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“What-ho, chums! It’s a jolly good day for flying, wouldn’t you agree?” barked Sprak LeFevre, standing before his club members at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy’s Aviation Club.
The other members looked out the open doors of the hangar at the raging storm outside. Thunder cracked and lightning erupted across the sky. Purple and blue swirls of magic zig-zagged around the clouds, threatening dire consequences.
“Er, Captain, I don’t think it’s wise to go flying in a magic storm like this,” warned the club’s vice president, a short, carmine-red tiefling who simply went by ‘Simmons.’
“Nonsense! Look at the conditions! We’ll never get a more bully chance to test the capabilities of our new Vought! Now who’s with me!” The rest of the club remained silent, eyeing the angry sky and deadly conditions.
“Oh,” said Sprak sadly, but he bounced back immediately. “Very well, then, I shall go it alone! Simmons, will you man the radio tower for me at least?” His VP nodded. “Bully!”
Soon, to the detriment of his fellow club members, Sprak was taxiing down the runway.
“The strip is all yours, Captain,” radioed Simmons. “Godspeed and good luck.”
“Jolly good!” With those words Sprak hit the accelerator and drove the plane down the runway before taking flight and disappearing into the stormclouds.
“She’s handling beautifully!” he radioed Simmons as he gained altitude.
“Captain, I’m getting anomalous readings!” replied Simmons. “I think you should return to the ground ASAP!”
“Nonsense, it’s her maiden flight! I can’t just take her up for only two minutes!”
“I don’t think you’re going to make it to five minutes, sir!”
“Don’t you try to ground me, Simmons!”
“I think the storm has other ideas, Sprak- OH GODS!” shouted Simmons as a gold-and-purple bolt of magic struck the plane. There was a flash of orange light and when Simmons was able to see again, the plane was gone.
“Sprak!? Captain?!” he shouted into the radio, but only static filled the airwaves.
Sprak felt like he had taken too many hits of crystal meth, the colors, sounds, and scents of the magic storm overwhelming him. First he saw flashes of teal and white, which bled into reds and yellows accompanied by the smell of freshly-baked bread mixed with burnt asparagus. All the while thunder clapped and rumbled until there was a hair-raising bleat of a goat and everything vanished in a gray fog.
Sprak was a seasoned pilot and while he couldn’t see out of the window, he kept his eyes on his instruments and ears open for any sound that might help him navigate. As the fog dispersed within the cockpit, he noticed that his radar had gone out. He cursed and tapped the screen, but nothing came up. Well, he had trained for this – flying blind – and if he lowered himself out of the clouds then surely he could land the plane. He slowly lowered the plane until the gray gave way to white and then blue skies and he found himself over a muddy field. As he searched for a place to land, however, he heard a ping! ping! ping! against the sides of his Vought and his sensors began to sound alarms.
“What in the hell?” he mumbled as his plane began to drop fast. Again the ping ping ping came and this time the glass of his windshield cracked as a bullet embedded within it.
“Thunderation! What the hell is going on out there?!” Another alarm sounded, and Sprak knew it was a bad one. The plane veered into a nosedive and he frantically worked the windshield open and activated the ejection seat, launching himself out of the smoking plane. His parachute opened and as he floated to relative safety, he heard shouting from down below; it was not in any language he understood.
As he touched down among some bushes, he hastily unbuckled his parachute harness, cut a string from the chute and used it to cast Rope Trick. He quickly scaled the rope and pulled it up, vanishing into the air above him.
The voices got louder and were accompanied by the heavy tramp of booted footsteps. Sprak held his breath as several humans in military garb swarmed the area; they held archaic-looking guns and tore apart his parachute as they searched for the person who had just been using it.
<<Il n'y a personne ici!>>
[There’s no one here!]
<<Il ne doit pas être loin! Fouillez la zone!>>
[He couldn’t have gone far! Search the area!]
<<Général! Ce harnais!>>
[Sir! This harness!]
<<Oui, et alors, soldat?!>>
[What about it, private?!]
<<C'est beaucoup trop petit pour un homme d'utiliser! Eh bien, il semble conçu pour un enfant!>>
[It’s far too small for a man to use! Why, it looks like it was designed for a child!]
<<Absurde!>>
[Preposterous!]
