Eravon sat, and he accepted an offered cup and pitcher from Maradun. He drank, purposefully delaying his report. Sildur might have outranked him back in Quellassar, but they were in human lands now, and Eravon was their ambassador. His importance could not be denied. That, and Sildur was always a dour one, as if Celestia had made him with mud in his veins instead of blood.

“Talks are yet to officially begin,” Eravon said, setting down his cup. “What I know is only bluster and promises, which humans possess an infinite capacity for. But in this, I do not feel they will back down. Either we grant them access to the forest, or prepare for bloodshed.”

“Blood has already been shed,” said Sildur.

“More blood, then.”

“Can we not come to some sort of compromise?” asked Maradun. He glanced at the two of them. “Surely they do not desire war.”

“You know what they did to our Dezren brothers,” Sildur said, fire in his voice. “Chased them halfway across the continent, and burned Dezerea to ash. Their desire for war runs deep in their veins. All our talks are nothing but a waste of time. You know what they want from our forests. Humans are weak, their minds fragile. Anything to escape their short lives, to forget their coming deaths, is something they’ll spend every scrap of wealth to obtain.”

Eravon sighed. Sildur spoke the truth, no matter how harshly. He only echoed what they all knew.

“I see little choice,” Eravon said. “We must cede parts of the forest to them. It should be enough to sate their appetites, as well as calm their lord.”

“Ingram is a fool who pales at the very sight of us,” said Sildur. “He will not be calmed until we are dead and gone from all of Dezrel.”

“But what else can we do?” Maradun asked. “I myself have slain several who came to our forests with axes, yet every week their numbers increase. What do I tell my masters in Quellassar? We continue to overlook many excursions, all seeking to prevent escalation, but we must come to an understanding soon.”