Mitzy had taken one look at Meen-Tra’s acrobatic antics: flips, handholds, and leaping from branches, only to land beside her with an irritated look on her face. Mitzy had used a skill, taken Meen-Tra by the hand, and leaped to the ground below, slowing their descent with her rocket-powered wafflestompers, cutting the day's journey to a matter of minutes.

  Now on the ground, Mitzy dusted her palms, looking back the way they’d come, “That’s the tallest tree I’ve ever seen. What is this place?”

  Meen-Tra eyed the little gnome, her suspicion confirmed with that last statement, “Sinking Gods Mire– you are from the outside?”

  Mitzy raised an eyebrow, “The outside of…Sinking Gods Mire? Yes, though I don’t know where that is, I got a ride here – wherever we are, it can’t be too far, I don’t think.”

  Meen-Tra looked at Pat before speaking, “I think the geography may have to wait. Pat, can you tell us anything more?”

  Mitzy pulled a length of cord from a leg pocket, snipping it down to size after eyeing Meen-Tra’s size, “This is a gnomish utility cord, good for – everything, never leave home without a field of the stuff.”

  Meen-Tra had her crafters cap on when she asked, “A field? What kind of measurement is that?”

  Mitzy patted their pocket, “Not a precise one, bottomless cargo pocket, I meant a literal field.”

  The mecha woman stuck the cord to Pat before tossing them at Meen-Tra.

  Meen-Tra caught them, a look of surprise on her face.

  Mitzy said, “Secure Pat to your pack, would you please? They are a bit big for me to carry.”

  Meen-Tra, the Sandalmancer and crafter extraordinaire, secured Pat into place before slinging them over her shoulders.

  She slung Pat over her shoulders, gripping them between her palms in front of her chest. Pat's now geometric face, lit in a square smile as they spoke.

  Mitzy nodded, pinching her chin between thumb and finger, “We need to find the tasty one. I’m pretty sure the separatists were after them. Pat doesn’t seem to know anything, unfortunately.”

  So saying, Mitzy turned her back on them, her head dish spinning. It stopped, pointing off into the distance. Mitzy shot off like a cannon before her rocket-boots flared, and she front-flipped in short bursts.

  Meen-Tra stared in wonder at the rapidly disappearing figure, “I wonder if I can do rocket sandals?”

  Meen-Tra limbered up, elbows out, twisting at the waist. A cobbler may be a simple artisan, but the work was hard, and the hours long. Meen-Tra was determined to impress. Mitzy may have the levels and the skills, but Meen-Tra never backed down from a challenge, which is probably why she preferred to stay in her workshop, lest she be drawn into an endless cycle of danger, like Garzha. She smiled as she entered a three-point stance. Now was not the time for self-reflection.

  “Whoa! This feels serious. Be gentle with me, these utility cords might break. Where’s the sky? What am I even looking at? I can’t tell where foliage ends, and is that fog? It looks like a sky in its own way, if God used a sponge and forest colors in its creation.”

  Meen-Tra wasn’t paying attention; she flexed her toes, digging sandals into the dirt, eyes tracking Mitzy’s jet flares.

  Yeah, definitely making rocket sandals.

  With that thought, Meen-Tra pushed off, breaking into a dead run. The Stone Warrens had more threats than what lay below.

  Garzha had cut her teeth in this zone; fortunately for Meen-Tra. She thought about its many dangers. Cleft Hyenas, smart pack hunters, with the ability to throw their voices, and lure unsuspecting explorers into sand traps. Why the beasts worked in tandem with the subterranean threats was a mystery, even to Garzha.

  Meen-Tra didn’t bother sticking solely to the rock. She bounded from sand to stone, without heed, at this speed, they would be fine – probably.

  Mitzy stopped to sip from a small canteen, her candy-colored nails glittering in the swamplight. She watched as Meen-Tra pushed herself, keeping up without complaints, noticing the faint shimmer of a skill, its yellow and energetic hues not escaping her dish's sensors. She spoke with a knowing smile. “An artisan's skill, quite handy in the field, less burst but long-lasting. She must be well-trained to keep up with me.”

