Mycasi observed the thirteen pale, scaleless figures. From behind the thick foliage and branches, it seemed like five of them were asleep.
Of course, there was still seven to deal with. The job description had been to ambush three or four untrained mercs. Not thirteen cultists, or whatever they were.
It was always the first few seconds of observation that counted. In five seconds flat Mycasi had formed an opinion of the humanoids. And it was not good.
Mycasi narrowed her eyes at the guards. Something about them made her feel uncomfortable. The seven flat-faced, armoured warroirs stood in wary stances, eyes constantly flitting from tree to tree, rock to rock, ready for anything.
No, Mycasi did not like it one bit.
Finding work was difficult, though, and although Mycasi wouldn't have any trouble fending for herself, Mycasi was a Wyvern.
And Wyverns need gold.
One breath of darkfire would sort out the campfire and the lanterns- as long as they weren't enchanted. Then the rest would be sitting ducks, easy prey for her talons and dragonflame.
Her decision made, Mycasi crouched low against the branch, her muscles tense, her breathing steady.
A second later, darkness gushed forth from her mouth, encompassing the entire camp. Cries of alarm sprang out, destroying the beautiful silence of the night.
In a bound, Mycasi was among them. The first guard fell before he could even register what was happening: another one dropped to the ground, shredded by her claws. All was going well.
A spurt of white-hot fire erupted from Mycasi's mouth.
But, instead of crumpling to the ground, as they should have, the two guards stood their ground. It was impossible! How could they resist her flame?
Then their tunics began glowing, and Mycasi stumbled back, her mind reeling. They had flame-proof armour! It was a trap! A trap!
Suddenly more soliders burst through the wall of trees. The 'sleeping' soliders leapt to their feet.
But Mycasi was no coward. If this was a trap, the perpetrators would pay! Her roar shook the earth. In a bound she was upon an unfortunate soilder, snapping his backbone in an instant. But before she could take off, Mycasi was propelled back forcfully with swords and lances. Again and again she charged, never quite able to clear enough room to fly. With her fire useless and all the soilders well equipped, she was wearing down fast.
As the gashes and cuts began to cover Mycasi's scales, her energy faded. She was a fighter. A warrior, single-handedly fending off the constant attack.
The soilders charged all at once. A gash above Mycasi's eye made it impossible to see properly, and worn down, almost devoid of energy, Mycasi gave a last-stand charge.
At least, thought Mycasi as she hit the ground and remembered no more, I went down fighting.