Exton

Demifae flit among the upper leaves, carrying messages to Weebit. Many Drow are no longer working their way toward the cabin. They are retreating, watching carefully for an attack.

She bears the messages to Twillon as he slips among the trees. Up ahead the local Fae have bound the foot of an unwary Drow. He hacks at the vines, trying to pry thorns out of his boot as they tighten, digging in like elfshot.

The Dark Elf stops his struggles as a blade slides silently along his arm. The Drow looks up into sunlit eyes and reaches for his sword, only to feel the tearing of sharp teeth through his leather glove. A sudden jab sends burning pain along his calf and knee. The man falls to one knee, the other almost useless.

The cabin can be seen through the thin screening of trees. Twillon leans close, sliding the sharp edge of his sword along the Drow's bare throat. A slow trickle of blood seeps along the sharp edge, leaving an inky trail along the blue-grey throat.

"Consider this a warning."