists. She swung like a garbage gibbon, up over and around, hurling herself up to the next level. She needed to move as quickly as possible while her skill was still active.
She had to admit she was enjoying herself, as she alternated between swinging and diving amongst the foliage, and climbing the trunk’s armored plating. When she was just a girl, she’d loved watching garbage gibbons, so much that she’d often emulated them.
As she’d grown up, focusing on her crafting, she just hadn’t had the time to climb – that wasn’t really it, and Meen-Tra knew it. She sighed as she flipped off the trunk to a broad branch just below, before running along, gaining speed to leap to a distant twig.
She thought about her childhood heroes, her beloved garbage gibbons, as she swung up to the next level of foliage. Little was known about the creatures, which were either black or buff in color and always wore coveralls; even the babies had tiny jumpsuits! Their role in keeping the City clean was invaluable. It was a well-known fact that even Eldrin had needed to negotiate terms with them before creating the first District Platform. The canopies were their domain.
One learned to give the garbage gibbons their space, as they could be quite testy, and you definitely never interrupted their great works! They collected trash with the diligence of a master – where it all went, none knew; it was a great mystery.
No, garbage gibbons were a civilization unto themself, having their own pocket dimensions within Murkspire proper; dimensional mages came from all around to observe them, seeking to understand their mysterious ability to hide what had to amount to literal mountains of trash, all within their compact garden enclaves. Murkspire was like that, beings of different shapes, backgrounds, and those unable to speak the common tongue, all living in harmony.
She dug deep into her energy reserves, pushing to the limit. Food supplies were low, and her nerves shot; a mistake now might cost her life. She looked down past her sandaled feet and her pristine, cobalt-colored nails; the ground was almost out of sight. She sometimes wished she had a tail, one that might curve into a hook and slow her descent.
“Be careful, Meen-Tra, if Garzha hears you say something like that – heh, she probably knows someone, who knows someone…”
Chin to the sky, Meen-Tra leaped.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Mitzy sat on a seat made of – she couldn’t really tell what she sat on, it was like she sat on the idea of a chair. Every time she looked beneath her, the idea seemed to shift, threatening to dump her out of its cozy folds.
Mitzy was lost in an unknown realm. It was a place where everything was hard to pin down, including her own thoughts, as she sat drumming her fingers on her knee.
“Well, this is a real jawbreaker of a situation. I may have chewed my last gumball.” Mitzy looked down at a sleek black helmet, “What's wrong, Pat? Nothing to add?”
Pat was currently on time out, Mitzy had grown tired of its rambling, so she’d pointed its visor at her waffle stompers, the closest thing to a corner in this place without bounds. She reached down to polish her silver lace hooks, repeatedly knuckling the visor.
“You missed a spot.” Muttered Pat.
Mitzy popped her boot off, placing her bare foot against Pat’s visor, dancing her toes and their rainbow polish across their plas-glass tint. She opened wide, fogging up the metal hooks with her breath; they needed a proper buff!
“What is wrong with you! No socks, what kind of creature –” Pat’s face runes flickered, their eyes flat, blocky lines, and their mouth an O.
Mitzy’s grin returned as she replied in turn. “Socks, hah! They build up too much static electricity – wreaks havoc on my sensor arrays!”
Mitzy slipped her boot back on, Pat’s mouth flickered to a wavy line, as the wafflestompers laced themselves up.
Mitzy laughed, patting her ankle protectors, “Yup, these bad girls are leagues beyond anything so mundane as socks. They have a built-in moisture recycling – feeds right into their cryogenic candy preservation system.”
So, saying Mitzy toggled a switch on their upper heel. Nothing happened. Again, she toggled the switch – *uhn uhn uhn*.
Pat’s mouth bounced as they spoke, “That sounds bad.”
Mitzy frowned, “Hmm, this place is troubling indeed, and our situation just got a whole lot worse.”
Mitzy briefly considered disassembling the helmet at her feet, “What's inside your skull? Do you have any gyroscopic sensors? Mithril acid-etched circuits? What’s your model number, anyway?”
