Astaldo sat perched on the branch he had selected, several elf-heights above the ground. The orcs were once again on the doorsteps to his homeland, and he watched as the brutish creatures tore up vegetation and tossed it on their large fires, producing more smoke than the light they were after. He was only a little older than a century, but had encountered these invaders numerous times. It never changed; They acted big and brave in daylight—only to scurry scared to the bonfires come dusk. In his experience, orcs were deathly afraid of the dark, and tried desperately to delay the approaching dusk. The dark—he thought to himself—or rather us who lurk within it. He studied the large tree next to him a stone throw away. His sister Limbifëa was almost impossible to perceive in the foliage, but he did feel her prescence, and shortly found her sitting in a relaxed posture, back leaning against the trunk. Astaldo grinned to himself, he always liked how relaxed his sister looked, even before an imminent strike.
Limbifëa sat in half-trance, keeping her vigilance on the situation below, while at the same time communing with her ancestors. She thanked them for their sacrifices, and felt the warmth of their smiles fill her chest. She concluded her trance, and turned her full attention to the scene once more. A typical orc war camp; Makeshift palisades surrounding ragged tents for the orc footmen, and a large ornate tent for the human war priest. The orcs wasn't interesting to her, they were mostly just an obstacle. The target was the priest, who used their influence over the orcs to command them. Without them, the orcs would quickly route in disarray. The plan was simple, but effective; Their istar Elemmacil would perform his whispers and summon a fantastic display on one end of the camp, creating a diversion. As the orcs' attention was directed elsewhere, the mahtari would sneak through the lines and advance on the priests and dispatch them. As soon as they lost the advantage of surprise, the quingar—among them she and her brother—would provide suppressing fire from the trees, helping the mahtari exfiltrate. As soon as everyone was back behind the treeline, the orcs wouldn't dare follow, even if they had the will to keep fighting. She watched as the mahtari skillfully moved between the bushes below, and she knew that it was time.
Elemmacil held a bit of fleece in his fist and went over the details of the illusion to be performed. In his mind he saw an enormous roaring beast storming out of the forest, attacking the orc encampment with fierce savagery. As a little inside joke, he had chosen a beast that was very peaceful, but the orcs didn't know that. He reimagined the scene over and over until it was to his liking. When he felt satisfied, he whispered the ancient words—passed down to him by his mother—and he felt the cloth starting to dance in his hand. Suddenly, a great roar filled the silence of the night, and a horrifying illusory beast—indistinguishable from a real one—threw itself at the palisades at Elemmacil's discretion. Rallying blows of orc war horns started to sound, and the camp sprung to complete attention. Attention towards the beast.
Earlier, Bódnar enjoyed his evening dinner in his glorious war priest field tent. He had a lavish meal, an exquisite bed, and the setting sun was quite nice—but this was a scant comfort, he would have rather been at home in Pinter, away from the elves. His task was simple; Make the wretched orcs do what he says, point them in the right direction, and make them kill anything there. He had been a priest most of his adult life, and he knew what they needed to hear. He promised them honor and glory, salvation from their sins, and grand bounties for their families—the usual stuff. If this didn't work, he reminded them of Orosh's gaze and Dergrima's wrath, and gave them some corporeal salvation on the spot—if needed. He thought about the mission as a whole, and couldn't figure out why they were attacking there and then, and the more he kept thinking about it, the more he felt the fear and doubt starting to creep into his mind. I am watched, Orosh be blessed—he thought, and quickly forced away the doubt, surely there must be a reason behind this. Maybe it's a diversion, or maybe the higher-ups knew about a new weakness in the elf-vermin's lines. In any case they certainly knew better than him. He also suppressed his fear and replaced it with delight, imagining the eradication of the despicable monkey-like elves, and subjugating Súmina under Garmark—or his—dominion. He envisioned himself as the high ruler of the island, and thought about the potential if they only cleared out the jungle. He knew that he would be generously awarded if he did a good job here, left it at that, and continued his meal.
Bódnar suddenly heard a horrendous roar, making him choke on the large piece of Bertalan herb pickled fowl liver he just put in his mouth. He coughed hard, and forced it out, wiped the drool from his mouth, and rushed to his feet—are we being attacked? He called to his bodyguard and ran out into the night. His orcs had already started to attack what looked like a large beast—maybe twenty feet tall—that was attacking the palisades. At first he was petrified with fear—it was incomprehensible and truly dreadful—but then he started to notice something peculiar. The orcs' projectiles were passing through the creature, as if it wasn't there. The realization struck him hard—it was an illusion, a cheap elf trick—but that the part that made his stomach turn, was that it was an obvious decoy. He tried to shout and warn the orcs, but his throat was still sore from the piece of liver, and he only managed to produce some pitiful croaks. He turned to the nearest guard, trying to rip their attention from the illusory display. As he turned, he noticed several sets of eyes in the shadows, reflecting the bonfire lights. The short moments that followed felt like an eternity to him; The hideous tattoo-covered elves dashed silently out of the darkness, the first one driving a spear clean into the chest of his largest and favorite orc, the second one using his two swords to parry the strikes of two other orcs, finishing them off with a flourishing blow to each of their throats. The third one leapt onto him as if he would be a tree to climb, pushing him hard onto the ground. The elf straddled him, cocked his head to the side, and with an almost compassionate sneer said: Á ricë amrícië, meaning approximately next time, try harder. But Bódnar didn't know their language, he only knew the cold of the blade that sank deep into his chest, and the shadows of the night that consumed him.
Astaldo perked up as he saw the beast coming out of the woods. He chuckled quietly—this must be Elemmacil's finest work yet, what if it's an actual wild animal, and I'm sitting here thinking it's his illusion? The only thing convincing him was the knowledge of their plan, and—well—the fact that this type of beast doesn't have an aggressive behavior. He struggled to find the mahtari in the shrubs, until he saw them scale the palisade wall. They silenced the lone orc that had the prescence of mind to actually guard his post, and moved on without pause. They weaved between the shadows of the orc tents, and made good way towards the central one. Astaldo readied an arrow—their ruse would soon be unveiled. He looked to his sister, saw her looking back at him, and they gave each other a nodding smile.
Limbifäe smiled at her brother and looked back towards the action. They were both ready with arrows placed on the bowstring, as was their quingar friends hidden in the surrounding trees. The mahtari had started to withdraw from the camp, but by now the orcs were wise to them, and were more ferocious than usual. The elves met heavy resistance and was forced to make several quick detour decisions, always moving swiftly not to be bogged down, or caught in a disadvantageous position. Suddenly, they realized they had made a turn into a dead-end. With the orcs on their heels, they were forced into a defensive position, cut off from any escape and without the initiative. Limbifäe had calmly waited for the right moment—this is it—she thought. She selected the group of orcs that was cutting off the escape, drew her bow, aimed carefully, and felt an almost subconscious wave pass through her telling her to release. At one instant an accurate volley of arrows rained down on their enemies, felling several of them, and routing many others. The mahtari saw their opening, reacted quickly, and slipped through the orc lines. The orcs were shaken and confused, with only a few managing to continue the pursuit. The chase was quickly cut short however, as the second volley of arrows stopped them in their tracks. The mahtari jumped the walls, and dashed to the safety of the treeline. Their work was finished. For now.
