The Setting of Sirith

“Grimtar was a fool. We’re clearing out of the area before anymore of our people get killed.”

Ezran had dropped his illusion, allowing the gathered demonspawn to see him in birth skin of an akor’mari. His men stood arrayed behind him, others also having dropped the mask, though some preferred to keep the illusory enhancements Ezran had given them. Fordrellon had even consented in being granted the illusion of a hogher to hide his paladin trappings. Ezran wasn’t sure if the man’s tusky snarl was real or part of his own handiwork at this point.

“Tymalt would not be pleased at your cowardice,” said Ezran, tapping his blackiron sword against the ground, and the demonspawn all around flinched at the connotations.

“Greater gods than Tymalt drive the Tarithians,” muttered one of the other demonspawn, and there was a ripple of similar demoralization among their number.

“I might allow you to live on these lands, if you swear fealty to me,” said Ezran.

He was somewhat taken aback when the demonspawn chieftain began to laugh. “There is no honor in servitude!” the creature barked out abruptly. “That was Grimtar’s mistake, but it will not be ours!”

Well, he had tried. The likely outcomes of a failed peace talk rippled through his head. Burned farms, slaughtered villagers. These demonspawn only understood one type of power, though Ezran had vaguely hoped he could add their might to his own.

He began to withdraw, but then quick as blinking, drew the blackiron blade in a sudden swipe that took the demonspawn leader’s head. The akor’mari behind him leapt forward to attack, even Fordrellon, yelling a battlecry.

The camp would be destroyed before dawn, but Ezran knew there were other demonspawn in these woods.

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