Pat’s face flickered, a single rune in the shape of a, ?, appearing, stretching its length.
Mitzy’s eyebrows pinched, “What is that symbol –”
Pat cut her off, “What symbol, where, turn me around so I can see. I need a body, this isn’t as fun as it looks.”
Mitzy stood, with a sigh, kicking a puff of mist. She needed to do something; sitting around engaging in banter with a New Tesserean construct, one clearly confused, probably overwhelmed by whatever high-level skill had gone into its construction, wasn’t going to get her anywhere. All this wouldn’t be so difficult to accept if she could only get her fingers on some candy; she’d settle for a piece of fruit at this point!
Just as her hopes were down in the salt, right as she kissed the idea of tasting a fresh, sugar-packed gumball goodbye, a distant cry – she leaped into the air, pigtails bouncing, spinning around, hand over her eyes, their tiny pupils squinting.
From her feet, Pat spoke up. “What is it? Is it a rescue mission? Quick, hide your pigtails – they may not appreciate your more childlike sensibilities, it's best we put our adult foot forward – although those boots of yours are so cute, I think a baby panda might squeal in delight.”
She dragged her wafflestomper to the ground and gave it a quick flip, succeeding only in launching Pat across the nothingness. Mitzy sighed.
Before Pat could disappear into the morass, Mitzy drew her pistol, the motion smooth and effortless, as she snapped off a shot. The sound of Pat’s curses brought a smile to her face; it was the simple pleasures in life. Flicking her thumb switch, she turned her back, holstering the pistol.
Mitzy didn't make it two steps before Pat started back up, “I was serious about your pigtails, you know, first impressions are everything…”
Meen-Tra had made it to the swirling mists in the upper canopies; no more pests or slips had interrupted her, and she’d made good time. When she’d traveled deep enough, the mist had swirled, wrapping her in its comforting embrace.
She didn’t know what to expect. On her last journey, she’d traveled a kind of cloudy tunnel, only to appear in the open air. This time was different; she’d been left in a grey morass, a place with no horizons, where mists swirled, creating abstract shapes, some like hills or mountains, landscapes she’d only ever read about.
The ground was not unlike walking in the bogs of her homeswamp. She felt safe here, as she glanced down and wriggled her toes; a light fog rolled across them. The luster emanating from her titan-mark seemed to reach out to spirits unseen, perhaps the Shining Ones, yet danced; Meen-Tra didn’t know.
Meen-Tra looked up, setting her jaw in determination. It was time to finish her journey. She knew it would end soon; she just didn’t know how. She wondered what Garzha would make of this place, as she moved through the morass. There didn’t seem to be much to explore. The strange shifting landscape produced titan trees, odd structures – buildings of a variety she’d never seen before, even what appeared to be tufts of sage-moss, grown into a bush.
She walked for hours, or perhaps minutes; again, time here was reminiscent of traveling up a titan tree. She couldn’t remember if it was last year that she’d made the climb up here, or if it was only moments ago.
As she pondered all this and more, Meen-Tra froze, slowly turning in place, hand above her eyes to shield the glare – there! A dot in the landscape shimmered just beyond. Meen-Tra stepped in their direction, her sandals buzzing in excitement.
The closer Meen-Tra got to her target, the more confused she became – their stature was – had a child gotten lost here?
Whatever it was, they were getting close – she thought, the morass here continued to play tricks. Meen-Tra’s head swam; the closer she got, the more the buzzing increased, now pins and needles, reaching to the very tips of her ears! Like the parting of the canopies on apexing day, the way before her cleared, and what she saw was–
Sandy’s Candy Shop had come alive. Meen-Tra’s eyes started at the pink pigtails and worked their way down, pausing at the wrenches painted in the corners of her eyes, and she briefly wondered how many shades of pink there were as she studied the surrounding rosy blush and neon lipstick.