  Meen-Tra came skidding to a halt in a spray of sand and dust, eyeing the soft ground beneath her feet. She climbed atop Mitzy’s rocky perch, speaking as she did so, “We should stay off the sand as much as possible; there are subterranean threats here.”

  Mitzy nodded as she took another drink from her canteen, her tight bicep muscles a compact and glistening bulge, decades of bolt bullying having shaped her into a pink-muscled powerhouse. Disappearing her canteen, Mitzy knelt down, thumbing a switch on her boot heel.

  A compartment opened from her ankle pad, in a hiss of decompression and a short burst of gas. Gingerly, almost reverently, Mitzy plucked a juicy pink sphere from a rack of options. Placing it into her mouth, her fingers lingered for a moment, ensuring not a single molecule of the gumballs' perfectly aligned particles was wasted.

  Meen-Tra watched awestruck, mouth hanging open in unabashed admiration. Did she have a preservation chamber built into her boots? Meen-Tra had dedicated her life to her craft! She’d sweat and slaved, traipsing through muck and grime to find rare ingredients – pushing the limit, in every way she knew how, but this…She's so cool!

  Mitzy interrupted her fan girl moment, “For an artisan, you seem to be quite the explorer – you must gather your own ingredients.”

  Meen-Tra snapped her mouth shut before it collected any more dust, “I-uh, like to keep fit, it helps my crafting.”

  Mitzy raised an eyebrow, “Yes – I can see that.”

  Meen-Tra swirled her toe in the sand.

  Mitzy popped a bubble, “That thing – you have strapped to your back is a walking singularity, its consciousness –”

  Pat cheerfully interrupted from behind Mitzy, “Thank you.”

  Mitzy’s eyes narrowed, “It's a consciousness peeled from a skull, usually with [Mind Flay], before being shoved like a sausage into a shell. The Soul Shell Syndicate creates them by layering recycled biomass over mecha-frameworks and fusing it all with a skill.”

  Mitzy blew out another bubble, its size matching her own, as she walked away, collapsing it at a speed that defied logic, throwing a thumb over her shoulder as she spoke, “Count ourselves lucky, this one’s not insane.”

  Mitzy looked over her shoulder as Pat sincerely piped up, “She says the nicest thing.”

  Draven sat on the ground, slumped against the wall, looking up at DG4, twirling his last rune-stick between two fingers. Troglodyte war cries, insistent and bloodthirsty, grew close; his time was coming to an end.

  “Well, DG4, here we are. I’d hoped you had a plan – that seems unlikely now.”

  Back where this all began, the paneled rock wall, its mechanism still unknown. For a moment, he’d thought DG could open it – he still hadn’t figured out where the little flyer had come from in the first place.

  Thoughts of Ren, being instantly overwhelmed, as he had stood frozen. The Talon, a known quantity; their power overwhelming. He’d felt nothing up until the moment Ren dropped, their stealth impeccable, and their skills sharp.

  There had been no warning until it was too late. There could only be one answer – the snake, Thalgor.

  “If I see him again, he’ll feel my scythe’s deft hand.”

  Grinding on stone, the suction of a change in air pressure. DG4 zoomed out of the opening, while Draven held his arm up to his face, and a slightly high-pitched mechanical voice rang out.

  “Quest Update! We have a Quest update! Ohh, this is fun – quick, Meen-Tra, how do my face triangles look, a first impression is –”

  A voice like the boss of the playground interrupted, “Mitzy Bubblesnaps, here to the rescue, what's the–”

  Mitzy cut off her speech, tilting to the side, looking around Draven's legs. Shadows danced around a bend, and the sounds of enemies, many enemies, had her head dish spinning in alarm.

  Draven blinked in surprise before bolting, leaving his last rune-stick in the dirt as he veered around the crystal pond. He knew this place; his thoughts drifting to that last night, when he and his companions had camped out.

  He wished he could go back, surrounded by friends new and old, the way ahead not yet explored. That was all gone, ashes in the dirt. DG4 whistled from behind, the sounds of their jets flaring.

  The flyer caught up as he turned down an unexplored tunnel, their hull lights bright, lighting the way. Before he could protest, their actions swift, Draven found himself saddled by a set of adorable brown boots, “That’s a nifty jacket. What’s your name, and what are we running from?”

