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impressive, that is.
    There is evidence, the rokologists say, to suggest that roks were in the distant past capable of physical flight. Little nublets about where the shoulder blades sit were once wings, they theorize. As the creatures evolved the ability to fly using magic, however, the wings slowly diminished in size and utility. Now they were little more than ridges of flesh and cartilage, the underlying bone having given up the ghost after many generations of neglect.
    Using magic for locomotion proved such a good idea from the roks’ point of view that they decided to take it even further. They gradually started relying on magic for gathering food (they were strict herbivores) and eventually even for eating it. In the process they lost all need for useable limbs, and so evolved into the bloated, inert sacks of fat they had now become. When they got hungry, they just conjured some food into their mouths, or, in the case of the laziest specimens, directly into one or more of their half-dozen stomachs. Roks didn’t possess a great many magical abilities, but the ones they did have were finely-honed.
    The lesser basking rok was called ‘lesser’ because it wasn’t quite as bloated as the greater basking rok. It was called a ‘basking’ rok because that’s what it liked to do best: bask. And eat. Perhaps ‘somewhat less bloated basking and constantly eating rok’ might have been a more precise moniker, but that didn’t fit on the little plaque at the zoological gardens.
    True to form, basking and eating seemed to be the sole items on this particular rok’s itinerary, much to the chagrin of Zyxl and the other members of the procession. They were due at a state function at the Royal Complex in little over an hour, and getting there with this adipose deposit in their path was going to be problematic at best. Zyxl tried to coax it out of the way. He tried to intimidate it. He tried to reason with it. He tried the friendly approach. He made up stories about his tragic childhood to try to win its sympathy. He went into a stand-up comedy routine he usually reserved for regimental parties after a bit too much fuzzfruit razzle. Nothing engaged the rok in the least; it kept contentedly chewing on Yamlop leaves it had teleported up from the southern archipelagoes.
    Finally Amyr-it himself came forward to see why they weren’t moving. He appeared pitifully small next to the hulking half-ogre.
    “What’s the holdup here?” he asked Zyxl, who was standing there looking peeved.
    “This rok here doesn’t want to move out of the way.” He gestured at the huge beast chewing placidly and staring out into space.
    “What have you tried?”
    Zyxl recited the list. Amyr-it smiled, reached down to pick up a small stone, rubbed it on the rok’s skin, and flung it suddenly and with considerable force at one of the creature’s heads. Instead of being deflected, it struck squarely on the nose of the right-hand head. The rok looked very surprised, stopped chewing, seemed to notice all the people around it for the first time, and levitated heavily into the air, disappearing after a few seconds as it teleported to a less crowded basking and eating spot.
    Amyr-it wiped his hands together, smiled at Zyxl, and walked off, leaving the Captain blinking and speechless. “Deflection doesn’t work if the rok’s aura is on the projectile,” he called over his shoulder.
    “Told ye they was stone deef,” whispered the soldier.
     
     

Chapter Five:
Prootwaddler
     
     
     
    T he Effluent was a dismal place. Through a diabolically efficient combination of magic and engineering, it had become the dumping ground for Tragacanth. Any refuse—solid, liquid, gel, colloidal suspension, liquefied aerosol, you name it—that wasn’t close enough to be piped in was teleported there by sanitation mages (the lowest rung on the professional ladder, just above street illusionists, who were considered mere tradescreatures). Located far out on a