“Are you a coward?” barked the wizard, looking at the elven sage incredulously, “surely you realise that the Red Hand could destroy this place and all your people?”

“They have not deemed it a necessity so far, and I do not mean to disturb the hornets’ nest,” she replied coolly, her pale eyes gleaming in the lamplight. She held herself with grace, but there was a sadness about her that seemed to permeate every movement.

“My people lost everything once, when we left our homes in the tiri-aiuthas. I have steered our course for two hundred years and I do not wish to focus your enemy’s wrath upon my people. We will aid you, we will feed you, we will accomodate you to our custom, but we will not fight in your war.”

The wizard turned to leave the tent, frustration carved upon his face. As he did, he glanced towards the younger elf, Trellara. Her face was deeply troubled, and the pain of loss was clear in her eyes. She met his gaze and looked back towards her high speaker.

“I will go with them.”