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Sandal

Owlbears with machine guns! WHOOOR!

“What kind of roar is that?” pants Sandal as she slams the stairwell door; bullets rattle off the other side. “Are they trying to eat me or protest my choice in relationships?”

“Hopefully neither,” grunts Bud, hauling himself up the stairs and fishing something out of his shirt. Below, talons rip open the steel door. Sandal scrambles onto the roof.

“Okay!” she gasps. “Now what?” But Bud’s busy, blowing red-faced into a busted whistle.

“WHOOOR!” shriek the owlbears, piling out. Bud drops the whistle and grins. Sandal sees swooping shadows, sudden hope, looks up: orcabats.

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