As unconstrained as she felt in the air, Clotho could not help but feel ever so slightly ill at ease as she lofted far above the orc settlement.  Not only did the savages never casually look upward, but they also sported no visible sentries whose jobs it might be to compensate for this oblivious tendency.  For a troupe of mongrels neither stealthy nor subtle, the orcs appeared to be awfully comfortable out in the open like this, at least compared to human armies.  Logically, this was some sort of flaw of the species, but Clotho decided not to make any definite assumptions just yet.

Far below, things began to heat up in the camp.  Threats spewed, tempers flared, and melee ensued.  The Swarm Queen, witnessing this display, cringed.  To her, or indeed any commander worthy of being called such, self-destructive behavior like this constituted one of the gravest offenses a soldier could make.  She 

More disturbing, however, was the event that followed.  A surge of brightness and color caught her attention, drawing her eyes to a tent reduced to cinders.  Clotho’s eyes widened; such instant immolation could be the work of none other but Torrens, but why would the demon compromise the scouts’ stealth so recklessly?  Looking back and forth, she saw nothing that warranted an attack, and only grew more dismayed to see Torrens and Faeles engaging the foe.  A furious despair pricked her.  The Overlord expressly assigned a scouting mission, not some mindless attack that could lead to the discovery of the entire Horde.  Incredulous, Clotho scanned the ground again, and found nothing to explain her allies’ folly.  Sure, D’Artagnan had snuck his way into the camp’s interior, but took no further action.  Her mind raced to find a way to solve this problem, but only a few seconds later, Torrens had exposed himself.  The lips of the Swarm Queen curled into a disdainful grimace.  There would be no easy solution to this mess.

From what she could see from her bird’s-eye view, however, Faeles and D’Artagnan had yet to show themselves.  The essence of a plan popped into Clotho’s mind, one that hinged on nigh-impossible speed and precision to pull off.  Folding in her wings, she began to dive, assuming a streamlined posture to shoot, bulletlike, toward the ground.  In the gathering gloom, she would be difficult to spot, especially with a smelter demon practically prostrating himself before them.  [i]Now that the hothead is fighting, this entire operation can end only one of three ways: the camp is destroyed, or Torrens is, or Torrens and the rest of us are.  Better a single soldier lost than an army detected.[/i]  Clotho carefully unfurled her wings, spreading them to glide, and she swooped over the camp in a preconceived path.  First she landed next to D’Artagnan, braking painfully hard and pressing herself against the ground to avoid detection.  [color=9F8170]”Do not engage the enemy.  Torrens has picked a rash fight; we cannot avoid risking the Horde by revealing ourselves as well.”[/color]  Clotho then rolled to her feet, crouched, and sprang directly up.  She twisted around and darted toward the position of Faeles, using as circuitous a route as possible to remain out of sight.  When she appeared by his side, she hissed, [color=9F8170]"D'Artagnan is still hidden.  Everything was fine.  Torrens is fighting, and you are engaging, for what reason exactly?"[/color] She then remained crouched next to him rather than fleeing again.