He was sitting under a tree perched on the little outcropping overseeing the land below.
Drizzlewood was a gorgeous place. A little damp, but wild and mostly untouched. Was mostly untouched.
Now his people’s “ancestral home” was pockmarked by the ravages of war… and his own.
Fiel was munching on some stolen rations, lifted from a lone supply runner he’d killed earlier. That’s what he’s been doing for weeks: harassing lone snipers and small patrols, disrupt supply chains… Nothing to truly cripple the dominion, but enough to be a pain.
He paused just long enough to grab his radio and mutter a coarse ‘Still alive’ into it before shutting it off. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. But he knew he’d better give signs of life every now and then, lest his buddies would feel obligated to send people to check on him.
Not that it was necessary. He wasn’t exactly being subtle up there. Leaving “trophies” and “markers” everywhere he went. Any of the Vanguard’s scouts could figure out it was him who left them there.
Like the latest one: a charr sniper left at a crossroad with all his severed limbs and tail arranged in a circle around his body.
Fiel let out a grim chuckle.
He truly was turning into a grim brooding necromancer, like some in the Vanguard claimed him to be.
The norn turned to his dragon-golem. It was finishing up the last bit of that supply runner’s liver.
It didn’t need to eat. But the risen-grub gallbladders in its belly needed material to replenish its caustic breath. Using it to ruin all the supplies the norn couldn’t carry off was costly.
Fiel stood up and patted the dirt off his pants.
Back to work.
He looked up at the line of tall white jagged ice spires, way up North. He wasn’t going there. He might have been acting recklessly, if mildly suicidal, but he wasn’t going to be that stupid.
Instead he turned to the forest.
Maybe he’ll start making a small army of undead charr this time, instead of turning them into jigsaw puzzles. Spice things up a bit.