There are only six Druids of the Twelfth Level and you have to kill one to take his place on the ruling council. Jacobin’s hands are sweaty on his staff.
“Dare you challenge me?” roars Alhazrul. “Mine is the wolfpack, hunters of men!”
“I, Llendir, command thunder–the voice of the storm!”
“Regaranel! Lord over rocky beaches!”
“Esbo! Certain species of frog!”
“Mytiliath! King of protista!”
Zand doesn’t say anything, because he’s asleep.
“I challenge–” Jacobin hesitates, and readies his Spell of Poky Thistles. “Llendir!”
And he totally wins, because thunder doesn’t do all that much when you think about it.