The pair worked silently on their way through the jungle, the barest of glances acting as a guiding thread between them. As they arrived at their destination, their work was as decidedly swift: an arrow through the brush caught the orc’s attention and the Marksman continued his charade as a scout who clumsily revealed himself and now fled at their wrath. He ran through the jungle, drawing the orcs away, careful to snap each branch and leave careless footprints in the soft soil.
With the camp mostly emptied, Anarial noiselessly slipped in, burying the weapon that caused the two kaldorei so many sleepless days. The druidess was assured in her work, urging the ground to take in the weapon and carry it deep into the jungle’s furthest roots. Atop the fresh hole, the ground mended together, completed by the work of helpful beetles and other jungle inspects, until the surface blended seamlessly with the ground around it.
Alighting to a tree, she shifted into a crow and let out a piercing cry. As far as he was already, the Marksman’s sharp ears heard the cry and he ceased his ruse. He effortlessly slipped away from his pursuers, leaving them to wonder how the clumsy prey had so easily disappeared.
Together, the two left the jungle, leaving Draenor behind.