Chmeorl floated near the party, above them. His sadness could not even be expressed with tears. He was mist. He had no form. Yet he must do his job.

The party moved down the tunnels. A taskmaster leading his crew of kobolds gave them pause. The party waited patiently as the group moved on.

Going further, another group was working. The taskmaster, evidently higher ranking, had an athach, and a troll. The Queen, probably being alerted by the death of the other taskmaster, had placed a Myrmarch with this group. The Myrmarchs are the elite personal protectors of the queen. This one was rather low ranking, so signified by the plain brass helm. His size however, was larger than any that the party had seen before. He was as big as a horse.

The natural armor of the creature presented a problem to the party. Their blows more often glanced off the armor. The formians have a natural resistance to most magical energies. They enjoy an immunity to cold and acid, as well as an unnaturally high resistance to fire and electricity. The favored attacks of the Shamaness, fire, were ineffective.

The creativity of the newest member shone like a beacon. Not being able to hit very well, as he is young for his age, he placed himself on the ground, UNDER the creature, and attacked up. The poor creature did not know what to do, or whom to attack. The shamaness had come to the realization that putting spikes upon her staff helped. It was then that they turned th tides of the battle. The shamaness slapping her spikes into the head of the Myrmarch, and the new member attacking the softer underside.

When the battle was won, Chmeorl tried to jump for joy, it was a hard won battle, but was reminded that jumping was no longer possible. How he wished for his form back.