Her eyes slid down to the arm covered in – her danger sense flared, worse than when Garzha and her friends hit the zug zug, and started shooting off high-level skills into the canopies – A mechanical arm? She went slack-jawed as her gaze settled on the cutest pair of boots she’d ever seen, before it snapped shut, her danger sense warning her.
Mitzy stood, mecha-arm akimbo, rubbing her cheek, slightly embarrassed; she knew an awestruck lowbie when she saw one, still early in their levels, easily impressed by–
“Hello, little one! I’m Meen-Tra, what cute pigtails! Is pink your favorite –”
Meen-Tra stopped speaking, as she was cut off by – laughing? It was coming from something she’d failed to notice before, which was strange because the black helmet holstered at her hip was close to a third of her height! The sound was like a dozen mire-cicadas playing a symphony in imitation of a woman's laughter; it was pretty unsettling.
The stranger turned and drew her pistol – the helmet was attached? Casting the helmet like a fishing pole, sending it careening off into the morass, a length of cord barely visible trailing behind.
Pink pig tails bouncing, the stranger turned, a crooked grin on her face, “Mitzy Bubblesnaps! A pleasure to meet you! Now, if you don’t mind, we can skip the pleasantries. Just tell me where in the endless de-sugaring chambers of Calanar we are – and how we get out! My everything's on the fritz. If I don’t get something sweet soon, there's no telling what might get disassembled.” Pat snapped into place at her hip, with a click, as her pistol's mechanism stopped.
Meen-Tra blinked twice before coming to her wits. Garzha had always warned her about getting caught with her runes in a bind, especially when meeting new beings.
Meen-Tra smiled and nodded at the compact and surprisingly muscled, walking candy shop; her eyes lingered one more time at the tiny wrenches, “Meen-Tra, [Sandalmancer] – umm, deep roots Ms. Bubblesnaps, r-right this way, if you please.”
Meen-Tra stood up, towering over the little figure. Ms. Bubblesnaps didn’t seem to mind – she had an aura of power to her, a physical presence measured not in height and mass, but in levels and will – and perhaps bright shades of pink.
Meen-Tra spun on her heels as she walked in the other direction, still a bit flustered, not bothering to see if Mitzy kept pace.
Mitzy easily kept pace as she asked, “So, large, green, and handsome, where are we headed?”
Meen-Tra blushed at the compliment; she wasn’t tall, nor did she think of herself as handsome, not with her titan-mark. Meen-Tra kept her cool, conscious of Mitzy’s level of power, “I-uh, I’m not sure actually –”
At that last statement, Meen-Tra and Mitzy came to a stop, one looking down, the other craning her head to look up, their eyes meeting in the middle. Mitzy snapped a pigtail with her claw hand as she spoke, “Hmm, I see. How did you get here then?”
Meen-Tra’s eyes darted left then right, trying to think of a way to evade the question, “A skill brought me here, I uhh –”
Mitzy nodded, her pigtails spiraling, as her head dish kicked into action, soft pings emanating from its luminous disc. “Hmm, I can hear your energy signature – it's faint, but it came from this direction, follow me.”
They moved along, what felt like a rather zig-zagging trail to Meen-Tra. As far as she could remember, she’d headed straight. Mitzy paused after a time, Pat wobbling in place at her side, “Here, the trail ends here.”
Mitzy stood staring at the ground beneath her feet, a frown on her face. As Meen-Tra approached, an eye? Shaped like a diamond – slid around to the side of the visor. The eye flattened to a slit, before reforming, it performed this action several times – Meen-Tra, again queen of cool, replied. “Are you alright, there, Mrs. Helmet Eye?”
The eye blinked? Once more, before responding, “Pat, the name’s Pat, [Pat in the Hat], if the voice of Hans Christian Anderson has anything to say about it.”
Meen-Tra clung to the fragment of the familiar in the rather ridiculous statement as she responded, “The system’s voice? It is different, for many of us, while the same for others – families, master and apprentice on occasion, or some clans in the deep swamp, if I’m not mistaken.”
