The castle soared above the cavern floor, its battlements chipped and cracked, a testament to the countless wars it had won. Its towers jutted from the corners at impossible angles, their lengths stretching out like the branches of a titan, a threat to any who would dare march upon its walls.

  Its towers capped in Burnished blue witches’ caps – tipped with flags snapping in a wind that did not exist, each emblazoned with the royal symbol—a stylized vertically slit pupil, its eye set against a gold-and-black backdrop, enclosed by a jagged, sun-like halo—cracked and split, dripping with molten gold.

  Inside the walls, the keep loomed above all, its own tower tops wrapped by a single stained-glass window, like a shining golden ring – displaying scenes of legends past – backlit by torches, unconcerned with the flow of time.

  Overhead, a network of titan roots leaked a steady flow of priceless liquid into scattered pools, whose bodies fueled a tide of growth. Ultraviolet crystal, sprung like cities from their banks – the pale runic blues of titan roots, reflected like a starry night, without end.

  These Shining purple rock formations clustered and swept down the cavern, stretching toward the very depths of the planet. It was a nexus, patrolled by lumbering golems, their hides made of the very same formations. They marched to and from the pool, tending crystal gardens, like monks in a monastery.

  Eldrin smiled like a fox, eyes burning with a jade intensity, casting shadows across a visage cloaked behind a deep, patchwork hood. It flowed into a moss-green cloak that hung across his shoulders in billowing folds, cascading down his body to melt into the ground – shifting and flowing like molten, verdant metal.

  Eldrin the [Dread Druid] was more magic than a living thing, akin to the dragons of old, his skin a dull, grey luster, glinting with crystal flecks.

  Eldrin’s size was monstrous, and even this vaulted tower keep could barely contain his form. He looked through a window that wrapped the room, its scene depicted a blue sky, Daybroke's eye shining like the sun, the monarchy on their knees, as their god’s molden light rained upon them.

  “The Lianas Thicket marches– your Dreadfullness, the Tribal Plateau, will soon be a web of growth and destruction; it will consume all that resists, and cage the rest.” Bergm?nch clung to the lip of a massive stone bowl, like a tree on a cliff.

  He bore the resemblance of a man, his form held together by scraps of rag. Yellow eyes bulged from a face swirling with knots. His many shifting limbs randomly changed forms, like earthen apparitions.

  The earth sprite peered into a swirling globe of quicksilver, as a mouth hewn from bark muttered, “[Dread Sight].” A collage of images, each a different point of view, spread across the sphere, “The connection is ready, your Dreadfulness.”

  The [Dread Druid] stepped from the window to the room's center, like a thought in a dream, time and space – mortal constructs–his size shifted, bringing him closer to eye level with his child of earth. He steepled his fingers as his eyes slid across the [Farsight Globe], “Yes…soon, my detractors will be brought to heel– and the Keeper’s Guild, my rightful seat of power–returned.” Swirls of lush green and purple vapor spun, curled, and danced from his fingers – as he thought of his vengeance.

  The trade roads of the Tribal Plateau had existed for a millennium; their paths bore the history of countless generations, told in foot, hoof, and paw-mark. Now protected and caged behind a veil of mist, the plateau had once stretched to the heavens, a rival to the distant Stonecoil Mountains. The two land masses had traded blows, rain, and sleet from the Stonecoils slid through time and space to batter this tabletop to the gods. Duskwings, ever protective of their ancestral shamans, waged war on the mountain spirits – tearing mana-tipped claws through swirling tufts of living air.

  Totems stacked with spirits of air and beasts of wing and claw – still spanned the routes here, once a protection from the elements, now served as a historical marker. As Draven’s long, swift strides beat the dusty road, he left not a mark – the sweet smell of gumballs powering his flight.

  The cutest and fiercest pink captain, the mire had ever known, sat in her chair, her armrest – Draven’s bald head. Trailing above their wake, a determined flyer with the heart of a dragon, their Pat’s viewing eye bounced from side to side, scanning the horizon, while continuously monitoring their party window.

  “Anything to report?” Shouted Mitzy, over her shoulder, pigtails whipping in the wind–a steady stream of smoke billowed around Drave, the rune-stick powered vessel–fear burned in his heart, as the mystery of the missing tribes, plagued his thoughts.

  Pat’s voice cut the air, as if wind and distance were no object– not a shout, their words translocating directly to Mitzy’s ear. “DG-Pat, Draven, Mitzy, Ren, Thalgor–OMG, OMG!”

