Bob was on a time out. Leg crossed, head propped up on his elbow, he peered into the mud, those dark, mystery depths. The crocodile's corpse was somewhere down there, frozen in mud, awaiting the archeologist who a thousand years from now would come investigating the origins of the system on earth. And just maybe, looking for traces of him, Lord Bob, the mud magician. After all he'd decided to try, hadn't he? He'd thrown his hat into the champions' ring.

And this was supposed to have been the first step, the first step on the long road to power. But where had he ended up, straight in the jaws of an ambush predator. And yes he might have come out on top at the end, but the contest had been more a lucky escape than a display of strength. What do you mean lucky? Yeah, super lucky, to be attacked from ambush while strolling through the grasslands. Bob, we're living in a world full of monsters. You should expect to get attacked. You should always be ready. Still, to say I was lucky is a bit unfair. Really Bob? Really? So that's what you think. I'll break it down for you then.

For one, you were incredibly lucky the crocodile connected with your arm and not your leg. Sure, the form-hiding mud cloak, the fact the limb arm had hung straight down by your side, the way you walked through the plains half-crouching, those all contributed, but a few inches lower and the crocodile would have connected with your ankle. You'd have fallen down and never risen again. Or what if the crocodile had stuck you while you were fighting a Raupenflieger and didn't have Harry on you? Snip, snap, crush, chew, splat. No need to be so graphic.

For another, you were incredibly lucky the crocodile's death roll landed in a pool of mud. Yes the rainstorm made them relatively commonplace in the grasslands. And yes the crocodile had probably intentionally chosen the spot to cushion its own landing. But a bed of grass or dirt or a rock and you'd be a goner.

Fine, fine. I give up. He might as well admit it to himself. He'd been at death's edge. You can't keep this up Bob. Your luck will run out eventually. What is strength? What is the strength of the weak? It most certainly was not blustering head-on into traps. No Bob chewed on the idea. Strength is in choosing one's battles. In knowing yourself and your enemy. And recklessness is not bravery. Bob was never going to be immortal Achilles, who could just throw himself into the midst of the fighting and massacre his enemies.

No, Bob should aspire after Odysseus. The trickster and bowman. By the time the battle started, it should already be decided. The preplanned moves just needed to play themselves out. He should strike only with overwhelming odds and after exhaustive preparations. Man, that sounded like a lot of work. But strength was a lot of work. You can't get ripped without spending a lot of time in the gym.

Ok Bob, introspection time. What did you learn from the engagement? Bob hummed and stroked his beard fluff. He'd started the fight at significant disadvantage. Why? Because the crocodile had seen Bob and Bob hadn't seen the crocodile. He needed to do a better job scouting. Whoever wins the information war wins the war. Very wise Bob.

And as luck would have it, the geographical advantage was entirely with Bob. Just look around at you at these beautiful mud fields. And the system weather service promised rain today, tomorrow and every day after. Things were only going to get muddier. Why had it taken Bob so long to realize? He was the ambush predator. Their roles ought to have been reversed. He should have been the one taking the monster by surprise.

There was more good news. Because, finally, after all this time, all his trial and error, Bob had finally stumbled on a mud attack worth the name. I'll call it: "mudfall." Bob's smile gave off a rather sinister air. He might be enjoying himself a little too much. Mudfall-- its execution was simple. Lure an enemy over a mud well of a certain depth and, squelch, they'd find themselves six feet under, trapped in a muddy grave.

The attack wasn't foolproof. The initial mana output was high. He had to shift away all that mud and then pull it back. If he missed or there were multiple enemies, he'd be at a significant disadvantage for the remainder of the fight. However, the mana costs of keeping the grave active were minimal. It required small, targeted actions, like denying the enemy proper leverage as he tried to push off, or turning him slightly so he headed in the wrong direction. It did, however, demand high mental effort. He had to direct all his attention on trapped the animal.

In summary, mudfall was the ultimate attack against a single enemy taken unawares. A good thing then that the mud magician was an ambush predator. Bob, is this what confidence feels like? I mean real confidence, not bluster or bravado. You know what, Bob, I think it is. I think this is the genuine article. It feels wonderful, Bob. It feels absolutely wonderful. Bob, you know what I'm thinking. I reckon I do. We might just, maybe, probably, be able to fight and win. For the first, Bob felt a little bit more like a hunter and a little bit less like the hunted.

And Bob we really ought to get ourselves a companion capable of conversation. You think so too? I'm worried we are starting to go crazy. "George, what do you think?" George opened his eyes and looked wisely up at Bob. "Sorry, let me rephrase: George, do you think I'm crazy?" George barked once and licked Bob's hand. See I told you. Bob agrees with me, we're not crazy. Are you crazy? That was the clearest yes I've ever heard George make. I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree.

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Bob got to his feet, tried to clap his hands, remembered he was a cripple, remembered he was a magician, shaped the cloak into a hand and clapped his hands. "Come on, George. Time to write some poetry."

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Feel the mud, Bob, feel the mud. Bob was crouched down in the tall grasses, eyes closed, sensing the mud around him through his bare feet. He had to admit that his mud senses were not all he'd imagined them to be. They weren't exactly the eye of god, a true, ever-present omnisight. He discovered that fact when a Raupenflieger had fluttered down completely unnoticed and landed on his shoulder. Ambushed while scouting... Talk about failing while failing.

