Back in the heart of Aetherthorn, Mathes was nearly unrecognizable.
His once-elegant robes - pristine and ceremonial - were now shredded rags soaked in blood, clinging to his bruised and battered frame.
His face was swollen, split at the brow and lip, smeared with dried crimson. Bones jutted unnaturally beneath his skin, and blood trickled freely from countless open wounds.
Even his ancient staff—his trusted companion—had been reduced to splinters scattered across the dirt, the magic within it long extinguished. He swayed, barely upright, supported only by sheer will and - of course, massive balls.
Before the eyes of his own kin, he had withstood over an hour of brutal torment from the Nighthral.
The only reason he still drew breath was because of his extraordinary constitution and the cruel, calculated patience of the beast that toyed with him.
Not far away, the Nighthral prowled, circling its prey with leisurely malice.
"Impressive elf. Very impressive."
