"Great One! Da village under attack! Fiery thing comes burn tents!" a voice called out from within the shaman's hut.

"THEN SLAY THE INTERLOPERS!" a monstrous voice roared back, its diabolical tone harsh like the grating of metal.

"Warriors charge out to go bashin', but dey be needin' yer hel-"

D'Artagne would walk in to see the shaman in all his horror. This being was no longer a mere orc; magic had twisted and warped his body into something even more insidious. Wild horns spouted out from all parts of his body, magical tattoos in the likeness of beast and meaningless lines alike adorrned his stony flesh, and where a normal orc had hands this shaman had claws that resembled molten slag.

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With unnatural ease and quickness the shaman moved to grip by the throat that worthless guardsmen that had disturbed him. Cackling as the searing heat of his massive hands charred and melted flesh, from within the shaman's helmet he roared, "A warrior that flees to his shaman rather than fight is a warrior that is not worth the grog he drinks!" In one violent motion, he hurled the pitiful orc across the room. The sudden arrival of D'Artagne was the only thing that allowed the barely-living respite from the shaman's full wrath.

"And what is this?!" he roared at D'Artagne, his heated breath steaming out from the confines of his helmet as a smoky haze. Clearly he was not happy at the preposterous notion of his village being attacked and the rabbitman before him managing to sneak in, but at least he wasn't trying to kill D'Artagne yet. Still, the rabbitman would probably have only a few moments to think of some sort of answer before the raging and unpredictable shaman had another fit of rage.

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Bemused, Faeles watched as the ever-irate Clotho flew away as hastily as she had appeared. He so no need in taking the time to immediately depart; rather, he would wait and see exactly what became of this mess. Opening a small vial of what appeared to be some dark fluid, the arch-thief let loose vapors of pure darkness, and in doing so rendered himself invisble to the weak-minded orcs. Laughing as he stood unseen whilst in plain sight, he watched as Torrens incinerated those warriors that challenged  him, only to immediately after fall prey to a barrage of arrows from the unseen guards above. Before the last of the jagged blades had collided with the demon's fiery flesh, another volley had been knocked and loosed. And then another. With frightening speed and accuracy, the determined invaders turned Torrens into something as a firework as arrows after arrow tore into him, unleashing blasts of fire and depleting him of his energy.

Whether this would prove fatal or if he would manage to escape remained to be seen; whilst a good deal of the arrows would have struck true, if he reacted quickly enough he might be able to find cover or quickly retaliate with a fireball or two of his own.