  Draven’s eyes slid to the side, not sensing any hostility, and glad for the help, “The name's Draven, and I’ve got a swarm of subterranean mutants on my tail.”

  “Yes, I can hear a disturbing number of toenails scraping on stone. Are you collecting them? Why so many?” Asked Mitzy.

  Draven didn’t answer; he didn’t know what to say to that. Mitzy, noticing the orc’s tension, handed him her chewed gum; he took it without complaints – he was out of rollies after all.

  The new parties' travel had been swift, their conversation light; none knew what to think – thrown together by a quest, in the midst of a troglodyte war party. Mitzy directed their turns, guiding them up, her head dishes spinning as she continued tracking the tasty ones' trail.

  “Where did you two come from?” Asked Draven.

  “I heard that, I’m a person too – I think, it's complicated, I’m Pat, [Pat in the Hat]. Just don’t ask me what that means. These two lovely ladies rescued me from a bad dream I was having, which I am still having. Either that or it's a training exercise gone wrong. I’m still undecided, though I fear the worst.”

  Before anyone could make sense of those comments, if any could, Mitzy gripped Draven’s shoulder, her claw hand exerting a considerable amount of force. “No, oh, no no no. Gelatinous cubes! The minions of Calanar! This is not good, not good at all. Turn around, head back in the direction of the mutants!”

  Draven halted in his run, glancing up at his pint-sized passenger, wondering if she wasn’t going to rip his shoulder off, “Gelatinous cubes? That sounds relatively harmless.”

  Squelching sounds, disordered and numerous, like an army of angry desserts coming for their dinner guests. Draven came to a halt, Meen-Tra almost ran into his rear, while DG4 lowered their jets and dimmed their hull lights.

  Mitzy shook her head, reached out her palm, and Draven spat his gum out – Mitzy absent-mindedly tossed it back into her mouth. She spoke as she chewed vigorously – the skilled gum had hours of flavor retention yet! “These are demons manifest! Giving desserts everywhere a bad name, they should not exist! They are nearly impervious to damage, and will suck your corpse clean, before you can say Calanar’s Candyless Cooridors – we need to run, the other direction, now.”

  “Can someone check my helmet straps? I’m afraid Meen-Tra’s been lax in her duties, and I’m sorry, but I’m just not familiar with gnomish utility cord.” Pat asked, their eyes bounced around their visor, trying to get a look at the cord’s fastenings.

  Mitzy stood up on Draven’s shoulders, her hand on his head as she blew a bubble, her head dish pointing back the way they’d come, “I’m having a hard time pinning down the exact numbers of those – troglodytes, did you say. I think I have some explosives, yes, yes, that will do, and we’ll lay some traps, Meen-Tra, what’s in your arsenal?”

  Draven, interrupting the gnomes' increasingly crazed tone, she really didn’t want to fight these cubes – willing to take on an army of mutants, “I have a plan.”

  Draven’s response was short, as he bolted in the direction of a battered and worn door they’d passed earlier, thoughts of the wall mural in his head, and of the night he and his companions had debated a particular mural's meaning – Ren, where are you?

  Brushing past an old wooden door, its iron bindings rusted and its hinges askew, he entered a small room filled with dusty furniture. Its only occupants in decades were spiders, if the plethora of webs was any indication.

  Mitzy's tone was bordering on frantic at this point, “Trapped, you’ve doomed us all, we’ll be swarmed – I’ll, they’ll come for me first, they’ve a taste for metal!”

  Draven gripped her boots, speaking in reassuring tones, “We’re going to be ok, Ms. Bubblesnaps. These two are enemies. With all the noise the troglodytes have been making, I doubt they even know we’re here.”

  Meen-Tra entered the room, as Mitzy took a deep breath before hopping to a nearby table; Pat soon found himself sitting beside the worried mecha-gnome, his mouth rune bouncing like an EKG. Mitzy began to pace, chin between two fingers. “Yes, I see your plan, it's not half bad. You're right about the racket coming from the troglodytes; gelatinous cubes are extra sensitive to loud noises, that would be like a lighthouse to them.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  So saying, Mitzy hopped to the ground, where she began rearranging the furniture, pushing crates into the doorway and knocking over chairs. Draven joined in, stacking the higher levels of their barricade, as sounds of the battle were joined outside.

