It was an awkward flight.

Rich had to fly slowly, to keep Cole balanced on his back. Fortunately, the guy was agile and dexterous enough to hang on as long as Rich didn't go too fast.

The problem was that Rich didn't have a good way to tell if Cole fell off until it happened. So he had to guesstimate just how much was 'too fast.' The end result was that no matter how much he wanted to book it, he had to play it safe.

Which meant that Max and Steve might be dead by the time he go there.

Normally this was the sort of thing that he'd ask Aunarox for help with. The djinn was a master of all things aerial. But she'd taken the NPC's in town earlier that morning and gone out for what she called 'cult training.' Agnez had gone with, glowering, to make sure nobody got sacrificed.

Rich had encouraged that, in no small part because he didn't want the NPC's to see the players fighting each other. The NPC's, save for Agnez, suffered from a sort of blurred memory when the players were around so it was possible that they wouldn't remember it. But possibility wasn't certainty, and it was better to avoid exposing their AI routines to any sort of existential dread.

The other reason for the awkwardness was that he could feel Cole's gaze boring into the back of his head.

He wasn't working for the Haskeens, true. He was working directly for Mayhew.

But Rich knew, from his gut to his claws, that Cole still meant him some sort of malice. In fact, there was a motive staring him right in the face, now that he knew more of the situation.

Cole was a member of the ministry of fortitude. He was the number two in the darknet camp project, with only Rich ahead of him. If anything happened to Rich, he'd be number one.

You didn't have to connect too many dots before the picture manifested.

It went further than that, though. The guy was just plain shifty. He'd arrived in Fimble proudly proclaiming himself a Burglar (a time-honored halven tradition,) and had swiftly adopted the Cultist job after finding out they had a burgeoning NPC cult growing there. Rich didn't doubt he had a few jobs that were just as unsavory. If he announced he was a Burglar to anyone who asked, then what was he really hiding under the hood?

He could find out answers simply if he invited Cole into a party... or maybe not. Depending on how much Cole had used that Cultist skill that let you falsify your displayed status information, his party readout might be completely wrong.

But just in case, Rich had started practicing that skill a bit more himself, against the day that he did have to join Cole's party, or vice-versa.

Hopefully it was a lot of worry for nothing. At least not right away. Losing two noobs here would reflect badly on both of them. Cole had no good reason to attempt betrayal right now that Rich could see.

It still did nothing for his nerves, and he flew on over the white waste, dodging the black, rocky spires that jutted skyward.

The locals called this place 'The Spikes,' when they bothered to talk about it at all. It was slightly warmer than Fimble due to all the canyons and ravines that ran between the towering rock formations, but that made it more dangerous because when the predators that roamed the mountain wanted to nest, they came down here to find good places to litter. You didn't deal with hunting packs or solitary creatures here. No, you dealt with mothers either trying to feed or trying to defend their young.

Rich saw steam up ahead, and snapped his wings, speeding up just a bit. The white broke under him, turning into brown and black slush with surprised porcine faces looking up at him for a second, then he was over a steaming lake, a geothermal oasis boiled and roiled by lava far below.

The steam felt nice and hot to Rich.

Less so, to Rich's cargo, the guy who probably had a quarter or a fifth of Rich's constitution.

Cole gasped as the steam billowed and sizzled around them, but Rich kept steady. If he sped up too fast and the guy fell into the boiling lake, that'd be the end of him.

And they'd already discussed what to do if he took damage mid-flight. Sure enough, once they were past the lake and back in the colder air, Rich heard Cole mutter, twice, and felt bands of itchy pain wriggle to life across his underbelly. The little shit was transferring his wounds to Rich.

It wasn't much, after all was said and done. Just sixty points.

Still, it was impressive that Rich had taken that much from two uses of the skill. Cole really had come far as a Cultist in the week he'd been in Fimble.

And that was worrying in its own way.

Cole had hit one of his weaknesses square on in the last training session. A few more levels, and his curses would be able to knock Rich out entirely. And Rich was far too busy helping grow the team and organize Fimble to keep his own levels up to snuff.

Still, the worst Cole could do was kill him in-game.

No, the worst he can do is kill me in the real world. There's a few things I need to do to even the odds when I get back there.

Right now, he needed to keep his mind on the business that waited for them to the north.

It was difficult, even for his senses, and he nearly missed them.

