Blood-rain would fall every time a monster was about to rise in the wasteland. It was a warning that I never ignored. Every time it rained, I would go out to fight whatever monster rose from the mud and ash.
The scent comes with an energy that buzzes at the edges of my senses.
I try to make sense of the bird creeping toward the edge of the roof, where it clings with its sharp talons.
If it’s a monster, where did it rise from?
The bird shrieks at me, a high-pitched scream. And then it beats its wings once more, this time a strong sweep that launches it from the roof and directly toward me.
As the bird soars at me, lightning shoots through its body.
Its wings crack like thunder and suddenly, I’m frozen with recognition.
It’s a fae thunderbird!
But not a natural one.
This bird has clearly been impacted by Blacksmith magic; its fur and feathers and claws are a mix of bear and bird and wolf.
In the seconds as it shoots toward me, its talons extended, my thoughts are rapid, racing through my mind in an instant.
All of the monsters that rose from the wasteland were products of the transformation magic that seeped into the ground. They formed from the bones and bodies of discarded experiments.
There’s still a small chance that this beast didn’t rise from the wasteland. After all, the wasteland is all the way down the mountain and to the north.
I don’t have time to work through the possibilities.
My reflexes take me backward, my leg muscles bunching before I leap. At the same time, I reach for my hammer with my left hand.
The moment I touch its handle, my speed increases, and so does my strength.
I swing the hammer while I’m midair, aiming for the side of the bird’s approaching head.
At that same moment, a blaze of sapphire energy streaks toward me from my right.
Erik leaps at the bird from the side, his sword raised, his jump taking him so high that he’s soaring down toward the bird from above, the perfect angle to slice through its neck in one, clean cut.
My hammer hits the bird first, my left-handed swing crashing into its head with acrunch.
The force of my strike rams it down and to the right, its body hitting the snow so hard and so fast that its body rips through the snow, gouging a deep turret for twenty feet before it comes to a stop.
Erik lands in a crouch a few paces away from me, adjusting his downward swing with apparent ease so that he can spin toward the bird, which is now behind him.
It lies still in the snow.
My hammer shakes in my hand, power surging uncontrollably through me. But it’s a punishing sensation.
Within my mind, I repeat the moment it connected with the bird’s body, the horriblecrackit made, and the way my power shot back at me, biting and angry and rebellious. As if…
My eyes widen.
Then I’m running at the beast, unable to deny the overwhelming impulse flooding my mind and body.
Ahead of me, the bird twitches. One of its wings was forced beneath its body by its fall and slide, but its other wing is spreadout across the snow, its feathers appearing jagged and sharp up close.
A trail of black ooze lines the turret it made in the ground.
Black blood. I can smell it.
