Lurias glanced at the sky. Dusk had fallen. The guards would be active during the night, and at dawn they would be well-rested. Now the day, guards would be sleepy and sloppy, and the night-guards not yet awake. The ideal time to strike. Taking out his ceremonial horn, Lurias blew a short note. No human was nearby enough to hear it, but it sent the elf camp into a frenzy. Every soldier grabbed his weapon, every man made himself ready for the battle to come. The more superstitious offered up short prayers to the Gods, the Forest Spirits, or even the Primal Elven Masters, who had ruled over all Elven races so long ago. Many would not see the dawn, and they need make peace with their gods before risking their lives. However, a fire burned in each pair of eyes. The fire of hatred, of vengeance. The flame of the resistance, burning brighter than ever, as the Elven army set out to slaughter the humans in the nearby town.