Death. Amongst the people of the valleys, and the people of the marsh, death is disgusting, as vile as the Demons of Blood Peak.
To The Blighted-Ones, death is an art, a precious portion of life's path, a dance. One step, you cheat death, second step, you are death, third step, you are dead. This is why those few who know of the Blight-Elves also know that if you need someone dead, go to the desert, Blighted-Ones make very good assassins. Their beliefs make them perfect for it, morally. They are also the perfect choice do to their bodies, Black as night, and naturally nocturnal.
This is why, the day of the battle, a child who had helped Birch move the broken body of the poor girl, asked him, quite casually, "Why do you look so sad, sir?*" Not to say that they do not mourn, but the mourning is kept hidden by all but those very close to the dead, and even they wait until a proper time, and only very briefly.
*By this time Birch had learned the basic language of the Blighted ones.
It's sad, but sweet.
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