This frocking world, thought Saskia as she yanked the arrow out of her eye. Oh that’s it! I’m done running. No more Miss Nice Troll.

With her one good eye, she glared at the archer who had just shot her in the face from astride his mount; a giant crapoodling cat. This was just ridiculous. What the hell was this world? Just another half-baked World of Warcraft knock-off?

Letting out a snarl like a dog from hell, Saskia bounded forward, snatching up her spear from the ground as she moved. She had the satisfaction of watching the colour instantly drain from the rider’s cheeks in the moment before she swung the butt of the spear at his face, sending him tumbling from the beast's back.

“Now that’s my kinda knock-off,” said Saskia.

Not content to let her terrible pun go unanswered, the enormous cat leapt at her with the force of a wrecking ball, sending her sprawling; the spear once again knocked from her grasp.

As she fell, she caught a glimpse of the other elf out of the corner of her eye: the wizard. He’d bravely dashed away, and now stood facing her; cloak billowing as a coil of vines coalesced around the tip of his staff. That could not be good…

Then she was on her side, wrapped in the clawed, hissing embrace of a very large furry animal. The beast’s hind legs kicked at her belly, tearing into her thick hide as if it were paper, while its front paws wrapped around her back. Meanwhile, a large toothy muzzle clamped down on her throat and squeezed. It was all she could do just to gasp in a strangled lungful as the jaws constricted around her windpipe.

Kicking and thrashing in the great cat’s grasp, she struggled to free herself, to no avail. It was a bit smaller than her, but heavier and more powerful.

With her free arm, she swiped at the animal, feeling her claws rake against its furred neck. But from this vantage, she couldn’t see where she was aiming. Nor could she get the leverage to inflict much damage.

It’s eyes.

With its jaws holding her throat, she couldn’t tilt her head to look at the beast’s eyes, but she could guess roughly where they were. It’s muzzle was sideways with respect to her neck, so…

Saskia drove her claws in from the side, and felt her right arm tearing into something soft. The creature yowled, relaxing its grip on her neck. She yanked her left arm out from beneath the cat’s flailing body and repeated the motion, this time with both arms. The beast drew its head back, emitting a blood-curdling screech. This was all the opportunity she needed. It was time for this creature to learn that trolls could bite back.

Her fangs closed around its jugular, clamping down hard. She pulled. Something thick and stringy tore free, and she ground it between her teeth. She was rewarded by a spray of thick, warm blood. Unable to stop herself, she gulped it down. In the back of her mind, the part of her that remained Saskia was shocked at how good it tasted.

Tearing herself free of the cat’s weakening grasp, she staggered to her feet. Blood poured down her chest. A lot of it was her own. She was a mess. But she could already feel her shredded flesh beginning to knit together.

She could do this. All that remained was to deal with the pesky…

What was that?

Once again, she heard a low murmur, which she now recognised as a spell being cast. But accompanying the sound was something new. A faint, shimmering trail in the air, passing straight through her body and out the other side, ending—or rather, beginning—at a spot above the elf wizard, where a familiar globule of amber liquid was forming. He held out his staff, pointed directly at her.

The elf stood between the trees just a short distance away, an implacable expression was etched across his face. Or was it even his face any longer? He looked…different. Wooden. Not just in the sense that his expression didn’t change, but in the sense that his face looked like it was actually made of smooth bark. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was wearing a mask.

But she did know better. That must be a barkskin spell, or something very much like it. She recognised the look from Dungeons & Dragons and various other games. The spell would make him much more durable, able to shrug off cuts and blows that would cripple a normal man.

And that wasn’t all that had changed about him. He was wreathed in a spinning coil of thorned vines that whipped about in the air like…well, whips.

Clearly, while she was distracted by his pet, the wizard had been bravely building up his magical defences. But now he was going back on the offence.

As the bolt of liquid death coalesced in the air, the murmuring grew louder, more insistent, and the light trail was rapidly changing colour, going from canary yellow to orange, and now, a faint but unmistakeable red.

Red means dead…

She leapt to the side, slipping inelegantly over flattened shrubs, just as the elf released his spell. A streak of yellow followed the exact trajectory marked by the red trail, before splashing into a tree, which exploded in a cloud of smoke, showering her with debris and more skin-sizzling droplets.

A wide column of orange—and then red—light rose from the ground beside her. She knew all too well what it meant.

The top of the tree trunk came down hard, slamming into the patch of ground that moments earlier had been marked out for her as plain as day.

Oh she knew exactly what the lights meant. They weren’t wizard’s spells. Not directly, at least. This was her own mysterious game interface at work. It was telegraphing her opponent’s attacks, as well as hazards such as the falling tree.

Game designers had learned over the years that players hated being killed out of the blue by things they couldn’t even see coming. So they’d come up with various techniques to give them just enough warning to evade that Temple of Doom rolling boulder, or the big boss’s exploding grenades. Cues used to indicate incoming danger ranged from subtle, but easy-to-miss animation changes and sound effects to more overt light shows such as the ones she’d just witnessed. Saskia was no fan of that kind of overt telegraphing. Not only did it remove most of the challenge, but it was also extremely immersion-breaking. Nothing turned her off a game faster than having her screen cluttered with blinking lights and flashing numbers.

