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An myriad of possibility flashes before your eyes.
First, simple failure. Crossing the cloud of bolts, a couple more dig into your flesh. Flying a bit farther away, you would had to stop to recover, allowing dwarves to track you. You remember very well the worst day of your life, fleeing the slayers in the heart of the storm they summoned, and would prefer not to live that again.
Another possibility flashing in front of your eye is not making it. Purely and simply. As you lose precious seconds contemplating all path, this ones becomes predominent. Worse case, you fell from an arrow piercing your brain behind your eye and never wake up, your allies stuck in your necklace, slowly dying of thirst or cannibalism-induced infighting in the excrement-layered crystal prison. Due to the sheer survivability of dwarves, surviving for months without a drop of water in cave-ins, this horrible death is even slower than for humans trapped in a similar way.
Less probable, the chance of taking the bulk of the attack, losing permanently one eye, and wake up in a cage. On a timer for saving your dwarves, and yourself, you would had to plan a heist using your various pawns in the vast world.
Your doom one step closer, you finally see the path to freedom. A literal path in the air, dodging all the dangers, and making it out of the corrupted armor axe crazy bearded humanoids.
>Congrats for making it.
You let your wings carry you at a safe distance, 45 degrees away of Griffinmount, before even considering stopping.
>Thanks to the crit, two anon roll me 1d100 (Bo2) for random encounter
