Falling the Fallen

The draenei.

Strange beings from a broken world. The same world our traitor prince chose over his own people.

<Rhys spits.>

There is a village to the northeast. They keep to themselves. We traded for their crystals. Curious things. They hum when no wind blows. I do not trust them, but they have not raised steel against us. Not yet.

In the swamps and forests, it is different. Those who call themselves the Fallen Ones stalk the reeds and the tree line. They do not parley. They rush you without warning and strip the flesh from your bones. I have seen what they leave behind.

We cannot build anything here while they breathe. The expedition will never be secure with them prowling our flanks.

Hunt them. Kill them where they hide. Bring me forty of their heads as proof. Yes, forty. Do not question the number. These swamps crawl with them. You will not struggle to find your count.

Thin them out until even the mud runs red.

Beware their daggers.

They coat the blades in venom not born of this world. It burns cold in the blood. I have watched strong warriors fall to their knees from a scratch no deeper than a thorn.

Do not trust your armor to save you. Do not trust your healers to mend you in time. Even they struggle against that poison.

Forty heads.

It brings a measure of peace, seeing them laid out like that. Not enough, but some. We have only carved a dent in their numbers, nothing more.

Still, it should give them pause. Fear lingers longer than pain, and they are not brave creatures when faced with open slaughter.

With luck, it will be enough to keep them from testing our encampment while we are still here.