Obadiah’s heart raced a bit when he thought about the elf they found earlier. Fished from the river, hanging onto a log with the faintest of life, the man was undergoing the wrenching transformation to undeath. Runes covered the starved man’s body, and Obadiah could only stare at the awesome power behind them. Control over life, death, and life after death. That was some power. Lust and fear danced together in his belly.
The dying elf spoke of slavers, tree-felling, and warmachines before he died. There was much pathetic mewling for help and for his family to be saved as well, but it was inconsequential. To prevent the man from rising as an undead, the dwarf calmly dragged him into the reeds beside the river and crushed his skull. The eladrin scout was very pale. No one suggested that funeral rites be given or the body be buried. Obadiah casually wondered if his companions had something against elves or were they really just as callous as he was? His thick tongue languidly strolled across his lower lip while he mulled this over.
A gentle tap on his shoulder took him out of his reverie. The dwarf leaned over and harshly whispered that the scout had returned – a group of emaciated elves guarded the bridge up ahead. Apparently they were unwilling meat shields, and a pair of hobgoblins watched over them from the comfort of a nearby tent.
Obadiah rolled off his massive haunches and onto his feet. He brushed debris out of his robes and idly scratched himself while thinking. The hobgoblins would die, of course. The elves would be seized and questions would be answered. Good enough. But when to attack? Only an hour of daylight remained. The nights are freezing, we are damp from the river crossing, and so no one will sleep well. Fatigue, even hypothermia, are issues then. If we wait until night the enemy can see better than us and have an advantage. Very well. We should strike now.
Obadiah belched softly.