  Mitzy almost fell out of her chair – gripping Drave’s duster collar tight, at the sudden shock of sound. “What in the seven sugarless hells of Calanar was that?”

  “That was my excitement – at an alphabetized party window – I can’t believe I only just noticed–”

  An arca-mag tip bounced off their visor. “You activated some kind of communication spell, Pat.”

  Pat’s eye froze, deep in thought.

  All distractions fell away as Pat stared intently at their party window. It magnified and shifted position, hovering centrally, an overlay on reality. The window had simple grey borders, green and blue bars, and a cartoon portrait for each member. The images contained within circular frames sat frozen, with a goofy grin, occasionally springing to life – bouncing in place before returning to their frozen state. Draven’s blue bar was slightly depleted, Ren’s was full, and Thalgor’s was showing only a small sliver–his health at half.

  What caught Pat’s attention was the three tiny stacked bars like a cell phone signal, sitting beside Mitzy’s portrait. “Interesting.”

  When Mitzy had shouted at them, they had been distracted, yet their mind had instinctively thought about communicating. That's when the signal bar showed around her image. Pat looked at the portrait of Ren while picturing the signal bar – it worked, toggling the indicator.

  “Is that too hard? I can push it in slower?” Ren’s voice echoed in the party's ears, a feminine response somewhere in the background responded, “No–that’s…good, but go deeper!”

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  Draven tripped over his own sandals, pinwheeling his arms, as Mitzy dropped back in her saddle, lowering herself down the duster– in an attempt to lower Draven’s center of gravity. Pat, resting easily in the folds of DG’s mithril chains, asked, “Can you hear me?”

  After a brief silence, “Yoo – what’s good. To whom am I speaking?” Ren was annoyingly calm, Pat thought.

  Draven started speaking–Pat toggled his indicator, “--en, is that you? Where are you? I’m with DG4 and some others…it’s a long story. Are you…”

  Ren spoke, a lopsided grin apparent in his tone, “Nah, Draven, it's all good. We are on a rescue mission, prying survivors from quicksand, and there’s a t-rex worm – the thing is straight out of Jurassic Park – no cap.

  Ren laughed, “I’m with the world's grumpiest sandal maker, I think she has mommy issues, I–”

  “Draven!, DG4!, Pat!, Mitzy, I’m sorry!” Meen-Tra’s voice urgent.

  Draven picked up the pace. They were drawing near to Tuska Village, a fortified settlement located nearby. “It's fine – something is wrong out here, the plateau is empty.”

  Ren relayed his words before responding. “We encountered shamblers on our way back to Murkspire–but they seemed kinda weak – scary, but weak.”

  “Hurry, you two–it's coming back this way, and we need to move!” Garzha’s voice boomed across the open line.

  “Frag my decks–but if she were my ma, I’d have issues too. We gotta roll, be safe, let's chat again soon.” Pat cut off the comms after Ren’s distracted shouts and heavy breathing

  Where Smolderville had been quaint, with guard towers that were more helpful at spotting subterranean pests than at stopping armed conflict, Tuska spoke of danger. Its walls were built from posts of titan bark, carved with threatening runes that still thrummed with power; its pointed tips were wrapped and woven in razor-sharp, thorny vines that draped from end to end. The gates were closed as they approached, and no sign hung above them, but the village symbol had been burned into the massive wood and steel-bound gates. They rose to meet the tops of the walls, whose heights reached four bearkin in length; none but a flyer might breach them.

  A building, the village hall, grew from the center of the compound – a series of stacked circular structures, with wooden pillars supporting plastic concrete floors, their walls stretched hide bearing the same village symbol: a fist crossed with an axe. Red symbols, black lines, and tan hide – whose rugged appearance had stood the weight of centuries, of wind, dust, and battle.

  A flash of light from the highest point, atop the central tower, drew Mitzy’s attention. “Drave, I’m going in.” Mitzy thumbed a switch on Rivetlock, switching out the tip for a grappling hook, as she leaped silently from his shoulders, “[Hop On Up and Tighten My Bolts]!” In one smooth motion, she drew and fired at the top of the wall.

  Mitzy tucked into a frontflip, her rocket boots flaring, as she holstered Rivetlock while thumbing the retraction switch.

  Her head dish pinged the surrounding area for hidden threats, while her eye spiraled, judging distances and terrain.

  She landed in a dainty puff of dust and stood feet wide, arms in the air, her voice projecting, “We’re explorers–we’ve come on behalf of Garzha!”

  Mitzy smiled, the picture of innocence, “Hello–I’m Mitzy Bubblesnaps–I slay separatists, and rebuild the lost!” She gave a gentle wave of her good hand.