Thankfully Bob had Harry with him, Harry, Rapuenflieger-bane, and the creature had mistaken the demon cloak for a gentle, landing pad. When Bob gave the magical word, the cloak snapped up around the caterpillar, viced shut and then spat out what was left of the juices. The message for Bob was crystal clear. Don't neglect your mundane senses. Just because you're a magician, doesn't mean you can get away with walking around with your eyes and ears closed shut. Message received.

The other annoyance, because yes, we humans, complain about our blessings, just as much as our troubles, was that there wasn't quite enough mud on the plains. Not enough mud? Really? That's what Bob was complaining about. Hear me out now. Sure there was a lot of mud on the plain. Plenty of mud, but it wasn't all mud. There were places where the drainage was good. Or stoney patches. Or just places that had dried in the sunlit hours. And remember, Bob could only sense mud through mud, which turned these mud-less islands into blind spots.

Yes his mud sense wasn't perfect, but when it worked, boy did it work. There, at the very edge of his mud sense, he felt something heavy on the ground, lying very still. What did it look like? Bob had no idea. His mud sight wasn't exactly twenty-twenty. Let's just say, there was a warmish blob on the ground, a couple meters long, narrowing at both ends, with the weight concentrated in the middle.

Bob peered over at in the direction of the blob. He couldn't see a damn thing. Grass, grass, everywhere, and not a beast in sight. He checked in with his mud sense. The blob was there alright. It was completely stationary. Really the camouflage was mighty impressive. Bob literally had no idea the monster was hiding just ten meters in front of him. Because it was a monster. There's no deceiving the mud magician. Don't start telling me about a four-meter, cylindrical rock that tapers on both sides, with all its weight concentrated in the center. Warmth was trickling into the mud from the blob. Warmth meant life, life meant monster. And what do you know, Bob just so happened to be familiar with an ambush predator that matched said description.

"George, sometimes system luck is bang on the money." Bob put a hand over the dog's mouth to stop the imminent bark. It was time for a little payback. Bob advanced carefully, keeping his mind on the feedback from the mud and his good hand on George's collar. He came to a stop two meters away from the crocodile, because that's what it was of course, Mr. Crocodile's evil brother, Croc. To think I'd run into another one so soon. Let's see whether this plan thingamabob is all it's cracked up to be, shall we?

The Wiesenkriecher really was a master of stealth. Bob hunted through his visual landscape for a hint of the four meter creature he knew was lying in wait for them. He found nothing. Hell he would have sworn on his grandmother's bones there wasn't a living thing in sight. Except for the crystal clear feedback from his mud sense. It was a small consolation. Surely there was no shame in being taken by surprise by such a master camouflager. Still he hoped a larger consolation was coming soon. Bob pointed at a nondescript patch of grass: "fire!" George frowned. It was a hard command, fire, wasn't it. It wasn't like we'd spend most of yesterday practicing the instruction. Bob shook his head and groaned. "George, I thought we were past this. You did so well yesterday." George continued frowning.

Now Bob wasn't unsympathetic to the dog. It's true, their current situation was a little different. Previously they'd always been an immediately obvious, palpably dangerous enemy. That was a pretty strong cue for the dog. But this time Bob was pointing at a harmless patch of grass, quite nice, friendly grass too. "George, you're going to make me do this the hard way aren't you? Fine, fine, but I do this only because I love you George."

Croc was confused. Bob could feel through the mud as the animal ever so slightly rotated its head to look in their direction. Bob could empathize. Here were two, weak-looking prey that had wandered right up to its stalk-out position and then stopped just outside of range. There they stood and seemed to be chatting amicably. One complaining at the other, who wore an unhappy, puzzled expression.

Croc must have so many questions, Bob mused. Were they on to him? No, that didn't make sense. Croc's camouflage was legendary. He'd even chosen a muddy patch on purpose to disguise any scent-based tracking. And if they were onto him, what were they doing dialoguing right next to a deadly enemy? Croc had just gotten unlucky. Unlucky that they'd paused right there and not two steps further. He'd just have to wait for his moment. He kept eyes trained on the two animals.

The taller animal was standing up with one of his claws extended in front of him. "Sit." The smaller, yellow, hairy animal responded instantly, coming up into what looked like some kind of special posture. "Shake." The larger animal stretched out his paw and the smaller animal tapped one paw and then the other to it. Was this some kind of dance? Ah, maybe it's a mating ritual. That makes a lot of sense. Were they really going to start mating two meters in front of him? Maybe Croc could sneak up on them while they were in the act and kill them in one fell swoop. Not a bad way to die.

"Lie Down." The smaller animal lowered itself flat against the ground. Ah yes and now the larger animal will mount on top of him. Croc was a bit of a player himself. "Wait." The larger animal held its paw out in front of it and spread out the claws. What, why is the larger animal backing away? He's lost his nerve. It happens something. Croc mentally shook his head. At the end of the day, mating rituals all come down to who's got enough balls.

"Fire." Hold on there. Croc blinked. Was it his imagination or was the larger animal pointing directly at Croc's position? That couldn't be a coincidence could it? Had Croc misread the situation. What should he do? Attack, retreat, stay absolutely still? The smaller animal jumped up, spun around, breathed in and darkness...