Glorfindel would suggest that Spoon does not want to see these creatures. They look as foul, or fouler, than they smell.
Wearing elf-skin tends to create that impression, yes.
Slowly the clearing fills with the twisted creatures as the light begins to fail, the orcs pouring out of their cave dens for a night of hunting. This particular group has been watched for weeks, and the watchers (save Spoon) already know what numbers they will be up against. The orcs make a noisy, restless group, crankily getting into squabbles and wandering around the clearing, waiting for it to be fully dark. Glorfindel and a few of the men ready their bows.
"Stay here," Glorfindel murmurs in a voice just barely audible, even across the short distance between them, "Until the order is given to attack in force."
There is the twitter of a bird from a tree nearby, and suddenly the archers of the group spring into action, letting fly a small storm of arrows into the clearing. With the creatures so closely packed together, the clearing has become a killing field.
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Wearing elf-skin tends to create that impression, yes.
Slowly the clearing fills with the twisted creatures as the light begins to fail, the orcs pouring out of their cave dens for a night of hunting. This particular group has been watched for weeks, and the watchers (save Spoon) already know what numbers they will be up against. The orcs make a noisy, restless group, crankily getting into squabbles and wandering around the clearing, waiting for it to be fully dark. Glorfindel and a few of the men ready their bows.
"Stay here," Glorfindel murmurs in a voice just barely audible, even across the short distance between them, "Until the order is given to attack in force."
There is the twitter of a bird from a tree nearby, and suddenly the archers of the group spring into action, letting fly a small storm of arrows into the clearing. With the creatures so closely packed together, the clearing has become a killing field.