Meen-Tra watched her mother fly away, not the first time, and hopefully not the last. She let her head drop, biting back tears – when her feet lifted off.

  She turned to see Ren, hands in his pockets, a goofy grin on his face, “Ready – My bro’s need me.” He wore newly made clothing – crafters were happy to help, and the junk was supplied.

  Ren had changed into ‘jeans and a hoodie.’ A ridiculous fashion for the tropical weather. The outfit was long and baggy; it didn’t make any sense.

  Meen-Tra had to admit the black top and faded blue suited him, but were foolish in this heat, and certainly didn’t match the brightly coloured fashions of Murkspire.

  Ren dashed away – leaving a swirl of notes behind. Meen-Tra shook her head, distracted by thoughts of crafting; she refused to be outpaced by someone wearing that much clothing.

  Meen-Tra marveled at Ren’s running form, the way his head seemed to float atop his shoulders – his legs effortlessly driving him forward.

  Ren turned, as she approached, catching her by surprise, “I’m sure Garzha will be fine, she’s dangerous. Like in a good way.” Ren finished quickly.

  “Yea – she always is…” Meen-Tra trailed off, not wanting to think about it.

  Ren changed the subject, “What was that thing?”

  “I heard Kythan – he said it was a weapon, and that it will never stop growing.” Meen-Tra's voice was far away.

  “Yeah, we have nukes where I’m from – they're almost as bad?” Ren mused.

  Meen-Tra’s breathing quickened, “Nuke?”

  Ren pinched his chin, “Interesting.

  His eyes narrowed. Was it dangerous to introduce such a concept? Even the idea of a thing might give it life.

  “Is there a word for the kind of threat the vatagand represents?” Ren looked to Meen-Tra’s face – and smiled at the light playing across her face. Fireflies danced in the air, their carapace burning like plasma.

  “Godmode.” She said.

  “Do you have gods here?” Ren flipped around to run backwards, matching her pace with a frustrating ease.

  Her eyes narrowed, “Not anymore!” She dug in, pushing past him, “Our friends need us, let's pick up the pace!”

  —

  Dusty the war lizard bucked and kicked, while Mitzy was an unstoppable ball of motion, giggling maddly, as she spun through the air like a top. The mecha-gnome had no problem finding monster cores, “Ninety-nine, Drave!” Mitzy did a fist pump before flipping at her next target.

  Draven winced as he swung his scythe. Blood ran down his arm, a gash that would not heal. Shamblers fell to his scythe, but his kill rate lagged. Draven felt the air around him condense as the pink terror thumped into his shoulder. He looked back to see a grinning Mitzy as she thumbed a boot switch -- "Give me some, all that sugar must be why your kills are so high, I demand a rematch!"

  She winked before tossing him half a gumball.

  The loft overhead groaned, and the pair separated, their brief respit over.

  Nosh and Mog sat on their mounts, elbows on pommels, chins on fists – bored as the swamp was damp.

  Nosh asked, “Do you think it's always going to be like this, Mog?”

  Mog flicked something, stuck to his finger, “I don’t know, but I kind of like the quiet life–”

  Nosh sighed, expecting his friend's response. The two [Apprentice Ranger] had been friends since they were grunts, often mistaken for brothers. They were kindred spirits, easy-going, open-minded, and at home in the wilds—their only family [Ranger] Hecate.

  “But do you think maybe we should check in on them – at least?” Asked Nosh.

  Nosh sighed, “I don’t know – Hecate said we ought to wait.”

  Mog nodded sagely, “True – but what about that war cry? Dusty sounded furious.”

  Nosh picked at their teeth with a small throwing axe, “That’s a fair point. A [Ranger] should…”

  “Trust there mount first and instincts second,” they finished.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Mog pinched his chin, looking down at his mount, “But my Spike is as content as always.”

  Nosh shaded his eyes as he leaned forward, in an attempt to get a better view, “Spike is always content, you feed him too much – I tried to warn you. ”

  Their calm was interrupted -- a shifting breeze carried the sounds of battle. The train grew nervous, pack beasts snorted in agitation— another cry from Dusty.

  The two orcs looked at each other, and even Spike raised its head, shifting its feet and tasting the air with its long forked tongue. Mog nodded, patting his beast's shoulder, “We go in – we’ll bring the train.”

  Nosh agreed and took the lead, rolling their team through the village. Their mounts instinctively moved toward the sounds of battle. Their pace quickened as a familiar call came from ahead. Hecate’s mount, Bolt, appeared at the end of the street, its tail swishing in excitement.

  The train drew to a halt as the pair approached Bolt, a worried look in the war lizard's eyes. Bolt guided them to the last barn at the back of the village, more plant than plank.

  Nosh and Mog immediately started arguing over strategy. Nosh wanted to charge in directly and was furiously pointing at the swarm of monsters. Mog was pointing in the opposite direction – advocating for a distraction.

  Bolt, the team leader, had other ideas, grunting and clicking, in the way of the lizard. As the apprentices argued, the train was moved into position at the back of the barn. A lizard’s work was never done.

