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“I will wipe them off the face of the earth! The infestation must be dealt with.”
The air inside the spacious tent crackled in sinister energy.
Savas-Zev was in a foul mood. He stalked about the tent in anger, garments swirling in his wake—not precisely wizard’s robes yet not a cape either. Dask, one of his many captains, shuddered in terror of his master and shrank against the tent wall, fearing to let even the hem of the wizard’s fabric touch him. It was a strangely enchanted garment whose color fooled the eye. It was a dark shade of... something. Sometimes the fabric appeared midnight blue, sometimes green, sometimes velvet red. But it changed with the angle of its wearer and the brightness of the light. Constant observation of the robes usually gave the gazer a headache. Dask was now convinced they were sentient and changed in accord to the master’s mood.
The robe/cape thing glimmered and flashed deep velvet red now. Dask knew this was never a good sign.
Savas-Zev was a thin, half-starved, rakish looking man with sharp features and limp black hair falling back from a quickly balding head. His black beard was cut to a point at his chin, which he liked to fondle and tug when upset, like now. His slanted, squint eyes almost disappeared into their sockets as he stalked, muttering and glowering to himself. Dask was glad indeed those beady, evil orbs weren’t turned his way. The eyes of Savas-Zev unnerved him most of all. As pale and unhealthy as his skin, his eyes were paler still, the lightest shade of gray imaginable with tiny pinpoints instead of pupils. Dask thought they looked like some dead thing long buried. Those eyes didn’t belong on someone still very much in the land of the living.
Dask caught the word “dwarves” muttered from time to time in his master’s garbled speech.
“Maybe the dwarves will get word of our advance and will flee in fear before us. Surely the terrible fame of your troops has spread far and wide by now,” Dask finally da...
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