Inside the Vinceral Forest, an elf sat perched atop a thick branch of a tree dangerously close to the human outpost. A monocular was held firmly against his left eye.
"Hmm...?"
As he slowly rotated the lens, his sharp gaze caught sight of something strange—guards hauling crates of Healing and Mana Potions out from the captain's tent.
"What the hell? How did they get potions? I didn't see any carts coming," the elf muttered, confused. His expression tensed as he leapt down silently from the branch, landing with practiced grace. Without hesitation, he pulled an arrow from his quiver.
He brought it close to his mouth and whispered into it, his words flowing in ancient Elvish Language.
"Āshānā'zhūrr dūrbāh'tālūk, āsh'nāzg îmbālāthūn...."
The runes carved into the shaft of the arrow began to glow—a flickering orange light pulsing in rhythm with his chant.
He raised his empty hand into the Air.
