Fires still lick at the blackened ruin of the farmstead. The mud in the yard is grey with ash and churned by footprints. Some flee westward. Others, light and slender, circle the ruin. One of your guards pulls an arrowhead from the smoking wood. "Elfshot!" He hisses.
The homesteads along the hissing fringes of the Tirashan were unprepared for the attack. You listen to the refugees' tales of a narrow moon that spread long tree-shadows, of the lithe figures that slipped between them, of arrows that sped from the night, sudden as death.
"The knife-ears drove us from our home!" one peasant cries. "We heard them, laughing from the dark!"
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