"So, serious question," Lorelia asked, tilting her head. "You're a gnoll. They're gnolls. What's the actual difference? Is it a sub-species thing?"
Lorelia agreed with Clymene's assessment—she wanted this campaign over yesterday—but her boredom was leading her down a rabbit hole of random thoughts.
Both Gustalon and Clymene stayed silent. It wasn't their lane. All eyes naturally shifted to Dirtclaw.
"Don't insult me," Dirtclaw growled, his voice rough as stone. "Maybe we look alike at a glance. But the locals? They fight like animals. No discipline. No pride. They swarm forward without thinking, and the moment the fight turns against them, they scatter—tails tucked, fleeing for their lives."
Dirtclaw wasn't just the muscle; he was the Stoneheart Horde's spymaster in Delilah's absence. Even with Delilah operating out of the Abyss, she still held significant sway, but the day-to-day intel gathering fell to the hellhound.
He had seen the reports. He despised the local gnolls.