The eye did more of that – blinking thing. Mitzy looked up, eyes narrowed, “Alright, enough pleasantries, get those cute cobalt toes over here, green one – see if you can’t penetrate this, metaphysical mist – and get us down below, my sensors indicate –”
Meen-Tra couldn’t hide her blush this time. Nobody ever seemed to get her toe colors right! She absolutely loved her cobalt polish – Meen-Tra, the cool, had a rational thought, “How did you know my –”
Mitzy pointed at her sandals before replying, “They're covered in the energy signature I’m following, their taste is – strange, like butterscotch and pumpkin-whistle cakes.”
Meen-Tra’s eyes slid side to side, “Taste? Uh, is that a skill, or do you–”
Mitzy pointed to her head-dish, “All-Seeing Gyroscopic Omnisensor, a polished mithril parabolic dish, covered in arcane clockwork runes – it’s also capable of spotting the exact moment when water and sucrose molecules are perfectly aligned, my gumballs are unparalleled in this regard!”
Meen-Tra took a deep breath and dipped her crisp cuticles into the patch of morass.
To everyone's surprise, the fog parted, revealing a sparkling emerald canopy below. Pat’s eye slid back and forth in amazement.
“Wow, that actually worked. Do all trolls have interdimensional cuticles? Go on, Mitzy, hop on through – just, I’d be careful about your pigtails in that foliage! Hm, what's that? Earl Hammoned just said something about a quest, what is–”
Two sets of eyes snapped to the helmet.
It was Meen-Tra who spoke first, “D-did you say quest? Are you sure – how is that possible?”
Pat replied, “Don’t ask me, lady, I was just trying to watch Netflix when my boss's consulting firm had me abducted in some kind of craz –”
Meen-Tra looked at Mitzy, “Is it always like this?”
Mitzy nodded, “Yes, I think some high-level skills warped its mind. It seems overly confused, even for a construct.”
Meen-Tra pinched her nose, “Construct, I – never mind that. What is the quest called, Pat?”
Pat answered flatly, “[Quest: Rescue Them or Die, All of You!]”
Mitzy was looking into the opening in the fog as she spoke, “Well, we'd better get our gumballs in gear.” Before she leaped through the hole, not a care in the world.
Draven ran for his life, DG4 jetting along beside him – in reverse, so that he could give his companion a play-by-play. The troglodyte swarm stretched out of sight. DG4 did their best to communicate the gravity of the moment, while Draven did his best to tune them out. The cacophony of braying, shouting, and nail scratching was worrying enough without him trying to imagine what DG4’s beeps and whistles might be trying to convey.
He’d been brave, said his goodbye to the little flyer, and like any Grumakh tribes-orc, gone to face his death, scythe in hand.
He’d rushed out of the throughway and into a vast open space with a vaulted ceiling and walls dotted by torn and stained banners. A set of golden doors on the far wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, their length covered in sprawling archaic symbols.
Draven’s eyes had been drawn to those golden portals; they called to him, specters in the corners of his mind; he questioned their memory even now.
Perhaps it was better that DG4 had jetted to his side, taken his scythe, and motored away, interrupting his reverence and confusing his thoughts. His scythe, though summoned, was not in fact a summons like his circuleeches. Dumbstruck as he’d been, staring at his empty hand, and with troglodytes streaming from behind banners all around, his danger sense insistent, Draven had given chase, with no other option at hand.
DG4 had pushed him, their little jets frantic in pitch, cockpit lights continuously running in agitation. Those portals from the depths, seared in his mind, unable to let them go.
“DG, I can’t keep up this pace, I – [Circuleech],[Circuleeh].”
Draven began applying a few of the suckers to his lower back, anything to ease the pain there. He tossed the pack. Supplies wouldn’t do him any good should he fall here. His heart hammered in his chest as he sucked stale air into burning lungs.
He could hear their toenails clicking on stone. His skin crawled; Draven looked to DG4, his only hope.
Please, DG4, I hope you know what you're doing.
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