Down from the highland fells curled the first summer breezes, setting the bronzed crops afire in a riot of motion. As far as the eye could see creatures large and small lifted their heads to test the first breezes of summer. The valley that was nestled within the mountain passes grew to jungle towards the west, creating an emerald road leading the eye towards a speck of the sea on the horizon.

The mountainside itself was home to the odd hut, as well as the aforementioned crops. Shepherds herded livestock down from the mountains proper, from which one heard the hypnotic clip-clop of hooves against stone. One young shepherd stood with his back against the rocky outcrop just where the mountainside erupted into mountain, counting the Zhabak as they dropped down into the valley from the Eastern pass.

“ Forty-one, Forty-two… Zhabak’s rotting horns up my… that old biddy got stuck up there again.”

He turned and looked up, up and up. He held his linen hat against his scalp, scanning the face of the mountain for the demented goat nearly as old as he was. He found it nearly ten metres up, standing stock still on a small ledge. The exact same ledge it had been on last week. And the week before that.

Putting his floppy hat down on a nearby rock he readied himself with a sigh. He bent his knees and prepared to jump. He stopped with a jolt.

“You bastards are NOT eating my hat again!” he barked, pushing away an overeager goat. He tucked it into his belt instead, before regathering his focus. He locked eyes with the stranded goat, and gathered his mana. He took a good twenty seconds to make sure he had enough. He curled it as many times as he could beneath his feet, taking great care to wrap the whorls about his feet. He pulled in a shuddering breath, struggling and straining to force the mana to his will. He waited for the wind to be with him. One second. Two.

Then he released the strands. With a mental flick and flourish the mana flung him into the air. He whooped, the summer breeze flinging his hair every which way. He was flying! He arced and came to a stop just at the ledge where the old biddy was standing. He caught the lip of the ledge with his fingers and stamped his boots against the cliff with a satisfying puff of rock dust.

“Hey! How ya doing Kelly?” he talked to the goat pleasantly as he began to haul himself up. The goat turned, and his blood chilled. The thing’s eyes had lit up with demonic fire, and was staring him full in the eye.

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Not again, he thought, and desperately heaved to get himself onto the ledge, and have some solid footing before…

And he was flying again. That damned goat had headbutted him off the ledge. Again!

Nine metres.

He sighed as he fell, spinning the set of his shoulders to flip him around to face the ground. He was already gathering up the mana chords to stop him from going, well, splat. He spun them around, using his body's rotation to start them moving quicker. Then throw the whole twisted mess beneath him. He reached into his mana well and made it burn, made it flare, and the chords glowed in his minds eye.

Seven metres.

The outpouring of mana flung the chords out, and they spun faster than his body ever had. Faster and faster and faster.

Five metres.

The grass beneath him flattened as his mana began to cause the winds to bluster.

One.

He came down hard, but on his feet. He staggered, taking a few unsteady steps down the steep slope in rapid succession. He tried to stop himself, but the goats watched nonchalantly as he fell and began to roll down the hill.

Only an instinctive outburst of mana saved him from a grassy demise, leaving him sitting on the hill facing the settlement. He took deep breaths, and tried to think soothing thoughts. Snow roses flowering in the jungle, the recent foaling.

That damned goat.

He turned to find it, but it had moved from that ledge all the way up the mountain. He collapsed onto his back and closed his eyes. He was a bleeding [Shepherd], not a [Hunter] nor Dranth forbid a [Mage]. That was more than enough magic for the day. Heck, enough for the week.

He heard a faint noise, and something nudged his midriff, before biting onto and pulling out his most prized possession.

“Dranth’s bloody beer! Stop eating my hat!”

He flung an arm out above him, but it flopped uselessly against the side of the goat’s head. It was too lazy to hold the hat up to chew, so it had rested it on his head.

“Zhabak. Why did Ma have to buy Zhabak. Why not a good old herd of Bova. Stupid things don’t do anything but eat, shit and sleep.”

There was an audible crunch from behind his left ear. He cracked open an eye to see the stupid goat chewing his hat with a slow, ponderous cruelty. Then he saw it. Hanging out of its mouth. His hair.

He shot up with a yell and snatched his hat back as quickly as he could. He desperately reached behind him, but there was a definite hole in his lucky hat. Well, his third lucky hat. And if there was a hole in his hat… He glared at the offending goat. It was Kelly, of course.

“I better get that level from this,” he grumbled.

He spun his hat to hide the shameful patch, and began to wonder. How had the old biddy got down so quick? He scratched his neck, shrugged and began to count the goats once more.

At least this time he was fairly sure they were all on the right side of the mountain.

“One. Two…”