As Lucky approaches, I float up to stroke his jowls and lay my forehead to his snout. Muttering, “Good boy, good boy,” over and over, I smile brightly at Lucky’s massive tail thumping into the canyon walls repeatedly. I can sense the chuckles and smirks on the faces of those resting atop Lucky, in the folds of his armor.

Flicking my head, those atop Lucky nod, and take off towards Lil, they spend this sixty second reprieve fanning out to hunt down stragglers that got past us. I make certain the Strategists Eight know we’re falling back into a fighting retreat to the second chokepoint, a little ahead of schedule. It gives us time to prep, and dig in, hopefully offering a more concerted defense than the first chokepoint.

Phew. The relentless lightning of the Worldstorm is our only lightsource, marking our entire combat encounter like some stop-motion horror show. Still, the lighting is usually… more even… My eyes drift skyward, noticing a looming shape blotting out streak after streak of lightning as it gets larger and larger, directly above me and Lucky. My eyes wide in horrified realization, I gaze at the incoming Lightning high commander. The wise, powerful ancient blue dragon flew up in their human form, small enough to avoid Illy’s acid. They’re unbothered by any lightning from beneath the edges of the Worldstorm.

Everything seems to happen in once. The blue is aiming to divebomb down towards the middle of Lucky’s spine, aiming to sever it and paralyze or kill him. I’m battling the speed of gravity as I plead, “Lucky, shrink and warp!”

Trusting me intrinsically, Lucky drops to the size of a soccer ball in rapid order. My goodest boy uses a magic item he’d picked up at Vorzhog’s keep in order to warp me towards the edge of the drop zone, and himself into my waiting arms. The warp’s range is only about fifteen feet or so, so we still have too much distance to clear to get to safety.

No time to be gentle. Sorry Lucky. I rotate as I float my son, Hunter, Hound of the Onyx Dawn in midair. When he’s at the right position, I boot him in the arse with a spinning axe kick sending him sailing eastward. Despite my rough treatment of him, he happily whuffs as his enormous tongue flaps alongside his wide-open maw while soaring through the air.

Diving evasively at a different angle than the one I’d booted Lucky towards, I realize a bit too late—no dice. The ancient Blue is aiming for me now, and possibly might have been the entire time. They’re putting all their weight and momentum into their enormous foreclaws, preparing to pin me to the stone of the canyon floor, or drive me into it, intending to pulverize me. Steely Body, and Stoneskin, up and up, both, layer on my protections. Do I dare engage my runic clip that locks my position in space? Is this ancient’s hand more durable than stone-covered Adamantite?

If this high commander is remotely close to being in perfect shape, more or less, then we’re rapidly losing ground. You’ve gotta risk it for the biscuit Reggie. Biscuit? Oh shush. It’s a perfectly valid turn of ph—maybe focus. Deciding to chance it, I engage my runic clip that locks my position in space. Wincing, there’s a migraine lancing through my skull just remembering facetanking plasma balls.

The pain as the devastating weight of the high commander drops atop me and the canyon collapses about me hits me like a freight train. Oogh. The canyon walls, and stone floor of the pass crack and crumble under the immense seismic slam. In fact, the floor virtually vaporizes and falls out from beneath me. Well. Good news and bad news.

Good news, Steely Body held up, as did the position-locking runic clip. Bad news? Stoneskin of course dropped, and now I’m wedged between this ancient’s phalanges. Hm? Oh no. Worse. I’m wedged between metacarpals. Between them, and the uh, capitate I think? Point is, I’m stuck but good.

Well, at least the ancient is pinned down, unless they want to remove their entire hand to get away from me. But even if I disengage the runic clip, I aint goin’ anywhere any time soon. My friends’re gonna have to dig me out with a spoon. Didja mean to rhyme Rej? I’unno. This whole battle is just utter chaos. Gimme a break.

Also, unfortunately, I sense the ancient Blue tugging at Rayileklia’s magical weave. They’re casting spells. I do not have the luxury of enough SP to blow through countering whatever they attempt to cast while we’re both pinned. Similarly, I cannot afford to let them cast, because I’ve got no idea what’s in their arsenal. Worse, because I don’t know what’s in their arsenal, I can’t doff my psy-blocking aegis circlet to engage my telepathy to ask for a hand. Pft, a hand. Haven’t you got enough of those already Reggie? Certainly big enough ones.

Snrk. Shut up. You know what I meant. Well, I can sense that there’s a tiny undercurrent of panic pulsing through the veins of this ancient Blue. Fairly literally. Like, the adrenaline has their veins pumping like mad, and gushing all over me. Bluh. Alright, we can at least retaliate a bit. Muttering my titles, I engage my Honoris Causa, projecting my spiritual draconic form. Manifesting physicality only in my claws, tail-tip, and maw, I’m struggling to increase the size of my Honoris Causa enough to do some damage somewhere on the ancient high commander. They’ve got me pinned as far away from their vulnerables as they possibly can. Smart move on their part.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Still, their face and neck are the things I want access to, and they’re the closest. Really Rej? Y’want access to their face and neck? Like Teuila used earlier? Ah you weirdo shut up! I’m busy trying to kill an enormous ancient evil. Grumble grumble mrgrgr. Awkward nonsense. I mean, we don’t even need to stay here if we don’t want. We could raven-port out, or we could use the Cosmic Roundsheath. Or even use Whisper—wait, didn’t we rename Whisper to Mindfire? Oh, yeah, true. We’d have to levitate Whisper, err, Mindfire.