But he saw what he was looking for in time to flare his wings and slow himself, cruising to a stop at the edge of The Maze, churning up snow and mud alike as his claws scrabbled to brake.

“There,” he murmured, as quietly as he could. “About two miles north. Fuzzy lumps in the snow, off-white and sending up vapor.”

“Two miles? Jesus.”

“Didn't see him, no,” Rich muttered.

“Fuckin' ha ha. Anselm said he got them to a cave, and barricaded the entrance.”

“Then how did he die?”

“He was finishing up collapsing the ice above it when they caught his foot and dragged him out. He thinks Max and Steve finished it up. They had spears, so they might still be defending it.”

They could be, at that. Depending on how nasty wendigos were, even noobs could hold a good defensive point if they had reach weapons and a good enough setup. The nature of this game was such that you were never too powerful to ignore a pointy stick in your eye... even a noob could severely hurt or even kill the worst monster if they stacked the situational advantages.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

And if the fighting wasn't constant, you'd even level up midstream while you were doing so. This was actually a pretty good way for Max and Steve to gain levels, going up against stuff out of their league in a no-win situation.

But if they died, it would be a random respawn. And Rich doubted he'd be able to talk them into re-rolling, and trying to join the group again. He couldn't divulge Mayhew's secret purpose to them, or that Mayhew had plans for this group in the first place. Max and Steve would probably go their own way and they'd lose two good candidates for overseers.

“Tell me you've got a plan,” Cole whispered, right in Rich's ear. The little bastard had eeled his way up Rich's neck without Rich noticing, and that freaked him out just a touch.

But he controlled his reaction and nodded, feeling the little guy scramble to hang on, and taking some small satisfaction at jostling him. “I do. I give you a headstart, you sneak up there, find the cave and sneak into it. I'll cause a distraction, and you'll get them out of there and heading back this way. I'll cover your retreat until I can land and load up the three of you.”

“Sneak up... they're two miles away!”

“Then you better get started. I'll give you a half-hour head start.”

“I'm a halven! Our stamina sucks. I'll have to eat cheese the whole way there.”

“Guess you'd better get moving, then. And eating.”

The little bastard grumbled, but he was moving as he did so, digging out a hunk of Fimble's finest goat cheese (Spoilers: It wasn't that fine,) and heading north. Give him this, he was good at his trade. After a few hundred feet of distance Rich lost him in the snow.

Was it a few hundred feet of distance, though? With only one eye, sometimes it was hard to judge.

For that matter, were the wendigos truly two miles off? Or was his impaired depth perception skewing his estimates?

He took another look to the horizon...

...and swore, as he saw a storm rolling in.

The sky had been clear, not a moment ago. Some kind of magic? Probably.

If it was, then it meant they didn't have half an hour. Max was a Fire Elementalist, and Steve was an Assassin. They had probably picked up some other jobs, but Rich doubted any of them were powerful enough to call in a storm.

No, this had to be something the wendigos were doing.

Which meant that his two teammates were going to be facing a world of hurt very, very soon.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and took to the sky again. He couldn't give Cole half an hour. He had to get stuck in now.

This time he didn't hug the nape of the earth. This time he came in hard and fast and a hundred feet above, flying at full speed and roaring.

After a moment, the storm thickened. Visibility went to shit, but nothing was wrong with his ears. He could hear the answering roar from a hundred bestial throats. At least a hundred, he thought.

The first trick is figuring out where not to fight.

The last thing he wanted to do was bring Steve and Max's cave down around their ears. “Dragon's Eye,” he muttered. The darkvision would be useless here, but the perception boost was good.

He found out a minute later that he needn't have bothered. That indentation in the ground with the blood-spattered snow surrounding it, that had to be the spot.

There were far too many fuzzy bastards around it for his liking. At least a dozen.

Time to draw them off.

Rich searched, and found the next-biggest concentration. They were what looked to be a few hundred feet away, near what looked to be some sort of ice sculpture. The snow was getting thick, even for his powerful senses, and it was hard to make out details.

Fortunately I'm a goddamned dragon. When something's in front of me, details don't matter so much.

“Burninate!”

Fire cut through the storm.

Fire sizzled through the ice, turning it to steam.

Fire coated furry lumps below, as deep, rumbling howls of pain filled the air.

Your Burninate skill is now level 20!

He thought he'd gotten perhaps half of them, with that blast, as cooking meat and the unmistakable odor of burning bone blew past him in the wailing winds of the storm.

Now for the hard part.

