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Yevaud
The elf smiled as the human faltered, his spell fading, and his foot punctured. "You who give praise to the misery of others should be happy to know that your own misery will be brief." The distinctive low whistle rose from the sword that was suddenly moving, ever so slowly, occasionally accented by a metallic *tink* as a few caltrops were knocked aside. The result was suprisingly musical as the elf closed the distance. "You're mine." And then there was silence and a disturbing half-grin on the tattooed face of Yevaud as though he would enjoy few things more than cutting apart this priest, one piece at a time.
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