With a sickening snap, Zherybukh's nose and upper lip bone shattered. Vakarr's punch had not only connected, but sent his opponent staggering back. The Dark Elven archer made not a sound. However, everyone could tell--including the watching Per'dra--that he was in immense pain. Despite this, he did not drop either of his lunite swords. Instead, he sheathed them both.
Exhausted, he collapsed on the ground in front of Vakarr. "You've won," he rasped as blood poured down his face. "No coward are you," Zherybukh continued, "and thus I yield! All of you in your adventuring party shall...venture into Tener'ixal, if that be the last thing I can ensure. Know ye not what my lord Un'adrubin does to those who dare fail him? He exposes their guts with one long slit down the torso and hangs them from the trees of our Forest to die. This takes days."
With his voice trembling, he begged: "Grant me a warrior's death if you would! Remove my head as soon as you all stand safely within the sacred canopy of our Mother." Uttering a short phrase in the Dark Elves' native tongue, he called for the rhubarb-colored nets to entwine everyone and hoist them onto the dark wooden platforms of Tener'ixal. His fellow archers had long since withdrawn into the branches, waiting for more targets--perhaps the Purge?
Once everyone had been disentangled from their leafy harnesses, Zherybukh knelt for a second time before Vakarr. "My lord is not here," he said quickly. "Slay me, before he decides to emerge from the High Palace and investigate!"