Sacrifices Must Be Made

As hellfire rains down upon the Summit of Silkbrook, Azazel indulges in an act of vengeance and spite.
Meteors showers and Azazel dashes away as nimbly as possible, taking hits and grunting in pain. Looking up ready to loose his notched arrow he quickly realises that the whirlwind of mercenaries is gone. Sceptical of his eyes he waits momentarily until its clear, they are gone. Surveying the carnage of the battlefield he analyses the losses and who seeks out his foes to take advantage of the situation. Quickly searching through the corpses he finds the person he is looking and smiles. Never let a good disaster go to waste. Leaning down he can see Sildar breathing, weak, but alive. Looking around to ensure he is alone, he recants the words burned into his brain.

"Great Goddess, Mother of the Dark, grant me the death of my enemies. Take their life for your own, and feast on their strength. Add their hatred to my own, and grant me the satisfaction of their demise, the gift of their possessions, and ecstasy of taking a life. By this unworthy sacrifice I honour you, Queen of Spiders, and beseech of you the strength to destroy my foes."

Choking the little life that remains from this weak peasant he mutters, "This is the best of the Lords Alliance? Utter incompetence. I was right to not fear them." Searching the body he finds the remnants of a letter and goes to leave, stopping suddenly upon the hair on his neck standing up. Stopping he looks down and sees the sword. "Surely the top dog must use something of value." Picking it up he continues on his way to meet up with his cohort. Best not to tarry.