Raazik sneered. "You know, Arweinydd," he purred cruelly. "If all you wanted was a chat, you could've summoned me centuries ago." he chuckled, sensing the growing frustration of behalf of the elves. "Very well. Lead the way."

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The party, consisting of Raazik, Arweinydd and Rhoswen, had been walking through the forests of the elven province for a while now. The silence was presumably uncomfortable and tense for the elves, being isolated with the untrustworthy Faceless One, however the Mahjarrat was not subject to such trivial emotions. He chuckled aloud. "Whilst I love nothing more than to share these long strolls with you both, I am beginning to grow impatient." his voice was playful, but riddled with an underlying seriousness. "I don't like to be kept waiting, Arweinydd."

"We're almost there." the Elf Lord replied with a bluntness that ignored Raazik's torment. Eventually, the group reached a wall of dense forest, too thick and vast for any of them to enter, let alone navigate. Before Raazik had chance to voice his suspicions, the trees creaked and moaned as they began to shift of their own accord, forming a tunnel through the impenetrable woodland. Mildly impressed, the Mahjarrat followed the elves through the new pass.

"I'm very grateful for the protections you have put in place to safeguard my faithful staff," Raazik announced. "It would be just awful if some undesirable got their hands on it, wouldn't it?" he jeered, knowing that he was perhaps the last person the elves would like to hand the weapon over to. Before they could reply, they found themselves in a large, luscious clearing, in the centre of which stood a tall and magnificent tree. There, impaled into the mighty child of the earth, was his staff; exactly where he had left it all those millennia ago. It seemed to grow excited by the presence of his master, and the air seemed to sizzle and hum with arcane anticipation; recognisable to even the most magically incompetent of individuals. Raazik shared a rare moment of emotion.

"Ah, my faithful…" he called, approaching his beloved weapon eagerly. He caressed the shaft of the battle staff and softly ran his fingers along the Zarosian symbol that adorned the top. It was as sharp and heavy as ever. He gripped it tightly and pulled gently, however the staff did not move. He made several more attempts, each with increasing strength, and yet still the ancient weapon remained firmly lodged into the trunk of the tree, not moving an inch. "Arweinydd!" he growled, his voice filled with rage. "What trickery is this? Return my staff to me at once, lest your kingdom fall to my wrath!" he roared, furious that he had been misled and with every intention of levelling the Elven province before the turn of the sun.