It has been nearly an hour, and Vorgulremik hasn't tired of the catch-and-release method of dragging Arkold through the sky. For the Jupani, the novelty has worn off, and there are several overly warm spots on his chest where the oil lamps have been burning away. Below, the landscape is a more or less homogenous dark blur, broken up by the occasional river or pond to reflect back the light of the Procession (and Arkold's own lamps, when the dragon lets him sink low enough).

"It sure is peaceful eh," Arkold asks no one at all. He peers down into the darkness as he runs a hand through his windblown hair. "And … " his eyes can the unchanging blur looking for something interesting – something he doesn't find, " … boring."

Something unseen goes ZING past Arkold's right ear, just as the towrope is pulled taut as Vorgulremik starts hauling him up to a higher altitude.

"Hey," Arkold remarks in surprise. A little louder again, then louder as he tugs the rope. "Unless the bugs in Sylvani get really big here, eh, I think we're under attack, Vorg!"

In reply, the dragon drops the towline, and circles off to somewhere behind Arkold.

"Hey," Arkold repeats as he glides down towards the forest. His head bobs left and right in the hopes it makes him less of a target. He doubts it. "I 'ope you're not makin' breathin' fire up. Eh? Vorg? Voooorg?"

The dragon doesn't reply, and Arkold can hear it moving further off. Another arrow fails to ZING, but makes its presence known by prodding the wolf in the seat of his pants… making it clear that he's being fired on from behind, and that… for the moment… he's too high up for the arrows to be affective.

"Ow! Jus' you wait till I get down there an … !" It sinks in to the wolf if he was "down there" the arrows would be "in there" and he chokes off his protest to begin a new one. "Up! Pull me up! 'Ey!"

The towrope dangles limply between Arkold's flailing legs. A flupflupflup sound from behind heralds something new… a flaming arrow! It arches past over Arkold's shoulder, and vanishes into the treetops below. Not all that far below, really.

"Oh yeah? Well jus' see abou' this." Arkold turns his gaze to watch over his shoulder while he tugs at the parachute line to try and get it to turn. "Jus' fire another one of them arrows."

Sure enough, another flaming arrow arcs from the trees behind Arkold. Before it nears the parasail though, a larger, brighter burst of flame stabs downwards from the air to set the trees ablaze!

Arkold, hefting a lantern, looks a little put out. "Well, uh, … I suppose … " He slowly lowers the lantern and instead scratches his head. "Take that." He figures he ought to thank the dragon too. Maybe. Probably. "Good shot, Vorg!" And he was so looking forward to beaning the archer with a lantern.

Just then, the ring on the end of the towrope snags a tree, and Arkold's forward momentum forces him downwards in an arc faster than he'd normally descend!

"Ohhhh nooooo," Arkold mutters grimly as he arcs towards the ground. He prepares himself using all his warrior training! – which means he curls into a ball and hopes he doesn't break too many limbs. At least, not his own limbs. Tree limbs are okay.

CRUNCH! PLOOF!

The impact was not quite what Arkold was expecting. Thatch and hay explode away from him as he plunges through the top of somebody's cottage, landing relatively unharmed on a straw mattress.

Arkold peeks through the fingers covering his face. First left, then right, then both again to make sure of what he's seeing. "I'm not … dead." He prods himself to be sure. Soreness. He must be alive. Daydreaming of sitting around in bed was something he thought of during the in-flight boredom after all. Slowly he sits up. "It's a miracle! Praise … " he pauses – after all which god would save someone by having them fall in bed? – then it hits him, "Inala!"

"You're on fire," says a somewhat surprised Khatta woman, dressed in a nightdress and holding up a broom protectively. Sure enough, the oil has splashed out of the lanterns and cheerily burning away at the leather parasail harness.

Arkold looks up and grimaces. Quickly he scrambles over to try and put the fire out. It just doesn't do to burn someone's house down. Rather rude. A bit like breaking their ceiling. "It's no' what it looks like," Arkold assures the woman distractedly.

Some of the still falling thatch and settling hay make the task of putting out the blaze a real challenge, until the woman throws a bucket of water over the whole mess, including Arkold. "You aren't what I expected," she says, "when I prayed to Inala for a husband."

