Yanaba brought her hand down as her song reached its deadly crescendo.
The ritual was successful, the attacks of her her tribesmen instilled with speed and lethality nigh-impossible for a mortal elf to comprehend... much less resist.
Yet the Ancient... he dropped his body low, reaching for the two swords on his back. With a casual swing, he deflected the first strike. A second swing severed the wrists of the second warrior.
He flipped backwards, twirling his swords about to deflect the third and fourth blades... and when he landed, life essence burst forth from bloody gashes in those men.
The first Masked One... he turned back, fear apparent in his eyes.
...Yanaba shook her head in disappointment. She'd taught them better than that.
They had failed her... and themselves.
The twin blades of the bronze-skinned foreigner pierced through the chest of that man.
