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The forest deepened as they walked. Birds scattered through the branches, and the faint chitter of small animals echoed between the trees. The sunlight dappled across the moss, and the smell of damp earth followed them. After about twenty minutes of walking, Fizz suddenly stopped midair and sniffed.
"There," he whispered. "Three of them. Forest Prowlers. Basically angry stinky raccoons with claws."
John crouched, peeping through the underbrush. Three small, dog sized creatures slinked between the ferns ahead. Their fur was bristly and dark, their eyes glimmering faintly red. They moved like shadows, low and twitchy, as if expecting a fight.
"They don't look… that dangerous," John said.
"They aren't," Fizz replied. "But they're fast. Your doom ball will need accuracy. Remember, panic wobble equals humiliation."