Despite being hidden, he instinctively flattened himself down in his safe space as the soldiers ransacked the area. From his vantage point, however, he didn’t like what he could see: flat, empty land full of trenches with only the occasional outcropping of greenery to offer cover. He appeared to be in the middle of a war zone. As if to confirm his suspicions, gunfire rang out from further across the field. This was all very odd; there were no active wars across Solace, HIghcourt, or Fallinel. Was he near the Baronies? But this looked nothing like the Baronies from what he recalled during his flybys. The muddy landscape made him wonder if he had been teleported further out towards The Swamps of Ruin. No matter; he was lost and alone and he needed to get back home. He pulled out his crystal in hopes of messaging Simmons, but to his dismay there was no signal. This wasn’t bully at all.
Thankfully, the soldiers gave up and moved away before his magic expired, allowing him to shimmy down the rope and hide in the bushes below. But where to go? All around him was flat, muddy ground and no cover. He cursed to himself that he didn’t have the Invisibility spell stocked; he’d have to run it. He chose a direction at random and began to book it across the field, heading for the next outcropping of bushes that he could see, but as he did so a shot echoed across the field and he felt the painful burn of a bullet tearing into his leg. Thrown off of his stride, Sprak tumbled to the ground and fell into one of the huge trenches that littered the battlefield, startling the soldiers that lied in wait within, immediately causing a commotion. He scrambled back as best he could with his lame leg as voices shouted in yet another unknown language.
<<What in God’s green glory is that thing?!>>
<<A child?!>>
<<I’ve never seen a green child before, private, have you??>>
<<Nossir, Sarge!>>
Hands roughly grabbed him and hauled him upright.
<<It’s dressed like a pilot!>>
<<Some sort of bizarre experiment of the Krauts?>>
Scared and outnumbered, Sprak did what he knew best and hissed at the soldiers.
“Unhand me!” he growled.
Most of the soldiers reeled back at the aggressive display, but the largest man simply scowled and swaggered up to him before snarling back, as if to assert dominance. He then thumped Sprak on the side of the head with the butt of his gun and everything went black.
Voices in an unfamiliar language floated to the surface of Sprak’s consciousness.
<<Look at its teeth! Devilishly sharp buggers!>>
<<What do you think those metal wires across its teeth are for? Some sort of torture device?>>
<<I reckon they’re there to enhance its biting capabilities.>>
<<Such large ear-like protuberances from its head! Do you think they pick up radar?>>
<<What are you thinking, Doc? Some sort of enemy spy machine?>>
<< No, it’s definitely alive. More likely a biological weapon of some sorts. Here, look at the claws on the ends of its hands – definitely designed for shredding flesh. And the size and color of the eyes? It must have keen night vision.>>
<<Zounds! Imagine dozens of these freaks filling the streets of Nice or London!>>
<<I concur. We must study this thing in great detail so we can learn everything we can about their new, secret weapon. Get all the generals on the horn!>>
There was a great deal of bustling all around him, and Sprak groggily opened his eyes. No one was immediately surrounding him, so he took the opportunity to take stock of his situation. He was spread out across a surgical table, his hands bound but feet free as he was too small to fully fit the built-in restraints. To his relief, he was still clothed, though his bag had been removed; he spotted it sitting on a table next to him. Straight away he summoned a Mage Hand and began to work at the straps holding down his arms. Within moments he was free.
He kept still, biding his time, but his leg began to throb, the bullet wound there letting itself be known. He couldn’t run with a bag leg, so he risked casting Cure Wounds on himself to seal up the wound. He tasted malted milk (with a hint of meth) as the magic coursed over his body, little crackles of silver and gray light fixing the injury.
A voice cried out from across the room as a human pointed at him, face full of alarm.
<<Sir! It’s awake!>>
Two of the soldiers trained their weapons on him while a human in a white coat pulled out a large syringe that dripped with a bright yellow fluid. Sprak didn’t want to see what it did, and uttered an incantation while tracing the outline for the Acid Splash cantrip with his finger. Immediately a large bubble of acid exploded from his fingertip, hitting the two gunmen who were conveniently standing next to each other. He instantly cast the cantrip again, aiming for the man in the white coat and hit him square in the chest. Without a moment to lose, he snatched his bag off the table and legged it out of the room.
Why oh why did he not stock Invisibility for the day? He was never going to not stock it ever again, he’d see to that!
