turning the corner, seeing the quarry has escaped, I thrust my arms down my sides as my head is thrown back and I release a guttaral roar into the still night .. every vein, muscle and sinew in my body tense as the pent frustration escapes me .. whipping my ahead around as spit flies from my mouth .. then the taunt of lavendar hits my nose .. nostrils flare at the smell .. perhaps the hunt is back on .. adjusting the light pack over one shoulder as I sling the crossbow to the other, gripping the greataxe in hand I sniff the air again and set off in an attempt to follow the smell of lavendar ... a furry of orcish curse words hissed under breath ...
before you stands a young orc or is it a half-orc .. nah anything that ugly has to be all orc ... doesn't it?