My lord and chief is not the same as once he was, Ro'moloristen thought. These humans have broken his heart.
On an intact bridge over the river the humans called the "Elbe" Athenalras advanced on foot to meet Borominskar. Ro'moloristen's chief, though senior as the People reckoned things, walked unsteadily, like an old Kessentai ready to enter "the Way of the Knowers."
Borominskar still stepped briskly. His trunk Ro'moloristen saw to be covered with some kind of blanket seemingly made of mid-length, light-colored thresh fur. The fur seemed very young and fresh, blowing as it did in the early spring sun. Since the People did not have the thresh art of weaving, Ro'moloristen made the logical assumption.
I pity you, Borominskar, if the threshkreen ever capture you alive within a million measures of that blanket. They will not merely kill you; they will cut out your living entrails and roast them before your eyes, then leave your agonized remains for this planet's insects to devour. They will do the same to each of your followers, too, for nothing affects these thresh like the murder of their young.
For you see, lord, that these people are not like us. We kill to eat, with no more pain given than necessary for that purpose. We are not a cruel race, merely a practical one.
But the humans are a cruel species. They can revel in an enemy's agony. I pity you, Borominskar, when the thresh return in strength and break out from their fastnesses.
And they will return, O Lord of the east. And they will break out. Our species, as it exists, is doomed.