The assassin team gathered at the camp's edge. They were a rough bunch—scarred faces under mismatched helmets, armor patched with hides and metal scraps, and eyes hungry for violence.
The leader, a one-eyed brute named Krag, eyeballed Ethan as he approached, spitting a wad of chew on the ground.
"Where are your two mates, runt?" Krag growled. Garkash said I was getting three midgets."
Ethan shrugged, keeping his voice gruff to match the illusion. "They ate some rotten human meat back at the cliff. Fuckers have been farting and pooping for hours now. Their guts are probably twisted like old ropes. They'll catch up once they're done."
The assassins burst into guttural laughter, slapping their knees and nudging each other. "Hah! Runts can't hold their meat! Weak guts for weak bodies!"
Onga, a lanky Orc with missing teeth, cackled. "I bet they're squirting like fountains! Serves them right for eating fancy human slop."
