It was not, Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer would have been the first to admit, the most thought-out plan in military history.
“All right, then, Rusty,” Ringo said, patting the massive proto-drake‘s neck. A fine rain pinged off the plates bolted into the beast’s flesh, and he probably couldn’t feel Ringo’s hand through the saronite plating, but patting the plates seemed like the thing to do. “We’ll go down through their portal, nice and quick, nip inside the bastion, grab us up a wee cultist, then turn and fly back out. Ah’ll ask him ’bout recreatin’ the Curse o’ Flesh on Magni. If he refuses, or claims not ta know what we’re about, we drop him down onto th’ rocks and repeat th’ process until one o’ them gives us th’ answer we need. Right? Right!”
Rusty dutifully tucked in his wings and the pair dove toward the floating Twilight Portal that led, Ringo had been told, to the Bastion of Twilight.
They soared through the archway easily and Ringo blinked and realized they were still flying above the Twilight Highlands.
“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” he growled, as Rusty wheeled in the sky and flapped back toward the portal. “Ah reckon that’s better than any guards — just donnae let anyone through yer portal that ye donnae want ta come in.”
Ringo tugged his hood down further around his face and considered the portal.
“Ah reckon there are them as knows all about playin’ with portals,” he mused. “This is gnome work.”