The winds of the wastes whistled above the rocky outcropping. Higher still the blistering sun burned in the apex of the day. Malakath was a land of danger, some places more perilous than others, and here, north of the Jagged Teeth mountain ranges, few would willingly dare to tread.
But two souls, at least, were there. A man, and his quarry—both tieflings.
Jhinn squatted with his greatsword laid across his legs, his hands entwined, and he eyed his helpless and hapless prey. Toreth was his name, and he worked for the coward Zeuraad. Jhinn had come across Toreth in his pursuit of the latter, waiting for him the Great Wastes. Toreth had been entrusted to "deal with" Jhinn, and so he raised his sword on sight, and Jhinn, too, had raised his. Only the wind and the dust stood witness to their duel. But it was won by Jhinn—not without cost, as some wounds did bespeckle his body where his armor had failed.
Toreth, however, lost more. His legs lay off to the side now, all the blood having by now spilled from them, and flies were gathering and buzzing about them. The legless Tor (his bleeding staunched with belts) sat bound, propped up against the rocky outcropping, Jhinn before him, interrogating him.
Yet he had not gotten much from his foe.
"Where is Zeuraad going?"
Toreth, brimming with defiance, laughed through his suffering. "What does it even matter to you? Your Master is dead—DEAD! Do you serve a corpse, Jhinn?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Understand what?"
Jhinn did not elaborate. "How many more are with Zeuraad?"
Toreth spat—or, at least, tried to spit, but the blood and spittle clung to his lips and chin. "Warriors, you mean?" Toreth laughed again. "Unless you're afraid of the whores he has with him too."
"The warriors, yes. How many."
"I'll tell you freely: six more. Six more warriors."
"Including Zeuraad, or not including Zeuraad?"
"Do you consider him a warrior?"
"No."
"Then not including him. Six more tieflings, just like me...heh, but if the Ascended King wishes it, with better luck. Six more, Jhinn. Out in the wastes. Waiting for you. Or maybe not. Maybe they'll follow their Master. Or maybe they'll be bidden to slit your throat in the dead of night."
"I do not care for your conjecture."
"It won't be conjecture if the blood is gushing down your neck," said Toreth, grinning with bloodied teeth. "Give up, Jhinn. Let your Master rest in the dirt. Listen to me, you could—"
Jhinn gently set his greatsword down and shuffled closer to Toreth and, with a sawbladed knife from his belt now in hand, roughly grabbed one of Toreth's horns and silently began to saw it off. Toreth hollered, and his cries sounded off the rocks and rugged landscape all about them.
"Someone's coming! Someone's coming!" he pleaded, merely making the claim up to buy a moment of respite.
Yet Jhinn said, "I know," and continued to saw away at Toreth's horn, almost done with his work, as the stranger approached.