The next morning found the ragtag, weirdly successful, often morally questionable band of adventurers standing at the ragged, shimmering edge of the Cursed Plains. The air was dry enough to parch a camel, the sky blindingly blue, and the ground ahead… flat, endless, and miserable, the kind of place that screamed bad idea.
Everyone was packed and ready.
Well, "ready" in the same way a drunk is ready to argue with a lamppost, which is to say, mostly by showing up and hoping for the best.
Raikya was in front, perched astride Frostlick like she'd been born in the saddle. Penelo and Lula clung to the great hound's snowy fur behind her, giggling like children as the beast's massive paws thudded over the cracked earth. Frostlick's tail swished lazily, a hound satisfied with her lot in life… or at least with the three women hugging her back.
