Three militias, the Brothers in Arms, were assembled in the sand just south of Cenarion Hold. Many still had wounds from the war, bandages caked with blowing grit and dust.
“Is this going to be a stand-up fight, sir, or another bug hunt?” Faenor said. The elf wore a scarf across his mouth and nose, blocking the worst of the windswept sand.
“All we know is that there is still is no contact with the king’s brother, and that the Qiraji may be involved,” Ulrich said, buckling on his platemail greaves.
“Excuse me, sir, the what?” For a warlock, Danira was unfailingly polite. Maybe that’s what it took to deal with the entities that she did.
“The Qiraji,” Ringo said, climbing onto his ram, turning its unwilling head towards the newly risen city to the south.