Vorland sighs deeply as he absently pats Azazel’s pert bottom.
Confident that the echoes provided by the ruins will disguise his position, he calls over the wall to offers the annoying Halfling tart another chance.
‘If we cannot arrange a draw, then we’re at an impasse. Our Warlock magic can’t compete with the range of your bows and you're no match for us close up.
So it comes down to this. If you wish your deaths, by all means, keep moving forward, but be fully aware that we’re happy to wait here all day.’