He couldn’t save all the coursers, but one of those he did save separated from the herd and approached him. It touched his shoulder with its horn, and when he turned its way, it knelt on the ground, a clear invitation to mount up on it. As soon as he was securely in place on its back, it stumbled to all fours and then cantered away.
They were waylaid by a pack of satyr. The courser’s hair was so smooth that Ezran couldn’t hold on as the creatures slammed into them, slipping off its back and rolling frantically to the side to keep from being trampled. The courser came back for him, with an air of impatience, and together they slew the satyr.
“One of Seryth’s, or the invasion’s?” Ezran muttered to himself. For all he knew, the satyr belonged to neither, as there had always been remnants of them in Val’sharah ever since the last Legion’s landfall. He took one of the horns to show to Fordrellon once he made it back to Lorlathil, then mounted up again on the courser, who without a moment’s hesitation dashed off through the undergrowth again.
“The courser led him to a cave, then refused to go any further. Ezran cautiously ventured inside. He heard whispers, which grew into the soft chanting of warlocks. He turned a corner, and saw two cultists speaking to the ghost of a nathrezim — or so it seemed. Ezran couldn’t determine if it was a real ghost or some kind of communication spell.
He thought he had stayed properly stealthy, but the nathrezim glanced up at him, grinned, then pointed him out to the cultists. The chaos bolts that came his way filled his world with pain, and then with darkness.
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