Now though…when her actual life was at stake, she’d take any advantage she could get.

Saskia looked at the carnage wrought by the wizard’s spell. What little remained of the stump was blackened and belching putrid fumes. If he’d managed to hit her with that spell, it wouldn’t have left behind any pieces of her big enough to regenerate.

The amber goo must be some kinda highly concentrated acid. This irked her. Not just because the stuff was being flung at her, but because it was all wrong!

Saskia remembered having a heated discussion with Dave over this very topic with regards to Nautilum. Just because it was summoned by magic didn’t mean acid had to be bright and colourful and easy to spot. Despite what movies and video games would have people believe, most acids used in the real world were colourless. But Dave had insisted that ‘dumbarse gamers’ just wouldn’t get it if they used subdued colours, so eventually she’d relented. And now their game had the same bubbling pools of colourful sludge as every other game.

And so, it seemed, did this world. The only thing the god or gods of this world got right was that acid didn’t just melt what it came into contact with—it burned.

She shook her head. There must be something wrong with her. Here she was, critiquing the realism of a spell being used to kill her!

And as for her opponent…this guy didn’t give a crap about games. He just wanted her dead.

Saskia approached the elf warily, torn between fight and flight. If she got close to him, those flailing thorn-covered vines might strip the flesh from her bones. But if she ran, she’d take a blast of acid to the back.

Better to attack now, and maybe get through through those vines.

Mustering her flagging strength, she lunged toward him.

It was like hitting a wall of angry cats. The vines lashed out, tearing great gouges across her face and chest and legs, and knocking her head first into a tree.

Saskia hauled herself back up, groaning. Okay, so throwing herself at the vine shield wasn’t going to work. She’d be flayed alive long before she could land a blow on him. She needed a way to hit him from a safer distance.

She glanced over at the bow, lying on the ground near the fallen elf archer. A quiver of arrows was still strapped to his back.

Immediately, she dismissed the idea. Not a chance. She’d tried to fire a bow once, as a young teen. The results had been hilariously bad. Archery was not something she could just pick up in the middle of combat.

She’d have to make do with her spear. She could try throwing it like a javelin, but she didn’t fancy her chances. Best to stick with melee, and hope it was long enough to reach him through the shield. Now where had she dropped it?

Over there! It lay on the ground next to the dead cat.

Saskia circled around a bit, trying not to make it look too obvious what she was planning. Then she broke into a mad dash—or as mad a dash as she could make in her present seriously wounded state.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the elf reach into his shoulder satchel and flick something into the air. An instant later, she heard the eerie murmur of another spell being channelled. She could see a faint trail of light passing through her, slightly brighter than before. It was following her as she moved, wobbling in and out of her as the elf adjusted his aim. This was gonna be close. The trail turned red, warning her that it was time to dodge.

Almost, she leapt the wrong way. At the last moment, the elf had aimed slightly to the side of her current position, perhaps anticipating that she’d dive into it. She sprang backward, watching the globule of acid whoosh past her. The spell wasn’t actually all that fast-moving, which was the only reason she’d been able to evade it from such a close range.

The acid struck a moment later. Saskia watched in disbelief as her best hope went up in smoke. The spear was gone in an instant, leaving nothing but a gleaming metal tip, slowly sinking into a toxic crater.

Had that been his intent all along, or was she just that unlucky!?

Strange that the metal hadn’t been scoured away with everything else though. Maybe that stuff wasn’t acid after all?

Taking advantage of her botched plan, the elf began to cast another spell. From a tiny pouch retrieved from his satchel, he scattered black dust into the air. The dust swirled before him, swelling into a spinning vortex of…oh no… A buzzing cloud of tiny bugs gathered around the head of the staff.

Not the bees! thought Saskia. Anything but that dank meme.

Before she could even begin to formulate a response to this new problem, the swarm made a beeline for her. There was no telegraphing this spell. When she tried to sidestep the incoming swarm, the bugs just changed course, confirming her suspicion. This was not one she could dodge.

Then they were all around her, ignoring her frantic attempts to evade them and swat them away. They weren’t actually bees. She almost wished they were. Wave after wave of biting insects darted at her face and arms and legs, and the tattered shreds of flesh on her chest and belly.

And where they landed, pain blossomed.

It may have been the worst pain she’d ever felt before in either of her lives. And she was no stranger to pain, neither as a troll, nor as a human.

There was a thin wailing sound. She was making that sound, she realised.

For a moment, the world wavered and went white. It was almost like one of her seizures, except she knew this one was induced by pain, rather than glitches in her own brain. She was moments away from collapse. And she knew if she allowed herself to fall unconscious, she was finished. The elf would not simply stand by and wait for her to come to her senses.

Pain. That’s all it was. That was the purpose of this spell. It was meant to incapacitate her, not cause direct damage. She didn’t know how she knew this with such certainty, but she did.

Remember your Bene Gesserit training, she thought to herself. Except the imagined words were spoken in Ferg’s voice. It was the kinda thing Fergus would say. He was a huge Dune buff. Incidentally, he looked like a nerdy version of Sting, who had played Feyd-Rautha in the David Lynch adaptation.