  Meen-Tra grabbed her pack and Pat before flipping the table over – crouching down behind. The sound from the hallway was frantic: a chorus of shlurps, as blunt objects slapped gelatin, and brays ending in abrupt, choking coughs.

  Inside the room’s barely shielded entry, the five companions sat silent and still, hoping against hope that they would go unnoticed.

  A troglodyte came crashing into their den of safety, the door swinging freely on the tatters of its hinges. Landing back first in the center of the room, its feet up like a dead spider.

  Mitzy flipped head over heels, the sound of her light knife cracking the air, before barrying its tip in the face of their guest, like a hot knife through butter.

  The sound of Draven’s scythe clattering as it landed on the floor at his feet, courtesy of DG4 and their mysterious methods. Draven flipped the handle into his open fist, leaving its long, deadly head resting on the floor.

  Mitzy glanced back approvingly. She fought well alongside the battle scythe, especially when wielded by one of Draven’s stature. “Hi-low, my favorite combo.”

  Meen-Tra held the back of her hand to her mouth, the sound of meat smacking stone and the squelching of – Meen-Tra couldn’t tell what she was hearing, and that made it all the worse, as her imagination ran wild.

  Pat had been fastened into DG4’s hanging basket, the gnomish utility cord wrapped protectively around them, like precious cargo, their mouth slit still sending the occasional blip across their visor.

  Mitzy retracted her light knife, falling back into position to the side of the door. Draven hoisted scythe to shoulder. He glanced back to make sure their group was crouched below his arc's range.

  The five’s nerves were taut, and the sounds of the fierce and alien battle raged just beyond their flimsy barrier. DG4 in the corner of the ceiling, their hull lights dimmed to a low glow, casting the room in shadows.

  The sounds of the disturbing battle gradually receded down the hall, becoming faint, and the companion’s breathing grew easier.

  “Update.

  All eyes turned toward Pat, who was now safely cradled in DG4’s basket. They gulped, “[Quest Update: Mad, Dash].”

  You could hear a pin drop. Pat’s words bounced around the room to land at the feet of Mitzy, the de facto leader. Her teeth opened and closed slowly, as if testing the –

  A sound split the air. Like some ancient release. Hinges groaned as a heavy metal slid across stone. Draven's knees buckled, collapsing to the floor. He saw tower doors in his mind. The rest of the team stared in confusion. The air stood still in shocked silence.

  A growl like an avalanche ascended from the bowls of the dungeon, an ancient predator awoken. It grew into a roar, a visceral experience more than a sound; the walls shook, and their room's door, having stood the test of time, fell off its hinges. Dust rained, and the party joined Draven on the floor – their skin several shades lighter.

  When sound, more of a force of nature, stopped, its last echoes fading down the hall, rising to the surface, Mitzy spoke, “Just my luck, I’m here for less than a day…” She withdrew her light knife in a snapping hiss.

  Meen-Tra wiped her mouth, picking herself off the floor, as she reached out a hand for Draven, who had somehow gotten the worst of it.

  While DG4 and Pat’s lights trembled in fear.

  The companions broke from their shelter in all haste. Their formation, Draven, in the lead, Mitzy sitting on his shoulders, Meen-Tra close behind, while Pat and DG4 hovered to the side, lighting the way.

  Meen-Tra spoke into the silence, “There should be an outpost for the Wayfarers guild, in or around the dungeon's entrance.” She kept her tone reassuring, trying to inject a bit of certainty into their situation.

  Mitzy spoke, mouth empty, her gum had gone missing, “We need to hit the sweet spot with our pace. Too fast and we walk into a trap, too slow and…” Her pig-tails bounced as Draven walked.

  The tunnel bent up ahead, the flicker of torchlight casting shadows around its curve. A shlurping sound, its origins unknown, a flickering of flame beckoned the party forward, the promise of escape – or doom.

