The air in the village square hung thick and heavy, like damp wool. Smoke curled from a dozen smoldering hearths and burned houses, staining the already bruised sky a sickly grey. Broken timber and splintered wood lay scattered across the dirt, mingling with the scattered remnants of household goods and livestock carcasses that marked the crude axe and fire attacks.
The waiting horde of Orcs grunted, as the chief strode through the devastation, his heavy tread shaking the packed earth. The patchwork armor creaked, the scavenged plates clanging dully against his thick hide and metal. His massive form dwarfed the broken huts; his shoulders brushed low-hanging branches, his head clearing the highest ridge of roofless timber. His yellow eyes, bloodshot and burning, scanned the scene, the scattered bodies, the ruined homes, then he saw trembling figures hidden by the well.
"Hunger. Eat. Now!" he snarled.
A wave of growls and snarls. Teeth were bared. Saliva dripped thickly. Eyes glowed red-hot with predatory fervor. The air filled with the sharp crunch of teeth on bone, the tearing sounds of flesh, the wet gulping as Orcs devoured the survivors.