Why was she thinking about Dune again? Oh right. Pain tolerance. She needed to stay conscious; focussed.

Saskia took a deep, calming breath.

And when she’d finished exhaling, she could see again. The bugs were still buzzing around her, darting at her. Still biting her. But they left no marks on her flesh beyond what had already been there. The pain was still there—oh god was it still there—but it no longer controlled her.

She stood there for a moment, regaining her composure, trying to look unfazed by the cloud of biting insects harassing her. In truth, she was a little fazed, but she wasn’t about to let her opponent know that.

Saskia looked at the elf, who was busy channelling yet another acid blast. Then she picked up a rock and threw it at him.

Clearly he hadn’t been expecting that, because even though the vines surrounding him batted the rock away, he flinched, and the globule of acid pooling in the air abruptly winked out of existence.

She waggled a clawed finger at him and said, “Oh too bad. Concentration check: failed.”

The elf took a step backward. That was the best reaction she could’ve hoped for, given that his face remained as impassive as ever, concealed as it was behind a layer of barkskin.

His reaction inspired a surge of confidence within her, and she began to heave sticks and stones at him, one after another. One particularly large rock, hurled with all the strength she could muster, even managed to pass through his vine shield, forcing him to step aside, and interrupting another spell.

The swarm of insects slowly dissipated, and it was as if a weight had lifted off her. She hadn’t realised how much it was weighing her down until it was gone. Oh there was still a lot of pain from her actual injuries, which were numerous and horrific, but that was normal pain. That was easy to deal with, after having mastered the really bad stuff.

But the elf wasn’t out of tricks yet. His hand whipped out, hurling a barrage of somethings at her. As they buried themselves in her abdomen, she realised they were thorns, black and glistening with some sort of toxin. She yanked them out, but not fast enough.

Immediately, she began to feel their effect as her movements became sluggish and her limbs weak. It took all of her willpower just to stay upright. Throwing anything bigger than a pebble at him was now out of the question.

An arrow thudded into her belly.

She blinked down at the feathered shaft, caught completely off guard. Then she looked up at the archer—the one she’d previously knocked out—who was hastily nocking another arrow. He wobbled a little on his feet, but otherwise looked in pretty good shape for someone who had likely suffered a major concussion.

Saskia wanted to shout to the heavens. These guys were the worst.

Again she bounded toward the archer, but now she felt like she was running underwater, her muscles slowed by the paralysing toxin in her bloodstream.

She could see where he was aiming. The trajectory was marked in the air for her to evade. Unfortunately she couldn’t move fast enough to actually evade it. The best she could do was zig-zag a bit, so the trail of light drifted away from her most vital parts as often as possible.

Another arrow struck her side, knocking the breath out of her. She pulled it out with trembling hands, and kept lurching drunkenly toward him.

As soon as she got close, he simply darted out of the way, nocking another arrow as he ran. Apparently he’d learned his lesson. Half-paralysed as she was, there was nothing she could do to stop him.

So she did the next-best thing she could do. She circled around, positioning the archer between herself and the wizard (who was actually more like a druid, judging from his spell repertoire). Then she crouched low, presenting the smallest profile she could for both of the ranged attackers.

By happy coincidence, she did this just as the druid was about to unleash another spell at her. With a muttered curse, he cancelled his spell.

Slowly, she stalked toward the archer. He continued to back away, firing an arrow into her shoulder, and another, which—dogs be praised—actually missed.

Just a little bit further…

Saskia took another step forward, flashing the archer a toothy grin. This seemed to unsettle him. He backed up hastily and—ignoring the shouted warnings of his companion—stepped straight into the druid’s vine shield.

His body jerked and spasmed as the thorny vines tore into his back. Then he was knocked forward—a look of absolute horror flashing across his face—straight into her waiting arms.

“And that, gentlemen,” said Saskia, “is what we Earthlings call an own goal.”

Her semi-paralysis had actually worn off a bit earlier, but she hadn’t wanted them to know that. She quickly put the archer out of his misery, punching him with just enough force to send him back to sleepy oblivion without actually killing him. At least that’s what she intended. She may have overdone it a bit, because he didn’t look too good. His nose was gushing blood, and there appeared to be a spot of blood welling up in one of his eyes.

Even so, she didn’t let go of his sagging body, and instead held it between herself and the druid. Yeah, using a human shield—or rather, elven shield—was a pretty low tactic. But these elves were so frocking annoying, she had no intention of playing fair.

Holding the archer’s body in front of her like a rag doll, she charged at the coil of vines that hung in the air between them. She was banking on the fact that the druid didn’t want to see his companion flayed alive by his own shield spell. He backed away from her, but nowhere near fast enough.

Shouting something that may have been a magical trigger word—but was more likely just an elven expletive—the druid brought down his shield.

“Checkmate,” said Saskia, stepping into the now-clear area between herself and the druid. Her closed fist descended upon his barkskin-covered face.

“Ow!” said Saskia, clutching her bleeding knuckles. “You have a hard head, you know that?”

The druid, having slumped to the ground, unconscious, didn’t respond.