The jungle doesn't sleep.
It just waits.
We were riding high-literally-canopy-surfing above a sea of green nightmares.
Balgus, the old coot, sent his hawk up instead of climbing. Said it was safer.
That bird's got better manners than most men. even if it shows affection by dropping bombs.
Me? I took point. Or tried to.
Foot slipped. Grip failed.
Suddenly, I was the main act in a one-dragonborn slapstick, bouncing off every branch on the way down like some jungle pachinko ball.
Wings flared at the last second.
Lucky I didn't redecorate the forest floor in red.
But luck's a fickle mistress, and tonight, she wasn't returning my calls.
My crash woke up a couple of Girallon Zombies-big, undead gorillas with more arms than manners.
And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, that damn ghoul priest returned with his party of six. Uninvited. Unwelcome. And very bitey.
We gave 'em the usual greeting:
- Clouds of daggers
- Bugs from the jungle depths
- One very angry cow-woman in a granny gown
Lori patched us up after-bless her hooves. But we lost a guide: Cask of Dreams. Took one too many hits.
Still breathing, but barely.
Back at the shipwreck-yeah, it's in the trees-we found some gnomes who built a flying machine. Impressive. Dangerous. Totally on brand.
Trouble is, some of their crew got snatched by Ptera-Folk-dino-winged nightmares that use live bait for baby food. Their nests? A place called Fire Finger, just over the next ridge.
The gnomes offered a deal: help rescue their crew, and we each walk away with magic-either rare or twice as common. Normally I don't bargain with folks who build airships out of salvaged dreams, but magic talks louder than reason.
We shook on it and took the deal. But Mergrim, the drough hungry for vengence, put his foot down: no more delays after this. One last detour before destiny.
So here we are. Bruised. Battered. Resting in the trees with the jungle humming beneath us and the sky whispering secrets.
Tomorrow, we fly.
Or we fall.
