As the dust settled, the sighs of relief filled the atmosphere with a setting of preemptive tension, and the general groaning from the horde of pikes set in as they started to form a base camp of sorts. Derthag was restless to say the least, and figured he'd set up some crude bedding later that night. For now, however, a faint bit of scouting wouldn't hurt. Arming up his warg, donning the fur garments and taking only his pipe tomahawk, he set out for some nearby hills. It wouldn't be long until he'd see a lonely horse grazing by a makeshift wooden picket fence, with what looked like a shed quickly pieced together. Taking his mount in for a closer look, the mangled flesh of a young human boy appeared near the busted open shed, swarms of flies already inheriting the corpse, along with a rat or two. Apparently the horse had suffered injury under the abdomen as well, and Derthag summarized that one of the wargs must've snacked early yesterday morning. Hopping off the voracious wolf, he let it have at it with the wounded horse, and with a shrug of his shoulders he delved into the shed to see what he could scavenge. 

[i]"Err..."[/i] He grunted. "Just a bit of aloe and a few ingredients for some tonic...oh?" He inquired to himself. "Achnals don't know much about cultivating pipeweed, but i'll be damned if i'm not getting any sleep tonight." With that, he stuffed a few jars in his satchel with what he could before heading off. As he whistled for his warg, Gut-Drench they called her, the ghastly, mangy pup came trotting by with a primal smirk and a blood-stained muzzle as gory bits drooled out. With a quick chuckle, Derthag mounted her and started loading up his pipe tomahawk with the stale, dried up pipeweed. 

Halfway over the hills, he struck a sulfur-impregnated pinewood twig from his satchel and started puffing away. Seeing that the sun was already setting, he gave a friendly pat on the head of Gut-Drench and rode with haste to the camp in sight. Unloading his satchel amongst his things, and tying up his warg, one of Radush's associates beckoned for him. 

"Get yer tusk-plugged arse to the main tent, yar already a few min'utes late ta' the meetin', chap." The grey haired, withered orc barked. Normally such a statement would've roused Derthag, but if it was one thing he had respect for, it was his elders. With a confirming nod he made way for the boss's headquarters and blended in with the small crowd of officers that made up 'The Chosen Ones'. 

The plan itself was rather simple, as ol' Eyedrinker pointed to precise locations on the map, Derthag took an accurate mental note of every location. In his mind, he may as well have already been within the city's outskirts, taking what few seconds he had to study every detail. All the while puffing away at his heirloom, plumes of smoke incensed the air as he noticed the off tone accent of a drillmaster he once served under, Koloch. It was something half breeds were looked at with confusion by some of the pure-bloods, Derthag's own accent giving off a harsh, Dvergr tongue, brash and at times riddled with slang. As the crew split up to their respective beddings, the Tarlung stayed awake, filling the night's camp fire smoke with that of his own. An hour or so passed by, as he tucked away what little pipeweed was left and decided to take a slight stroll around camp before shuteye. Taking what jars he could carry, he stopped by Ygdri's spot and in an attempt to dare not wake the fierce battle maiden, slipped in a few of the herbs, aloe and tonic ingredients next to her satchels and such. Although likely to be drawn up with the oxen with the rest of the inventory, she'd surely eventually find use for them during downtime. Best leaving the deed anonymously, the pale orc caught a short moment's sleep until the inevitable scurrying of wake up calls and packing up camp disturbed him in the middle of an epic dream of human slaying. 

First order of business, Derthag holstered up his plate mail over the various fur-stitched garments draped over his torso, with the worn red paint of a quarter moon emblazoned over the chest. His helm with it's visor, also painted red with a variety of symbols such as axes, blood splattered splotches and the like was hung over his back via hemp rope. Lastly, fitting on his tightly tailored greaves, he fitted in his ritual of four throwing axes which were also tied to him with knotted hemp, hoisted up his morningstar over his shoulder and strapped two iron axes on each adjacent side of Gut-Drench. Easing the ferociously mangy warg in the middle of the group, drawing in a lot of smoke from his pipe tomahawk once more before battle, and letting out a thick cloud of smoke had the Tarlung than spoke a common saying out of the Verdant Gulf.

