Dodge and the Elemental Air Ale

With a gut-dropping whoooosh, Dodge’s flying boots briefly seemed to forget the 'Flying' part of their description, nearly sending him tumbling into the abyss between two Sky Islands as the ever shifting winds suddenly decided he should not be there.

Sky Islands… Now that was a misleadingly pleasant name. Something soft and serene, evoking gentle breezes, stunning sunsets, birdsong, maybe a picnic?

Lies. All Lies. Terrible, misleading, death-defying, plummeting, lies.

These islands were no peaceful getaway. No cozy retreat. No, no, the Sky Islands of the Whistling Peaks were a hurricane’s playground. Floating shards of stone, constantly shifting with the wind, endlessly unpredictable, and sometimes seemingly controlled by a will that did not like him there. The only reason anything survived here was sheer luck, excellent planning, divine intervention, or well-timed cowardice. And, hey, two out of four ain't bad.

“Just a quick hop up to the highest island,” senior Wayfinder Grimshaw had said. “No danger, just the winds,” he had said. “Just fly up, find the unguarded bottles, and you are one step closer to the prize!” the madman had said.

And yet, as Dodge squinted against the stinging winds and listened to the shrill, piercing whistle rising in the air, he knew.

He was not alone.

It was the sound first. That high, eerie cry that sliced through the howling winds, carrying on a breath that wasn’t quite natural, and then echoed, or answered, by winds from every direction. A hunting call. A warning.

Then... movement!

Blurs of razor-edged wings sliced past him, the air itself twisting and snapping in unnatural currents, spiraling toward him before he could react, shredding his leathers and cutting into his arm before he even realized he was under attack.

Storm Hawks.

“Oh, fucking fantastic,” Dodge muttered, gripping his rapier and snapping his buckler onto his arm in one motion. “Murder Birds. Massive, magical, airborne death starved flying daggers.” He sighed melodramatically, hiding behind his suddenly far too small buckler as weaponized gusts of wind scraped across it.

Dodge had precisely one rule when flying, and that was 'Never underestimate anything with wings'. Because the thing about creatures that lived in the sky? They don’t have to worry about falling.

Dodge, unfortunately, did worry about falling. And he worried about falling a LOT!

The next strike came before he registered the movement, a slicing arc of air cutting past his cheek, sharp enough to cut a strand of hair but thankfully missing his face. His beautiful face!

And then the very winds around attacked.

A rapid dive, a spiraling blur, a swipe of deadly talons nearly hooking his shoulder, Dodge barely ducking and diving and dashing, twisting out of the way, kicking at the air as he tried to race towards the only cover he could find, the floating Sky Peak above.

Not good.

Not ideal.

And absolutely not the retirement plan he’d envisioned.

Dodge, eager to escape up to the limited safety of Sky Peak, caught movement in the clouds above. Three more Storm Hawks waited, circling in ambush. Too fast, too precise. One flick of their wings sent razor currents slicing toward him, driving him further away from his goal.

“Oh, come now!” Dodge called out, raising his arms dramatically. “What exactly have I done to offend you, oh airborne assassins? A breach of sky etiquette? Questionable fashion choices? An unfortunate resemblance to a past meal?!” As a last ditch effort as near invisible death flew at him from all sides, he brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly, as if his life depended on it, for what should be obvious reasons.

The hawks hesitated at the piercing sound. Just for a breath. And Dodge seized the moment.

Some time later after far too many death defying falls, one wildly reckless mid-air collision, and a surprisingly effective bluff involving a fake Storm Hawk mating call—Dodge crash-landed back down to Whistling Peak, sprawled, breathless, flying boots steaming from over use.

And against all logic, clutched tightly to his chest, was a gleaming crystal clear bottle, perfectly intact, labeled:

“Grand Brewmaster Gurglok’s Elemental Air Ale.”

And that, dear readers, is the story of how Dodge Tanner, through tactical screeching, an impeccable sense of timing, and a thoroughly questionable understanding of hawk mating rituals, became the only Halfling to successfully steal from the Storm Hawks and survive.

All Four Elemental Ale bottles acquired. Now to see what they did!

- Excerpt from "Why Go BIG, When You Can Just Stay Home?!", The Autobiography and "Do Not Travel" Memoirs of Derrek 'Dodge' Tanner.