  The five on two sets of legs approached the bend, free-moving air pressed against their spirits, carrying the scent of rotting flesh and burning pitch.

  As they approached the bubble of torchlight, rounding the corner, the way ahead was... The vast, burrowed cavern gave way to a tight, rectangular corridor, and a soft light burned, illuminating the far side, which ended in a T-intersection.

  Mitzy spoke up. “Feels like a maze, definitely traps, I –” she sighed, before thumbing her boot’s candy storage.

  Draven started, giving her the side eye. Mitz snatched one of the two remaining gumballs. She stared down at her hand, eyebrows pinched, before pulling the candy in half, “Here you go, big guy, I can tell you need this almost as bad as I.”

  Draven had so many questions: How could she tell? What was this thing? What was she? Where is Calanar? Why is there a candy shop in your explorer's boots? What happens if I swallow it? Yes, many things came to mind, “Thanks.” He wasn’t much of a talker.

  DG4 and Pat shared a look. How, you ask? It was a sensor thing. Meen-Tra smoothed her qipau, drawing up her brow.

  Candy divided out, Mitzy pointed straight ahead, “This has all the hallmarks of a classic dungeon maze. Get ready to die.”

  Meen-Tra and the flying two stopped, the three of them sharing a glance. Draven continued forward. He wasn’t going to argue with their leader.

  Cool, damp hallways, absent of light save for a single shrine simmering in a cool blue hue, always at a turn or junction. The walls were smooth and even, speaking to a skill in craftsmanship, belied by the dungeon's residents. Stress fractures snaked from corners and joints, the slow drip of water joining the parties' footsteps, as if the walls were alive with stories waiting to be uncovered.

  As the fledgling team passed a puddle pooling near a shrine, their reflections cast across its surface. Framed in a ghostly light, visages flickering like the memories of those long since passed.

  Another shlurping echoed, soft coming from ahead – no, from behind, the tight tunnels echoing the sound, obscuring its direction. Mitzy silently bid Draven move faster, fear gripping her heart as her omnisensor pinged gelatinous cubes in all directions, one eye closed, the other spiraling in reverse.

  The party, uncertain, increased their pace behind Draven, DG’s hull lights dim, saving their eyes, cockpit lights running in agitation.

  Suddenly, Draven let out a cry, his arms joining Mitzy’s pigtails as they stretched to the ceiling, grasping for something, anything to hold on to. Meen-Tra reached out her fingertips, succeeding only in connecting with air. Tumbling from below, muffled cries, ending in a meaty thwack of bones on stone.

  Meen-Tra looked at her empty fists, not daring to move, when movement from the corner, a shadow in the dim light. The colour drained from her face as she got her first look at a cube.

  Inside its grey, translucent form, a window to a graveyard: smooth bone, bits of cloth, and a single sword, its surfaces stripped bare—a long slurp as it tottered onto an edge, before hopping forward, landing in a glorp; as one of its six flat sides plopped on the ground.

  DG4, whistled in alarm from overhead, the sounds of Pat’s metallic cursing underlying the tension felt from above. Meen-Tra looked down at the floor. She saw no disturbance; her two companions were simply gone. She crouched, reaching out a hand to test a theory, and it passed through solid stone.

  Illusion spell.

  Meen-Tra looked up at the cube; soon, it would be on them, jumping in after her companions, and sealing their fate.

  A sharp bray, full of rage. The cube plopped to a standstill, its walls jiggling. Mitzy's mind went blank. Her team was separated and in mortal peril. Her heart beat wildly, threatening to tear from her chest. She clenched her fists, wet with perspiration. Heavy footsteps approached; the gelatinous cube tottered on its forward edge. DG4 and Pat were silent. The walls closed around her. If she made the wrong move, they would all die.

  Remain calm, or die screaming.

  A single thought, Garzha’s mantra, cut through the panic. Time returned to normal as Meen-Tra set her jaw, eyes narrowing, as she stared past the cube. “There’s only one thing for it.”

  Meen-Tra leaped forward, tucking into a roll, coming up into a crouch as she successfully cleared the pit trap. Looking over her shoulder, she spoke in a calm voice, “I’m going for help, you two stay up and out of sight – shut off all your lights.”

