The battle was nearly over, and a small-scale freezing rain extinguished the burning flames on the prairie, emitting billows of smoke, concealing the figure of Little Mage Chris.
Only the last living withered creature remained on the battlefield. It was pinned under the giant palm of Bearman Grof, without cursing or begging, like an unfeeling, withered piece of wood, its limbs struggling futilely.
"Leave the Vast Sea Prairie, you malformed monsters!" the bearman shouted at the creature under his palm and then crushed it. "Rhachon le!" he yelled a phrase in a language Bartlett didn't understand.
"Elvish?" the guide beside him asked curiously.
"Yes," the bearman nodded. "My mother taught me before she passed away."
Bartlett hadn't expected this burly guy to know Elvish. "What does it mean?" Bartlett put away the 'Metallic Poem' and held his battleaxe with one hand, on guard.
"It's an ordinary curse, meaning something like 'I curse you' or 'Go to hell,'" Grof replied.
