By the time Huxgerson returned to the gnoll camp, the remaining priests had all been gathered. After a round of suppression, order in the camp had also been more or less restored. The barbarian soldiers killed by their own people were being dragged out and dumped in various parts of the swamp, filling the entire camp with the stench of blood.
The Lord of the Hunt opened the faceplate of the Vanguard-class power armor he had just changed into and breathed in the blood-soaked air with obvious pleasure. The deaths he had savored in his divine kingdom had been wonderful, but they still could not match the thrill of the real blood before him.
But then came a wave of self-pity, like a tiger fallen into the plains.
Damn it, how had I sunk so low that even breathing in the stench of blood felt pretty good?
Those damn vampires were to blame!
Murphy, and Paine!
Just you wait. I'll make you pay!
His face turned savage once more. He left his helmet open and strode forward in his blood-red suit of steel, under the fearful gazes of the gnoll warlords and priests.
He looked over the warriors gathered before him.
As the gnolls' racial god, he had lost most of his power, but even the remnants of his connection to their faith let him sense the emptiness, confusion, and fear of the warriors before him.
One defeat after another had made them pessimistic about the future. Though they were still powerful, they struggled to unleash the destruction they were capable of.
Such feeble flesh!
The Lord of the Hunt judged them with displeasure. His existence came from the ignorant offerings of the gnolls before him, but no one should expect an evil god to regard his ever-defeated servants as