Rich aimed for one of the smoldering survivors rolling around in the snow and plunged downward, landing with his full weight on the poor bastard. There were crunches, and the creature was still.

Up close, it was ugly as hell. An elongated humanoid form, half-coated in mangy fur, with ropey, corded muscles showing under tight-drawn gray ashen skin where the fur didn't cover. The head resembled a cross between a wolf and a deer, and the skull was exposed on top of the muzzle. Wet, red eyes stared out from gnawed-looking sockets, and small, deer-like horns protruded from the sides.

It had claws on its twisted fingers. Foot long claws, gnarled and stained brown with old blood. And its teeth were no less fearsome, thick and sharp and built for crushing and piercing all at the same time.

Those could probably break his scales, if he let them.

The thought was lost as four of the survivors, still smoking and with massive burns showing on their flesh, charged at him.

Rich snapped his neck forward, bit into the first wendigo, and tore him in half. He whipped his head back on his neck before any of the others could get a swipe in.

But they moved quickly, and in the time it took to do that, the other three were in close. He pinned one with his claws, pushed it squealing into the ground until things crunched and it stopped moving.

Then tearing on his wing. They're attacking my blind side, he realized and whirled, managing to catch the third one with his tail.

The fourth, though, the fourth one was ripping through his wing, opening long tears with jagged claws.

He's making sure I can't fly out of this. Fuck that noise!

He shook his wing, but the thing clung on like grim death, balling up and wrapping gangly arms and legs around the joints of his appendage. Then it bit down, and OH, that was a lot of discomfort. Rich didn't know how much he'd taken, but now some of his bones were going crunch.

He bit into its back, right in the spine. The thing convulsed and went slack, and Rich threw it into the blizzard.

“Lesser Healing,” he gasped. “Lesser Healing, Lesser Healing...”

You have healed yourself for 16 HP!

Your Lesser Healing skill is now level 24!

You have healed yourself for 17 HP!

Your Lesser Healing skill is now level 25!

You have healed yourself for 18 HP!

That's all he had time to get out, before three more wendigos came charging out of the snow.

“Burninate,” he snapped, and opened his mouth wide.

Again, the flames washed forth, engulfing the furry bastards. Again, it ripped a hole in the storm.

And the images he saw in that flash were not good.

There were at least three dozen of the wendigos rushing in toward him. And above them... above them was a flying form, smaller but with a more impressive rack of antlers, bearing a spear that glowed blue.

That one had 'boss fight' written all over him. And worse, he could fly.

Well.

So could Rich.

He pumped his wings and soared upward, feeling wind beneath as the onrushing horde leaped and tried to catch at his legs. He paddled, sacrificing dignity to thrash and keep them from getting hold, and managed to leave them behind...

...at least until a surge from the storm slammed him downard.

His wing was still hurt; it gave at exactly the wrong moment, and he slammed back into the ground.

And then they were on him.

Their teeth were long and sharp and cold as ice as they sunk into his scales, and he roared as they tore at him.

They're eating me!

He saw some of his own blood spurt past his gaze, and then a big one was in front of him, bending over, claws grabbing for his horns to hold him steady as its jaws bore in toward his single eye...

And the thought came to him, crazy and howling and ludicrous but true.

Wendigos can't eat me if I'm on fire.

“Burninate!” he roared—

—and turned his fiery breath on himself.

Dragons were resistant to fire.

He was pretty sure that was the only reason he survived.

But oh, oh, oh was he glad he couldn't feel pain in this game.

But it did the trick. Every Wendigo who was trying to burrow through his scales, every one that had its claws buried in his flesh, howled and writhed and died or fled.

Rich gasped, in the reprieve. He stood, fell over. Stood again, looking at the charred masses around him...

...and a figure came diving down from on high, speeding toward him, straight toward his eye with its blue glow filling his vision as it eclipsed all other sight.

And halted, there in front of his eye, an inch before it hit him.

Rich blinked.

The figure had stopped, just in time. Why?

A red light shown down from above then, as a female voice spoke in disbelief. “No way. No fuckin' way.”

A voice that tugged at his memory.

“Hey there,” he said, craning his neck up. Up to the antlered form, the one whose fur was clothing, rather than pelt. The one whose skull-face was a skull worn over an actual face.

“Long time no see,” said Rich, to the figure who had a red name floating over her false antlers. “Long time no see, LivingDeadGrrl.”

LUCK+1