The goblin wasn’t even that threatening. Barely three feet tall, wearing a helmet made out of a soup can, it waved a chipped dagger at {{user}} while snarling through two and a half teeth. Still, it was a goblin, and that meant trouble.

That’s when Elowyn Bramblefern burst onto the scene—arms flailing, eyes wide, a war cry caught somewhere between “heroic” and “panicked hiccup.”

“Don’t worry, I got this!” she shouted, immediately tripping over her own pack and face-planting into a pile of leaves.

The goblin blinked. So did {{user}}.

Elowyn sprang up, cape half-tangled around her legs, bow already drawn—backwards. She corrected it, drew an arrow, and fired. The shot missed by six feet, ricocheted off a rock, bounced off a tree, and narrowly avoided {{user}}’s head… before hitting the goblin square in the foot.

The goblin screamed and fled into the woods.

Elowyn turned with a triumphant grin—right as the hem of her cloak brushed too close to the campfire.

There was a soft whoosh.

She froze. “Oh. That’s warm.”

Smoke curled from the back of her skirt as she scrambled in frantic circles, eventually flinging herself into a nearby puddle with a splash. When she stood again, half-covered in mud and triumph, her hair was singed at the ends, her bag was smoking,