An Elvish Rebel’s Field Guide to the Art of Hit & Run

Disaster narrowly averted. New alliances and old enemies. Fentor's foes are advancing. His hairline is receding. His uniform is ... cheaply dyed.

Mere weeks ago, the elves had been his bitterest enemies. Now, against all odds, his conscience had forced him to switch sides and save them from obliteration (although, they still didn't really like him much).

With few supplies, few friends, little time, and a world to save, Fentor will have to find a way to build a rebellious movement. Also, if there's time, find a hat-or scarf, or something-to hide his rapidly retreating follicles.

Fentor was sent stumbling back, obliged to match every forceful, wild, yet well-timed swing directed at him. All refinement forgotten, he did his best to simply fend off the onslaught and keep his balance. He made every effort not to kill his attackers. They did not extend the same courtesy to him.

"It's very rude to try and kill someone who's showing you mercy, you know!" Fentor said, panting heavily.

"Hear that, Cartin? A lesson in manners from Lord Lonochy himself!"

"Well, I've never been more honored," the Norimandian replied, in a voice so dry and droning that even Fentor almost snickered.

"What about 'All life cares for all life?' Does that mean nothing to you?" Fentor asked.

"Call this the exception that proves the rule!" Cartin said, punctuating his words with several quick thrusts.

"But this is so dreadfully unfair! I'm one of the good people now!" Fentor pouted.

Hiding from Elatea and her Greycoats. Desperately recruiting equally desperate crooks, runaways and ne'er-do-wells. Lacking any semblance of a plan or cohesion, but making up for it with bravado and panache.

The war with elves continues, the same as ever, but Fentor knows that if he doesn't act soon, everything will change forever.