Something in the Air

Imre could tell something was not quite right in the forest. The air felt heavy and difficult to breathe and no longer tasted sweet on his tongue.

“I know this is that devil’s work. Somehow, he has returned from the nothingness. I must warn Toothgar and the others of the danger,” remarked the fae.

As a member of the Dirt Devils, Imre spent two years fighting Mörken and his Troth minions. Setting snares and traps, Dirt Devils killed many Troth, whose arrogance would not let them believe that a wood rat or rabbit was anything but dinner.

Standing in a clearing, Imre felt his stomach drop as a cold sweat covered his body. “Not again. Must we continue to suffer? By the gods, I swear this time will be the last, or Ãlskad will burn,” the elf muttered.

Death was not uncommon for the forest floor dwellers. It was honorable; fighting the Dark One held no honor, only rage mixed with hopelessness.

“You shall pay dearly, Dark One,” cried Imre as he ran into the dark wood to signal the Dirt Devils that war was at hand.