Like a lost cloud, DG4 moved through the upper canopies, the soft scraping of foliage across their body, like waves lapping against a vessel’s hull. And a constant activity of clickbats foraged as the small village made its way to a once bastion of safety and innovation, a melting pot for all communities in the Mire. DG’s thrusters ran on low power– keeping mana reserves topped off, and noise levels kept to a minimum – but, perhaps many, including the emerald flyer themself, were reluctant to be brought face to face with their new reality.

  And yet a sense of wonder at the unexplored. Sinking Gods Mire flowed like a vast, endless river. It began at the foot of the Stonecoils and wound its way south, bordered at its length on one side by the Crystal Plains, and on the other…none knew, but such questions were no longer out of reach – with the Shinning Ones receded, and the air clear DGAir may yet explore the edges of the map – who knew – there may be dragons.

  Past the canopy ceiling, beyond the empty sky, above ancient peaks – something new was happening – clouds formed. Gathering like flocks of sheep, lazily drifting, as they swelled and grew. Sinking Gods Mire existed in a vacuum until now – its integration would affect climate and aether, in ways none could predict.

  But for now, those lucky few aboard DGAir enjoyed safety, shelter, and mobility that few could imagine. They were but a blip in infinite chaos, their anonymity a [Cloak of Impenetrability].

  Children’s laughter, the clink of dishware, and the ebb and flow of conversation; the galley was a hub of community, and a wealth of experience for a [Cook]. But there would be opportunity and levels for all, as Mitzy and Pat brought new technologies and ideas to the minds of the Mirefolk, who, like sponges, absorbed anything in their path – they questioned, probed, and challenged – legacy of Daybroke, dead god of anarchy.

  Late into the night, the galley was quiet. Crew slept, their heads resting on down pillows, as DG’s engines provided a serenade to all.

  A pair of orcs did not sleep as they shared a pot of Camo’s thistle milk tea, good for the throat and calming for the mind. Above their heads, a trio of firebugs orbited each other, like a low-hanging chandelier – the orcs discussed their new passenger, and the firebugs definitely weren’t eavesdropping.

  “What should we do with him?” Asked Draven.

  “There’s a dungeon to the south – past Grumakh, in the Pitlands…you’ve heard of it?” Meen-Tra leveled her eyes.

  “Home of the Basilix – their metallurgy is unrivaled, and their forges are a closely guarded secret. Without them, zephyrs would be built from bone and wood – and would last but a fraction of the time. My people believe their forges are in the heart of the dungeon itself – Smolderrock.”

  Meen-Tra smiled warmly, “That's the first time I’ve heard you call them your people without correcting yourself. They may have banished you, Draven – but they can never take away your history and culture.”

  His cheeks flushed; he looked away, and Meen-Tra continued, “Garzha loved to regale me with stories from her youth – she secretly hoped it would influence the System, so that I gained a class worthy of her legacy and my titan-mark.

  She reached up reflexively; stopping herself, she folded her hands in her lap as she continued, “Smolderrock was her favorite – after all, the bigger the risk…I will never forget how she survived in that place.”

  “Her famous twin blades? Is that where she got them? Did she defeat a boss – no, probably not solo – a treasure chest? A quest…

  Draven had a faraway look in his eye; his attention snapped back to Meen-Tra as a thought occurred to him, “Wait – you didn’t have your class, and she was telling you of Smolderrock – that’s ruthless even by my people's standards…”

  Pursing her lips, Meen-Tra smoothed the folds of her qipao, “Nothing a [Dream Catcher] couldn’t fix, Mother had connections. But no – it wasn’t a lucky find or combat prowess that saved her – it was empathy and a chance encounter with a wandering spirit of earth.”

  “So a blessing then, in the short term, that can be a greater boon than –”

  “Not blessing – quit interrupting me, or I’ll be forced to tweak your nose, like an unruly gruntling.

  His eyes narrowed, and Meen-Tra held up a fist, knuckles parted in the middle, “I’ll do it.” She said cooley.

  Draven sat back as he slipped out his rune-stick case, “Get to the point [Sandalmancer].”

  Meen-Tra huffed, “Molting wyrmback,” she muttered.

  He pretended to ignore her, and she got to the point. “Lost down a collapsed mining shaft and surrounded by molten lava, her heart leaping into her throat at every growl, shriek, and chittering – Garzha longed for an enemy to fight, but found not by spectres that flit between shadows…until finally it rumbled past, no bigger than a shaman’s totem: an amalgamation of stone, rock, and aether – like a gruntlings muckorc formed of bog and branch. She called out in the old way of the Mire –”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Deep roots?” Asked Draven.

