The Mephit's Tales

Another year, another storm.

Skarinath had seen plenty of storms in his years. A strong and cool-headed flier, the golden eagle-gryphon had even flown through his share. He knew his limits, knew when it was time to give in and seek shelter, knew when he could in fact push on in spite of the weather and be confident of still landing safely.

More importantly, though, he also knew when he didn’t need to push it. The last time he’d flown this route in a storm, lives had rested on how quickly he made the trip, and with the particular storm that had been coming up behind him, he’d had every reason to believe that if he’d taken to the ground, he’d have lost days.

Things had been starting out so well. A vacation spent not in some sun-baked tourist trap, but in a pleasantly temperate forest with only his boyfriend for company — that was pretty much perfect in Kevin’s mind. The day was sunny and mild, the breeze just enough to rustle the leaves and keep them cool as they hiked, and the air was full of animal calls; just a wonderful summer day, really.

These woods weren’t entirely natural, of course; the company tending them claimed to offer an Indiana Jones Lite sort of explorer experience, “ancient ruins” to explore, puzzles to solve, though so far, he and Jack hadn’t seen anything more disruptive to the forest than the game trail they were on. It seemed to be wending its way towards a river, though, and that was always a good place to look for “ancient” settlements, wasn’t it? It was, they figured, at least a good starting point.