  DG-Pat and Camo crowded into the corner as Hecate, arms in a blur, whirled his twin axes. He stepped back, throwing as he moved – his belt and endless supply. There were just too many shamblers to defeat.

  Draven and Mitzy’s fight below weakened the press, giving Hecate time to think – his eyes narrowed – Hecate turned and slung axes into the rear wall.

  DG-Pat motored into position beside him, curious at the change in tact. As quickly as he had begun, the orc flipped back around and threw a quick succession of axes at a single shambler that had managed to pull itself up. “Don’t just float – fly! Ye daft beast!”

  DG4 charged, and Pat screamed, before the two burst through the wall in a shower of planks.

  Pat looked down, arguing voices grabbing his attention. “That’s never going to work, Nosh, I’m sorry, no matter how many times you–” The shouting orc stopped mid-sentence, as he and his companion looked up, hands moving towards their axe hefts.

  “Get ye up here! Stop fighting, ye dolts! We hava work ta du!” Hecate's voice shot through the newly opened hole, rapidly closing as wild growth pushed its way inside.

  Nosh and Mog slid from their lizards in unison, not a word between them. They scampered up the side of the barn, ignoring barbs that tore flesh and punctured leather. Reaching the opening, they pulled their mighty war axes from their backs – alternating powerful overhead chops.

  Camo had ushered prisoners into position – bleary-eyed orcs, still in a daze, blinked down at the train. Before either of the [Apprentice Ranger]s could react, Camo shoved the first orc, a bald, clay-skinned farmer in thick work coveralls, from behind – where he fluttered gently to the waiting carts below, [Slow Fall] shimmering around the edges of his form.

  Nosh and Mog quickly pulled themselves into the loft, bolstering Hecate’s ragged defense. Camo wasted no time shoving prisoners, even picking up some of the more reluctant ones, tossing them over his shoulder. “Come on, let's go, you’re safe, my [Slow Fall] powder works wonders!”

  Nosh and Mog made it to Hecate just in time, as the portly [Ranger] was being dragged by the ankles – vines pushed and poked from everywhere. Mog’s foot went through the floor, “Ahh, get it off, get it–” He sank up to the knee, and was wrapped from below, and pulled further down – a look of panic spreading across his face.

  Mog fell silent as a pink ray of light shot through the floor. He looked up in confusion as the blade circled – confusion shifted to horror. “Noo–” He cried as the arc completed, sending him crashing down below.

  Mitzy called up, “Hurry, Dusty’s getting anxious!”

  Hecate peered into the hole, and Nosh at his side chuckled, “See the direct routes best.” Mog glowered up at him as he fought to kick himself free. Draven’s scythe shattered the cut-away, landing inches from Mog’s hip.

  Hecate, satisfied, grunted before turning to help Camo, who was wrestling with the last of the prisoners, “Get ye gone! Or taste ma axe, what kinda farmer fears plants!” As he stomped in their direction, the remaining few prisoners took the initiative and dove through the opening.

  Camo saluted Hecate before flipping through himself.

  —

  Eldrin’s fingers danced as he conducted a mock battle; he twisted strands of magic into shamblers and orcs, mimicking the flow of the fight. His smile faltered as he felt another of his eyes wink out, their vision disappearing from his globe.

  Eldrin grumbled to himself and shifted in his stance, as Bergm?nch busied itself about the pool.

  “So, they haven’t all run – good, it's time.” Eldrin stepped back, bowing his head. The [Dread Druid] began chanting and swaying, his hands orbiting, channeled compressed mana into his palms. “You may begin, my servant.”

  Bergm?nch, spirit of the mire, pressed their many limbs forward, wrapping and twisting as they encircled Eldrin’s manifest power. The Liana’s Thicket was of the mire, every shambler connected to Bergm?nch.

  “[Merge].” The spirit thing uttered a single word, and power was drawn from Eldrin, who grunted as his own form diminished.

  “Again!” Eldrin smiled. It was time to test his power.

  Dusty exploded through the wall, Draven's head down, curled protectively around Mitzy.

  Hecate and Bolt charged in behind them, trampling would-be attackers, “Ride, move out – we ride!”

  Nosh and Mog had already started the train forward, as Hecate tossed axes, “Take care o Dusty – or I’ll have ye hide.” Before Bolt bounded off after the rumbling caravan.

  Mitzy looked after the [Ranger], holding out her hand, “I’m out.” Draven spat out a sticky wad before slipping a rune-stick between his teeth.

  Mitzy popped it into her mouth as their own mount trundled off in the direction of Bolt.

  DG-Pat looked at each other across their shared mental space. DG4, like a yin-yang, an aura of shifting colours, and Pat, a skinny grey alien, complete with a teardrop-shaped head.

  In this place, speech wasn’t necessary – their thoughts flowed effortlessly between them. And right now their thoughts said one thing: Mitzy and Draven were disgusting.

  But they resigned themselves to fight that battle another day. In the real world, DG-Pat flared their jets, looking down on the train. Ren needed an update, and they needed a plan.