If they had looked through the eyes of Francis, they might have seen something as well. The shifting, shapeless darkness had a form. With that glance that had burned a Hobgoblin and crumbled its will, there was a slash that bathed his allies in a fog of misty darkness.
Now, they were not villagers. They were soldiers of shadow, by Francis' eye. They wore plumed helmets, and sported spears and armour. They were soldiers of Ingolsol.
He did not breathe the word "how" as was his usual habit. His mind was working too quickly for that, too frantically. Under normal circumstances, he'd never felt such pressure. Not even when he'd slain his family, and he heard the footsteps of the town guard stomping around outside his house. Then, he had been calm, and calculating. Now he was beyond that. Now he was timeless, his thoughts ruthlessly efficient.
