Sharkey's Men

"Sickle-Fly again?! We do we always have to eat the stinking bugs?" Gorb shook his head before smacking that lowly rat of a Hurz back in his place with the stirring spoon. "Because I am the one making the food! If you know how to make this filth into something decent give it a try! Otherwise just hold your tongue and let me do the job!" Hurz scurried of somewhere, most likely to polish those wolf teeth of his. Chieftain said that the maggot used to keep them as pets until the previous cook made them into dinner.

Once the anthill has been disturbed it isn't going to just lay to rest. The gates have been closed. No, if you would have asked yesterday, they would be closed. The gates are reinforced. Not even a raging troll could break them down now. Yet the half-orcs of Mudhlas Cadhus were not dealing with a troll right now. That would have been a small problem compared to this. The camp was quiet. The soldiers were already calling it the silence before the storm. Their leaders? They called it their last chance of adverting the coming onslaught.

It smelled like a slaughterhouse, the old man thought. No. It was worse than a slaughterhouse. At least they wouldn't set flame to the meat they couldn't find a use for. "And...that makes eleven!" Was this a turning point for us? Eleven of our scouts... where did we go wrong? Were we too careless or too shy to make our advances? If this keeps happening from a monthly bases from now on we will be out of muscle when the year is out. "Boss!

Night fell over the Bree-land in a blanket of frost. Streaks of dark cloud smothered star and moon like ribbons of black. But at the foot of Bree-hill many lights, orange and warm, were winking from the windows of the village houses; and in the night air there was the faint echo of merriment and cheer, and singing and dancing, as the Men of Bree celebrated Yuletide.
But beyond the fenced dike, and into the gloom of the fields, there was gathered in silence a host of dark figures. In a black rank they stood, listening to the mirth of far away Bree, until one of them spat.