He burst through a set of double doors to a beige hallway covered in illegible signs. A crackle came over a radio system and the hall lights dimmed to red.
<<Warning! A dangerous creature has escaped! Be aware that it can fling acid at will! All civilians are to take cover and hide! All soldiers, this is a Level Three security threat! I repeat, All civilians are to take cover and all soldiers, this is a Level Three security threat!>>
Sprak didn’t understand, but he was certain the announcement and lights were about him. He fished in his bag for his spell components; once he had them he used them to cast Fly on himself, hovering up towards the ceiling of the hallway and then took off at speed. Again, he had no idea where to go, but he was certain that if he stuck to the hallway he’d reach freedom.
Shouts came from below him as he zipped past soldiers who poured out into the hallway, weapons trained on him. He was too fast for them, however, so all they could do was marvel at the flying creature above them as he flew past. He followed the hallway, turning corners whenever possible to break line of sight, just in case the soldiers decided to begin firing, and at last he saw daylight through a windowed pair of double doors. He burst out of them and took to the sky, searching for a way out.
And there he saw it: an airstrip with several Sopwith Camel biplanes parked nearby. He dove down towards the planes, landing a couple dozen yards behind them. They were unguarded, and so he jogged over and climbed into one and began to study the controls. It was old-fashioned for sure, even more so than what he was accustomed to, but that was fine. He could fly without radar and all the other common instruments that were so popular nowadays; he was the ace of the Aguefort Aviation Club, after all! He summoned an Arcane Eye and set it to float in front of him, both to check for anyone approaching his aircraft and for any signs of magic that he could harness to send himself back home.
Quickly he knocked the blocks out from beneath the tires and spun the propeller to start the engine. The roar of the engine grabbed the attention of some nearby soldiers, however, and shouts rang out and alarms sounded from the nearby hangars. No matter; Sprak was familiar with hasty takeoffs and swiftly scrambled into the cockpit and lowered his goggles over his eyes. As he began to taxi the plane towards the strip, a nearby speaker buzzed to life.
<<Soldier, what are you doing?! You are not cleared for takeoff! I repeat, you are NOT cleared for takeoff!>>
“Bugger to the lot of you!” snarled Sprak as he began his takeoff. He watched as a couple soldiers ran out in front of him, but he was determined to fly, so he gave the plane full throttle. Seeing that the plane was speeding up, the soldiers dove out of the way as he rushed past, though they turned around and began to fire at him. Lucky for Sprak, he was too short in the cockpit for the soldiers to get a bead on him, and soon he was airborne. He pulled the plane up higher and higher, circling over the airstrip as he gained altitude, and down below he could see two more planes begin to take off.
Off in the distance Sprak could see a massive thundercloud and headed straight for it. As he got closer to the clouds, the winds buffeted him back, hindering his approach and the drone of more plane engines grew louder as the two other planes began to catch up. Machinegunfire erupted from the closest plane, and, gritting his teeth, Sprak sharply banked his own plane as he prepared for a dogfight. With one hand he grabbed one of the Vickers machine guns mounted to his plane and began to fire, though the kickback was more than he bargained for and his shots went wide. He cursed and took the gun in both hands and fired again, his shots hitting home along the side of the closer of the two planes. The plane behind it, though, opened fire on him and he ducked down as bullets zinged overhead. Both planes also banked and pulled up behind his own.
“Two on one isn’t a fair fight, chums!” he shouted, the wind stealing the words from his mouth and scattering them into the ether. “...Maybe I can even the odds, though,” he mumbled to himself. He pulled up dramatically and then eased up on the engine, slowing down enough to get a line of sight on them. He got as close as he dared to and cast Heat Metal on the first plane. The engine caught fire and the pilot scrambled over the edge as the plane began to plummet, his parachute activating a little ways down.
“That’s better. Now, how about we do the same to our other friend?”
The other plane didn’t give him the opportunity, though, flying out of sight before he could cast his spell.
“Blast!”
Once more machinegunfire rained upon him and he heard the splintering of wood as the bullets met his plane.
“Not good, not good…” He banked again, trying to get close enough to his target to cast another Heat Metal, but the other pilot wasn’t having it. Frustrated, he instead cast Blur on himself, the silver-gray lines of magic surrounding him hindering his opponent’s ability to focus on him. Once more the signature taste of his magic – meth and malted milkshakes – flooded his senses as it took effect. With his opponent now at a disadvantage to hitting him, he increased the throttle once again and took off towards the clouds, weaving back and forth as he approached the thunderheads.