  So saying, Meen-Tra kicked off, straight for the deadly cube, throwing herself at the last minute against the wall, skirting the cube's reach. She slid past and slammed into the wall behind it. Chin to shoulder, she scanned the hallway – pitch black, she could make out a shrine on the far side, its light uninterrupted by an enemy's silhouette.

  Her only hope was to draw the thing away – if she failed, she was leaving her companions to die; this was her only choice. She put her head down, running with reckless abandon, her qipao riding up as her strides lengthened.

  Her thoughts on the brave gnome and her easy smile, even Draven, quiet and brooding in his duster, she knew little more than his name – but Mitzy seemed to trust him. She slid to a stop, skidding around the next corner, mind racing, she needed to–

  Remain calm, or die screaming.

  Eyes narrowed, there was torchlight, and at the far end of the hall, a band of troglodytes; she shielded her eyes in an effort to maintain her night vision. Meen-Tra made a snap decision, her fist closing around something, a small stone, as she rushed the group. They still hadn’t noticed her, nightblind by their torch, and she was outside of its warm sphere of influence.

  She cast the stone at the far wall from her, misdirecting the patrol's attention as she entered their light. Averting her eyes, holding her breath, she could feel the air pass between them; she came so close.

  A bray rang out, piercing her eardrum; the patrol alerted, swung around in a clatter of nails and club, eager to give chase. Meen-Tra gave not a second thought, her vision locked on the next shrine, praying the floor stayed solid beneath her feet, and the way clear ahead.

  Breaking around the next corner, throwing herself against the wall, hope swelled in her chest, the glow of light spreading around the next bend. Meen-Tra took off at a run. She was almost home free; she could get help –

  Remain calm, or die screaming.

  As she dashed down the tight, dimly lit hallway, water splashed beneath her feet from a puddle pooling nearby. Meen-Tra imagined falling through the floor just paces from her destination. She stopped, getting down onto her hands and knees, grasping around for – There, got you!

  She wrapped her fist around another stone before skipping it down the remaining hallway. Bouncing, skittering – abrupt silence, followed by a clattering, like a stone down a well. Meen-Tra darted ahead. She stopped, letting her ears gauge the distance. Sliding one foot forward, weight on he back foot, she probed ahead, tossing stones.

  There!

  Meen-Tra, down on all fours, crawled forward, feeling with her hands – her palm fell through the floor. Without hesitation, she brought her legs up and under, pushing off the corner of the floor; her sandals gripped firmly, and she tucked into a roll on its far edge.

  Up into a run, heart hammering in her chest – she’d done it! Turning the final corner, escape imminent, breathing ragged, coming up to the limits of her endurance, her endurance skill long expired, she was free, she was –

  “A proving ground…” Meen-Tra sighed, her eyes sweeping the scene before her: swinging blades, moving walls and platforms, jets of acid and flame. Light spilled in from overhead, illuminating a stone archway near the top of the cave mouth, etched with symbols too distant to make out.

  Meen-Tra shook her head. She could see Garzha’s smiling face, ‘If you’re not ready to leave half your blood in its depths, don’t cross a dungeon's threshold.’

  Hysterical laughter from Meen-Tra’s lips.

  Mitzy, Draven, DG4, Pat.

  She squared her shoulders, hiked up her skirts, and kicked her sandals into the dirt. It was now or never, and she wouldn’t fail.

  Meen-Tra started with an easy jog, gauging the first obstacle, crescent blades, edges stained with blood. Her head swayed, and her lips moved, “One, two, three…” she sought their timing.

  She increased her speed; the timing locked in. As Meen-Tra passed by the first blade, she reached out a hand, spinning herself around. Allowing herself to fall back, Meen-Tra dropped her head, hands, and palms down, backflipping past the next blade's arc.

  How many have fallen to these blades?

  As her feet connected with the ground, black bangs blocked her vision until a blade brushed past their tips. No sooner had she observed this fact than she dove backwards, arms tucked in an X across her chest, spinning in the air, tucking into a forward roll, before popping up into a run –

  She needed speed. Meen-Tra lowered her head, digging deep. Her eyes flicked to her target, a horizontal bar passed the edge of her runway, and the next platform was double the distance away – nothing for a garbage gibbon, she would make do.

