"<em>Your</em>enemies. My enemy won't be coming to this battle, according to you. But you need not worry, killing your kind is my area of expertise."<br/><br/>Hazamir reminded coldly, then turned his back to Grom. The large brown hawk perched on his shoulder caw'd and ruffled its feathers as if to emphasize the point. The necromancer had impressed him; he was able to identify the origin of Hazamir's scar and even claimed to know who the dagger belonged to. When he was able to describe that human woman in detail to him, that sealed the deal. But he still did not trust the necromancer, or his version of the war. It was not trust that caused him to sell his soul, but desperation.<em>Sindra Starsong.</em>He repeated the name in his head like a mantra<br/><br/>He walked to a corner of the room between Asara and Torrin, drew a small skinning knife, and knelt. Into a slab of blank grey stone, Hazamir began to carve out a symbol. It showed a humanoid figure within the trunk of a tree. By the time he was done, the knife's edge was ruined, so he threw it away. Clasping his hands together in prayer, he sought guidance from this elvish saint.<br/><br/>"Father Tarathiel, though I am beyond your reach, please extend your gaze and love upon me in this place of death. Help me live to find the truth of this war and to purge the poison festering my immortal soul."