The Werebeaver charged across the clearing, buck-teeth gnashing wildly, tail thumping the ground in time with Rum's pounding heart. Before Rum could even think of running away, Molotov had spread his hands, a sudden wall of fire erupting from the ground, bursting outward to stop the snarling beast in its tracks. Molotov puffed and panted, skinny limbs trembling as he tried to maintain the spell.

The Werebeaver was not deterred. It snapped and scratched wildly at the wall of flames, scalding fur and skin, but refusing to admit defeat. With a quickness Rum hadn't predicted, the massive creature spun and jumped, tail hanging suspended in the air above the wall of fire for one breathless moment.

"Uh, Molo-" Rum began, his face going pale. He didn't manage to finish.

The Werebeaver's tail slammed down on the wall of fire, sending a gust of flame shooting backwards, knocking Rum and Molotov over. Molotov rolled, coming back to his feet- only to receive a brutal fist to the side of the head, sending him flying sideways into a tree with a sickening crunch.

The Werebeaver didn't miss a beat, another fist swinging wildly for Rum. He leaned backward, years of aggressive limbo practice preparing him for the moment. Heart pounding, brain racing for a strategy, Rum decided on a course of action.

He spun on a heel and took off running into the dark jungle. Behind, the Werebeaver let out a guttural roar, dropping to all fours and sprinting off in pursuit.

---

The forest was dark and scary. Rum wished he had better words to describe it. He was a poet after all- a very good one usually, ignoring his recent problems. But when a gigantic were-creature is pursuing you, poetry often takes the backseat. So the forest was dark and scary.

Rum tore through it at a breakneck speed, screaming at the top of his lungs, leaping fallen logs and shallow ditches, painfully aware that the forest behind him was in the process of being chewed up and spat out by a monstrous beaver.

Suddenly, with a gust of wind hitting him smack in the face, Rum burst through the edge of the tree-line, the thin coastline far below.

Far, far, FAR below.

Rum, eyes boggling, realized that the ground below him had abruptly decided to pack up its bags and go home. Rum dropped, legs nearly falling out from beneath him as they connected with the steep incline. Oh good, this is exactly what I need. Before him, approaching fast, was the edge of a cliff- and he was locked in a wild run toward it.

There came a horrific smashing sound behind him, and a large tree, roots and all, pinwheeling and exploding into shards of bark and dirt, came skittering down the slope beside him. The strange undulating cry of a Werebeaver followed.

All options considered, Rum was amazed to find that leaping off a cliff was looking pretty good. At the very least, the chance to consider any other option was rapidly vanishing. Unless-

-the cutlass clattered at his hip, somehow still snug in his belt despite the chaos. Could he spin and pull the sword? Face the creature on the edge of a cliff?

That's what heroes do.

Rum, still running down a hillside toward a steep cliff, attempted to pivot. He promptly, before he even really realized what was happening, ate shit. Face flying downward to connect with the dirt, Rum was barely aware of a heavy whoosh that seemed to pass over him, a dreadful roar that seemed to peak and then... descend.

Skidding to a stop, face half-buried in the dirt, Rum clawed his way to his hands and knees to find himself inches from the edge of the cliff. Peering over the side he could just make out a hulking figure, barely visible in the dark despite its size, descending into the trees. The Werebeaver hit the treetops below, crashing into them and vanishing below with a resounding, echoing explosion.

Rum stared in shocked silent, watching birds flee from the impact crater far below. Nothing seemed to move- but despite the horrific drop, he doubted the Werebeaver was down for the count. It was a sobering, negative thought- but still, Rum was glad to be alive. He'd even nearly done something heroic. Or at least had the thought enter his mind.

Now I just need to hope all that chaos hasn't alerted every pirate on the island...

---

Pascal Poke crept through the bush, low like a snake, twin fangs in hand. The sounds of fighting and the metal scent of magic had faded away, but evidence remained of the battle. The birds and crickets had grown silent as he'd crept closer to the place farther up on the slope where gusts of fire had been visible minutes before.

He idly wondered if Luna had finished them all off, or if she'd saved a few for him. Whoever this crew was, snatching the sword right from under Captain Annay's nose was both damn clever and damn bold.

Annay had killed at least half of the informants she'd used to secure information about the sword's location. Most, bookkeepers, scribes, historians, didn't even know how precious the scraps of information they'd held had been. They'd died without knowing why, and Poke had truly believed they were the first crew to know Foam-Cutter's location in a hundred years or more. Swords of the Sea weren't left lying around- wars were fought over them, men went bankrupt pursuing them across the burbling foggy waters. A mere handful of the fifty were in active use around the sea, and those who claimed them were demigods, leaders of nations and religions, powerful monsters and steadfast adventurers.

Word of a Sword of the Sea would summon pirate crews and petty kingdoms from around the Foggy Ocean, so they'd need to act fast and secure the sword as quickly as possible. But questions still remained. How had this mysterious pirate crew located the hidden city? Had they been tailing the Prickly Lady the entire time, through some unknown means or magic? And most baffling of all, how had they sniped the sword without using the seastone key?

All the information we gathered made it very clear, the chamber was only accessible with a seastone key. Captain Annay risked life and limb to snatch it, only to find that someone else had picked the lock... clearly we're dealing with professionals. Gods, what did we expect going after a Sword of the Sea? This is the big leagues! It's got to be Class-A adventurers, at least one Archmage if those fireworks from earlier were anything to go by. A real band of cut-throat intellectual masterminds.

Despite the danger Poke was eager as he slinked forward toward the clearing, idly twirling the blades he held close to the ground. That's the thing about it- even intellectual masterminds don't like it when you stab them with a knife. Even's the whole intellect thing out. He sniffed the air as he approached the scene of the battle.

Smoke hung heavy over the clearing, twigs and branches fried and smouldering, wet trees hissing and trying to catch. Tracks were scattered across the floor- two humans and something large with a tail from what he could make out. Good ol' Luna. As chaotic as the fight was, he was fairly certain what direction the survivors had gone. Not like Luna to leave'em alive. At least they'll be easy to pick off. All I need to-

There was a sudden snap somewhere close-by that echoed through the silent wood. Poke dropped low, seamlessly bringing another knife up to hold within his teeth. His eyes scanned across the dense foliage- nothing moved. There wasn't even the whisper of wind through the trees.

A sudden thought took him. It was strange, silly to contemplate- but it stuck in his mind, wormed its way in and made a home. Maybe the wind ain't moving because something's scared it. He gave a quick jerky shake of his head, trying to clear the thought like it was nothing but bad cobwebs. But it persisted. A cold sweat dripped down his back.

Something was wrong. Perhaps he'd been a little hasty, pushing on through the night ahead of the rest of the men. But he was one of Captain Annay's crew- there were terrible men out there in the wide world, but Annay had gone and killed a good chunk of them. He'd helped. What was there to be afraid of?

Slowly, Poke inched his way out of cover into the clearing. The twig snap had been from somewhere ahead- perhaps just a careless bird, or an animal making a hasty retreat? Perhaps-

There was the sensation, the lightest touch, of wind at the back of his neck. Pascal Poke froze.

No. Not wind. Breath. Ohshitticus, hear my prayer-

He spun quick, just as it came out of the woods, unhinged jaws swinging wide to swallow him alive.