Darrasdun wore a pair of impressive deer antlers, an elaborate longbow in his grip. He was outfitted in a tunic of greens and reds, with a fiendish flare since they last saw him. He rode atop a melalo the size of a horse, its two grotesque, vulture-like heads snapping and screeching. Behind them, a pack of other melalo – immense, flightless birds with two heads apiece – surged through the chaotic undergrowth, their movements a flurry of sharp talons and snapping beaks. This was no organized pursuit, but a primal, frenzied hunt, the melalo driven by a savage instinct and Darrasdun by a wild, exultant glee. Their eyes, mirroring the chaotic energy of this place, fixated on the party, and the hunt turned their way.
“Who are you?” asked Lilliyana.
Darrasdun, across the way, pulled his melalo up short. The other squawking birds stopped shrieking to look between them in confusion. “You don’t remember me?” he asked, sputtering.
“Wait,” said Sorow. “Oh yes, I do – are you that little guy that we shot with a bow at the very beginning of the Calcio Games in the Flandrian Mountains? The thing with the gnomes?”
“What?” shouted Darrsdun. “No! How dare you confuse me with one of those idiots!”
“Who is this? “ asked Erna.
“You weren’t there,” said Allumer with a sigh.
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