We travel south on the eastern side of the mountains, careful to avoid Sil and her goblins. As we hike, we pick up the stick and rocks needed for Gene's ritual. We slip by Sil and her crew, who are back in their fortification nursing some wounds, unnoticed.

Once put a few miles between Sil and us, we become less diligent in our sneakiness. According to Annette's spiders, the closest fortification to us is at least nine miles south of us. The kobold's fort is about five miles northwest of Base Camp, just west of the main river that runs parallel to the mountain range.

A small stream that flows from the mountains is our current guide. Based on my adventuring expertise and Gene's better knowledge of her land, all streams lead to rivers. Once we find the river, we can follow that south to the Kobold fort, where we execute part one of Pillage and Plunder.

I try my hardest to keep my complaints to a minimum. The last few days, I've practically been an optimistic saint. Nothing was wrong; everything was 'awesome' type of outlook. It was good. Kinda got me captured and made a mess of my well-laid-out plans, though. Now, I feel like I am about to burst from all the pent-up criticism I've been holding inside. Whenever I ever considered complaining with Sil, I got punched in the face. That just isn't a friendly relationship.

The criticism can no longer be kept within. I let it out, giving my truth a chance to be free. Well, I sorta let it out. I send my truth to Gene, hoping to spark conversation and practice with my mind mana. Walking is the worst.

You can mount me if you want.

You'd let me ride you?

Not like that.

"What?" My words become vocalized louder than I intend, somewhere between a shout and a loud murmur. I fell for one of her word traps; I just know it. I look over to my walking companion and see the wolfiest grin on her face confirming my suspicion.

You set me up. I respond with more control.

Hook, line, and sinker. Her thought is mixed with an audible chuckle.

With an innuendo…

You people folk are such prudes.

I don't think I'm a fair representative of my people folk. They did give me a boot from their society and sent me to this abandoned island. Jokes on them. This is practically a paradise. Gene continues to be amused with herself, and I'm still walking. We walk for another mile. The stream combines with another, becoming a bigger stream, yet to reach the river classification.

Knowledge, according to my previous life as a river tour guide, dictates a stream becomes a river when it's seven streams strong or stronger. The common misconception among stream riders is that the higher the stream number, the harder the stream is to ride.

How wrong those ignorant streamers are.

Anyone with a float can ride a size six stream or even the tumultuous class twelve. It's the ones and twos that provide the most challenge. Only the cleverest rapid enthusiast will brave the rocky waterways no matter how much knee scraping and crawling must be done. And according to my right-until-proven-wrong made-up memories, I can skip all this walking and any more false mounting pretenses.

If you aren't serious about being mounted, I say we turn this trek into a float. My puffed-up confidence gets the better of me, and I send the words to Gene before I can think things through.

We'd need a saddle first. I refuse to go bareback. It's sweaty and uncomfortable for both of us.

Damnit. That's it. I'm floating. My bravado leads me into the shin-high waters. It's sink or float now. I don't even care if I roll down the entire stream at this point.

Thankfully the chilly water cools my temperature, so I pause to give the shallow predicament some thought. It's a strong stream. If I can create any extra buoyancy, I'll be floating amongst the best of them. Of course, typical log rafts won't work here because this isn't a standard class seven stream. This is an untamed two at most.

Maybe if my thoughts are big enough, I can wrap it with pure mana and use that to float? It's a silly thought, and I wouldn't entertain it if I didn't become a victim of my breath getting wrapped up in mana. Not only that but I was only saved by that same mana becoming tentacle-like hands that opened my airways. There is no way bagging a big thought to float on is least plausible than that. Besides, the short-term goal I made earlier demands I figure this out.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

What are you doing? Gene calls attention to my new level of ingenuity.

Air is floaty. I am bagging it. My nonchalant explanation will pay off big time if this works out. If it doesn't, I will look a little more foolish and wet. It's a risk I'm willing to take.

The uproarious laughter from Gene only makes me double down on my bagging efforts. And how are you going to hold the air? With your thoughts?