  A deep voice boomed in grizzled tones, the aether warped with their texture, like charcoaled meat sizzling on an open flame, “Is tha so?”

  Mitzy looked around at hard-packed dirt roads lined with empty rectangular buildings of stacked brick and stretched hide roofs. Windows held translucent fields, occasionally flickering as particles of dust or bugs impacted their barriers.

  Stacked crates, empty carts, and wooden signs depicting symbols for business and trade–all quiet, except a tumbleweed glowing in the background.

  In the shadows of an empty doorway, an armored orc stepped out, whose rotund belly was outdone by their red pleated beard and shining green pate. Weather-worn leather creaked as he raised a throwing axe to his ear, the links of his chainmail kilt clinking as his dirty foot with three massive toes, each the size of Mitzy's fist, pressed the ground. “Ya taka one step–and this axe a cleave ya in twine!”

  The mecha eyed the axe in question, its length half her own – danger sense ringing in alarm, she replied, “Allow Draven to enter. Our flyer will remain outside the walls if you wish.” She thumbed over her shoulder.

  The axe wielder squinted through a brow as thick as his axe handle, “The name's Hecate.” A golden nose ring bounced above, thick red lips, slowly spreading to reveal sturdy white fangs, “Ya flya and tha orc can come in.” Hecate lowered his axe, looping it onto a belt, so criss-crossed with axes, it was a wonder the orc hadn’t impaled himself.

  Mitzy lowered her arms as a pair of orc centuries, each with a double-sided war axe strapped across their back, jogged forward in a rattle of leather on chain, to open the gates. Hecate crossed the street in front of her, indicating with a meaty fist towards a sign painted with a white foaming mug, “Step into ma office – Grunt Bubblensaps.”

  Hecate patted the rear of his mire mander, its thick hide a spotted grey across a sandy backdrop. The beast's muscled, rounded limbs, connected to its body through sockets, meant for rolling, allowing the beast to move at swift speeds across the plateau. Its saddle, simple leather straps, bound to a molded plas seat – axes hung from rings, every inch of space utilized.

  The beast let out a low mewling sound as it shook out its neck frills. Draven eyed his mount's hide and its patched, dusk-colored markings with skepticism. Mitzy jumped onto the lizard's shoulders with ease before settling down in the gap between its shoulder blades. Draven sighed and pressed his foot into the sturrup before hauling himself up and over, with a grunt.

  DG4 whistled from above, his tones ascending in encouragement. Pat asked, a note of hesitation evident in their synthetic voice, “Are we sure evacuation isn’t the right course here? It’s only that we can’t rescue any stragglers if we too are killed–”

  Hecate laughed from deep within their belly, “Shamblers have no ranged attack, ye sqwuak box – just keep an eye out so we don’t get overwhelmed, and all will be right.”

  After deliberations in Hecate’s office – the local, and now abandoned ale hut, the party, which included Draven, the portly Ranger, his two junior riders, and a dozen empty carts and their manders.

  The plan was simple: they would rush headlong into the teeth of the oncoming army, collecting any stragglers, before turning around and evacuating.

  The rumble of the ground beneath their feet had only grown as more of the enemy poured into the clearing. Hecate pointed an axe forward, before leaning into his mount, “Let's ride! We got some lives to save for, this here place is swallowed up.”

  Hecate and Draven’s mounts rode shoulder to shoulder, as they lumbered down the road, the carts rumbling behind them with the two riders bringing up the rear. Draven spoke to Pat through their open comms, “You two scout the surrounding villages ahead, so we don’t have to stop. This mission is about speed.”

  Hecate nodded in approval, “So what got ye exiled from the followers of the wandering path? Must have been bad – never seen one of yer lot, separate from their patches of bog fer too long.”

  “Heresy.” Draven’s response was short as he pulled out his rollie case, irritated by the question.

  “Har, har! I figured as much. What kinda heresy? Kill one o them sacred orc eatin' lillies? Or step on a bog crawler’s tale?”

  Draven gave Hecate a side eye, unable to blow a smoke ring his direction, “Something like that – I wasn’t left a choice, it was the dying wish of my parents –”

  DG4 let out a sharp whistle and zoomed in the direction of a small farming village. Loud crashing sounds, buildings collapsing. A scream of bloody murder. The two lead orcs turned to look at each other. Hecate looked over his shoulder. He signaled his riders to stay with the carts. Rolling out his neck, before looking to Draven and kicking his lizard after the flyer – Draven puffed his rollie, anxious for some action, and hopeful of survivors.