[i]"With four bowls cashed, we'd kiss our ass, as all followed the gallows!" [/i] Likely forgetting a few verses, he continued. [i]"We'd rather be charred, maimed an' gutted than to be sickly, bedded an' done in..."[/i]

Falling in line as the charge of the wargs flung over the fences, roughly ten yards out did Derthag toss out his first francisca, followed by the writhing neigh and squeal of the horse he had struck. As Gut-Drench lobbed herself over, the patchy wolf immediately spotted the afflicted horse with the ax imbedded into it's neck. Sinking her canines into it's throat, the pale orc whipped out another francisca and watched it bounce up from the ground at the right angle and crack open the shin of the measly guard ahead of it, his wooden shield near useless at that point. With a firm whack of the hind end of his mount, he made way for the guard, impounding his morningstar upon his wooden shield, shattering both it and his forearm, and allowing Gut-Drench to dig into his bowels. Looking back, he saw a few Achnal spear-hunters mounting a few of the horses locked up in their pens. Ripping out another francisca, he tossed it and cursed under his breath as it flew right over the head of his victim. Now definitely noticed, he geared up the female warg, who he joked was his date for lunch, and charged headstrong into the four or so horsemen. Roughly ten feet out, the horses halted in their tracks and began knocking into each other as they were shocked and fearful by the sight of Gut-Drench. With his last francisca, he drove it right into the exposed chest of one of the Achnal hunters, leaving the poor lad in a state of confusion before less than graciously falling off his horse. 

The next two scattered for the outskirts. With just one hunter left, the savaged human tossed his spear directly into the left eye of Gut-Drench just as she lunged for the sorry lad's horse. Successfully managing to tear out the throat of his mount, the Achnal fell back and cried out to his fellow brothers in arms. With a leap of faith, Derthag jumped from his mount and landed his heels right into the hunter's chest, pulverizing his skull by the spiked end of his morningstar. One of his friend's must've taken notice, and was quickly ill met by the brutish force of the pale orc's morningstar, driving him back a few feet and instilling the look of fear in his eyes. Glancing back to his date, the warg winced and squealed in pain as she took up her two front paws to break the spear in half, still driven into her eye socket. Just as Derthag looked forward, another five Achnals armed with daggers, spears and even a flail darted towards him. Bracing himself for a lethal fight, he clutched his morningstar with both hands and began violently and relentlessly swinging about, only managing to disembowel two of the dagger wielding savages before catching his arm upon his opponents flail. One of the not-so-bright Achnal attempted to jab Derthag with his spear, denting his plate mail whilst also splintering his wooden spear. The flail-swinging warrior yanked on his handle, with the chain still wrapped around Derthag, and brought the orc down flat on his face. Taking off his helmet, he delivered a swift kick to the orc's jaw before motioning to his ally with a dagger. 

"Cut the bastard's head off, mate! Now! Do i-" The human was cut off by Gut-Drench, who had lunged right over him and sunk her teeth right into the throat of the adjacent warrior wielding the dagger. The other Achnal, whose spear had broke and had no other weapon, fled into Ygdri's path of bloody shield and falchion work, the unfortunate lad succumbing to the vicious doctor's lethal battle technique. 

Gut-Drench swiftly turned around, and began feasting upon the flail-wielding hunter's guts. Derthag slid his arm out of the chain and regained stability, his vision still fuzzy from the boot of the now lunch-made Achnal. With his composure restored, he looked to the wounded warg, her left eye mangled around the broken off spear. A veterinarian in no sense of the word, he hoped there would be time to have her looked after by a doctor or warg handler after the battle. Surmising that the tough wolf would be able to handle it for now, he mounted her once again and sought to regroup with Koloch, the Achnal camp now in a frenzied state of chaos at this point. He had hoped Prince Beler would now be within the city walls.