Death of a Racist

Vogir blinks up at Zahig. “I’m alive?”
Zahig’s blanched face reflects his own surprise regarding the situation.
Struggling to his feet, Vogir feels the tightness of the field dressing binding his stomach…
The iron-toothed leader of the Kobolds had opened him up.
His memories are jumbled but he can still see the moments when Argent and Bayern fell.
Can it be that he owes his life to the child Wizard and the Eladrin tourist?
The Kobolds lie dead or dying all around him. Bayern is saying a prayer to his God and Daelagor is heading into the undefended caves.
Of his group, only the blue-scaled Argent lies dead.
They were lucky to only lose one member of this group of adventurers…
This group of friends…
His group of friends.
Vogir stands with the cold realisation that he’d stood back to back with the Dragon born. That he’d refused to leave him undefended. When the Dwarven War priest had fallen, Vogir had stood over his prone body rather than flee and save his own life.
With a sinking feeling, Vogir realises that somehow, somewhere along the line, these ‘monsters’ have become his friends.