“Are you recovered enough from your run here that you could take a message to Thane Axzigund?”The elf nodded dubiously. “Of course, Lord Arathie..., but why would we want to speak to the dwarves?” he blurted haughtily, then flushed again at the quizzical raising of a silvered brow. “I will leave immediately, Lord.”The young elf turned and sprinted off towards the only thing visible through the canopy of Lothlonihal Lothiel: Mt Gravenhaim. It was there the dwarves had retreated when they were. He grabbed two bags and hoisted himself out of the dumpster, stumbling into a green puddle and wetting the ankles of his pants. When he was home, he put on his favorite Tchaikovsky record. He cut open one of the bags and slowly poured the animal blood onto his milk-colored kitchen counter. It flowed, slow and thick, forming a perfect circle that distorted into the cracks between the tiles. He poured a bit more until one trail of blood reached the edge, made a right angle, and then plummeted to. More

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