When he heard of the influx of drow appearing in Draconi Forest, he had to go. A sane man would've turned the other cheek— especially after giving up twelve years of his life to the drow— but he knew the innocent half-elves of that forest were not equipped to fight off a drow onslaught. No one was, not really. The drow came and left like a monsoon over an island— unwanted, untimely, unbegotten.
He was no hero, but he was one of the few who knew the drow inside and out; he'd seen them at their worst and best as he rotted for twelve years in their captivity— hell if he'd waste the intel now. So the Daggerhound packed up and left everything he knew behind for the sake of some form of justice in a world where drow were allowed to rip elven children from their beds and steal them away from the sunlight, forever more.
It was a stupid idea. As he stood in a clearing in Draconi Forest now— with the wind whipping through him as he struggled for breath— he wondered if the people he'd met back in Sirantil Valley would remember him, should he perish. The travellers he'd guided through the merry wood— who whispered his name, Daggerhound, through their human villages and town— would they notice if his legend faded? Had the wolves he'd hunted with sensed his absence while they stalked through the valley— their party full, minus one? And what of Sajira?
The thought of her clouded his vision— it was the opening that this last drow had been waiting for. Four other drow corpses lay dead or dying amongst the autumnal leaves, and this final foe— a dual-wielding swordsman— fought not for revenge for his comrades, but for pride. To prove that the drow would always step on those whose dwelled in the Upper World— even if someone like him should kill one or two or four drow, another would only finish the job. He had forgotten that, in the moment. So as the drow leapt forward, dual-blades at the ready, and landed a crushing blow to his chest, Dalek bled out— the memory of her fading as he felt his strength leave him.
"Typical," the drow spat with a shrug. "You sun elves always go down easy."
Dalek pressed a hand to his chest and withdrew it, watching the blood pool from his wound like a waterfall, gushing a dark, midnight-crimson. "Ah..." he murmured, as he rose to his feet, withdrawing the bone knife he kept at his side. If he used all his speed, he could make it—!
With one last push, Dalek leapt forward towards his foe— who assumed him dead, or dying at the least— and swiped at his neck, letting his bone knife rip open flesh with a skillful slash. The drow's eyes rolled into the back of his head; his lips parted, to speak one last time, but only one final breath slipped from his lips. The corpse collapsed; the enemy lay dead. Victory tasted bitter; it was all nettles and napalm, with none of the glory.
Still, elves would sleep better with the drow dead.
He collapsed to the dirt floor near his enemy, on his knees, hand still pressed over his wound. If only he could dress it—! If only he'd a bandage nearby. The thought of dressing a wound... a bandage... ah! He remembered using a leaf to cover the bosom of someone close to him— was that Sajira? The memory sparked some desire in him to stay alive, if only to find her again. To apologize for his abrupt absence— to tell her things he'd meant to say earlier...
But the forest was so far away... This clearing seemed to stretch on forever. Still, he climbed to his feet and pushed forest, hand still pressed over his dripping wound.
