Faeles silently regarded D'Artagne, the rabbit having unilaterally proclaimed himself leader and then charged off, before stopping to apologize and wait just long enough for them to catch up before he went on again. The two abyssal eyes from within his hood turned towards Clotho, and for a moment his burning gaze locked with hers. Perhaps she sense a small fraction of the disdain and mockery that dwelled within his thoughts, but then the fleeting moment would be over in an instant once Faeles slunk off.

He kept a distance from the others and always hugged the canyon walls where they existed or kept low to the ground where there was no cover, obviously skilled in this sort of stealthy work. His movements were deft and skillful even as he traversed the roughest terrain, his feet both fleet and utterly silent. So it was that he crept along in the shade, always just within sight of the others.

While the rabbit D'Artagne crept forth, Torrens hung back, and Clotho looked on from far above as an invisible speck in the sky, three orcs sat in the crude tent near D'Artagne, the opening wide open for the scout to peer in. The trio of orcish warrior growled to one another in their characteristic gutteral speak, already in the middle of a conversation. "...elders speak well of Gormlag. Say he already great shaman. Gonna lead tribe to glory! War! Finally sack lowlands!"

During his bellowing, that orc chugged from a horn of grog so strong and foul a medicine that its overpowering odor killed any of the buzzing flies that came too close.

A second one sat nearby, fletching a wicked set of arrows with jagged tips of rusty iron, dipping their heads into a pot of some sort of oily poison before tossing them into a quiver. It was a third one that spoke, however, this one roasting a boar over an open fire. "Strong orc, maybe, but dumb one. Set own hands on fire! Fused them with stone!"

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"Smart orc! Good warlord! Better than old shaman," the drunken warrior roared back, seemingly taking personal offense.

"Old shaman better! I go right up to top of hill and tell Gormlag, then smash his face!"

"No, I smash your face for shaman! He reward me for your head!"

"Da king laugh when I give him skull of both you and Gormlag! Gormalg no deserve da powers king gave him!"

The petty argument quickly devolved into a drunken brawl, and the pounding of footsteps heralded the impending arrival of what would most likely be more belligerent orcs. It might be best that D'Artagne find Torrens and the others now, before he get caught in the middle of that fight...

Meanwhile, outside the orcs' settlement Faeles sat near Torrens. Lazily he glanced towards the dying light of what little crack of dusky sky there was to see from where they sat at the bottom of a canyon. At last, his set of sharp eyes spied Clotho far above. Oh, if only she knew how much danger she was in up there. A light chuckle escaped from Faeles, the thought of the orcs' king coming down from its throne atop the mountain to squash the fly that dared trespass through his domain in the clouds.

Awkwardly glancing towards Torrens, Faeles attempted to start a conversation. Laughing ominously to himself would do no good. [color=Orange]"I do believe that I heard some peasant farmer mention these orcs having a king, once I held a knife to his throat and started asking questions,"[/color] he spoke in a low tone so as to not draw the attention of anything that might be near. Upon mentioning his knife, he procured from within his handwraps one of his hidden blades and began to skillfully flick it about with one hand.

He continued, [color=Orange]"Yes, there was something unusual about this 'king' though, from the way I recall...I think that their king is a giant bird, one of the windrocs of legend? Or no, perhaps his little tale had their king a great bat, the way he spun it. Oh, if only my memory would serve so reliably as this blade..."[/color] The demon chuckled again, his echoing laughter somewhat disconcerting. He actually remembered quite well what their king was, and he eagerly awaited seeing the look on the face of that fool that all these called 'Master' when he learned just what sort of being had managed to terrify these orcs to the point where they served at its whim and worshiped it as a god of war. Oh how they would all cower when they beheld the true lord of these mountains!

Suddenly, the sound of the brawling orcs caught Faeles ears. He looked towards Torrens with what seemed an amusement of amusement and pity, incorrectly assuming that D'Artagne had caught the orcs' attention. Still, he would probably prove to be right in anticipating that the rabbit might soon find himself in dire need of help.[color=Orange]"Shall we?"[/color] he whispered, already skulking towards the village in that effortlessly dexterous manner of his.