Heading in for the final… stuff.
“I have changed my mind, milord,” Leo said a few days later as he speared another giant leech. “RSA should have let itself be drafted. And then appealed their case.”
“What, you don’t like taking a stroll by the river?” Jimmie said, then fired his crossbow: twenty feet away, a screeching monstrosity of nature fell, writhing, from a copse of steaming trees and into the mud. “Watch your six, Pat,” Jimmie called ahead to the first line. “That goes for the rest of you, too. This is Bat Country.”
Only without actual bats, he thought. “Bat Country” was an old Adventuring term that meant “a place so screwed up you hope it’s just a hallucination,” and it applied to the Big River Menagerie. “Menageries” were where the Dominion kept their little monsters until the needed to warp them into big monsters; and “little” to a Dominion flesh-mage meant “man-sized or below.” RSA had been on jobs like these on the past, and they weren’t ever fun.