Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[piosenniel]

Rôg

. . . flap . . . flap . . . flap . . . hack . . . cough . . .

Muddy bells! What had he been thinking, flying so far? And now some chitinous flying form had wedged itself in his cheek. His mouth was so dry he could barely work his tongue to push the offending morsel out. Or at least the parts which hadn’t glued to his beak when he crunched down on the insect in reflex.

‘I need a drink!’

The hawk flew a little lower, looking for a likely place to slake his thirst. He hadn’t been in the south for years. Beneath him rolled the vast expanse of the desert, a sea of blacks and greys under the night sky. Smooth hills of sand and their valleys fled by, breaking up the vast flatness of the land. And here and there clumps of scrubby growths struggled valiantly on the parched landscape.

‘What’s that?’ Rog’s eye caught some anomalous shape ahead. A tent . . . and a round dark hole not too far from it. Blessed be the Great Winged One! His birdy heart skipped a beat as the faint scent of water from the well hit him. Down he plunged, changing, a small dark shadow into the greater blackness of the inviting vortex of scents – water and mud and wet sand . . .

The little bat’s claws found no purchase against the sandy sides of the well. He slid, tumbled, down into the depths, tail over snout.

Splash!

Rog’s wings flapped frantically in the deepening water, getting him nowhere. ‘Slow down,’ he cautioned himself. ‘Just swim like you do in the air. His hands reached forward, curving themselves about a small section of water and pushed his body forward. Several more attempts brought him snout to dirt with the wall of the well. Too slippery by half. He could not climb up nor could he fly up with his sodden wings.

Above, he could hear the outriders’ small, soft voices as they spoke to one another; the sound of them bouncing back and forth against the curved sides of the well. He was growing tired, his little muscles paddling his body round and round in the confined space. With a groan, his human shape returned - the cold of the water creeping along the length of his legs, numbing him to the waist. He dog-paddled to keep himself afloat, looking up to the circle of dark sky and brilliant stars framed by the well’s rim.

‘Haloo-oo-oo!’

Rog’s voice echoed as it rose to the top and escaped into the dark expanse beyond. ‘Anyone there?’ His question was met with an unnerving silence, broken only by the rippling sound of the water as his arms and hands paddled through it. Mustering his hope, he called up loudly once more.

‘A rope . . . a rope would be nice . . .’