Kelril Silentstring squatted amongst the blackened stone, grey earth and charred debris of the Shadowlands. His cloak was mottled to match the austere and ravaged landscape. It lay draped over his squatting form and served to blend him into the landscape.

He made no sound as he hunkered down, taking on the icon of immobility. His only movement was the slow and methodical chewing of a dry tasteless biscuit. Taste did not matter, the food served its purpose admirably feeding the furnace of his body with the fuel it needed. Only the depraved would eat anything that grew or lived here now. The misshapen and mutilated creatures that scurried about invoked within him the anger his quest for vengeance sought to slake with the blood of the Witch King and his minions.

His eyes roved the carrion landscape, panning across the bleak splintered stumps which marked a once proud forest.

Searching.

He continued his sweep, his eyes alighting on the ruined stones of either a small keep or village. It was difficult to discern what the blocks of stone had once been. But the skeletal remains of once beautifully sculpted buildings poked out of the landscape like the cracked ribs of a decomposed corpse buried in a shallow grave.

Watching.
Listening.
As quiet and unmoving as a stone.

Sweat beaded his skin in the gaps where his cotton under-clothes had pulled away from his skin, apparently preferring the company of his leather armor to his flesh. His sweat was determined not to be drawn into the still stance of the body. It rolled and danced about his skin. The sensation was a bit like having a family of spiders engaged in a celebratory festival at random locations around his body.

He swallowed and took another bite.
More fuel.
Vigilance never ending.

In the distance the object he had planted winked subtly from a pile of debris on the ground. Its surface was marred with soot and it resonated with random energy, a seeming remnant of the sundering. Its top poked out of a pile of charred rock and wood. There was a small spot that looked to have been scraped by a recently shifted rock. The scrape scarred the sooty covering to betray a previously concealed treasure with a now unveiled gleaming surface. It threw an occasional flicker of temptation into world whenever sun light managed to sally forth and break through the gloom.

Bait.

Both Lord Uthorin and Lady Arkaneth sent out random search parties seeking to find either menhirs anchoring the vortex or artifacts and relics from before the sundering. Each sought items to give them the upper hand over the other. Only their fear of the Witch King, or being his pawns, kept them from open warfare. Kelril let his eyes brush over the ripe fruit he had planted just waiting for someone to come along and pluck it.

He swallowed the last of his ration.
He waited.
Time stood still.
He was patient.

Silence suddenly rang out across the landscape like a clarion bell. The normal slithering, click and clacking of the Shadowlands misshapen denizens had ceased with the abruptness of a griffon rider flying headfirst into a mountain side.

Something that did not belong was coming.

His eyes scoured the remains of the nearby woods and the tumbled grey earth and building leftovers in the nearby field. His vision devoured the horizon seeking targets on which to feed.

There.

Three dark elves stepped blithely into the field. They wore arrogance about them like a form of armor. They took little heed of the noise they made or the silence that followed them like a harbinger. They were fools unaware that there arrogance offered only false comfort, but no protection. This was now the realm of the Shadow Warriors, and those who came uninvited would find the bleak and decaying land was warmer then the reception awaiting them.

Glee.

The sorceress, dark magic swirling around her like angry insects, points to the bait drawn in by its subtle allure, and leads her party to it. She is dressed in rich silk with silver and gold thread, cut to display much of her pale flesh. The magic surrounding her distorts her image, she is forcing it to her will. He can see it bulge at intervals, a sure shine she had gathered and built more then she can control. A Disciple and a Witch trail in her wake, eyes also focused on the prize.
The Witch also travels without much in the way of armor, bt she glides across the ground like chained lightning. The disciple is better prepared. Cased in leather and steel, he creaks like an oak tree in the wind when he walks. He picks the armored one as the fodder for his bow.

The Sorceress bends down and picks up the bait. Her lips form into a rictus of a smile as she detects the magic remnants pulsing around her find. Her smile melts away and within seconds trans-morphs through perplexity and quizzicality before settling on pure terror. Her mind betrays her, allowing her to see her fate before it is completed, but not within time to change its course.

Kelril moves.

He rises like an angry wraith from the ground, his muscles moving smoothly despite the long stillness and barley contained fury held within. In one fluid motion he removes an arrow from the padded quiver, flips the protective hood from the 4 serrated blades - careful not to touch the blade or its coating - and places the arrow to the nock on the string. His well oiled cuir bouilli flows with his motion, sustaining his predatory silence. The finely crafted longbow competes with the leather armor for noiselessness in its operation. He draws the string back; its waxen threads snuggle perfectly into the line of his fingers like a long familiar lover.

Death waits on feathered shafts.

Across the field, standing in the blocky ruins of the former structure of the old kingdom, the three searchers are focused on the bait and fail to notice the shadow which seemingly springs up from the distant ground. The Sorceress tries her best to move her mouth, but it remains frozen in preparation for her cry of mortal panic and despair.

Thwack.

The trap is sprung. The ground erupts as four large spikes as big around as an elf's wrist hurl deep into the warm soft embrace of the Sorceresses flesh. Her dark magic, built up beyond her control, is unable to stop the sudden departure of her soul from her mortal coil.

Release.

The string snaps forward, small puffs of cloth attached to the string reduce its thwap to an almost inaudible sound. The Disciple and Witch are fast in battle, but even they were brought to a pause as they processed what had just happened and shook off the release of wild magic which heralded the Sorceresses abrupt failure to thrive. Neither Kelril nor the feathered extension of his desire for blood is so impeded.

The Witch feels a warm spray cover her face as she detects the heady iron taste of blood on her lips. She responds subconsciously to the sensation and flavor with an almost lustful response. She turns, ducks and rolls while taking in the site of the Disciple falling, an arrow protruding from his throat. Both major arteries in the neck have been severed, sending forth geysers of blood. The Witch moves like a greased fish. She heads rapidly and unerringly in the direction from which the arrow sought to fatally mate with the disciples neck. Her speed and swiftness chew up the ground like a hungry child with a plate of pancakes. She would make lightning enviousness.

He is ready.

Kelril begins running away and at an angle to the oncoming Witch in order to slow the pace with which she is closing the distance between them. Unfortunately for the Witch, such movement does little to slow or impede his use of the bow. Loading another arrow and firing it as if it was just an extension of his body, the Witch feels the impact as the arrow enters her thigh. Favoring speed over armor, she has little protection to impede its vipers bite.

The Witch smiles, at such close range he missed anything vital and she will be on him in seconds. Extending her poisoned razors like macabre claws she races on. Suddenly she is brought up short by a racking pain which convulses through her body.

Poison.

The arrow had been poisoned. She moves much slower now, and can barely move, much less close the distance. The bloodlust begins to fade from here eyes as an impossible thought begins to form in her head, she may actually die. She looks up at what was to have been her prey only a half second ago, just in time to see the volley of arrows that ends her life.

Kelril Silentstring surveyed the field for more opponents. Seeing none he inspected his kills and removed any useful items. He impales the bodies and sets them in the field, a warning for the Witch King that the only discovery awaiting his Dark Elves in the Shadowlands is death.