I led the party toward the sea, hoping the shoreline would provide refuge from the Raptors. In our haste we had drifted too far north, to a precariously high elevation. The mistake was made. The fault was mine. We stopped just short of a sheer cliff, the Raptors just a few paces behind.

I stepped slowly forward, gun raised. I had led these brave hunters to their death. I would die defending them. Lashtail Raptors are particularly fierce, known for their unrelenting blood-thirst. They far outnumbered us. But I would be damned if I let them kill me and my comrades without shedding some of their own blood first.

Ajeck and Sir Erlgadin readied their weapons, flanking me on either side, our backs to the sea. Barnil let out a defeated sigh and drew his axe. The Lashtails were almost upon us. Their steady stride had slowed. They were stalking their prey now for they knew they had us trapped.

And then something miraculous happened. From off to our side we heard the distinct and terrifying roar of the great white tiger. Despite their numbers, the Raptors turned and scattered in all directions. We saw but a brief white flash as the tiger darted past us and pounced on one of the Raptors. No command needed to be given. All four members of our party knew it was time to run.

We sprinted all the way back to base camp, never slowing. Later that night we sat quietly around the campfire, knowing our lives had been saved by a bizarre twist of fate. Such are the risks of the big game hunter. We toy with fate by delivering it. Yet each of us, at some point, will face fate's razor sharp teeth. This Dwarf is just glad that moment did not come upon the green hills of Stranglethorn.