The thought of flying above this mess is tempting, instead I watch as the islanders turn, and run back.
I expect them to keep going, but instead the figures dressed in brown skirts, and matching long shirts, grab spears that are pierced into the ground within the passageway.
One of them keeps running, presumably to go get others.
A thought hits me.
'Those Sylph knew we would stop here'.
'If it was me, I would have the humans breed the mages, making for a mana rich meal'.
I can't fill in their logic, as I don't know their history or culture, but the clanking of metal, and wood on wood, is heard from my low crouch.
The Sylph in the waters bend the light from the moon as they rise from the shallow beach.
"Outa"!
A cheerful voice sings from the slowly churning darkness.
The scene reminds me of rising heat in the desert, but this hazy movement is random, moving in all direction, and slow moving in comparison.