The fire sputters and so does Arkold. "REALLY no' wha' you expect," he insists. He makes a fuss over putting out the fire even after it's out. "I'm jus' here to … uh … well … " He gestures vaguely with a free hand. "Flying. Dragon. Arrows." Cough. "Eh, you know."

The woman just shakes her head, and picks up her broom again. Now that Arkold can get a better look at her, she's… not exactly homely, just a bit asymmetrical. The shape of her head is right, but her fur is a patchwork of different colors, and she has one green eye and one gold one, and even her ruff of head hair is multi-colored.

Now that he really can't pretend he's putting out the fire Arkold slowly turns around to eye the woman with the broom. He frowns at the broom a moment before turning all the way around and sitting on the bed edge. "Uh. Well, I'm er … A mercenary fighting the Gallisians? An' the necromancers. An' a few other things I'm sure. Sylvani is pretty, ah," he peers at the woman – stares rather – before flicking his gaze away realizing he's being rude, "colorful." The wolf shrugs.

"What are you, then?" the woman asks, raising her broom. "Ne'er seen one like you. And you got wires goin' up through my roof. I don't have no truck with demons and spirits!"

Arkold resists a witty remark about being a puppet dancing on the strings of fate and simply says, "Well, see, I was with this … dragon … " He makes what might be a dragon-shaped formation with his hands, " … an' I was shot with an' arrow, then snagged a tree, an' then fell through your roof." He points at the ceiling.

The Khatta stares at him for a few moments after this explanation. "Dragon looking for spinsters now, et up all the young gels already?" she asks. "You some kind of golem it made or sumthin?" Her grip on the broom handle tightens.

"Golem?" That's a new one. He's been called all sorts of things but never a golem. "No, ah, ma'am I'm a Jupani. One of the canine races? Not like a Gallisian really, uh, lots of us on Rephidim an' in the Himaar. Kind o', ah," he looks around, " … rare out this way I suppose. But I'm alive." He holds a hand out. "See? Go ahead."

The woman steps back from the offered hand. "Okay… and you fellas fly around with dragons, eh? Except when you're falling through roofs?"

"He's more of a temporary ally," Arkold insists as he stands up. "I don' know where he went after I fell through the roof. Maybe we shoul', ah, step outside? If you're no' goin' to hit me with tha' broom?"

"What about those?" the woman asks, gesturing with her broom to the lines running up from the harness to the parasail outside.

"Hmm." Arkold begins trying to gather the lines and parasail in to his hands – if he can untangle them anyway. "Better gather these up. Part of the flyin' rig the dragon made. He might be waitin' for me. Or glad I died an' doin' a jig somewhere. You know dragons, eh?"

Each tug on the lines causes more of the thatch roofing to collapse in. The large sail could be caught on something outside.

"So much for tha'," Arkold sighs. He begins removing the straps to take the backpack off. Better than tearing the sail to shreds anyway, or worse ruining the woman's house more. "Sorry abou' your roof ma'am. Uh. I'll try an' make it up to you."

"Mmmm," the woman grunts, looking like she's heard that line before. "Not a ma'am. I'm Quiltina," she says. "You gotta name, Jumpany?"

"Arkold," the wolf responds. He shakes off the last strap and gives the harness one last frustrated look. "Nice to meet you Quiltina, an' I wish it were under better circumstances."

"Like what?" Quiltina asks, suddenly curious.

"Like … ? Oh, uh, like a ball. Or walkin' through town. Pretty much anythin' that doesn't start with the breakin' of your property an' a life endangerin' fall." The man laughs softly as he turns around. "I mean I'll 'elp when I can. See there's this necromancer makin' blood-people an' generally bein' in need of a swift beatin', an' I've been helpin' seein' him get it."

"Mmmm," Quiltina utters again, and backs up towards the door of the small cottage. "I suppose you'll be getting back to that then?" she asks, and opens the door. Outside, the fabric of the parasail drapes down across the doorway, with something lacy, pink and possibly Gallisian in design showing up right in the middle of the door.

"Prolly," the man replies uncertainly. This is quite an unexpected event. "I coul' stay, uh, maybe. For a bit." He walks over and pokes his head out the door under the sail to look for the dragon while pointedly trying to ignore the Gallisian lace.

A dozen feet away, a tall figure turns towards the peeking Jupani. It's eyes glow and spark in a demonic visage, and each movement causes its skin of congealed and dried blood to crack and ooze. Something glows brightly on its chest, as it raises a taloned arm to point at Arkold and wail horribly.

