Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #78: An Unwanted, Unwarranted, Game of Tag

Dodge prided himself on being many things—a skilled gatherer, an expert climber, and, most importantly, someone who rarely made a fool of himself. Unfortunately, today was shaping up to be an exception.

The Mistral Blooms clung to the wind-kissed ridgeline in soft clusters, their pale blue petals breathing out a soothing mist. Dodge crouched low, humming an old airship tune under his breath, careful not to stomp too hard lest the flowers wither away. He had just filled his satchel with a good bunch when a flicker of movement above made him pause.

Perched on a near-vertical cliff wall, a handful of Lightning Goats gnawed on—gods knew what. Rocks? Sparks of air? The souls of those who had come before him? Whatever it was, they looked far too amused for creatures engaged in a meal. Hopefully they were too engrossed in whatever they were doing and wouldn't bother with him as he...

Then, one turned its head. Another twitched an ear. The biggest of them stomped a hoof, sending out a small crackling pulse.

Dodge’s stomach dropped.

Without warning, the goats vanished in a snap of light—only to reappear much, much closer, and much, much more aggressively, flashes of electrical bolts stabbing into the ground from their hooves.

The goats stomped. The thunder rumbled. The lightning crackled. The chase began.

Bolts of electricity zapped at his heels, not deadly but sharp enough to make him yelp. Every time he attempted a sharp turn or a desperate scramble down the ridge, a goat would teleport ahead, cutting him off with a smug flick of its tail and another little spark.

“Not fair!” Dodge howled, trying his best to sprint in an unpredictable pattern. "Tag is a Consensual Activity!"

The goats, unfortunately, were excellent at their game of tag, and far less excellent at listening to excuses.

Panicked, a small part of his brain remembered the advice from old mountaineers: Stay low, stay still, but that part was overridden by the much larger, some might say overdeveloped, sense of self preservation that currently controlled his churning legs as he ran. The old tales might have told him the advice, but they hadn’t mentioned how hard it was to actually follow when your entire body was tingling from electrified pranks!

The goats seemed to take turns, vanishing in sparks and reappearing around him like spiteful thunderclouds given legs. Each teleport came with a static crackle, a sharp jolt, a new high pitched sound he eventually realized was him, not the goats.

“Ow! Stop it! I am not an extreme weather sport!”, he wailed as they began prodding him back and forth with electrified glee.

One appeared, zapping his metal buckler. And he quickly dropped it, still sparking, to the ground. Gone.

A goat locked onto his rapier, and with a curse, Dodge tossed it aside before the electric surge could roast him alive.

Then his dagger.

Another appeared, zapping his metal belt buckle. Dodge yanked it off and chucked it into the grass.

Then his dignity, because at this point, he was weaving through the mountains like a spooked chicken, arms flailing, barely holding his pants up, voice rising in an undignified squawk with every new burst of lightning chasing him through the ridge.

Finally, stripped of all metal, and, admittedly, his entire lifetime of self respect, Dodge flattened himself against the earth, breath ragged, hoping the goats would lose interest.

They circled him a few times before, at last, growing bored of their game. With final smug electrified stomps, they turned back towards their sheer cliff face, no doubt chuckling to themselves in their goatly way. With a final series of flickering teleports, they returned to their perches, hooves crackling with leftover mischief. No doubt to await the next perfectly innocent traveler to abuse.

"Someone should Really do something about those things!", muttered Dodge Tanner, Member of the Wayfinders Guild created to do just that.

Dodge, panting, twitching, and completely done with gods cursed fauna, rolled to his back and lay there for a long, shaking moment before gathering himself, and began the arduous task of collecting his discarded gear.

His dignity, tragically, was harder to locate.

But the blooms? Flora's precious blooms were safe.

So, with only slightly singed pride, another set to travel clothes ruined, and a disconcerting full body twitch he seemed to be developing, Dodge trudged toward Flora’s, Mistral Blooms in hand and ready to insist, through gritted teeth, that nothing interesting had happened on his journey.

Flora was going to ask questions.

He was going to lie.