The orc group next to Ludwig were restless. More like, bored. Grath had slumped into a seated crouch near a tree, thick fingers plucking at grass and tearing it into little green ribbons that drifted onto his knees, as if shredding something, anything, could substitute for a fight.
Around him, the rest of the orcs made a messy ring of contained impatience: a few sprawled on their backs with weapons laid across their chests like they were trying to nap through the shame of inactivity, others leaned against trunks with their axes propped between their boots, rolling shoulders and cracking knuckles.
Twice, a pair had started bumping chests and testing each other's pride with low growls, and Ludwig had stopped it before it became a real brawl, not with words, just with a look that promised consequences. Even a small scuffle would carry sound down the slope, and Ludwig could already picture a lizardman scout's head lifting at the wrong moment, eyes narrowing toward the tree line.