As he got close, he peered through his Arcane Eye, looking out for any traces of magic in the system – anything, really, that could get him back home. The wind buffeted him again, but he kept on pushing the Sopwith to its limits and let the gray clouds swallow him up. The crack of the machinegun echoed across the sky, but with no sight on Sprak, the bullets missed their mark completely. Sprak was now in the center of the storm, and – there! – a swirl of purple and green among the maelstrom was all he needed and he turned the plane towards it. The traces of magic seemed to elude him, however, as he never seemed to get any closer to them, and all the while he was pelted with stinging cold rain and hail this high up within the stormcloud. As the air thinned and breathing became difficult, the engine of the Sopwith began to sputter, but still Sprak chased his only way home.
With the air so thin, illusions began to swim in his vision. Lounging on the left wing of his plane was a carmine tiefling in a fighter jacket like his, goggles pushed up to rest against his long, thick horns. He smiled and waved to Sprak.
“Simmons, I’m coming to you…! Wait for me…!” he gasped, the green-purple just beyond his reach as his engine faltered and gave out.
“No!”
As the plane began to fall, a bolt of golden energy shot out of the swirling miasma of lights, lancing the biplane and filling Sprak’s vision with white. Everything went numb for Sprak; his arms, legs, head, tongue, though once more he smelled freshly-baked bread and burnt asparagus. He lost concentration on his spells, the Arcane Eye winking out and his Blur dropping as his plane sank through the clouds. He could barely focus on anything around him, but as his numbness dissipated, he became aware of how rapidly he was descending. The plane broke free of the clouds, the heavy front pointing downward as he rapidly approached the ground.
Still hallucinating, he glanced over at Simmons, who was calmly relaxing on the wing of the plane. “Simmons, what do I do? I don’t have a parachute.”
“Then fall,” he heard his VP say, and he watched as Simmons gracefully dove off the wing and away into the blue sky.
“Ah… I can always fall…” he mumbled. He detached his harness and muzzily pulled himself up, clinging onto the side of the fuselage. His claws scratched at the wood as he clung on tightly. He needed to fall, but he couldn’t remember how. But no matter what, it was bad news to stay with the plane, so he pushed himself off and tumbled into the open air.
Sprak was falling, but it wasn’t right, it didn’t feel right. There was more to it, if only he could remember. The plane was falling, too, and he watched as it plummeted until it met the ground with a splintering crash!
His shoulder ached and burned where the golden light had struck him, and he felt a spark of energy ripple across his body, emanating from that point. As the spark reached his brain, his cognition seemed to reawaken and he at last remembered how to fall.
The ground loomed before him, and as he fell he thrust his hand into his bag, pulling out a feather. He shouted the incantation and cast Feather Fall on himself, gently gliding the final fifty feet to the ground, landing next to the crumpled wreckage of the Sopwith. As his feet touched the ground and the spell ended, his legs gave out on him and he collapsed to the ground, slightly trembling from his experience.
That was where Simmons and the rest of the club found him a couple minutes later, the tiefling magically flying across the ground to reach his president.
“Captain!” he shouted, dropping to his knees next to the shocked goblin, his hands hovering over him as he searched for wounds, too afraid to touch him in case he was hurt. “Are you alright?! Your shoulder! You’ve been hit by something!”
“A bolt of pure magic, I presume. B- but I’m fine, Simmons! I’m… fine,” he said, withering as the adrenaline left his body.
Simmons leaned forward and slapped him.
“This is for doing something so monumentally stupid!” he said heatedly. “I’m never letting you fly in a storm like that ever again. You were off the radar for ten minutes!”
Shocked, Sprak stammered out a response. “...Ten minutes? No… no, it was longer than that. It… it must have been half a day, at least.”
Simmons reached out towards Sprak again, and then pulled him in close, hugging him tightly. “...And this is for coming back safely.” He kissed his cheek, a gentle pressure against the sting of his slap, and Sprak’s expression shifted to a grin. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, baby.”
Sprak chuckled weakly. “You know me, Simmons; no guarantee.”
“I know. I love you anyway. Now, tell me everything that happened.”