  Meen-Tra nodded, “But its response was not what she expected – it did not attack or respond in kind…

  Draven leaned in as she let the drama build, “... But with a voice like ground stone – ‘shallow,’ Mother hid a smile as the being pointed a stubby appendage up, to the root tips protruding overhead. For a denizen of a dungeon, deep took on a different meaning – and Gazrha came to realize that it had no idea of life beyond the dungeon – titan roots were the sky above.”

  She touched her ear and was hit with a pang of regret – why had she thrown it away?

  “The spirit spoke in its short, choppy speech, grinding out each syllable – Garzha learned of another it had met, and after much hand signaling, it produced an earring with a [Lifelink] enchantment – its pudgy head dipped as it offered her the item – sad at the broken promise it represented, as it would not function for the spirit, not without skin and bone – the being was lost to its former companion…until Garzha, that is.”

  Meen-Tra finished to the sound of firelight crackling on the galleys' big screen, and Draven let out a thick ring that went over and around their firebug chandelier. Memory passed from mother to daughter hung heavy in the aether – layering over reality, in the way of a [Shaman]’s retelling; history recorded not in stone but in hearts and minds.

  “What happened then?”

  “It died, the surface could not sustain it.”

  “Ruthless.”

  “Garzha only took a life as a last resort, and she did not hunt, accepting the traditional beastkin diet – she meant it no harm, but once out of the dungeon…it would not return.” She offered defensively.

  “She was a legendary swordorc…”

  “It's called the flat of the blade – her signature move was a [Heroic Strike] with the pommel – she once used it to disable a drunk 40 [Guildmeister] – without interrupting festivities.” She huffed.

  Draven raised his fist defensively, “I meant no offense – I’m a marsh orc through and through…willow tusk grilled rib, duels to the death, and midnight monster incursions – it's all I need…needed.” He trailed off.

  “The Grumakh are so secretive – I guess I never thought much about them…and Garzha rarely spoke of them…It must be hard – not being able to return home.”

  “They are zealots, awaiting a prophecy that will never come. The best part of that place is now in DG.

  Draven scanned the room, “It’s hard to believe, Ren did all this – but that he has…I will follow him into the abyss, as I know DG will.”

  “If you ask me, he’s a few reeds short of a bolt – but…there is something about him, I –”

  “Were you two an item? He seemed interested.” Draven raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  “He…did?”

  Draven nodded, “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you – and he did reach out to you – he pulled you into the dreamscape – that’s got to count for something, and didn’t he share his…skills with you? I mean, I’ve never even heard of anything like that.”

  “It wasn’t the dreamscape.”

  There was an uneasy silence between them.

  “Classed up grunts make the journey as a right of passage – have you…experienced it?” He tried – hopefully.

  She nodded, “Before my class, to –

  Meen-Tra did air quotes, “open my mind.”

  “Is that safe?”

  Meen-Tra’s eyes narrowed.

  “Sword orc.” Draven quipped.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  She lifted her chin, “It wasn’t the dreamscape…we can ask a shaman, but I’m certain – so what was it?”

  Draven shook his head, “I’d rather not speculate – but his kind…humans – they are dangerous, perhaps that is why Talon chose their form…if there’s any justice, he was crushed or devoured – during the fall.”

  “We could use a thing like Talon, right about now – if nothing else as fodder to chase out our enemies.”

  Draven chuckled, “Is this the new and improved Meen-Tra?

  He proffered an open fist, offering up his rollies, “Go on, take one – it might be your last…” He said with mock seriousness.

  Meen-Tra’s eyes narrowed, “Maybe if there wasn’t smoke clouding your vision –

  She enunciated, “-- You would have saved yourself – on your last dive.”

  Quick as a rabbit she plucked a rollie from Draven’s case, and flipped into between her teeth, pulling off the trick of grinning from ear to ear while taking a deep pull; she exhaled weaving three coiled ropes of emerald smoke, like the trunk of a mighty titan, and with a sharp intake blew out her creation – the top of the coils fanned out twisting into the myriad branches of the canopy – a titan tree manifest.

  Draven’s jaw hit the table, and the resident chandelier broke apart, to flit amongst the apparition, as their carapace softly pulsed in delight.

  “I was born for this moment –

  She touched her titan mark, “And trained by the last Wayfarer’s Guildmeister. This is our home, and it's time these separatists found out.”

  Rising to her feet, Meen-Tra strode from the room, flicking the butt over her shoulder and into a trash can along the wall – without so much as a backward glance.

  Draven smiled, “The spitting image – I’ll follow you into the heart of darkness, Meen-Tra Trailfinder.”

  Only the trio of firebugs remained, their movements increasingly erratic and flashing, frantic; darting and weaving, they struggled to keep the apparition together.

  Across the ship, a stream of firebug flitted across the ceilings – their destination the galley, help was on the way.

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