Bloody Rensvind...

There were sometimes when Chingo would regret being a hero. These times were not often, but would always be found in the instances when he was somehow going through the sky at a fast pace. 
It wasn't as if Chingo was scared of heights. He really wasn't. But the feeling of whizzing through the air at breakneck speeds on harpoons/dragons/rockets/nothing in particular was something of a bane to him. And right, now he was expected to do something even worse. 
Firstly, he was in disguise. He had grown about five times his size, and now had shapely hips, modest breasts, and lips that weren't covered by a bushy beard busy with hair. Secondly, he was on a proto-drake which had a mind of its own. Thirdly, in this contest of bare-faced stupidity, he was expected to throw a harpoon onto the latch of another rider's saddle, and zip up the chain that would stem from it. In essence, he was expected to zoom from one dragon to another. In mid air. 
What annoyed him was that it seemed like he was the only person in the vicinity to realize what a damn silly idea this actually was. Rensvind, being Rensvind, had taken this opportunity to say "Awesome" or something similarly bloody annoying. He was going at it like a man possessed. 
Chingo, for his part, was at least trying. With the accuracy afforded to him from being a wizard, he peered at a dragon down below. The missus on it seemed nervous. He was about to make her even more nervous. 
As they circled the titanic mountain that hosted a giant made of stone, and lightning in the distance crackled and brought the spirits of the mountain to life, Chingo unfurled his harpoon, and threw it downwards. It was a perfect hit. Muttering a curse, he clicked the button that would see the chain fall in on itself, and him be dragged downwards. 
It wasn't a mode of transport made for comfort. He was pulled downwards as if he was a ragdoll. 'Bloody hell!' he shouted, almost as loud as the rolling thunder that came from all corners of the Storm Peaks. As he landed, arse first, in the saddle behind, the woman tried to turn around. She received a Dragon's Breath in the face for this poor effort. As her stunned, burnt form fell of the dragon's back and down to her unprepared snowy grave below, Chingo muttered again, and pushed himself into the front saddle. 
This was bloody stupid, he considered, as he started to look for his next target. It'd have to be one up above now, he thought bitterly. The mana pie he had been eating earlier wouldn't last much longer in his digestive system. 'Alright, yer git,' he whispered to the dragon, 'been lovel-' 
The dragon rocked downwards a little, as someone else landed in the saddle Chingo had just been occupying. The gnome turned, and saw another blue vykrul lady in his vision. 
'Hi,' it said, in a rough, dwarven voice, before punching him in the face. 
'Reeeeennnnnnnnneeers!' shouted what was left of Chingo's mouth as he plummeted downwards. Rensvind would probably have done something about his quite unfortunate mistake, were it not for the fact that the drakes were still, very stubbornly, having goals of their own. In the dwarf's vision, Chingo became little more than a speck as he continued his unwanted descent. 
The wizard had no way of saving himself from a nasty fall. He smashed against the snow covered side of the mountain - a ledge that was by no means a salvation. He landed head first, his neck cracking incredibly painfully. It was the instinct gained from years of adventure that caused the gnome, in his last moments, to grab his belt, smash the bottle he had his hands on against the rocky surface of the mountain, and then bring it furiously to his bloody mouth. As precious, liquidised health seeped back into his body, and his neck snapped back into place, he discovered a new-found hate for disguises. 
Even the Dragonmaw weren't this bad.
Category:Story