More or less. Hopefully, more than less. My bag of air is full, or at least I think it is. Judging by the resistance of my pure mana tube, it's as full as it will get with my bagging method. If I want any more, I'm gonna need to blow into the invisible bag. I'm just not sure I've enough dignity left to expend on the task.

Gene's laughter continues well until I gracefully set my pure mana raft down, plop my body, belly down, on top of it, and begin to float away. Now it's my turn to laugh, and I do so as I giddily brave the wild rapids of this class two, or maybe three, size stream. I'm careful to avoid large rocks as I navigate the foot-high waters. Not that I'm actually worried. My thought bubble is nearly impenetrable.

My satisfied smile swims with me the whole way up until a laid-back fox passes me on my left, narrowly avoiding beaching itself. I'm most frustrated with how easily I'm shown up with such finesse and style. There's no way the river guides will believe me when I explain how I got passed on a class two. It's notoriously a single-lane stream.

The two of us make a great time floating downstream. Class two quickly becomes a three, skips four and five, and shoots straight to a six. When we hit class seven, we are full-on river rafting.

Just a couple miles left now. What are your thoughts on amphibious ambushes? I send the new idea to Gene. Are river raids practical? Probably not, given the kobold's fortress location. Do I want to try it out anyway? Yup.

Sneak attack from the river? The kobolds will never see us coming. Gene turns out to be as captivated by the river ride as I am.

Hopefully so. Extreme sneakiness is the key to our raiding party, in and out without a trace. You want to set the rituals or do the raiding?

I could go for some raiding. Do you want to put our rafting on pause, and I can teach you how to create the ritual and set it up? Gene is now floating beside me in her wolf form. The fox was ditched as soon as the river permitted her larger size.

Yeah, that sounds great. My body is getting a bit numb anyways. Even though my mind float keeps me out of the water, the nature of my raft leaves me exposed to rapids and rougher waters. I could use a break. How's the fur holding up?

Did not even notice I was wet. It is almost too warm. I'm not jealous because I don't believe her.

We hop out of the river and begin finishing our river assault plan. Gene is a trooper and lets me pull thoughts from her mind getting the information on preparing and setting the rituals for silencing and shadow fog.

Both rituals use seven spiked sticks a foot long in length. Seven because prime numbers are easier to work with. Spiked so that we can easily set the sticks into position. We chose the sticks over rocks because it is easier to carve notes and images on the stick needed for the ritual. With a proper ritualist marker, we could have used the rocks and saved ourselves some time. I was tempted to summon bone spears with the imprinted markings. I feel confident enough in my skill to pull it off, but I don't know if the competing mana of death and shadow would mess up the ritual. I'll practice that another time.

Next, we set the spikes into their required places and feed them the mana. For silencing, we place the sticks in a crisscross pattern with a line striking the center. This will require Gene to set up three spikes in the middle of the fortress during her raid portion of the plan. The rest of the stakes should be able to be placed in the corners of the fort.

The fog is two simple curved lines that will run parallel. One will be placed on the east side of the fort and the other on the west. Since we want the fog covering the east first, we will set the extra stake there.

We review the plan a couple of times, ensuring we are ready for anything. I'll set the prepared rituals. Gene raids. We retreat to the river and float down a few miles in the safety of our shadow. Gene forms into a hawk and takes some time to scout the fortress while I build a raft more substantial than my thoughts and air.

I'm nearly done tying the logs together when she returns.

It looks suspiciously quiet over there.

Do you think they are on an expedition? Maybe another raid in the woods or something?

I don't know. It seemed empty. My perception picked up only a little life in the fort.

Maybe abandoned?

It could be. Or the kobolds could be masking their presence with runes. If so, they may be more prepared for us than we imagined.

Should we still raid them?

Of course.

The finished raft is set in the river, and we float to the kobold's fortress hidden in Gene's shadow. The whole time I'm fighting off a giddy grin. On the other hand, Gene is nearly blowing our cover with how much she's chuckling. To be fair, river raft raiding is one hell of a time.