  Hitting max speed, Meen-Tra dove into a handspring, before turning into cartwheels, throwing every ounce of her momentum behind the spin, maximum velocity reached inches before the edge of the platform, Meen-Tra launched herself towards her target, chin to chest she tucked into a ball, before extending arms legs out at the last, fists catching the bar; Meen-Tra wasn’t done as she spun around up and over, once, twice, three times and release – sailing through the air, one leg kicked forward the other drawn up to her knee.

  She hit the far platform with a grunt, tucking into a roll. At the last second, she threw her arms out, pushing the floor, fists gripping the lip, muscles straining, vision coming into focus – an abyss below.

  Meen-Tra snapped into a three-point stance as she slowly lifted her head, bangs falling across her rune-mark. She pursed her lips.

  Halfway there.

  After countless flips and close calls, Meen-Tra was close to the finish line – there was just one problem. She was staring down a long, stone bridge, teetering atop a triangular base. The base held the bridge on a razor's edge, clearly impossible; there was magic at work here.

  Meen-Tra shook her head. There was no way she could race across this before she was dumped off the edge. Across the far side of the bridge, the final path to the dungeons arc, dead-ended well above the bridge.

  She would have to tip this bridge at a severe angle to reach high enough, without some kind of grappling or a partner she was –

  The grinding of stone, Mitzy spun around to see a section of the wall separating. She could hear braying coming from beyond. Her danger sense tingled, a little later if you asked her.

  As she looked to the dark passage beyond, Meen-Tra thought about the bridge — a frown on her face. “I’ll not fail here.”

  Troggladyte nails scratching stone. Shadows fell across the path. Meen-Tra broke into a run. Braying from behind, her skin crawled. Meen-Tra looked over her shoulder. The enemy was close; she could see the grime covering their pockmarked faces, as they ground their yellow teeth in frustration at her fleeing form.

  The bridge butted up against the cliff's edge before her. Meen-Tra leaped, rolling onto the bridge as it immediately tipped up – she dove forward, sliding across the tip point, throwing her weight against the bridge's rising weight.

  Meen-Tra looked over her shoulder as the bridge tipped in the other direction, threatening to dump her off into the abyss below. The lead troggladye stepped onto the bridge, two of its fellows close behind. As her weight shifted back in the other direction, Meen-Tra ran with everything she had. This was it, her last push; she needed to leave it all on the line. There was nowhere to turn. One mistake, and all was lost.

  The far side edge of the bridge rose faster than expected, and she lost sight of the edge she sought, barely making out the top of the dungeon's arc above. Her feet slipped; she wasn’t going to make it. The bridge angle was too steep. Meen-Tra was so close.

  A grunt from behind. Pain blossomed in her rear. The missile threw her forward, knocking her off her feet, the momentum of the bridge increasing. Meen-Tra stretched out her fists. With a grunt, she caught the edge, pulling herself straight up, the sounds of troggaldytes sliding off the platform's far side, as they were dumped into the abyss.

  Their weight emptied, gravity shifted beneath her, as the bridge swung back in the other direction for what would be the last time. Meen-Tra focused her eyes on the target, which she would need to time just right. Too late – Meen-Tra leaped, eyes locked on the edge above, her last obstacle, the finale before the escape.

  Meen-Tra heard distant cries, fading away below; she wondered if she might be joining them soon. It did not appear she was going to make it.

  Missed by a fist's width.

  She stretched out one arm, gaining every inch she could, her eyes focused on the empty air just below the stone lip. She reflected that in the end, Garzha had been wrong; she wasn’t screaming, and yet she was still going to–

  A muscled green arm stretched out, locking forearms with her, their grips tight – Meen-Tra swung dangling from the cliff's edge. She looked up, and a familiar face stared back down at her— a strong jaw, framed by her trademark topknot.

  Garzha Trailfinder grinned, “Remain calm, or die screaming. Glad to see you took my lessons to heart, sweetling.”

  Meen-Tra sighed as she looked to the abyss below. It didn’t look so bad anymore, “Hello, Mother.”

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