Blah! Anyway! Point is, we can get out of this if we need to, but there’s not a lot of opportunities to lock down an ancient dragon as large and powerful as these high commanders, especially for someone as small and squishy and weak as me.

There is another downside though. Yeah. It hurts like a mrgrgr with this constant building pressure as the bones grind tighter and tighter against my Adamantite form that’s slowly wearing off to reveal squishy RS2 underneath. Not fun. Between headaches, wobbly legs, fractured ribs puncturing my lungs, crushing pressure of various things, I’ve been having a day. Yeah Reggie? A day? Is that what you wanna call it? Shut up. Brain tired. No thinky.

Pft. I snort with laughter, which is probably pretty disconcerting to the ancient dragon whose hand I’m trapped in, pinning it in position in space. How would you feel if you could tell the tiny creature embedded in your hand was chortling or shaking with mirth? Yeah. It’s a bit of a terrifying prospect. Anyway. Use your senses Reggie. What else is going on around us?

Okay, the whole battlefield has changed shape, with all the new cracks, crevices, rockslides, sinkholes, and the pool of smoking acid off to the west. There are chunks of frozen acid, and a low-hanging fog that must be misted or vaporized acid over a dry patch of ground. Grr, that all indicates Illy’s breath weapon was countered by at least the Fire and the Ice. However, the smoldering, rotting, melting corpses of the Sand, the Poison and the Thunderer, are sloughing scales and flesh like they’re someone’s science project for a fossil exhibit at a museum. This valley’s going to be an elephant graveyard by the end of the war. Only, y’know, for dragons.

The ancient Acid high commander appears to be in pieces. It seems like there was a desperate attempt to utilize its body as makeshift shielding against Illy’s cascade of near-vaporizing acid. Yeah. I’d probably have done the same thing. Huff. That means we didn’t get much of the horde, or push them back at all. They’re now beginning to glide, clamber, and dash about the newly roughened terrain. While I’m stuck here, they’re making their way eastward towards the second chokepoint. Fudgeknuckles. Pft. Pretty apt curse, or epithet or whatever, considering where I am.

All these enemies are crossing the line we’ve drawn in the sand. I guess that means it’s time to start pulling out all the stops. Sure, I guess. But what’ve we got in reserve that we can really soup up? Well, mercy’s always on the table. Sorta. How exactly are you going to soup up mercy Reggie? Uhh. Never mind. It was rhetorical. Ugh, you’re such a goon sometimes. Me. Sighing, I internally roll my eyes at myself while composing myself. Well, first let’s see if we can talk through either prestidigitative magic, or through our Honoris Causa, ‘cause our mouth is sandwiched between knuckles.

Once I figure out how best to speak, I shout, “Oy, you, Big Blue! I’m Reggie Shellcracker, a Hero of the Order of the Onyx Dawn, an Archmage Aliased Schism. And, as you can probably tell by these fangs and claws, I’m the Void Dragon Honoris Causa. I offer you mercy in the name of the Onyx Dawn, should you w—.”

The ancient high commander sneers and looses a decidedly unenthused chuckle while answering, “You’ve quite the sense of humor, because you simply must be joking.”

That’s about the kindest thing one of Terrorzin’s forces has said to me. I mean, other than the ones that have joined us. Cocking a grin and shaking my Honoris Causa’s head, I call back, “Not even the slightest. Think about it. I’m undefeated, which is more than I can say for half of the high commanders rotting over there. Do you really want to join them?”

In a voice laced with disdain, the Blue high commander responds, “They were idiots. I’m of a higher caliber than my compatriots.”

Rolling my eyes, I retort, “If you’re of a higher caliber, why are you stuck here with me?”

There’s a vicious snarl, but the ancient Blue bites their tongue momentarily before answering, “Enough of this, I—.“

Interrupting them, I warn, “Alright, this is it, this is my last offer, your last chance for mercy. Take it or leave it. Going once, going—“

Through vitriol and more than a bit of slobber, the high commander rejoins in a shout, “I’d rather chew my own arm off than~—!”

Smirking, I interrupt them once more and command, “Then do it! Go ahead. Chew it off. Because that’s the only way you’re getting out of this alive. And that’s if you can get medical attention fast enough, something I highly doubt the Ice of Rage provides a lot of to his forces.”

This apparently causes the high commander some pause. When I begin my countdown to doom again, they bargain, “Hold, one moment, small thing. Your surety is inane, preposterous, nearly paradoxical. It’s disconcerting, when in all regards, I’ve you pinned, at my mercy as your spell wears thin.”

Chuckling quietly to myself, I’ve been entirely totally winging this. Pulling bravado I don’t have out of my rear, my Honoris Causa shakes its head once more and wears a devilish grin while I claim, “Wrongo bucko. I’m not trapped here with you.” I pause a moment, letting the sentiment linger before I continue with an uncommon edge to my voice, “You’re trapped here with me.”

Biting my lips, I struggle to not laugh as the cliché phrase hits the right notes, sending a shiver through the high commander. Still smiling eerily confidently, I add, “You’re exactly right where I want you. If I wanted you somewhere else, or if I wanted to leave, I’d just teleport out, or blow your hand to smithereens and levitate out with telekinesis.” As that sinks in—doing something I hate—I brag, “You must have noticed that a third of Mount Wistenzlia is down here in Vieriss Valley. You had to crawl through it on the way to me. I chucked it down here on my own, just the other night.”