Arkold stares at the blood monster as it wails until quite irritated, and already sore and moody from falling through a roof, roars right back. He gives the demon a rather unpolite sort of hand gesture and then calls back over his shoulder, "Evil's here. Might wanna hide, or else follow behind me, eh? Can you run?" The wolf reaches to draw his sword wondering how much good it'll do.

"Whut?" Quiltina asks, raising the cloth with the tip of her broomstick to look out, then just as quickly dropping it and trying to close the door, banging it against Arkold's backside in the attempt. "Move!" she yells.

Arkold moves. He steps outside. "Ooookay vampire snack, it's jus' you an' me." He wonders if that might be carved on his tomb stone. Maybe someone will laugh. He tries hard to remember what Alptraum told him about these monsters as he begins circling with a mind towards staying out of reach while holding its attention away from the woman.

The blood creature steps towards Arkold, taking a swing at him with a taloned hand.

Blood meets sword as Arkold blocks, and the creature's viscous paw drops away with a splat. A new hand quickly emerges from the stump, though, and the monster wails louder.

The wolf dances back and begins circling the monster again. He tries to listen for the sound of water and wishes he hadn't ruined his ears by listening to loud music when he was young. "Looks like it hurts monster, maybe you shou' get a bandage to stop the bleedin'," he quips distractedly. He has an idea but he needs water. If he can't find it he considers a more direct approach.

The demonic beast snarls, and makes more lunges at Arkold, losing (and regrowing) numerous hands and talons in the process. As they circle, Arkold catches a glimpse of Quiltina peeking through a window that managed to not get covered in sailcloth.

Hoping the monster is as brainless as it appears – and Arkold doesn't even want to think about a brain floating in that mess – the wolf calls to the woman saying, "Water! I need a bucket of water! Can' beat this thing with a sword!" He prepares himself for further defense. The time just isn't right to strike and he hopes he's alive to when the time is right.

The quiltwork Khatta vanishes from the window, and there are noises from within the cottage. Arkold can't pay too much attention though, since the blood monster makes a full-body lunge at him!

The Jupani's sword impales the monster, as does his sword arm, to little effect! Powerful arms wrap around him as the creature bears him down and begins to crush his ribs! Before anything snaps though, the weight vanishes and the monster howls in pain as a torrent of water washes away most of its right arm and torso… leaving Arkold drenched in both water and gooey blood.

"Uuughh … gah!" The wolf tries to focus through the revulsion of being covered in animated blood. Ugh. So disgusting – but this is it! His chance! "HA!" He thrusts his free hand forward for all he's worth and attempts to rip the amulet right out of the monster's chest!

As he grips the amulet, there is a moment of horrible sensation as the blood soaking into his fur and clothes begins to writhe, but then the chain holding the amulet gives and monster collapses into a puddle of steaming gore.

Bucket in hand, Quiltina looks down at Arkold and demands, "Who is gonna clean this mess up, I wants to know!"

Arkold stares at the amulet in his hands a moment before sighing, and nodding. "I will. Gimme a mop," he concedes. Then he gives the woman his best smile. "An' point me towards the well 'eh? I need to wash off." He resists a shudder.

"Wash off?" The woman asks, clutching the bucket handle to her bosom. "Here? Are you sure?" she asks, seeming a bit breathless.

"Well I can' very well take the chance ol' gooey here will rise up again and suffocate me with my shirt," Arkold explains. He tosses the amulet in his hand and peers at it a moment. "Eh, might wanna wait come to think of it. Might 'ave more of his friends aroun'. Oh, this symbol's the symbol of the necromancer. So, see, proof eh?"

"What? Oh, right," Quiltina says, and actually giggles coyly. "I'll wash your clothes for you, if you like. If another comes you can fight it… well, blood washes out of fur easier… "

Arkold gives the woman a considering look, then just shrugs. "Sure. Why not, eh?" He grins. "Now where's tha' water?"

Quiltina leads Arkold back towards the well, her colorful tail twitching back and forth happily.

Arkold considers his adventure thus far and decides Quiltina is much better company than the dragon. Also being lost in the middle of the night means he's not getting back to the castle any time soon. So he figures he may as well stay and enjoy the company – and try and fix the roof of course.