The Orc Wolf Rider had been thrown from his saddle by his own Worg. After scrambling awkwardly to his feet, he immediately drew the long blade hanging at his waist and assumed a highly defensive stance.
He did not bother checking on his mount. He knew the Worg would probably be dead soon.
He had seen it clearly: the High Elf's arrow had actually been aimed at his Worg's head, but the Worg had reacted far faster than its rider.
Still, the High Elf Ranger's arrow had come too suddenly and from too close a range. Even with its extraordinarily quick reflexes, the Worg had only managed to turn its head aside. Before it could leap away, the High Elf's Arcane Shot struck the left side of its neck, erupting in brilliant arcane light as blood and flesh sprayed through the air.
The Worg had tremendous vitality. Even after taking a hit to a vital spot, with half its neck blasted away, it did not die immediately.
Maddened by the excruciating pain, the Worg broke free of the Orc Wolf Rider's control. Terrified, it immediately abandoned him and fled into the dense white fog, leaving only muddy pawprints and a trail of blood that spread across the ground like lurid plum blossoms.
If the Worg was lucky enough to encounter an Orc Shaman before it died, it might still survive. But the chances were vanishingly small. Perhaps... even smaller than the chances of winning a five-million jackpot.
Besides, the Worg was still inside the Poison Needle Trap laid by the High Elf Ranger. Unless it possessed truly heaven-defying luck, it would probably step on so many poison needles that it died of poisoning before it could bleed out or suffocate.
Within the white smoke, a High Elf Ranger's indistinct figure